Gemini Flanagan’s Personal Assistant.

The door clicked open softly, the smell of greasy fries sneaking in ahead of Sam. He was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand, a crinkled bag of burgers in the other, looking like the world’s most overqualified delivery guy.

Behind him, Lilah burst in like a firework and her arms full of a bouquet so big she could barely see over the top. “Daddy!”, she whisper-shouted, which defeated the purpose, but at least she tried.

Dean was in the armchair by the window, Henry cradled against his chest in a bee-print onesie you hadn’t even known existed. He looked tiny. Three weeks early had left him all delicate wrists and scrunched-up nose, but his little fists were pumping like he already had demands.

“Hey, Buzz”, Dean whispered back, his grin blooming despite the dark circles under his eyes. He nodded toward your sleeping form on the bed. “Shhh. Mommy’s out”.

Lilah tiptoed in dramatically. She stopped dead when she saw Henry. Her bouquet slipped dangerously sideways until Sam caught it, rolling his eyes fondly.

“He’s so small”, Lilah breathed, climbing up onto Dean’s knee without asking. Her little hand reached out, hovering, not quite daring to touch. “And he’s got bees!”. She giggled, pointing at the onesie.

Dean huffed, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Yeah, figured it was only right”. He shifted Henry carefully, angling him so Lilah could peek without squishing him. Henry squawked, tiny and impatient. Dean sighed, already reaching for the bottle he’d half-prepped on the side table. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, kid. Give your old man a second”. The baby squawked louder. Lilah gasped. “Daddy! He’s mad!”.

Sam set the flowers down on the counter with the food, shaking his head with a smile. “Guess impatience runs in the family”.

Dean muttered under his breath as he jiggled Henry gently, “Man’s three hours old and already yellin’ at me for bein’ too slow”.

Henry hiccupped, let out a high little cry, then latched onto the bottle the second Dean got it in place, still frowning even in his sleepiness.

Dean smirked, rocking him gently. “Attitude. Just like his uncle”.

Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a faint grin. But the longer he watched, the more his brows crept up. “You’re… actually feeding him”, Sam said, surprised.

Dean shot him a look, adjusting the bottle with care as Henry suckled noisily. “No, genius, I’m playin’ poker with him”.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean… you’ve got him swaddled right, you’re holding his head, the angle, hell, you look like you’ve done this before”.

Dean rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “The nurse showed me three times, Sammy. Three. I wasn’t about to screw it up in front of her and get that look”. He shifted Henry slightly, his palm cradling the tiny back of his son’s head, softer now. “Besides… not exactly rocket science”.

Henry let out a greedy little grunt, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers twitching like he was still arguing.

Sam grinned, unable to resist. “Still. Didn’t think I’d walk in and see my big brother like this”.

Dean glared at him, cheeks pinking as he instinctively slowed his rocking motion. “Shut up”.

Lilah giggled, leaning into Dean’s side and petting Henry’s blanket like it was a puppy. “Uncle Sam, Daddy’s the best bee daddy ever”.

Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, smile softening. “Yeah, Buzz. Looks like he is”.

Eventually you woke up slowly.

Dean caught your movement instantly. His eyes snapped up, that protective instinct kicking in before anything else, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened. “Hey”, he murmured.

Lilah bounced once, careful not to jostle Henry. “Mommy! Daddy’s feeding him all by himself! And Uncle Sam brought fries!”. She beamed like it was the best news in the world.

Your lips curved, even through the heaviness weighing down your limbs. “I see that”.

Lilah tugged on Dean´s sleeve. “Daddy”, she whispered. “Can I hold him now? Please? Please? I’m big enough. I’m five”.

Dean glanced at you, the kind of look that said you hearing this? before sighing like a man already defeated. “Buzz… you gotta sit real still, alright? No wiggling. No spinning. He’s not a doll”.

Lilah gasped. “I know that! He’s Henry!”.

Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his life these days. “Alright, Buzz. C’mere. Sit right there—”, he nodded toward the foot of your bed, tone all mock-sergeant—“and grab that pillow”.

Lilah scampered over and plopped herself down exactly where he told her, dragging the hospital pillow onto her lap like she was preparing for a mission. She looked up at Dean with the wide, serious eyes of someone about to be knighted. “Ready”, she whispered.

Dean’s mouth tugged into a grin he couldn’t fight. “Alright, big sis. Let’s do this”. He angled Henry carefully, cradling his tiny head with one big hand, and lowered him slowly onto the pillow in Lilah’s lap.

At the same time, you leaned back against the bedrail with your burger in one hand, fries in the other, and moaned around a mouthful. “Ohhh, Sammy, you’re a saint. Actual angel. Fries and a double cheeseburger? This is the real post-birth medicine”.

Sam smirked, flipping the top of the bag closed. “Glad to be useful”.

You swallowed down another bite and reached for a fry, your voice softer now, shy under the hum of machines and the quiet little family gathered around. “And… thanks for the flowers too, Sam”, you said, lifting your gaze to him with a small smile. “They’re beautiful”.

Sam ducked his head, ears tinged pink. “You deserve it”.

It hit you then how different this was. Lilah’s birth had been quiet and lonely, no one waiting outside, no warm food smuggled in, no laughter filling the air. Just you and a baby, scared. This time… this time you weren’t alone. And it felt like a weight had lifted you hadn’t even realized you were still carrying.

At the foot of the bed, Lilah leaned so close over Henry you were surprised her curls didn’t tickle his face. Her little hands stayed folded in her lap just like Dean had shown her, but her eyes were huge, drinking in every inch of her baby brother. “He’s moving!”, she squeaked suddenly, looking up at Dean. “Daddy, look—his hand, it moved!”.

Dean chuckled low, crouched beside her, one steady hand still hovering under the pillow. “He’s sayin’ hi”.

Lilah’s mouth dropped open in awe. “He’s sooooo small”, she whispered, her whole voice reverent. “I can be careful. I’ll always be careful”.

-

Four weeks later, the rhythms of your life had shifted into something you never quite believed you’d have: messy and loud, freaking exhausting, but steady. Dean was thriving. Daycare drop-offs? He handled them like a bro. He’d walk into Lilah’s classroom with her bee backpack slung over one broad shoulder, her little hand swinging from his, and somehow leave with half the staff giggling like teenagers. Lilah loved it. “Daddy’s the coolest”, she’d declare when you picked her up later, already covered in paint and glitter.

At home, Dean had claimed the laundry like it was a hunt. Sorting loads with military precision, even if he still occasionally shrank a sweater or dyed the socks pink. Dishes? Done. Counters? Wiped. Floors? Well, floors were negotiable, but damn it, he tried.

Cooking, though? That was another story. The first two times he’d attempted a “real” dinner, anything beyond pancakes or scrambled eggs, the smoke alarm went off so loud Henry startled awake and Lilah declared, very seriously, “Daddy’s banned from dinner forever”. Dean took it on the chin, grumbling about “ungrateful critics” while you rescued the kitchen. After that, he stuck to breakfast duty and left the rest to you.

But where he wasn’t perfect, he more than made up for it with the kids. Henry, barely a month old, was already used to Dean’s arms. He’d settle faster against his chest than anywhere else. You’d find them in the recliner, Dean humming under his breath, Henry’s tiny hand clutching his shirt in sleep. Lilah, meanwhile, had her dad wrapped around her finger. Swing pushes, coloring sessions, elaborate Lego castles, he was there for all of it.

And watching him? Watching Dean Winchester turn fatherhood into second nature? It was enough to make your chest ache.

