Dean KNEW they were just old building sounds. Settling timbers, leaky pipes, loose gutters scraping against siding with the slight midnight breeze. He knew. He also knew that he and Sammy were protected by ever ward, sigil, and standard kitchen condiment known to hunters against any evil thing that might disguise itself with old motel sounds to kidnap little boys from broken down motels in the backwoods of Mississippi. He finally knew he was being a wuss about the whole situation in general, and that Dad would never be this afraid of some stupid bush rustling Dean. But somehow not any of these things he knew could convince him to sleep. He sat on his side of the bed, back straight against the headboard, shotgun clutched tight in his eleven year old fists, eyes glued to the door, all his self-control desperately trying to sooth his senses and ease his fears, just to keep him from breaking down and dragging Sam into the bathroom and locking the door. Dad wouldn't be home for another two days, and he needed to sleep, but he just couldn't.
Then Sammy flopped over in his sleep (kid was like a freaking octopus sometimes), and cuddled up tight against Dean's side, a smile of contentment easing his features. And his warmth seeped into Dean, and despite himself Dean found himself relaxing. He skooched down a couple inches on the bed – curling himself slightly around Sam – then a couple more. His ears began to hear more of Sam's soft sough sough breathing and less of the snick spack sputtering of the Motel sign. His own breathing deepened, and his eyes started to droop, and his hands loosened around the shot gun, and he curled a little more into little Sammy's warmth, and wiggled a little to find comfort and pulled the blankets up around his ears. And didn't even hear when the shotgun slid to the floor with a thud in the dark.