And again, he can’t back down. Her stubbornness drives him crazy sometimes. Not that he’s being any better. He fires back that maybe he should, just to try one night without someone sawing logs beside him. She mutters a sharp “fine, see if I care” tosses her hair over her shoulder, and walks off. He knows he’s being an idiot. And he knows she does care. Especially because she avoids him for the rest of the morning. She claims she has “errands” and drives off to do God knows what, instead of being all soft and cuddly like she usually gets after lunch, the time of day she tries to herd him into taking a nap.

He always pretends he’s only doing it to humor her, but the truth is he can’t sleep when he doesn’t know where she is.

Or when he can’t check if she’s still upset with him.

Or if she ate lunch.

Or if she liked it.

Or if she’s craving one of the dozen treats he keeps stocked just for her.

He loves the way she looks surprised every time he hands her something she wants, that soft smile she gets. He doesn’t even feel bad that he already misses her. Who could blame him? She trained him. All that warmth and softness she never used to show, and now he’s hooked. Always trailing after her like a misbehaving puppy.

He hears her footsteps in the hallway before he sees her. She pauses in the doorway, just long enough to check on him without actually stepping inside, then disappears into the nursery. She’s redone that room at least ten times by now, folding and refolding tiny clothes every time she gets a new onesie, stacking more storybooks than he’s ever read in his life. Usually she comes back excited to show him whatever she found, and he’ll roll his eyes but end up smiling anyway when she explains something ridiculously sweet like, “I got this onesie because it has little cars all over it. I couldn’t find one with an Impala, but I wanted you to have something to bond over with the baby.” Always worrying too much. Always trying to make things perfect.

He can hear her rustling around in there now, probably rearranging the bookshelf for the hundredth time. He lies on the bed, listening, trying to figure out if she’s okay just from the sound of her moving. Fifteen minutes pass. Nothing changes.

And he can’t take it anymore. He needs to see her. Needs to know she’s fine. Even if she’s still mad. Even if she gives him that look he probably deserves. He just needs to see her.

He hears her typing as he approaches the nursery. When he leans against the doorframe — trying to look casual for some stupid, egotistical reason, she doesn’t even notice him at first. She’s focused on her laptop, a little line between her brows. Worried. Again. And this time it’s probably his fault.

He clears his throat gently so he doesn’t startle her. “What are you doin’, sweetheart?”

She finally looks up. Not angry. If anything, she looks relieved that he’s talking to her at all. “I’m trying to find a solution for our… uh… sleeping situation” She still won’t admit she snores. Of course she won’t.

“According to the internet” she continues, “the solutions are: getting a bigger bed, sleeping in separate beds, or sleeping in separate rooms until the baby comes. A lot of them say it’s the weight”

He raises an eyebrow. That’s what she’s been reading? He scoffs, stepping closer. “Bullshit. You're pregnant. Of course you’re gonna snore. Doesn’t mean you’re fat" He takes the laptop gently but firmly, gives it an offended look, then closes it and sets it aside. The fact that she’s even considering all this because he was a grumpy asshole this morning annoys him deeply.

“Sweetheart” he steps closer, stopping in front of her chair, voice softer now, “you’re pregnant, that’s all. You’re supposed to be gaining weight and snoring. You look damn perfect. Quit worrying”

She looks like she wants to argue, because she always wants to argue when he tells her not to worry. She’s never been able to just stop worrying on command. “Maybe if we try it in stages” she says, thinking out loud. “Earplugs. Maybe a king size bed. I wouldn’t be… crowding you. Or we could try the separate rooms thing one time. Just to catch up on sleep” She reaches for his arm to stand up from the recliner, and of course he takes her hand immediately. She’s stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something. “Hell no” he says. “Those things won’t do crap. We don’t need a bigger bed. The bed is fine the goddamn way it is”

“You’re not working with me here, De” she complains, but it sounds like them again. Their normal rhythm. The sharp edges from the morning are gone. “I’m running out of ideas. “I don’t like that you’re exhausted because of me” she says, firm. “So we’re fixing it”

That’s the part that cracks him. Every time. Yeah, he was tired. But when has he ever slept more than five hours straight in his entire life?