-

Today, Henry had been fussing all morning, the kind of colicky cry that made your nerves hum. Dean had scooped him up, one arm cradling the tiny bundle against his shoulder, bouncing gently while muttering under his breath about “how come I can take down a nest of vamps but one ten-pounder’s got me sweatin’”.

Meanwhile, Lilah had turned the kitchen table into a war zone of glitter, glue and construction paper. She was determined to make “welcome home banners” for Henry—never mind that Henry had been home for five weeks already. When the glue bottle clogged, she squeezed harder until the lid popped clean off. A geyser of sticky paste shot across the table. “Daddy!”, she wailed, throwing her hands up, now sparkly to the elbows. “It exploded!”.

Dean adjusted Henry with one practiced motion, the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow, bottle balanced in the same hand, while reaching for paper towels with the other. “Alright, Buzz, don’t panic. Nobody move. This is a Code Glitter”.

Henry suckled noisily, oblivious. Dean dabbed at the glue, grabbed the glitter jar before it tipped further, and tossed a fresh towel across the table toward Lilah. “Wipe what you can, and for the love of God, don’t sneeze”. She giggled at his mock-serious tone, smearing glue across her cheek in the process.

By the time you walked in from swapping laundry, Dean looked like he’d been through a small war. Dean glanced up at you, hair mussed, chest rising like he’d just finished a hunt. “Don’t. Say. A word”.

-

Lilah stood in front of the mirror with her brand-new backpack. Bee-yellow with black stripes and almost as big as she was. Her curls were neatly braided (Dean’s work, of course; he was faster at it than you. Way faster), and she clutched Henry’s soft bee rattle like it was battle gear.

Henry babbled from his play mat, hands slapping at the toys, drool soaking his onesie. At eight months, he was sturdy and curious, already trying to pull himself upright on anything in reach, including Dean’s jeans when Dean crouched to tie Lilah’s sneakers.

“You sure about this, Buzz?”, Dean asked, his voice caught somewhere between proud and worried. “We don’t have to rush. School’ll still be there next year.”

Lilah rolled her eyes, the exact same way you did when Dean was being dramatic. “Daddy, I’m six soon. I have to go. I’m gonna learn to read big books and paint, and I already know my numbers”.

Dean’s mouth pulled into a smile that cracked at the edges. He tied the last knot and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Alright. But you better not forget about us little people when you’re famous”.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you helped her into her jacket. “You’re gonna do amazing, baby girl”.

The drive to school was quiet and heavy with anticipation. Lilah sat shotgun like always, her backpack buckled beside her, Henry gurgling in his car seat, kicking his feet.

When you pulled up to the school, the sidewalk buzzed with other kids and other parents. Lilah bounced in her seat, suddenly shy but determined.

“C’mon, Buzz”, Dean said gently, lifting her out. He crouched, adjusting her straps, brushing a curl out of her face. His voice cracked just slightly when he added, “Go show ‘em what a Winchester can do”.

She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. “I love you, Daddy”. Then she hugged you too, carefully kissed Henry’s forehead, and marched up the steps.

You and Dean stood there long after she vanished inside. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His eyes were damp, but his grin was boyish and so damn proud. “She’s really growing up”, Dean murmured, forehead resting against your temple. “And we… we made it here. All of us”.

And for the first time in years, you believed it.

-

It was late-August. Your hallway smelled like coffee and pancake syrup.

“Shoes!”, you called, tying your own laces by the door.

“I have shoes!”, Henry declared, skidding in socked feet around the corner. Six now, all big opinions, he wore a tiny flannel over a animal tee, his backpack already sticker-bombed with cars and a single, stubborn bee. He held up his sneakers triumphantly and then, because he was Henry, tried to put them on without sitting down.

Dean caught him mid-wobble by the back of the shirt. “Easy there, Hot Rod. Park it”. He dropped to a knee and laced Henry’s shoes. “You gonna show first grade who’s boss?”.

Henry grinned, missing-tooth wide. “Already am”.

“Attitude”, Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard it softened the whole line of his jaw. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Buzz? You almost ready?”.

Lilah stepped out of the hallway. Eleven: taller, wearing ripped jeans and bee pendant on her neck. Dean had braided her hair in two neat plaits that made her look like the exact midpoint between little-kid and almost-teen. She posed, deadpan. “Voted least likely to cry today”.

Dean pressed a hand to his heart. “Least likely to cry? You wound me, Buzz. After all I’ve done for you. Braids, rides, endless glue refills…”.

Lilah smirked, tugging her jacket straight. “Yeah, yeah. You’re slipping, old man”.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Old man?”. He shot you a quick glance. “Did you hear that? She called me old”.

You bit down on a grin. “Well… you did make that dad noise when you sat down last night”.

“Traitor”, Dean muttered, then turned back to his daughter, squinting in exaggerated menace. “Slipping, huh? You think just ‘cause you’re all middle-school fancy now, I can’t still—”. Before Lilah could react, Dean swooped forward, scooping her up around the waist. She squealed, kicking her sneakers in the air, but he had her hoisted effortlessly. With one practiced flip, he had her upside down, legs dangling, hair flying like a curtain of curls. “—do this?”, Dean finished, grinning ear to ear.

“Dad!”, she shrieked, laughing so hard her voice cracked. “Put me down! My jeans!”.

“You sure about that?”, Dean teased, walking in a slow circle. “’Cause I can keep this up all day. Gotta prove to you I’m not that old”.

“Mom!”, Lilah tried to appeal, upside-down face red with laughter. “He’s embarrassing me!”.

You leaned on the doorframe. “First day of school and already upside down. Pretty sure that’s a record”.

Dean patted her calf with mock solemnity. “Say ‘Dad’s not old’, and maybe I’ll let you down”.

“Never!”, Lilah yelled, still laughing, trying to twist herself right side up.

Dean just chuckled, tightening his arm around her middle like it was the easiest thing in the world to carry an almost-teenager. “Stubborn. Definitely my kid”.

He held her upside down a few more beats, her laughter shaking his shoulder. He grinned, but in his chest it twisted, because her laughter wasn’t the same high-pitched squeal it used to be. It was older now. Not the sound of a toddler or a four-year-old climbing into his lap with sticky fingers and curling up like a kitten.

“You’re heavy, you know that?”, he teased, spinning her carefully until her sneakers tapped the floor again.

Lilah staggered upright, cheeks flushed, hair half out of its braids. She swatted at his chest with one skinny arm. “You’re just weak”.

Dean caught her wrist, tugged her in, and kissed the top of her head before she could wriggle away. “Nah. I’m strong as hell. Just—”. He paused, swallowing something thick. “You’re not little anymore, Buzz”.

Her grin softened, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes in the way only an eleven-year-old could. “Duh, Dad. That’s how time works”.

Dean huffed a laugh, ruffling her hair even though he’d just braided it. “Smartass”.

But when she turned toward the mirror to fix her jacket, Dean’s smile slipped. He remembered nights on your couch, her tiny body stretched across his chest, her fists tucked under her chin, legs no longer than his forearm. He remembered her head fitting under his jaw, her weight a feather compared to the heaviness in his heart back then.

And now? Now she was almost as tall as his chest. Quick wit, her own world beginning to spin separate from his. He loved it, loved watching her grow into herself, but God, it pinched too.

“Hey”, Lilah said suddenly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “Don’t look all sad. I’m still your favorite bee, right?”.

Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Always, Buzz”.

She smiled, satisfied, before starting to bounce toward Henry. Dean reached out, hooked two fingers through the strap of Lilah’s backpack, and reeled her back in before she could escape down the hall.

