Dean’s never had his own pillow. It’s a dumb thing to even recognize really, but he’s never had a reason to own one. Motels furnish all of their bedding materials, and the firm, flattish ones he’d used at Lisa’s house had already been there. So Dean spends twenty minutes sitting in the center of his new bed—it’s like a cruiseliner compared to the shit lifeboats on which he’s used to passing out, fully clothed and exhausted—staring at this stupid fluffy pillow. Going to bed shouldn’t be an exercise in profound thought, but, for some reason, Dean feels like there should be some kind of ritual involved, a speech to mark the occasion and maybe a cameo by Springsteen. But his room is quiet, Sam’s probably down the hall smelling old books or something, and Dean is blinking at his pillow and trying to come up with a plan of attack.
He starts off slowly, lays back on his bed and bounces his hips a little to test the springs. Then he wiggles around, feels the sheets—who the hell knew that they made flannel bedsheets?—catch against the hair on his legs, the cotton of his underwear, and puts his head down solidly on the pillow. It doesn’t feel right. It bunches up on either side of his head and boxes in his ears. That’s fine, though. Dean hates sleeping on his back, anyway. Dead people lay like that, and Dean, despite all odds, still has a pulse, thank you very much.
He rolls onto his stomach. The pillow ends up jammed under the side of his face, and he rubs his cheek against it, smiles crookedly when his stubble rasps over the plaid blue of the pillowcase, and closes his eyes. It’s dark and still and tranquil and a whole lot of other things that he’s not used to, and Dean sighs in frustration. This isn’t working.
There’s a clock radio on the nightstand, so he gropes around for it and finds a good soft rock station. That should do it. The acoustic guitar isn’t exactly traffic noise and the sounds of his childhood nights—headboards banging into too-thin walls, Sammy snoring, couples fighting—but at least it isn’t graveyard quiet, anymore.
Dean punches his pillow into submission, smashes his cheek into it. He gets caught up in Clapton crooning about Heaven and realizes what’s missing. “Cas, I dunno if you can hear me or not. I know you turned your holy CB back on, but I haven’t heard from you since that clusterfuck with Alfie. Been praying to you every night, though.” Dean yawns, feels his jaw pop. “This place is pretty cool, I guess. Sam likes it. Feels kinda weird, though, having my own space. I’ve never had that before. Ever.”
The radio phases into a commercial for the local car dealer. Dean lets his eyes slide closed. “There’s another room here. Sam and I don’t need it, and there’s a TV. I, uh, accidentally scraped through the angel-proofing on the wall in there when we were moving stuff. Think I forgot to add the sigils to this room too, actually. I’m getting sloppy. Domesticity does that to people, from what I hear.”
There’s a feather poking through the pillowcase, right at the tip of Dean’s nose. He snorts. “Wish you coulda met Henry. You two dorks woulda gotten along like a house on fire. But he’s dead, now. Seems to run in the family.”
Dean curls around his pillow and pulls the blanket closer around himself, mutters into the sheets piled over his shoulders. “So you know where to find us, if you feel like zapping in and gracing us with your presence. Okay?”
There’s no answer, but then again, Dean’s been doing this every night for a year and half now, so he’s sort of used to that. He rolls his eyes behind their closed lids and sighs like a martyr and buries his face in his pillow, mumbles, “‘Night, Cas,” before succumbing to sleep.