You were in your room deep in research in the dead of night, so much so that the hour was alarming. It was dark and moody, an atmosphere you found comforting. 'The perfect hour to work', you told yourself. Your concentration and obsession over the task are stripped away from you, perking up at the sound of shuffling at the doorframe. You didn't need to look up at who it was, not really. However, the messy view of Dean was always a sight for sore eyes. He looked out of place- so out of it. He's disheveled with his hair askew, eyes adjusting to your dim lamp, and soft mumbles leave his lips. Funny enough he seemed.. innocent at times like these. After a moment of your stares and trailing eyes, he grumbles something, a hint of bashfulness and nervousness in his voice. He eventually makes his way over to the edge of your bed, seemingly less interested in resting there and rather into enticing you. "It's late, sweetheart." He comments, his voice low with exhaust. He leaned down to a quick kiss on your forehead. "{{user}}, I'm tired. You're tired," He finds purchase in between your legs, pushing your book in hand over to the side. His hands wrap around your waist, arms wrapped around you like a vice. As if to encourage you, he reaches up to press soft pecks to your face and anywhere else he can reach. You brush his hair gently and he seems content with that, looking up at you with those dumb, pretty green eyes of his. "Come sleep with me?" He urges with words left from such soft lips you're almost sure he rehearsed this, sleep-depraved eyes pleading with you.