“Dad!”, she squeaked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

He ignored her protest, wrapping both arms around her in one of those bear hugs that pinned her arms. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, breathing her in like he had when she was tiny, when her curls still smelled like baby shampoo and syrup.

“Daaad”, she complained again, though there was no real fight in it. “You’re crushing me!”.

“Good”, he muttered into her hair. “Keeps you from growing too fast”.

She rolled her eyes, but after a beat, she softened in his arms. She let her head tip against his chest, her hands tugging lightly at his shirt instead of wriggling free. Sassy, yes, but still sweet. Still his little girl.

“I’m not little anymore”, she reminded him gently, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. “Don’t matter, Buzz. You’ll always be my kid. My first bee”.

That earned him a small, real smile. She squeezed him once, quick but strong, before stepping back and shrugging her straps into place.

Dean’s hand lingered in the air a second after Lilah slipped out of his grasp, the absence of her weight hitting harder than he’d admit. He cleared his throat, blinking once, and turned toward Henry. The kid was already standing with his backpack zipped. There was no hesitation in his stance, no glance back for reassurance.

Where Lilah had always curled into Dean’s lap, Henry had been different from the start. He’d cry when he needed to, Dean had made damn sure both kids knew tears weren’t weakness, but even then, Henry cried like he had a point to prove. Quick, fiery bursts, then jaw set, fists balled, moving on before anyone could coddle him.

Dean saw so much of himself in the kid it hurt sometimes. That stubborn tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked over a room like he was cataloguing exits, the quiet determination that made him seem older than six. It wasn’t that Henry wasn’t soft, he could be, especially with you, and sometimes when Lilah coaxed him into her games, but his softness was earned, deliberate. He didn’t give it away easily.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Henry check his jacket pockets. “You good, Champ?”.

Henry gave him a thumbs-up, no hesitation. “Yeah. I’m gonna sit in the front row so the teacher knows I’m serious”.

Dean huffed a laugh. “That’s my boy”.

Lilah snorted, rolling her eyes but hiding her smile. “Of course you’re sitting in the front”.

“Where else am I supposed to sit?”, Henry shot back, all righteous indignation. “The back’s too far from the board”.

Dean grinned despite himself, heart squeezing tight. Lilah: soft edges, open heart, always reaching out. Henry: all Winchester grit, jaw set even when nobody asked it of him. Dean loved them both so fiercely it scared him, but in different ways. One reminded him what he’d almost lost. The other reminded him who he’d been and who he wanted to be better for.

A few minutes later, Dean pulled onto the road.

After a while, Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, glanced at the rearview, then at you. His grin tugged up slow, dangerous. “You know”, he drawled, “Buzz’s got middle school now. Champ’s already takin’ over first grade. Feels like I blinked and they stopped bein’ little. Might be time we—”. He lifted his brows, eyes twinkling. “—made ourselves another one”.

You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “Dean”.

Lilah snapped her head around, horrified. “Oh my God, Dad, ew! Don’t even say that! You’re ancient”. Dean barked a laugh, one hand thumping the wheel. “Ancient? That’s cold, Buzz”.

Henry, without looking up from tracing the stitching on his lunchbox, chimed in matter-of-factly: “Babies cry too much. Don’t do it”.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, shaking your head. “See? Even your son’s voting against you”.

Dean flicked a look at Henry in the mirror, mock-offended. “Traitor”. Then, softer, his hand reached over to squeeze your knee where it rested between the seats. “Don’t care how big they get, though. Always gonna be ours”.

Lilah slumped deeper into her seat with a dramatic groan. “Can you not be gross before school?”.

Dean chuckled while his gaze flicked to the mirror and caught your eyes and… winked—slow, deliberate and freaking shameless. Heat crawled up your neck instantly, and you had to look out the window before Lilah caught you turning red. Of course, she caught enough.

“Ew! Mom, are you blushing?!”, Lilah groaned, burying her face in her hands. “No. Nope. I don’t wanna know. I know how babies are made now and—ugh—I’m never forgiving health class”.

Dean nearly choked on his own laugh, coughing into his fist. “Health class beat me to it, huh?”.

Lilah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t. Don’t say another word. If you even think about talking about it, I’ll walk to school”.

Henry perked up in the backseat, curiosity written all over his little face. “What’s health class?”.

“Nothing!”, Lilah yelped, spinning back around so fast her braids slapped her shoulders. “It’s nothing, Henry. Don’t ask. Ever”.

Dean snorted so hard the wheel wobbled in his grip for a second but he recovered quickly with that boyish grin. “Relax, Buzz. I’m not gonna—”, He leaned back more. “I’m just sayin’, me and your mom… „.

“DAD!”, Lilah shrieked, smacking the dash with her palm. “Stop! Oh my God, stop! I’m getting out right now!”.

Henry cackled from beside you, no clue what he was laughing at but thrilled by the chaos. “Buzz is mad”, he sing-songed.

Dean chuckled, but his smirk softened as he peeked back at Lilah, who had now yanked her jacket over her head like a makeshift shield. “Alright, alright. I’ll cool it”. He paused just long enough to make it suspicious. “But, you know, you’re gettin’ older. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have that talk”.

Lilah groaned dramatically, muffled by denim. “No. No talks. Ever”.

-

Two weeks later, the house felt too quiet.

Lilah was at Mia’s for a Friday-night sleepover with movies and nail polish, and the kind of giggle-storm that always ended with Sam texting you both “send help (kidding) (maybe)”. Henry had finally fallen asleep upstairs, warm and heavy with a little flu, the humidifier purring and the baby monitor whispering white noise through its tinny speaker on your dresser.

You were already in bed, propped on pillows, scrolling just to keep your eyes open. The bathroom door opened and Dean padded out in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. He let himself plop onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated groan, like he’d just hauled salt bags across three states. Then he flopped onto his back with all the theatrics of a man begging for attention. The mattress dipped, bouncing you a little.

You didn’t look up from your phone. Not once.

Dean cracked one eye at you, then huffed. “Seriously? My wife can’t even appreciate the effort? I showered”. He sniffed his shoulder pointedly. “Smell pretty damn good, if I say so myself”.

Still nothing.

“Unbelievable”, he went on, rolling onto his side to face you, towel gaping a little too conveniently. “I even shaved”.

That made you flick a glance up. His jaw was exactly as scruffy as it had been this morning. Your brows arched. “Uh-huh”.

Dean grinned. “Not here”.

Your phone slipped a little in your grip as you bit down hard on a laugh. He looked so goddamn pleased with himself, with his green eyes gleaming, waiting for you to take the bait. When he saw you fighting that laugh, he smirked and propped himself up on one elbow. The towel slid a dangerous inch lower, his voice dropping into that husky, drawling tone you remembered from years ago. The one that used to make your knees weak back when you were too young to know what the hell to do with it. “Y’know…”, he murmured, tracing one finger lazily up your shin, under the blanket, “all those years ago, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me either. Don’t think I didn’t notice”.

You tried to scoff, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

Dean leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Hell, I remember you lookin’ at me like I was already in your bed—”, his grin widened“—and we both know what happened when I finally got you there”.

Your breath hitched despite yourself.

He chuckled, low and satisfied, nipping at your earlobe before dragging his lips down your throat. “You were so sweet, so easy to ruin… And damn if you didn’t make me work to keep up after. I swear, you were tryin’ to kill me”. His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and.. so heavy. “Still are”.

“Dean—”.

He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze. “Don´t Dean me like that. I put two kids in you, and I’m not done yet”.

Your pulse jumped.