Now he’s got a soft bed and a wife who looks like something out of a damn painting. Like what he used to think angels were supposed to look like, before he met a few and found out they were mostly dicks.

If he told her that, she’d just raise an eyebrow and say, “Aren’t angels kind of jerks? What are you trying to say?”

She’d argue about the compliment instead of just taking it.

Drives him nuts.

He can’t complain. He did complain, but he shouldn’t have. And he sure as hell isn’t sleeping in another room. Not when he knows she gets nightmares. Not when he knows she sleeps better with his hand on her belly. Not when he sleeps better knowing she’s right there. “Damn it” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He can already feel himself giving in. He’ll agree to anything if it takes that worried little frown off her face. Which probably means he’s about to end up doing something stupid like prenatal yoga because it “opens the lungs” or whatever excuse she’ll give him. And the worst part? He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks if it means she stops worrying.

It would drive him crazy how stubborn she is, if it didn't mean she just cares that much. She won’t drop it until she’s fixed it. Once she decides something’s a problem, it becomes a case. Research. Solutions. Backup solutions. She won’t drop it until she’s tried everything.

But it also means she never gives up. Not on problems. Not on people. Not even on him. Even when he was a grumpy asshole before coffee.

“Fine. One damn night” Dean grumbles, one hand already finding her waist. It’s mostly a lie, no matter how well he’s supposed to sleep, he’s not going through with it. “But if I end up sleeping just as shitty, we’re banning that idea”

“Fair” she say, stepping closer, arms sliding around him with the easy affection she's grown into. “So who gets our room then?”

“We’ll flip a coin” He rests his chin on the top of her head. “Heads or tails?” She scoffs, that little sound she makes when he successfully pushes her buttons. “Are you seriously trying to take our bed? Aren’t wives supposed to be the ones kicking their husbands out to sleep on the couch?”

He holds her tighter, arms firm around her. “Normally, sweetheart” he says, humor threading through his voice, “but you, my dear, snore like—”

“Oh, shut up. You snore too. Like a bear” she shoots back, not even pretending to deny it anymore.

And just like that, they both drift into your usual night routine. Neither of them walks toward the spare room. Neither even glances at the couch. “But I do it in solidarity” he grins at her.

He’s already sitting on the bed when she crawl in, wearing one of those nightgowns with the lace trim that drives him wild. The soft fabric clings to her frame, to her bump, and like every night she makes a beeline straight for the middle of the mattress. He follows without hesitation. “You’re really gonna hog the bed, sweetheart?” he teases, hand already finding warm skin.

“Depends. Are you going to sweat all night?” she snaps back, but there’s no bite in it.

His arms wrap around her, drawing her closer. He loves the extra weight she's put on, the softness, the warmth, the curves.

He holds her the entire night, sometimes pulling her closer just to hear that little content sigh she lets out.

He’d let her snore in his ear for the rest of his life if it means he gets to keep her like this.

He loves that she's carrying his child.

He loves that she chooses him.

Chooses to give him this version of herself, all that quiet warmth she doesn’t hand out to the rest of the world.

It was a band he actually liked. He had a couple of their shirts, faded ones he’d found in clearance bins and thrift stores. Tonight he was seeing them live. That alone felt unreal.

It rained a little. No one cared. People screamed the lyrics anyway. A girl next to him knew every single song, and he ended up sharing his beer with her. She was pretty. She kissed him, quick, messy, laughing into his mouth. He couldn’t hear her name over the noise. He could almost see himself asking her out if he could be Mike for a couple more days. But he lost sight of her in the crush of bodies spilling out after the show.

He walked out smelling like cigarettes, sweat, and spilled beer. One of the best nights he’d ever had. His legs ached from jumping, his cheeks were sore from smiling, and he’d spent his last few dollars on a tour shirt he didn’t need. He felt almost giddy. He pulled out his phone to call Sam.

