"Fusty," he repeats, indignant. That, at least, seems to pull him out of the sleepy, burrowing state he'd been sinking into. He raises his head to glare muzzily at Crowley.

"My head is not fusty-smelling, whatever you might believe. For all you know it could be rosemary and cedar in there."

The idea pleases him, judging by the softening behind his eyes, and the hand at Crowley's back slides a little farther along so that the fingers tighten possessively on his other hip.