He grinned and kissed the corner of your mouth before whispering against your lips, “Now, tell me again you don’t wanna find out how smooth I shaved”.

You tipped your head back against the pillow, glaring at him even as your lips twitched. “You’re insufferable”.

Dean grinned wider, his hand inching higher under the blanket. “Insufferable? Please. You were climbing me like a tree when you were barely legal. I’ve still got the scratch marks”.

You smacked his chest lightly, but he just caught your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his warm skin. His heart thundered beneath your hand. “C’mon”, he drawled, his lips brushing down your throat again. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember the way I used to make you cry for it. Beggin’ me. Neighbors probably thought I was killin’ you”. He chuckled. “Turns out I was just teachin’ you how good it could feel”.

You sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled like he’d won. “Still teachin’ you, baby. And you still can’t keep quiet”.

Aaand… you broke. You always did with him. Your phone slid to the side, forgotten, as you grabbed the knot of his towel and yanked. It fell open and Dean’s smug laugh turned into a groan as you wrapped your hand around him. “Geez, sweetheart—”. His hips bucked into your palm before he caught himself, biting back a curse. “Fuck, I missed your hands on me”.

You smirked, kissing down his chest, and he tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you, half desperate, half reverent. “Yeah—yeah, that’s it. Damn, you’re gonna kill me tonight”.

The towel hit the floor. Dean hauled you under him, mouth hot and messy against yours, grinding into you through your thin sleep shorts. His cock pressed hard and insistent against you, making you gasp into his kiss.

“Tell me you want it”, he rasped. “Tell me you want me to put another one in you”.

Your answer was a broken moan, your hips arching into him, and that was all the permission Dean Winchester ever needed.

But when he hovered over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing down your side, from your ribs to your hip, his grin softened. His eyes roaming your face like he couldn’t quite believe he still got to be here, with you, after everything. “You know”, he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw, “I could’ve had a lot of lives. None of ‘em would’ve been worth a damn if I didn’t end up right here”.

You swallowed, your fingers curling in his wet hair. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I let you in my bed”.

He chuckled before pressing his mouth to your collarbone. “You were way too good for me back then. Still are”. His lips trailed lower, lingering at the top of your breasts. “Guess I just got lucky”.

You shook your head at him, shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Shut up”, you whispered, and leaned up to catch his lips before he could say something else that would make your heart ache in that helpless way.

Dean kissed you back without hurry, like he had all the time in the world. His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing behind your ear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin faded into something softer, something that lived only in the lines around his eyes.

“Not gonna shut up”, he said quietly. “Not about this”. He shifted so his forehead rested against yours. “I ain’t ever been good at the whole ‘big speech’ thing”, he murmured. “But I’ve spent most of my life running head-first into stuff that didn’t matter near as much as I thought it did. This—”, he gave a small, crooked nod toward you, the bed, the closed door, the whole life the two of you had built—“this is the best damn thing I’ve ever been part of. You. The kids. I love you, and I’m not gonna stop sayin’ it just ’cause I sound like a sap”.

Your eyes stung, but you laughed anyway, brushing your nose against his. “You really do talk too much”.

“Yeah”, he said with a huff of a laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Lucky for you, I mean every word”.

"I know", you whispered, the sound catching against his mouth as you kissed him again. “But stop talking for now”, you whispered, “and help me make another one”.

Dean’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, warm against your skin. He brushed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time. “Yes, ma’am”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

It was hot for June. You shifted your weight on the little stool, tugging at the hem of the stretchy dress you’d worn in, your belly impossible to disguise now at eight months.

Sally fanned herself with a catalog, perched in the plush chair by the mirrors. “Only Dean Winchester”, she muttered with a grin, “decides on a Wednesday he’s getting married by Saturday. God help us”.

Lilah was twirling between the racks, her bee backpack bouncing, her curls springing loose from her braids. Every time you came out of the dressing room, she gasped like it was Christmas morning. “Mommy, you’re a princess! Daddy’s gonna say ‘wow! so pretty’”.

You smiled, but it was a shaky thing. Because, yeah. This was Dean. Impulsive, stubborn, impossible. He’d kissed you across the kitchen table last night and just said, “Marry me. Now”. Like it was the simplest thing in the world. And the thing was… you’d said yes.

Now here you were, trying to wedge yourself into gowns clearly not designed for women who could barely see their feet. One zipped halfway, another refused to go past your hips, and the third made you look like you’d been swallowed by a cloud.

Sally caught your expression and snorted. “Relax. You’ll find something. Or we’ll hack one of these into shape. I don’t care if Dean’s a certified panty-melter, he doesn’t get to demand a wedding without giving you a dress to match.”

Lilah bounced over, hugging your thigh as you stepped down carefully in another gown, this one softer, flowier, hugging the bump instead of fighting it. Her eyes went wide. “That one! Mommy, that one!”.

You met your own reflection, hand smoothing over the curve of your belly where Henry shifted under the fabric. For the first time that morning, your throat tightened.

Sally was already on her feet, grinning like she’d won the lottery. “Oh honey. That’s the one. No contest”.

You blinked hard against the sting in your eyes. “It’s just… the first one that actually fits”, you mumbled, brushing a trembling hand over your bump. Henry kicked right on cue, like he agreed.

Then Sally peeked at the discreet little tag dangling behind the zipper. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oof”.

“What?”, you asked, instantly suspicious. You craned your neck, saw the number—and nearly burst into tears. “Oh, no. Nope. Forget it. That’s… that’s insane”.

“Sweetheart”, Sally said carefully, “it’s a wedding dress. They’re all insane”.

But your chest was already tight, your pulse too fast. Between the heat, your low blood pressure, the hormones—God, the hormones—you actually felt your eyes blur. “I can’t. I can’t spend that much. Not on one day. Not when—”. You broke off, pressing your palms to your cheeks.

“Mommy?”, Lilah’s little voice piped up, muffled against your skirt. “You don’t like it?”.

You crouched as much as the dress and belly would allow, gathering her face between your hands. “Baby, I love it”, you whispered, kissing her curls. “I just… it’s a lot”.

Behind you, Sally fished your phone from your purse with zero shame.

“Sally—don’t you dare—”.

But she already had it against her ear, pacing toward the window. “Hey, Winchester? Yeah, it’s me. Don’t panic, everyone’s fine”. She smirked back at you, ignoring the daggers you were shooting her. “I just need to know how much money your fiancée is allowed to spend on looking amazing for you”.

Your mouth fell open. “SALLY”.

On the other end, you could hear Dean’s voice, tinny but sharp: “What? What the hell are you talking about? Put her on the phone”.

“Nope”, Sally said cheerfully, twirling the dress tag around her finger. “She’s currently hyperventilating because she thinks she can’t buy the only dress that actually fits her eight-months-pregnant self. So. What’s the number, Dean?”.

There was a long pause. Then Dean’s voice, incredulous and rough: “The number? It’s whatever the hell it costs. She likes it?”.

“She loves it”, Sally said firmly.

“Then buy it”, Dean snapped, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Sally grinned triumphantly and mouthed, you’re welcome. Then, into the phone: “Good answer, Winchester. I’ll make sure she doesn’t faint before the cashier”.

Dean’s voice softened, muffled but unmistakable. “Put me on with her”.

Sally handed you the phone like she’d just won a prize. You pressed it to your ear, your voice already trembling. “Dean—”.

“Sweetheart”. His voice was a low rumble, steadying you through the line. “You look beautiful, don’t you?”. You let out a shaky laugh. “I don’t even know what I look like right now, Dean”.