Right, he didn’t have Sam’s number anymore. Sam didn’t want him to call. Sam didn’t look back.

The night deflated in his chest.

Dean straightened without thinking. Shoulders squared. Voice flat. The automatic “Yes, sir.” John didn’t ask where he was. Didn’t ask how he was. Just gave him a list of things to do. A hunt to prep. A motel to check. The snap felt like a physical blow, like the whole night had been an elastic band stretching further and further with every little thing Dean let himself enjoy. Things he didn’t get to do because there was always another monster out there, always another job, always another responsibility. And Sammy was off doing God knows what, and Dean was still here, answering the phone with a clipped “Dad” like a soldier reporting for duty. The rubber band snapped and hit him right in the chest, making it hard to breathe even after the call ended abruptly, like it always did. John’s final words “You have a job to do” carried that faint thread of disapproval Dean knew too well. A reminder that he didn’t have time to go to concerts with other kids. Because he wasn’t a kid. Never had been.

He looked around. They did look like kids to him now, still smiling, still buzzing with leftover dopamine, still free.

He needed to hurry. Make sure nothing had happened to Baby. After all, Dad had trusted her to him. And what was he doing?

Dean looked down at the tour shirt in his hand. The last piece of the night. The last piece of the version of himself he’d tried on for a few hours. It looked almost ridiculous now.

He didn’t throw it away. He’d probably have to sleep in the car tonight because he bought it. But he didn’t throw it away.

It was a band he actually liked. He had a couple of their shirts, faded ones he’d found in clearance bins and thrift stores. Tonight he was seeing them live. That alone felt unreal.

It rained a little. No one cared. People screamed the lyrics anyway. A girl next to him knew every single song, and he ended up sharing his beer with her. She was pretty. She kissed him, quick, messy, laughing into his mouth. He couldn’t hear her name over the noise. He could almost see himself asking her out if he could be Mike for a couple more days. But he lost sight of her in the crush of bodies spilling out after the show.

He walked out smelling like cigarettes, sweat, and spilled beer. One of the best nights he’d ever had. His legs ached from jumping, his cheeks were sore from smiling, and he’d spent his last few dollars on a tour shirt he didn’t need. He felt almost giddy. He pulled out his phone to call Sam.

Right, he didn’t have Sam’s number anymore. Sam didn’t want him to call. Sam didn’t look back.

The night deflated in his chest.

Dean straightened without thinking. Shoulders squared. Voice flat. The automatic “Yes, sir.” John didn’t ask where he was. Didn’t ask how he was. Just gave him a list of things to do. A hunt to prep. A motel to check. The snap felt like a physical blow, like the whole night had been an elastic band stretching further and further with every little thing Dean let himself enjoy. Things he didn’t get to do because there was always another monster out there, always another job, always another responsibility. And Sammy was off doing God knows what, and Dean was still here, answering the phone with a clipped “Dad” like a soldier reporting for duty. The rubber band snapped and hit him right in the chest, making it hard to breathe even after the call ended abruptly, like it always did. John’s final words “You have a job to do” carried that faint thread of disapproval Dean knew too well. A reminder that he didn’t have time to go to concerts with other kids. Because he wasn’t a kid. Never had been.

He looked around. They did look like kids to him now, still smiling, still buzzing with leftover dopamine, still free.

He needed to hurry. Make sure nothing had happened to Baby. After all, Dad had trusted her to him. And what was he doing?

Dean looked down at the tour shirt in his hand. The last piece of the night. The last piece of the version of himself he’d tried on for a few hours. It looked almost ridiculous now.

He didn’t throw it away. He’d probably have to sleep in the car tonight because he bought it. But he didn’t throw it away.

And again, he can’t back down. Her stubbornness drives him crazy sometimes. Not that he’s being any better. He fires back that maybe he should, just to try one night without someone sawing logs beside him. She mutters a sharp “fine, see if I care” tosses her hair over her shoulder, and walks off. He knows he’s being an idiot. And he knows she does care. Especially because she avoids him for the rest of the morning. She claims she has “errands” and drives off to do God knows what, instead of being all soft and cuddly like she usually gets after lunch, the time of day she tries to herd him into taking a nap.

