Dean’s voice is gravel and honey as he reads, laid back against the headboard with you tucked under his arm. The book’s old; pages yellowed, corners curled, something he found in the back of the Impala’s trunk and decided to dust off. You’re barely listening to the story, too focused on the warmth of his chest, the scratch of his stubble when he leans down and murmurs the words near your ear.

“You know, this guy’s makin’ a lot of dumb choices,” he mutters, flipping the page with a flick of his thumb. “Bet five bucks he gets himself killed by chapter ten.”

You grin, eyes still closed. “You always talk during books?”

Dean glances down at you with a lazy smile. “Only when I got a pretty girl usin’ me as a pillow.”

You hum softly, fingers brushing his shirt. “Keep reading.”

He does. The words roll slow off his tongue, steady and low, like he’s reading you a secret. Halfway through the page, he stumbles over a long sentence and sighs.

“Okay, seriously, who writes like this? This is like—nerdy Tolkien crap.”

You laugh. “Dean.”

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before going back to it. “I’m just sayin’, if I gotta read this guy’s inner monologue one more time, I might fall asleep before you do.”