“I do”, he said simply. “I can see it in my head. And I don’t give a damn about price tags. You hear me? You’re my wife, and you’re gonna walk toward me in the dress that makes you feel like you. That’s it. That’s all that matters”.

A few minutes later, you stood at the counter, carefully draped over the attendant’s arms. Sally had one hand on your elbow like she didn’t trust you not to faint, and Lilah was twirling in the middle of the boutique, humming to herself about how bee-utiful you looked.

The attendant cleared her throat gently. “Will this be on your card?”.

You fumbled for your purse, already wincing at the thought of the number. But before you could pull out your wallet, your phone buzzed in your other hand, Dean’s name lighting up the screen. A new text.

Dean: Use the black one with the gold stripe. Trust me.

You frowned, thumb tapping back.

You: Dean. Please tell me this isn’t one of your fake ones.

His reply came instantly.

Dean: Doesn’t matter. It’ll go through. Just swipe it. I’ll handle the rest.

You shook your head, laughing despite yourself. Only Dean Winchester could make dropping thousands on a wedding dress sound like hustling a pool table.

The attendant gave you a polite smile as you handed over the card. It beeped green on the first swipe. Approval.

Sally whistled low. “Guess your man knows what he’s doing”.

“Oh, he knows”, you muttered, half to yourself, pocketing the card again. Your phone buzzed once more.

Dean: Told you. Now stop worrying. Can’t wait to see you in it. I’ll probably forget how to breathe.

Heat crept up your cheeks. You clutched the phone to your chest like a teenager, even as Sally caught you blushing and smirked knowingly.

The second you stepped through the door, Lilah exploded like a firecracker. “Daddy! Daddy! Mommy was a princess! Like a shiny, sparkly, twirly princess!”. She bounced in front of Dean, tugging at his hand with little fingers. “She got such a pretty dress! You won’t believe it!”.

Dean crouched automatically, catching her mid-bounce and settling her on his hip. “A princess, huh?”. His eyes flicked to you, soft and amused. “Guess I’ll have to see this for myself”.

You felt your cheeks heat instantly. “I—uh…”. You smoothed your hair back, suddenly nervous. “Do you… want me to try it on? For you?”.

For a moment, Dean looked tempted, his lips parting just slightly like the thought of you in that dress alone with him was too much to resist. But then his grin curved softer. “Nah”, he murmured, shaking his head. “Not yet. I wanna see it for the first time at the chapel. When you’re walking down to me”. His throat bobbed. “That’s the picture I want burned into my brain for the rest of my life”.

Your heart thudded so hard you almost swayed where you stood.

Lilah frowned dramatically, her little nose scrunching. “But Daddy, it was so pretty. I can draw you a picture!”.

Dean chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ll take you up on that, Buzz”. Then, his gaze shifted back to you. “But the real thing? That’s mine to see on the day”.

After you and Lilah got out of your shoes and jackets, Dean guided te two of you up the stairs. “Close your eyes, Buzz”, he teased as he scooped her into his arms halfway up the hall. “No peeking”.

Lilah squealed, throwing her hands dramatically over her eyes. “I’m not peeking!”, she promised, then immediately cracked one finger open.

Dean snorted. “That’s cheating”.

At the top of the stairs, Sam leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed. “You ready for the grand reveal?”.

Lilah nodded furiously, hands still slapped over her face.

Dean nudged the door open with his boot, carried her inside, and finally whispered, “Okay, Buzz. Look”.

Her hands dropped and her gasp nearly broke you.

The room was new. Not patched up, not just painted over, but hers. The old walls were gone, replaced with soft honey-yellow paint and white trim. A little desk sat under the window, already stocked with jars of crayons and glue sticks. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with her picture books and in the corner was the brand-new bed frame Dean and Sam had built. Above it, painted carefully, a mural of flowers and bees dancing across the wall.

Lilah wriggled out of Dean’s arms and bolted across the room. “It’s mine! It’s my room!”. She scrambled onto the mattress with a bounce. “There are bees, Daddy! You painted bees!”.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “Well, Sammy helped”. Sam raised both brows. “You mean I held the stencil while you got glitter in the paint”.

“It’s sparkly bees!”, Lilah crowed, already hugging the wall like it was alive.

Dean leaned against the doorframe beside you, his grin stretching ear to ear, pride practically glowing off him. “Told you she’d love it”.

You pressed a hand over your belly, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. “She does".

After dinner, Dean scooped Lilah up, sticky with sauce, and announced bath time. From the kitchen, you and Sam could hear all the splashes and giggles and Dean’s exaggerated monster voices.

Sam, drying the last plate, cleared his throat. “Uh… hey”.

You glanced at him. “What’s up?”.

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the hallway like he was making sure Dean couldn’t hear. “Your friend. Sally. The one from the party”. Your brows lifted, but you stayed quiet. Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “She, uh… is she… single?”.

You blinked, then smiled. “She is. She’s a single mom”.

His shoulders eased just a little, but his cheeks went faintly pink. “She seemed… nice”.

“She is nice”, you said warmly, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Smart, too. And she doesn’t take crap from anyone. You’d like her”.

Sam gave a little half-smile, trying to play it cool, but you saw the flicker of something hopeful in his eyes. Before you could tease him, a loud splash echoed from the bathroom followed by Dean’s exasperated, “Lilah, did you just dump water on the ceiling?” and Lilah’s unapologetic giggle.

When the bathroom door finally creaked open, Dean cam out with his shirt clinging, jeans splattered and his hair a mess. In his arms was Lilah, swaddled tight in a towel and grinning ear to ear.

“She won”, Dean muttered, trudging past you with mock defeat. “Every damn time”.

“Daddy got wet!”, Lilah announced proudly, her curls plastered to her forehead.

You covered your laugh with your hand as Dean shot you a look that said don’t even start. Then he carried her down the hall, still dripping, muttering about pajamas and clean sheets.

Sam was still leaning against the counter, shaking his head with a smile. “He’s… good at that”, he said softly, almost like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“He is”, you agreed, watching Dean disappear into Lilah’s room. “Better at braiding than me now, too. She won’t even let me touch her hair anymore”.

Sam chuckled, then grew a little quiet. His gaze shifted back to you.

You tilted your head, catching it. “So… do you want her number?”. His brows rose. “Sally’s?”. “Mhm”. You smirked, folding your arms. “Because she’s been talking about you for days. I think she’s just waiting for me to play matchmaker”.

Sam’s ears went pink again, his mouth twitching like he couldn’t hide the smile even if he wanted to. “…You’re serious?”. You nodded. “Dead serious. She asked if you were ‘as good in real life as you are with glitter and pizza duty’”.

Sam groaned softly, running a hand over his face, but he was still smiling. “God”. He shook his head. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe… give it to me”.

After Sam left, you let out a long breath and dropped onto the couch. Every bone, every muscle, every inch of you felt heavy. The baby was pressing low and your feet were aching.

Dean walked into the room a minute later. He stopped dead when he saw you sprawled there, one hand over your bump, your head tipped back. “You okay?”.

You cracked one eye open, half a smile tugging at your lips. “In three days”, you whispered, “I’m gonna be married. To the most unusual man alive”. Dean huffed out a laugh, lowering himself onto the couch beside you. “Unusual, huh?”.

You turned your head, studying him. “Yeah”, you said, a lump rising in your throat. “But mine”.

Dean leaned back against the couch, tugged your legs gently across his lap, and caught one of your ankles in his big hand. “So…”, he drawled, his thumb already circling against the sore arch of your foot, “no cold feet?”.

You let out something between a laugh and a groan, tipping your head back against the cushion. “You’re literally making sure my feet aren’t cold”.