He always pretends he’s only doing it to humor her, but the truth is he can’t sleep when he doesn’t know where she is.

Or when he can’t check if she’s still upset with him.

Or if she ate lunch.

Or if she liked it.

Or if she’s craving one of the dozen treats he keeps stocked just for her.

He loves the way she looks surprised every time he hands her something she wants, that soft smile she gets. He doesn’t even feel bad that he already misses her. Who could blame him? She trained him. All that warmth and softness she never used to show, and now he’s hooked. Always trailing after her like a misbehaving puppy.

He hears her footsteps in the hallway before he sees her. She pauses in the doorway, just long enough to check on him without actually stepping inside, then disappears into the nursery. She’s redone that room at least ten times by now, folding and refolding tiny clothes every time she gets a new onesie, stacking more storybooks than he’s ever read in his life. Usually she comes back excited to show him whatever she found, and he’ll roll his eyes but end up smiling anyway when she explains something ridiculously sweet like, “I got this onesie because it has little cars all over it. I couldn’t find one with an Impala, but I wanted you to have something to bond over with the baby.” Always worrying too much. Always trying to make things perfect.

He can hear her rustling around in there now, probably rearranging the bookshelf for the hundredth time. He lies on the bed, listening, trying to figure out if she’s okay just from the sound of her moving. Fifteen minutes pass. Nothing changes.

And he can’t take it anymore. He needs to see her. Needs to know she’s fine. Even if she’s still mad. Even if she gives him that look he probably deserves. He just needs to see her.

He hears her typing as he approaches the nursery. When he leans against the doorframe — trying to look casual for some stupid, egotistical reason, she doesn’t even notice him at first. She’s focused on her laptop, a little line between her brows. Worried. Again. And this time it’s probably his fault.

He clears his throat gently so he doesn’t startle her. “What are you doin’, sweetheart?”

She finally looks up. Not angry. If anything, she looks relieved that he’s talking to her at all. “I’m trying to find a solution for our… uh… sleeping situation” She still won’t admit she snores. Of course she won’t.

“According to the internet” she continues, “the solutions are: getting a bigger bed, sleeping in separate beds, or sleeping in separate rooms until the baby comes. A lot of them say it’s the weight”

He raises an eyebrow. That’s what she’s been reading? He scoffs, stepping closer. “Bullshit. You're pregnant. Of course you’re gonna snore. Doesn’t mean you’re fat" He takes the laptop gently but firmly, gives it an offended look, then closes it and sets it aside. The fact that she’s even considering all this because he was a grumpy asshole this morning annoys him deeply.

“Sweetheart” he steps closer, stopping in front of her chair, voice softer now, “you’re pregnant, that’s all. You’re supposed to be gaining weight and snoring. You look damn perfect. Quit worrying”

She looks like she wants to argue, because she always wants to argue when he tells her not to worry. She’s never been able to just stop worrying on command. “Maybe if we try it in stages” she says, thinking out loud. “Earplugs. Maybe a king size bed. I wouldn’t be… crowding you. Or we could try the separate rooms thing one time. Just to catch up on sleep” She reaches for his arm to stand up from the recliner, and of course he takes her hand immediately. She’s stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something. “Hell no” he says. “Those things won’t do crap. We don’t need a bigger bed. The bed is fine the goddamn way it is”

“You’re not working with me here, De” she complains, but it sounds like them again. Their normal rhythm. The sharp edges from the morning are gone. “I’m running out of ideas. “I don’t like that you’re exhausted because of me” she says, firm. “So we’re fixing it”

That’s the part that cracks him. Every time. Yeah, he was tired. But when has he ever slept more than five hours straight in his entire life?

Now he’s got a soft bed and a wife who looks like something out of a damn painting. Like what he used to think angels were supposed to look like, before he met a few and found out they were mostly dicks.

