Dean was laying awake, staring at the stained and cracking motel popcorn ceiling. He had his hands woven together, tucked behind his head. The room was quiet. Or, it was as long as you didn't count the mechanical whirring and occasional 'clank' of the air conditioning unit in the window, the persistent hum of the ancient refrigerator, or the din of intermittent traffic on the interstate just outside the parking lot. By comparison to all that, the sounds of Sammy breathing in the bed on the other side of the night table were negligible. But Dean was used to listening. Not listening. Checking. He turned his head just enough that he could make out the silhouette of his little brother against the dark of the room, lying on his side, facing away from him towards the wall.
Dean sighed to himself. Sammy had been more down than usual that night. John was still not back from his last 'sales' trip and tomorrow was Easter. Holidays had never meant much to Dean, but Sammy had always seemed to care about them. Dean figured it was on account of his being so much younger. That, and he didn't know yet all the things that Dean knew. Sammy didn't know that their dad wasn't really a travelling salesman like he said he was. He didn't know that while Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny weren't real, there were other fables, other things, that were real. Too real. Horribly, unbelievably real. Dean had known for a long time what their dad really did, but for about a year now, in his mind, it was what Dean did, too.
Dean hated thinking about it. While his dad hunted, his job had always been to protect Sammy. But last year… He was still haunted by his mistake. He hadn't slept properly since. He could still see the horrifying shape of the shtriga hovering over his brother. The familiar, heavy knot in his stomach tugged at him as he forced the image from his mind and resolutely refocused his gaze on the cracks in the ceiling. The heaviness in his stomach persisted. He unclasped his hands and reached under his pillow to touch his sawed-off shotgun, just to reassure himself that it was still there. The knot loosened, and relaxing somewhat, Dean rested his hands on his chest.
The night went on. Dean guessed that it had been maybe three or four hours since he put Sammy to bed. He had suspected John wouldn't be back tonight, but he was prepared. Ever since the shtriga, he swore wouldn't leave Sammy alone at night. Not ever. He barely let himself get any shut eye if John wasn't around. He had to stay vigilant for Sam. So earlier that day, when the sun was up and the motel was awake and busy, Dean had gone on a supply run. While the little cash they had remaining from what John left them barely got them a couple boxes of mac 'n cheese and a package of hot dogs, Dean didn't have any difficulty acquiring a few extras. He managed to nick a package of those bright, sugary marshmallow birds and a handful of Kinder eggs on his way out while the cashier's back was turned. It wasn't much, but it'd at least be something.
Dean listened intently for the deep-sleep rhythm of Sam's breathing. Tentatively, he eased up onto his elbows and looked over at his brother, seeing if he reacted to the loud complaints of the old springs in the mattress as he shifted his weight. A moment passed. Then another. Sammy didn't seem to have heard. Dean couldn't help but smile to himself as he flipped back the covers and slid as soundlessly as he could to his feet. He crouched down and pulled his stolen treasures out from underneath the bed. He had been extra careful and had hidden them wrapped in a hand towel so that the plastic grocery bag wouldn't rustle and wake Sammy.
Despite his tiptoeing and stealthy movements, no onlooker would've been able to deny the obvious enthusiasm with which the elder Winchester brother snuck around the listless motel room, tucking away the pinched eggs in semi-obvious places. He left the marshmallow birds in their wrapping in the centre of the coffee table. Once everything had been placed to his satisfaction, Dean stood at the foot of Sam's bed and looked about the room to see how much the prizes hinted at their presence. With his eyes completely adjusted to the low light, he could make out just enough of each egg peaking out from behind the busted TV, the top ledge of the unnecessarily ornate, tacky picture frame, or the other chosen hiding places.
He almost wanted to wake Sammy right away. Instead, he glanced at the prehistoric alarm clock on his side table. The ever-dimming red digital numbers blinked 03:08. Dean, resigned to letting his brother sleep, crawled noiselessly back onto his bed and laid down. Rolling onto his side, facing Sammy's bed, he slipped his arm under his pillow and let his hand rest on the shotgun. The nights often seemed to drag on while he kept watch, but tonight would be okay. Instead of thinking about the shtriga, Dean would look forward to letting Sammy have his Easter.