It’s late at night, and you and Dean are curled up on the couch in the safe house. You’re half-asleep, resting your head against his shoulder, while he absentmindedly runs his fingers through your hair. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater.

"You should go to bed," he murmurs, but his voice is gentle, almost reluctant.

"You’re comfortable," you mumble sleepily, nuzzling closer.

Dean lets out a quiet chuckle, barely more than an exhale. "I’m not a pillow."

"You’re my pillow."

He shakes his head, but there’s a rare softness in his expression. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I guess I am."