If he told her that, she’d just raise an eyebrow and say, “Aren’t angels kind of jerks? What are you trying to say?”

She’d argue about the compliment instead of just taking it.

Drives him nuts.

He can’t complain. He did complain, but he shouldn’t have. And he sure as hell isn’t sleeping in another room. Not when he knows she gets nightmares. Not when he knows she sleeps better with his hand on her belly. Not when he sleeps better knowing she’s right there. “Damn it” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He can already feel himself giving in. He’ll agree to anything if it takes that worried little frown off her face. Which probably means he’s about to end up doing something stupid like prenatal yoga because it “opens the lungs” or whatever excuse she’ll give him. And the worst part? He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks if it means she stops worrying.

It would drive him crazy how stubborn she is, if it didn't mean she just cares that much. She won’t drop it until she’s fixed it. Once she decides something’s a problem, it becomes a case. Research. Solutions. Backup solutions. She won’t drop it until she’s tried everything.

But it also means she never gives up. Not on problems. Not on people. Not even on him. Even when he was a grumpy asshole before coffee.

“Fine. One damn night” Dean grumbles, one hand already finding her waist. It’s mostly a lie, no matter how well he’s supposed to sleep, he’s not going through with it. “But if I end up sleeping just as shitty, we’re banning that idea”

“Fair” she say, stepping closer, arms sliding around him with the easy affection she's grown into. “So who gets our room then?”

“We’ll flip a coin” He rests his chin on the top of her head. “Heads or tails?” She scoffs, that little sound she makes when he successfully pushes her buttons. “Are you seriously trying to take our bed? Aren’t wives supposed to be the ones kicking their husbands out to sleep on the couch?”

He holds her tighter, arms firm around her. “Normally, sweetheart” he says, humor threading through his voice, “but you, my dear, snore like—”

“Oh, shut up. You snore too. Like a bear” she shoots back, not even pretending to deny it anymore.

And just like that, they both drift into your usual night routine. Neither of them walks toward the spare room. Neither even glances at the couch. “But I do it in solidarity” he grins at her.

He’s already sitting on the bed when she crawl in, wearing one of those nightgowns with the lace trim that drives him wild. The soft fabric clings to her frame, to her bump, and like every night she makes a beeline straight for the middle of the mattress. He follows without hesitation. “You’re really gonna hog the bed, sweetheart?” he teases, hand already finding warm skin.

“Depends. Are you going to sweat all night?” she snaps back, but there’s no bite in it.

His arms wrap around her, drawing her closer. He loves the extra weight she's put on, the softness, the warmth, the curves.

He holds her the entire night, sometimes pulling her closer just to hear that little content sigh she lets out.

He’d let her snore in his ear for the rest of his life if it means he gets to keep her like this.

He loves that she's carrying his child.

He loves that she chooses him.

Chooses to give him this version of herself, all that quiet warmth she doesn’t hand out to the rest of the world.

He's leaning over the counter, pouring a glass of whiskey, but his eyes linger on you, running over your bare legs flushed cheeks, the state he left you in. And he's wearing that smug grin he only gets when he's very, very proud of himself.

“What?” you asked, raising your brows, catching him staring.

He shook his head and moved closer. “Nothing” He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Your hair’s a mess” He said it like it was the best thing he’d seen all night.

"I wonder why" you mused "it looked perfectly fine while we were eating dinner"

“We didn’t eat dinner” he reminded you, trying, and failing, to smooth the mess he’d made with his hands.

"it's always straight to dessert with you, huh?" you tease, stealing his glass, sipping it, almost daring him to complain.

So it becomes this little dance, roaming eyes, flirty touches, trying to see who can push the other to break first.

"I think we'll have to do some snacks instead" I say looking at the empty brownie tray. You reach to the cabinets, trying to get a bowl out.

"let me help you with that" Dean murmured.

You were about to tell him you could reach just fine when you felt his hand settle on your lower back, his chest radiating heat as he stepped in close beside you. He didn’t move away immediately. His hand slid from your lower back to your hip, fingers curling there, steady and sure.