He smirked, kneading deeper, finding the spot that had been aching all day. “Yeah, well. Just covering all the bases”.

The pressure made your whole body sigh, your swollen ankles grateful for the attention. Your hand drifted over your belly out of habit, Henry shifting under your palm.

Dean’s grin softened as he watched. “You’re really not nervous?”.

You cracked an eye open to look at him. “About marrying you?”. You paused dramatically. Then: “Never”.

-

The day before the wedding, Dean had been up early, kissing your temple before you were even fully awake, whispering, “Me and Buzz got errands. You rest”.

Errands, it turned out, meant a mission.

He’d bundled Lilah into Baby and driven straight into town. She sat shotgun, swinging her legs, chattering the whole way.

“Daddy, does my dress have to be white like Mommy’s?”. “Not unless you want it to be, Buzz”. “Can it be yellow? With sparkles? Like a real bee princess?”. Dean chuckled, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming the beat of her enthusiasm on the steering wheel. “Yeah, we’ll see what they got. But sparkles? Sparkles are non-negotiable, huh?”. She gasped. “Daddy, of course”.

At the boutique, every head turned the second they walked in. A man like Dean Winchester carrying a five-year-old who was already announcing, “I need the sparkliest dress for my mommy’s wedding!”, was a sight to stop traffic.

The saleslady blinked at him, then beamed. “For the flower girl?”. “Yes!”.

Dean crouched beside her, eye level, his hand braced on her little shoulder. “Buzz, what do you think? Wanna try some on?”.

She looked at him very seriously. “Will Mommy smile when she sees me?”.

Dean’s chest tightened. He smoothed a curl out of her face. “Guaranteed”.

Dress after dress followed—pink, blue, ruffles too big, bows too itchy. Lilah twirled in each, her laughter ringing off the mirrors, Dean clapping like she’d just won a medal. But when she stepped out in a soft yellow dress with tiny embroidered daisies scattered across the skirt and a sash that glittered faintly gold, her whole face lit up.

“Daddy”. Her voice was a whisper, awed. “Can i have this?". Dean swallowed hard, his throat thick. “Yeah, Buzz. That’s the one. You look perfect, baby girl. Just like Mommy”.

“Perfect like Mommy”, she repeated softly, like she was tucking the compliment into her pocket to keep forever. Then she launched forward, skinny arms wrapping tight around his neck, her little chin digging into his shoulder.

Dean caught her easily, pressing a kiss to her curls, breathing her in like he needed the anchor.

Her voice came muffled against his collar. “I’m glad you’re done saving the world, Daddy”.

His arms locked around her automatically, his throat going tight. He shut his eyes for a beat, the memory of all those empty years pressing down on him. Then he leaned back just enough to look at her face, serious despite the sequins on her sash.

“Yeah, Buzz”, he rasped, brushing his thumb over her cheek. “I’m done. World can save itself for a while”.

She beamed, satisfied, and patted his stubbled jaw like she was sealing a deal. “Good. ‘Cause Mommy and me need you more”.

-

The little chapel by the lake smelled faintly of lilacs and wood polish, the stained glass catching sunlight that spilled warm across the pews. It was small—just how Dean wanted it. Just how you needed it.

The guests filtered in with quiet excitement, not a crowd but a family. Jodie with Alex and Claire. Donna, bright as the morning itself, hugging everyone twice; Cas. And Sam—Sam with Sally at his side, her daughter Mia clutching a little basket of petals she kept peeking into like treasure.

Dean stood up front in a black suit that Sam had all but strong-armed him into wearing. The jacket fit snug across his shoulders, the tie sat crooked until Cas leaned in and straightened it without a word. Dean fidgeted anyway, rubbing his palms down the thighs of his pants, heart jackhammering like he was walking into a hunt he couldn’t back out of.

And then the doors opened.

Lilah marched first, scattering petals down the aisle from her little daisy-yellow dress. She kept glancing back at you, making sure you were following. Every time she did, Dean’s hand twitched like he wanted to clap but remembered he wasn’t supposed to.

And then he saw you.

The dress clung where it needed to, floated where it should, hugging your swollen belly like it had been made for you and Henry both. Your veil trailed just enough to brush the aisle floor, your bouquet trembling faintly in your hands.

Dean’s breath left him in one ragged exhale. His throat worked, his jaw flexed, and his eyes went glassy. He grinned, but it cracked halfway, breaking into something rawer, truer. He swore under his breath, so low only Sam caught it, and Sam just grinned like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Every step you took, Dean’s chest rose higher, like he was holding back a thousand words and could barely manage to stand under the weight of them.

When you finally reached him, Dean reached out. His fingers threaded through yours instantly, squeezing like a lifeline. And the moment your vows slipped into the air, his hands were already cradling your face and his lips found yours like they’d been waiting all day.

The kiss wasn’t rushed or showy. It was home. It was slow and deep, a little shaky and full of reverence. Like your lips were a promise he’d waited half his life to keep.

You smiled against him, tears slipping down your cheeks, and he brushed them away with his thumbs without breaking the kiss, just breathed into it, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your swollen belly and his trembling chest.

From the pews, someone sniffled. A second later, Lilah squealed, “Ugh, you’re kissing forever!”, and that broke the spell just enough for laughter to bubble around the room.

Dean laughed into your mouth, resting his forehead to yours, eyes still closed. “Damn right we are”, he whispered and then kissed you again.

-

The backyard glowed under strings of warm lights Dean and Sam had strung up that morning. The grill hissed and smoked as Sam worked it like while Donna kept stealing hot dogs straight off the platter and Jodie tried to swat her hand. The girls played tag with Lilah. And you? You were barely holding onto your plate.

Dean was behind you, his arms wrapped snug around your middle, hands splayed over your bump like he couldn’t stand to let go. He swayed you gently from side to side in the rhythm of a song only he could hear, his lips brushing over the slope of your neck.

“Careful, Winchester”, you teased, trying to spear a piece of potato salad without dropping your fork. “You’re making me look like I can’t stand on my own two feet”.

“You don’t have to”, he murmured into your skin. He kissed just below your ear. “Not anymore”.

You shivered, your plate tilting dangerously until Dean steadied it with one hand. He chuckled, kissed the corner of your jaw, and drawled, “Goddamn. Miss Winchester lookin’ too good tonight. Think I married outta my league”.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curved anyway. “You’re insufferable”.

“Yeah?”. He pressed another kiss, then another, like he couldn’t stop. “Can’t help it. My wife’s gorgeous”.

From across the yard, Donna whistled. “Get a room, newlyweds!”. Lilah popped up from behind the picnic table, hands on her hips, and yelled, “Ewww! Daddy’s kissing Mommy again!”.

“Better get used to it, Buzz”, he called back, still swaying you softly. “I’m never stoppin’”.

A while later, you’d started to fan yourself with a paper plate, your dress clinging in ways it hadn’t hours ago. The heat, the belly, the weight of the day—your body was calling time. And Dean caught it instantly. “C’mon, Mrs. Winchester”, he murmured in your ear, already sliding a steady hand around your back. “Let’s get you outta this before you melt”.

You swatted him lightly with the plate. “Smooth, Dean”.

“Not complainin’ about the view”, he shot back, that boyish grin tugging at his mouth. “But you’re sweatin’ through silk, sweetheart”.

He guided you inside. Upstairs, in the dim of your room, it was just the two of you again. He shut the door with his boot, the laughter outside muffled into nothing.

“Arms up”, he said gently. His hands were steady as he found the zipper at your back. Slow, deliberate, dragging it down inch by inch. His knuckles brushed bare skin, raising goosebumps despite the warmth.

