Quick author's note concerning last chapter: Dean believes that his father wouldn't lie to him, so when daddy says 'if you can't save him, kill him' it means that Sammy will, inevitably, turn evil. Just one more reason John Winchester should not have been allowed to raise children.

Now, concerning this chapter: italics dream/flashback.

Read on, happy reviewers... er, I mean, readers.

Yes, read on, happy readers... :)

He woke up screaming, his lips dry, mouth parched, body drenched in sweat. For a minute, Dean didn't realize where he was. The room was clean and smelled of old pine and smoke, and badly drawn pictures adorned the white walls. He pushed away the brightly colored covers from the bed he was sitting on, gazing around the room. It was so familiar.

"Of course it's familiar," he reasoned, "it's…" He trailed off, wrapping a small hand around his throat, wondering what was wrong with his voice. Small? He pulled his hand back, examining it in the soft light thrown by a lamp that sat atop a dresser at the other end of the room. Small. The hand of a child.

Before Dean even had time to wonder whether or not he was dreaming, the lamp in the room began to flicker, plunging the room into darkness for a couple of seconds before lighting it again with a cheery glow. Small or not, he knew what that meant, knew that something was wrong.

He slid off the bed, swept with a sense of falling in the time that it took his feet to hit the ground, and crept towards the door. He was almost there when it began. Burning, searing pain drawing its way across his stomach, causing him to double over by the door, clutching weakly at his middle, trying to stop the pain.

Dean crawled closer to the door, biting back a scream. It felt like someone was cutting him open, slicing right across the stomach, gutting him.

And then the real burning started.

o0o0o0o0o

Missouri watched from the hallway as Dean twisted and turned in his sleep, pushing the heavy quilt that lay on top of him onto the floor and moaning softly.

o0o0o0o0o

He padded down the hall, his entire body engulfed by exploding pain, as if he were on fire. The world tilted before him, making him dizzy. He looked around him, recognizing the old house in Lawrence, but not really taking it in. All that Dean knew was that he had to reach the flickering light at the end of the hallway that led to his brother's room. Someone, most likely Sammy, would be in there, and maybe he could get answers. Maybe, and it was a big maybe, he could find his parents, alive and well and willing to take that pain away.

What he found was a baby being shoved into his arms. What he found was the dissipation of fear, which was replaced by the incessant need to get out of the house, the need to bury his head in his arms and cry, the need to go back into that room and save something.

That was when he knew, when Dean realized exactly where he was. Boy, nightmares suck, he thought, wrapping too-small arms around his brother and carrying the baby out of the house. Hell, pulling Sam out of burning buildings was getting to be a regular occurrence for him.

It didn't take long to get the kid out of the house and into the yard, that bitter determination and sense of loss burning into him even as comfort and soft warmth radiated from the baby in his arms. He looked down at the bundle, eyeing his brother. It had been a day since he'd done Jo in the back room of Harvelle's, and he'd never felt that kind of thing from Sam before. From the family in the park and Missouri, sure, but not Sammy.

"So what is it?" he asked himself quietly, hugging the bundle closer and marveling at the increasing strength of whatever he was picking up from the kid, "what is it?"

Sam just gurgled softly as their father came running out of the house and scooped the boys up in his arms, carrying them away from danger as the nursery window exploded in a burst of broken glass and rolling flames.

John ducked down behind the car with his boys in his arms, a single tear slipping down his cheek as Dean turned to look up at him, every feeling of warmth and comfort gone. Now he was only cold. Cold and sad and angry. That anger burned like the fire, getting brighter and hotter and stronger as they sat behind the car and sirens grew near. And it would only get worse.

o0o0o0o

Dean sat up in bed, cold sweat cascading down his face and falling into the floral-print sheets. His heart was pounding, his teeth were chattering, and his whole body shook with rage.

"What was that?" he whispered, balling his fists in his lap. No ordinary nightmare. A memory? Weird as hell, and half as scary. What was up with that last, resonating bit, anyway? That anger that just wouldn't going away. He was still feeling it, still consumed.

And he was scared. Dean Winchester didn't have nightmares, and he certainly never jumped awake in the middle of the night, mind reeling, body trembling. No, that was Sammy's thing. It happened to Sam all the time, and when it did, Dean was always there for him. He would go sit on his brother's bed and grab his shoulders and tell him it was all right. And Sam would go back to sleep, safe and sound, with big brother watching over him.

Sometimes Dean regretted being the oldest, like when he woke up in the middle of the night with a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his fists balled in rage. Yeah, he could really use the comfort. Honestly, it wouldn't be that hard to calm him down, given his current state. Just think happy thoughts and Dean'll pick up on 'em right off.

He sighed, laying back down, anger finally rolling away to be replaced by whatever seemed to be flowing through the house. And he wasn't scared anymore. He wasn't mad. He wasn't shaking, or shivering, or even wondering what was wrong with him. He was loved, and…

Oh, crap. He sat up again, eyes wide, that warm, happy feeling being replaced by his own slight panic. No, it couldn't be… could it? No, it wasn't. If it was, then he would have felt it before, would have gotten it off Sam. His brother loved him, right?