“Found it” he murmured, low and warm, his breath brushing your ear.

You slipped out of his hold and crossed to the pantry, pretending you his touch didn't set your skin on fire.

He watches you bend to grab a bag of chips, his shirt slipping just enough to remind him of everything you’re not wearing underneath it. You glance over your shoulder, pretending to be absorbed in snack choices.

“What do you want to eat?” you ask, casual, knowing exactly what you’re doing.His eyes drag up from the hem of the shirt to your face.

“Anything” he says, voice low. “Whatever you want… or just bend over again. I’m still deciding”

You grab the first bag you see, then reach for the upper shelf, stretching deliberately. “Can’t choose” you murmur “I think I’m in the mood for something else”

He knows. Of course he knows. And Dean being Dean, he steps right into it “Let me help you, then”

His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing the warm skin just above the waistband. His breath grazes your neck, lips brushing the spot where your pulse jumps.

A shiver runs through you, and then he’s gone, already across the pantry, pretending to inspect the chocolate bars like he didn’t just set your nerves on fire.

You hop onto the counter, matching his game, pretending his broad shoulders and the freckles scattered across them don’t affect you at all.

His eyes betray him when he turns around, following the line of your legs, dangling over the edge. Slowly, deliberately, he breaks off a piece of chocolate and pops it into his mouth.

"I want a taste" you say.

He tears off another piece of chocolate, holding it out to you. When you reach for it, he pulls back slightly, a smirk playing on his lips "Open your mouth"

As he towers over you, holding his gaze, you open your mouth, pink tongue darting out. The sinful image mirroring a perverted version of receiving the communion.

His knuckles brush over your bottom lip as he places the chocolate on your tongue. His finger linger on your jaw "taste it"

You let it melt, humming softly. His eyes darken. “Good?” he asks, voice roughened.

“Really good” Your gaze flicks to his mouth, then back up. “But I want more”

He huffs a quiet laugh "Always asking for more, sweetheart"

Dean leans in slightly, breath ghosting over your lips as he waits for you to answer. When you don’t, he presses a soft kiss to your mouth, teasing, barely there. You tilt your chin up instinctively, asking for more and he gives you what you’re asking for. He presses his lips against yours firmly, as his tongue pushing inside, tasting of chocolate and him.

When he pulls back, he’s wearing that proud, infuriating grin where he knows he has you right where he wants you "what? you're not even going to let me eat, sweetheart?" Said like I'm interrupting you in the middle of his midnight snack.

You reached to the side to grab the whipped cream, forgotten there after dinner, spraying a line of cool cream, starting in between your breasts, down your navel, stopping right above your belly button.

"then eat"

A hungry, almost animalistic look darkened his eyes as he watches the white cream land on soft skin, and taking the can from your hands, his warm tongue sweeping the sweet foam from your skin.

Without hesitation he drops to his knees before you, his hands pushing your knees with his hands to open your legs wider. His eyes locked to your as he leans in, lapping up the sweet treat from your inner thighs.

"Is this what you wanted?" Dean murmurs between licks "make a mess out of you?" voice rough with need. He hooks your legs over his shoulders. His hands grip your hips tighter.

A whimper emerges from your parted lips from the anticipation. Finally you feel his tongue making its way through your folds finding the most sensitive place on his way up, making your hips buck.

He smirks against you, his tongue flattening against your clit, moving slow and hard. His grip on your hips tighten pulling you even closer and keeping you there.

You can't take your eyes off him. The way his shoulders flex and roll with every movement, the muscles shifting beneath his skin like they’re working just for you. The veins along his forearms stand out. And then there are his lashes, softening a face that's eating you out like a starving man. The most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Taking your breath away and wrecking you at the same time.

Then you see it, his hand that left your hip, now fisted around his cock, matching the rhythm of his tongue. When your had tightens it's grip on his hair he groans, the sound reverberating against your core. Doubling his efforts.