The dress loosened, slid over your shoulders. Dean caught it before it could fall, easing the fabric down like it was precious. His lips found your shoulder.

"Dean".

“Relax”, he murmured, his mouth brushing your collarbone now. “Just gettin’ my wife comfortable”. Then he knelt to slide soft cotton shorts up your legs, his hands a little slower than necessary, his lips pressing a kiss just above your knee.

Dean’s hands paused at your hips, thumbs hooking the soft cotton at the waist. He gave you one long look, then slid the shorts down again.

When his mouth came back up, it was higher: soft kisses along the line of your hip, along the side of your belly. His finger traced just under the edge of your panties, but instead of tugging further, he eased you back with a firm, steady hand at your hip. “Sit, sweetheart”, he murmured, guiding you down until you perched on the edge of the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath you. Dean dropped to his knees between your legs like he’d been born there, broad shoulders parting your thighs as he leaned in.

The second your weight settled, his mouth was on you. No hesitation. He hooked your underwear aside and sealed his lips to your center, sucking deep and hard like he already knew exactly what would rip the air out of your lungs.

You gasped, hands clutching instinctively at the sheets, then at his hair. “Dean—”. He groaned low at the sound, the vibration of it sparking through you.

Your thighs trembled instantly, knees trying to close around his head, but his big hands pinned you wide and steady against the mattress. “Stay right there, sweetheart”, he mumbled into you. Then he sealed his mouth over you again and sucked hard.

“Dean—oh my —”. Your voice cracked, fingers yanking at his hair because it was too much, too good, too fast. He groaned again when you pulled his hair, the sound feral, hungry. His tongue worked in deep, slow strokes while his lips tugged and sucked like he was determined to wring every ounce of you out.

The pressure coiled hot and sharp in your belly within seconds. He slid one hand up, splayed it over your bump with a tenderness that contradicted the filth of what his mouth was doing. That grounding touch broke you. You cried out, thighs clamping helplessly around his head as your orgasm ripped through you. Dean held you steady, never letting up, swallowing every twitch and pulse, dragging it out until you were shaking against him.

When you finally slumped back on your elbows, gasping for air, he pulled away only long enough to lick his lips and grin up at you, chin slick and shining. “Still got it”, he rasped, before diving back in like he wasn’t finished.

“Dean?”, Sam called muffled through the door but tight with concern. “Lilah burned her hand on the grill”.

Your heart stopped. Dean jerked back immediately. You scrambled upright, tugging your shorts back up with shaky fingers just as Sam added, “She’s okay, just… some tears. Can you—?”.

Dean was already wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, guilt and adrenaline snapping him into motion. When he opened the door, Lilah was on Sam’s hip, her little face blotchy with tears, her other hand cradled carefully in Sam’s palm. She sniffled the second she saw Dean. “Daddy—”.

Dean’s entire chest softened. He scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing. "Buzz, what happened?”. His voice was low, soothing, a complete 180 from the man who’d been between your thighs seconds ago.

Sam gave you an apologetic look over Dean’s shoulder as he explained, “She touched the edge of the grill. It wasn’t bad—red, but no blister. I ran it under cool water, just figured she’d want her dad”.

“C’mere, lemme see that hand, baby girl”, Dean murmured, already stroking Lilah’s damp cheeks.

Lilah sniffled again, holding it up for inspection. Dean pressed her palm gently to his chest. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got you”.

-

Later, is was just you and Dean. In the bathroom, the tub full and steaming, the faint flicker of candlelight bouncing off the tiles. You leaned back against him, your head tucked under his jaw, his chest broad and warm behind you. His legs bracketed yours and his big hands rested over your belly. Every few minutes, Henry gave a thump against his hand, and Dean would huff a soft laugh like he still couldn’t believe it. “Kid’s already got my right hook”, he murmured, pressing a kiss into your damp hair. “Bet he comes out swingin’”.

You smiled faintly, your hand sliding over his, squeezing. “He’s just stubborn. Like his dad”.

Dean chuckled, his stubble scraping your temple as he nuzzled close. “Yeah, but you love that about me”.

Your laugh came out tired but true. “Most days”.

Another kick jolted against his palm, stronger this time. Dean’s hand tightened instinctively. “If it weren’t for him in there, I’d have you bent over this tub already”.

You laughed, breathless, tilting your head back on his shoulder so your lips brushed his jaw. “That a promise or a threat?”.

Dean groaned, squeezing your hips gently but firmly. “Don’t tease me. I meant it. Four weeks, I’ve been good”.

You shifted a little on his lap, enough to feel him stir beneath you. “Who said I don’t want it?”.

He swore under his breath, his forehead pressing to the side of your head. “You’re eight months, I’m not—”. His hand spread protectively over your bump. “I’m not takin’ chances”.

“Dean”, you whispered, turning just enough to catch his mouth in a kiss. “I’m horny. And you’re hard. So maybe stop worrying so much and just—”. You nipped his lower lip. “—touch me”.

“Sweetheart…”. His voice was ragged. “Don’t make me—don’t do this to me. It’s not—”.

You twisted in his lap enough to face him, your knees bracketing his thighs, the swell of your belly pressing against him. You cupped his jaw with wet hands, kissed him deep, slow, messy, until his breath stuttered.

“It’s our wedding night”, you whispered against his mouth, your voice breaking into a whine that wasn’t entirely put on. “I want you. Please, Dean”.

He groaned, low and guttural, like you’d just torn his last thread of restraint. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut. His hands slid up your thighs, trembling with the effort it took to hold back. “Eight months pregnant, and you’re still the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen”.

You rocked your hips against him, deliberately brushing the hard length trapped beneath the water, making him hiss through his teeth. “Then stop talking and fuck me”.

Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack. His hands fisted at your sides, fighting himself—and losing. Finally, he snapped. “Fuck it”.

His mouth crashed against yours, his hands hauling you closer, angling you over him in the tub. “You win, Mrs. Winchester”, he mumbled against your lips, already lining himself up beneath the water. “But don’t blame me when you can’t walk tomorrow”.

The water sloshed up over the porcelain lip as Dean shifted beneath you, the heat of him pulsing against you before he slid home, slow but so deep it stole your breath. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Oh, fu—”.

Dean’s head tipped back, jaw locked, a broken groan spilling out of him. “Shit, sweetheart… been weeks”.

You braced against his chest, moving as best as you could, but eight months in, your body didn’t have the speed it used to. You rolled your hips instead, grinding down, and his answering growl vibrated right into your bones. “That’s it”, he whispered, kissing the damp skin of your throat. “Just like that“.

Your body betrayed you almost instantly. You were too sensitive now, too raw from the weeks without. Every slow grind had you clenching down hard around him, and every time you did, Dean’s whole body jolted like you’d shocked him.

“Damn—”, he hissed. His hands clutched your hips, holding you steady when you trembled. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, sweetheart… how the hell am I supposed to last?”. Your laugh broke into a gasp as another wave of sensation hit you. “Then don’t—”.

“Don’t tempt me”, he growled, thrusting up suddenly, hard enough to splash water over the tub’s edge. You whimpered. “Dean—”.

A few minutes later, you let Dean haul you up out of the tub. He wrapped a towel around your shoulders and knotted another low around his hips, then kissed your wet temple like he couldn’t help it. “Sit tight—clothes coming right up”, he said, already stalking toward the dresser.

You reached for your bra on the counter… and felt three warm trickles slide down your thighs. You froze. Then a heavy pressure, your body deciding for you. Oh oh. You eased onto the toilet just as another swish hit the bowl. Well. Hello, Henry.

