So sorry, I am a little late .O-O.
"Door Eleven"
Feet crept silently over the cold floor, only muffled by thick socks. The house lay quiet, sleeping with its inhabitants. Except of one, who couldn't find rest.
Dean turned around the corner in the darkness, he knew exactly where the edge of the first step was, listened just a moment – everything was silent – before he persisted to ghost through the house like a burglar and continued his way downstairs.
He was tired, hungry, an awfully guilty conscience and - …wanted to know, if Sam was alright. Pneumonia for Christmas wasn't a good gift.
Seeing the small strip of flickering light shine from underneath the door, he watched with tension for a sign from insight, a reason to turn around and take his but back upstairs in a hurry.
Spineless – his conscience kicked in. And he, Dean Winchester never allowed himself to be spineless lightheartedly, never ever. Especially because it didn't even come close to the truth, he just didn't want to wake Sam in case he was sleeping.
Coward – good grief, if someone could just turn this off.
Eyes rolling he was changing his route, from refrigerator to the door that separated living room and kitchen, changing his mind at the last moment, he made a sharp turn, grabbing a few crumbly cookies from the counter and two pieces of dry bread from the belonging bag and stuffed them in the pocket of his sweat suit. After all, one had to always be prepared.
Faster then he liked, he stood in front of the wooden partition again, the knob in his tense hand and yet he still didn't move an inch.
Chicken – now it really was enough with this shit!
Giving himself a push, he mumbled quietly: "Do something Winchester; it's only a stupid door." With this he opened it, slowly, so that the guides holding the wood wouldn't make even a slight noise. Carefully he stretched his head through first, pushing his upper body after and searching the room with his eyes.
No Sam – until he discovered the food that was hanging over the backrest of the couch and upon closer inspection he now could also recognize the dark mop of hair in the dim light of the fire place, which half burrowed in a pillow, was barely noticeable on the other side.
He crept forward in the direction of the sofa without the slightest noise, hesitated momentarily and finally looked over the back rest.
The air fled from his lungs in a surprised pant. Shock and disbelief swept over his inside, leaving Dean swaying and grabbing at the piece of furniture in front of him, to not loose traction in the real sense of the word.
Dammit, he should have eaten something.
And this time his cocky conscience could just keep quiet, he knew himself that it was just an excuse.
He expected a lot, but not this, Sam lying half curled up, as much as his size allowed it, one arm perched underneath his head and the other lying over his chest, the little leather book tightly pressed against himself – Dean's Book – his thoughts and memories. The Sam of today should never have read this, he wouldn't understand it anymore.
Or would he?
Frowning, the older one scrutinized the face of the sleeper. All of Sam formally cried out for someone – or something – radiating loneliness. The sleep showed the hidden, obviously otherwise so well hidden, locked up behind walls made of the hardest granite. Dean asked himself, if it was the same with him, if he showed Sam in his sleep, what was impossible to say.
He looked so young...
Tear tracks, still moist, glittered on fever reddened cheeks – Dean's gaze went further – the hand, which held the little book, or rather, which he clutched, like he never wanted to let go. Samuel Winchester missed out on a lot that was normal for others, the feeling of secureness, given by loving parents, a home, safety or family. With Dean it was different, for him those memories were little life lines that held him together and for the first time he hated keeping them almost selfishly for himself. Would it have changed anything? Was big brother guilty of the change in the younger one, the catastrophe that was happening?
How much did he read?
Very slowly he surrounded the piece of furniture, including its sleeping covering and silently sat down on the floor in front of it, absentmindedly staring into the fire, the even breathing of the other on his back.
And again past and present wove together into an indivisible mesh. Close to Sam he felt good, secure, needed, at least it used to be this way - in another time, yet at the same place.