You try to bite down your lip, muffle the wild sounds coming from you, but you can't even manage, panting and moaning. Every nerve on your body feels like it's being tightening and going limp at the same time.

Your thighs shake over his shoulders, clamping around his head as the tight coil in my center snaps, firing every cell in my body alight.

His own body shuddering as he comes undone at the sight and sound of you coming apart in his mouth.

He pulls back, the back of his hand swiping over his mouth. His eyes taking in your state, eyes half lidded, cheeks flushed, a sticky mess all over you. A satisfied smirk play on his lips as he leans to kiss you deeply. Letting you taste yourself on him.

"I already told you, go sit at the table" Dean slides you off the counter, steadying you with warm hands. that familiar glint in his eyes, promise that the night isn't over. “We have a table now, sweetheart. We’re using it.”

And again, he can’t back down. Her stubbornness drives him crazy sometimes. Not that he’s being any better. He fires back that maybe he should, just to try one night without someone sawing logs beside him. She mutters a sharp “fine, see if I care” tosses her hair over her shoulder, and walks off. He knows he’s being an idiot. And he knows she does care. Especially because she avoids him for the rest of the morning. She claims she has “errands” and drives off to do God knows what, instead of being all soft and cuddly like she usually gets after lunch, the time of day she tries to herd him into taking a nap.

He always pretends he’s only doing it to humor her, but the truth is he can’t sleep when he doesn’t know where she is.

Or when he can’t check if she’s still upset with him.

Or if she ate lunch.

Or if she liked it.

Or if she’s craving one of the dozen treats he keeps stocked just for her.

He loves the way she looks surprised every time he hands her something she wants, that soft smile she gets. He doesn’t even feel bad that he already misses her. Who could blame him? She trained him. All that warmth and softness she never used to show, and now he’s hooked. Always trailing after her like a misbehaving puppy.

He hears her footsteps in the hallway before he sees her. She pauses in the doorway, just long enough to check on him without actually stepping inside, then disappears into the nursery. She’s redone that room at least ten times by now, folding and refolding tiny clothes every time she gets a new onesie, stacking more storybooks than he’s ever read in his life. Usually she comes back excited to show him whatever she found, and he’ll roll his eyes but end up smiling anyway when she explains something ridiculously sweet like, “I got this onesie because it has little cars all over it. I couldn’t find one with an Impala, but I wanted you to have something to bond over with the baby.” Always worrying too much. Always trying to make things perfect.

He can hear her rustling around in there now, probably rearranging the bookshelf for the hundredth time. He lies on the bed, listening, trying to figure out if she’s okay just from the sound of her moving. Fifteen minutes pass. Nothing changes.

And he can’t take it anymore. He needs to see her. Needs to know she’s fine. Even if she’s still mad. Even if she gives him that look he probably deserves. He just needs to see her.

He hears her typing as he approaches the nursery. When he leans against the doorframe — trying to look casual for some stupid, egotistical reason, she doesn’t even notice him at first. She’s focused on her laptop, a little line between her brows. Worried. Again. And this time it’s probably his fault.

He clears his throat gently so he doesn’t startle her. “What are you doin’, sweetheart?”

She finally looks up. Not angry. If anything, she looks relieved that he’s talking to her at all. “I’m trying to find a solution for our… uh… sleeping situation” She still won’t admit she snores. Of course she won’t.

“According to the internet” she continues, “the solutions are: getting a bigger bed, sleeping in separate beds, or sleeping in separate rooms until the baby comes. A lot of them say it’s the weight”

He raises an eyebrow. That’s what she’s been reading? He scoffs, stepping closer. “Bullshit. You're pregnant. Of course you’re gonna snore. Doesn’t mean you’re fat" He takes the laptop gently but firmly, gives it an offended look, then closes it and sets it aside. The fact that she’s even considering all this because he was a grumpy asshole this morning annoys him deeply.

