Leviathan. It takes a moment for that to register. The Leviathans are denizens of Purgatory, banished there before even angels were created. They're creatures still beyond your knowledge. His brows pinch together. What do you know of Purgatory, Dean?

His curiosity, while present, remains null. Now that he's said it aloud, he wants a reply to his question first. He wants you to stay the night. To take you in like you once took him in. To give you—a home. A purpose and a place to belong. You could live here with him. With an eagerness that almost leaves him giddy, he uses the hand resting on the gun to flip back the comforter, abandoning his cocoon of warmth to invite in the sharp February cold. You should get under the blanket, Dean, and shut the door.

He wears the same shirt and jeans that he once meant to die in, but over them he layered a flannel shirt and sweatshirt he bought from Target, plain cotton, with no hood or zip, in a bright cerulean blue. He cut off the fingers on a pain of basic cotton gloves, faded black now from wear, for his hands. His feet, though, are bare. Without the warmth of the blanket, he pulls them underneath him, sticking his toes in the creases behind his knees to keep them warm.

Setting the safety, he drops the gun back into its cubby-hole in the plaster. The blanket forms a rough semi-circle on the box spring, an open space for a second person to sit. He looks at it and then looks at you. Sit, Dean. Come closer. You're still mostly in shadow and it's cold.

"I live here." That's what he's doing here. That seems to be the most accurate answer.