In the light of the flames Dean waited. He was as lost and confused and utterly helpless as anyone could be. His hands and the tips of his nose were turning colder with each shattered breath he let go. He wanted nothing more than to turn away from the smoldering house—his house—across the street, sink his knees in the damp grass, and fold himself into nothing.
He was afraid, far beyond a four year-old's normal fear of the unknown. Dean's eyes had just been opened to a whole new world writhing with the unknown, and he was just a meek, fragile little human boy. What hope could he ever have of keeping himself safe?
Sam twitched in Dean's arms, his tiny hands clutching fistfuls of Dean's paper-thin shirt. In the face of stark-white fear, Dean had nearly forgotten he'd been holding his baby brother. It was amazing. Amidst the searing heat and the sinister crackle of the wood, Sam hadn't made a single noise. He'd barely even squirmed.
Dean pressed the child to his chest and let the hot tears fall down his face and neck. If Sam could be that peaceful and serene in the light of a fire, Dean had to try harder. After all, what use was an older brother if he wasn't able to shield the younger one, to be strong and brave and sturdy so his brother wouldn't have to be?
You got it? This is for you, Sammy.
In the light of the flames, Dean steeled himself and waited.