“Sweetheart” he steps closer, stopping in front of her chair, voice softer now, “you’re pregnant, that’s all. You’re supposed to be gaining weight and snoring. You look damn perfect. Quit worrying”

She looks like she wants to argue, because she always wants to argue when he tells her not to worry. She’s never been able to just stop worrying on command. “Maybe if we try it in stages” she says, thinking out loud. “Earplugs. Maybe a king size bed. I wouldn’t be… crowding you. Or we could try the separate rooms thing one time. Just to catch up on sleep” She reaches for his arm to stand up from the recliner, and of course he takes her hand immediately. She’s stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something. “Hell no” he says. “Those things won’t do crap. We don’t need a bigger bed. The bed is fine the goddamn way it is”

“You’re not working with me here, De” she complains, but it sounds like them again. Their normal rhythm. The sharp edges from the morning are gone. “I’m running out of ideas. “I don’t like that you’re exhausted because of me” she says, firm. “So we’re fixing it”

That’s the part that cracks him. Every time. Yeah, he was tired. But when has he ever slept more than five hours straight in his entire life?

Now he’s got a soft bed and a wife who looks like something out of a damn painting. Like what he used to think angels were supposed to look like, before he met a few and found out they were mostly dicks.

If he told her that, she’d just raise an eyebrow and say, “Aren’t angels kind of jerks? What are you trying to say?”

She’d argue about the compliment instead of just taking it.

Drives him nuts.

He can’t complain. He did complain, but he shouldn’t have. And he sure as hell isn’t sleeping in another room. Not when he knows she gets nightmares. Not when he knows she sleeps better with his hand on her belly. Not when he sleeps better knowing she’s right there. “Damn it” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He can already feel himself giving in. He’ll agree to anything if it takes that worried little frown off her face. Which probably means he’s about to end up doing something stupid like prenatal yoga because it “opens the lungs” or whatever excuse she’ll give him. And the worst part? He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks if it means she stops worrying.

It would drive him crazy how stubborn she is, if it didn't mean she just cares that much. She won’t drop it until she’s fixed it. Once she decides something’s a problem, it becomes a case. Research. Solutions. Backup solutions. She won’t drop it until she’s tried everything.

But it also means she never gives up. Not on problems. Not on people. Not even on him. Even when he was a grumpy asshole before coffee.

“Fine. One damn night” Dean grumbles, one hand already finding her waist. It’s mostly a lie, no matter how well he’s supposed to sleep, he’s not going through with it. “But if I end up sleeping just as shitty, we’re banning that idea”

“Fair” she say, stepping closer, arms sliding around him with the easy affection she's grown into. “So who gets our room then?”

“We’ll flip a coin” He rests his chin on the top of her head. “Heads or tails?” She scoffs, that little sound she makes when he successfully pushes her buttons. “Are you seriously trying to take our bed? Aren’t wives supposed to be the ones kicking their husbands out to sleep on the couch?”

He holds her tighter, arms firm around her. “Normally, sweetheart” he says, humor threading through his voice, “but you, my dear, snore like—”

“Oh, shut up. You snore too. Like a bear” she shoots back, not even pretending to deny it anymore.

And just like that, they both drift into your usual night routine. Neither of them walks toward the spare room. Neither even glances at the couch. “But I do it in solidarity” he grins at her.

He’s already sitting on the bed when she crawl in, wearing one of those nightgowns with the lace trim that drives him wild. The soft fabric clings to her frame, to her bump, and like every night she makes a beeline straight for the middle of the mattress. He follows without hesitation. “You’re really gonna hog the bed, sweetheart?” he teases, hand already finding warm skin.

“Depends. Are you going to sweat all night?” she snaps back, but there’s no bite in it.

His arms wrap around her, drawing her closer. He loves the extra weight she's put on, the softness, the warmth, the curves.

He holds her the entire night, sometimes pulling her closer just to hear that little content sigh she lets out.

He’d let her snore in his ear for the rest of his life if it means he gets to keep her like this.

He loves that she's carrying his child.

He loves that she chooses him.

Chooses to give him this version of herself, all that quiet warmth she doesn’t hand out to the rest of the world.