“Dean?”, you called, weirdly calm. Second baby calm. “Babe… my water just broke“.

He reappeared in the doorway with an armful of clothes and went stock-still. “Son of a bitch”, he muttered. “I knew it—I knew we shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I knew it”.

You blinked at him, caught between a laugh and disbelief. “Dean—”.

“No, don’t—don’t tell me this ain’t my fault”. He was already scrubbing a hand through his damp hair, water flicking everywhere. “We—Jesus, sweetheart, we just… in the tub, and now your water breaks? That’s not a coincidence. I did this”.

You had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing, partly because he was so dead serious, partly because the truth, that Henry was just ready, wasn’t going to stop him from spiraling. “Dean Winchester”, you said firmly. “You did not break my water by having sex with me”.

His eyes snapped to you, panicked and stubborn all at once. “How do you know?!”. He gestured helplessly toward you, toward the trickle down your legs. “Look at you! We finally—y’know, after weeks, and now—bam! Kid’s knockin’ at the door!”.

You shook your head, laughing now. “Henry’s been sitting on my bladder for weeks. It was gonna happen anyway, Dean. Tonight just… happens to be the night”.

He stopped pacing, staring at you like maybe he wanted to believe but couldn’t let go of the guilt yet. His chest heaved. “Not my fault?”, he asked finally, quieter, almost boyish. You reached out, catching his wrist. “Not your fault. Promise”.

Dean sagged, shoulders slumping with relief, but he still muttered under his breath as he crouched down in front of you, one big palm spreading protective over your belly. “Still feel like I should apologize to the kid”.

Dean crouched there for another beat, his forehead pressed against your belly. Then he pushed back, stood and started moving. “I’ll, uh—”. He bent to scoop up the pile of clothes he’d dropped, only to set them right back down again. “The bag. Right. Where’s the bag?”.

“In the closet, by the door”, you said softly, watching him.

“Right. Okay. Bag”. He nodded to himself, pacing to the doorway. His leg bounced once, twice, like he couldn’t stop the nervous energy from spilling out. He gripped the doorframe, tried to make his voice calm. “We’re good. We got time, right?”.

“Plenty”, you assured him, leaning back against the toilet tank with a steadying breath. “Contractions aren’t even regular yet. First babies can take forever. Second ones still take a while”.

“Right”. He nodded again, over and over, like he was trying to tattoo the word calm onto his own brain. But his leg bounced harder.

You reached out, catching his wrist as he passed. His pulse was hammering under your fingers. “Dean”. He froze. “You’re here”, you whispered, searching his eyes until he met yours. “That’s all I need”.

For a second his expression cracked. That raw grief he carried for missing Lilah’s first moments, for the years he wasn’t there. His voice was rough when he spoke. “I wasn’t there last time”.

Your throat tightened. You shook your head firmly. “You’re here now. For me. For him. That’s what matters”.

Dean swallowed hard, then nodded once like he was trying to force the guilt down where it couldn’t touch you. He bent again, kissing your damp forehead. “Okay”, he murmured, steadying himself with your steadiness. “We got this. I got you”.

Dean practically sprinted around the house, bag in hand, keys already in his fist. By the time he got you settled in the passenger seat, towel exchanged for your favorite pants and a shirt, his leg was bouncing again, and his knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Seatbelt on?”, he asked for the third time, glancing over at you.

“Yes, Dean”, you sighed, hiding a little smile.

Baby’s bag was wedged at your feet, your phone in your lap. You scrolled quickly, thumb hitting Sam’s contact, and pressed speaker as Dean pulled out of the driveway.

On the other end of the line, Sam finally answered, voice groggy. “Hello?”. Dean didn’t even let you speak first. “Her water broke”, he blurted, voice rough. Sam was instantly awake. “What? Now?”.

You gave Dean’s hand a squeeze and cut in steady. “Yeah, now. We’re heading to the hospital. Is Lilah asleep?”.

“Yeah”, Sam said. “I’ll keep her as long as you need me to. You focus on Henry”.

Dean muttered a gruff, “Thanks, Sammy” and hung up before his brother could say more.

-

You were propped against the raised bed with a hospital gown loose around you and the IV already taped to your hand. The nurse had finished the first round of checks and slipped out with a smile, promising to check dilation again in a while. Translation: this was going to be a long night.

Dean sat in the chair beside you, knees spread wide, elbows braced on them like he was ready to jump into a fight at any second. His leg bounced restlessly and his eyes hadn’t left you in twenty minutes. “You okay?”, he asked again, for what had to be the tenth time.

You gave him a tired little smile. “Dean, I’m fine. Contractions aren’t even bad yet”.

“Not bad?”. His brow furrowed. “You just winced like someone stuck a knife in you”.

“That was a cramp”, you corrected gently. “We’re not even close”.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, muttering under his breath. “God, this waiting’s worse than a hunt”.

You chuckled weakly, reaching for his hand. He gave it to you instantly, his palm hot and solid against yours. “Dean”. You squeezed, forcing him to look at you. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just be here. That’s it”.

His eyes softened, but his shoulders stayed tight. “Yeah, well, not sure I’m cut out for the whole ‘just sit there’ job”.

“Funny”, you teased lightly, “’cause you’re actually killing it”.

That pulled the smallest, crooked grin from him. He leaned forward, kissing the back of your hand, then held it against his chest like he needed the contact more than you did.

You watched his eyes keep flicking between your face and the green line of Henry’s heartbeat. When the next mild squeeze passed, you squeezed his hand back.

“Hey”, you said softly. “Come sit up here. You’re hovering a hole in the floor”.

He huffed, dragged the chair closer so his knee bumped the mattress, then laid your joined hands over your belly. Up close, the tough-guy edges slipped; he looked a little younger and a lot more scared. “This part… it just keeps reminding me”, he murmured, eyes on your fingers instead of your face. “I wasn’t there when Lilah came. Four years she had to do it without a dad, and she still turned into the kindest, loudest little miracle. I missed everything”.

You turned his chin gently until he met your eyes. “You didn’t make her kind by being gone, Dean. She’s kind because that’s in her, because it’s in you. The cars and the glue and the buzzing? That’s you all over her. I just kept her safe till you found your way back”.

He swallowed. “Sometimes I look at her wall and… it feels like a ledger. All the pictures I’m not in”. “It isn’t a ledger”, you said firm. “It’s a map. It led you home”.

He let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t really a laugh, then nodded. “Home”, he echoed, like he was trying the word on again.

You slid your thumb over his ring. “You’re here for this one. For the midnight feedings, the diaper blowouts, the boring Tuesdays. For her, too… school plays, swing pushes, braids with glitter if she demands it”.

“I’m already the braid guy”, he muttered, a ghost of a smile tugging. Then, quieter: “I’m gonna spend the rest of my life showing up. Even when it’s not exciting. Especially then”.

“Good”, you whispered. “That’s all either of them need”.

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry I missed her first breath”, he said, voice rough. “I won’t miss his”.

“I know", you whispered.

Dean’s throat worked, and for a beat he just stared at you, raw and open in a way that made your chest ache. Then, like clockwork, that need to cover vulnerability with something else crept in. His mouth tipped crooked. “Y’know”, he drawled, thumb brushing slow over your skin, “last time I had you spread out like this, there were a lot less wires involved”.

You groaned, smacking his shoulder weakly. “Dean”.

“I’m just sayin’, if you need a distraction, I got about a hundred ideas. Hell, I could—”.

“Dean Winchester, shut up”, you hissed, half laughing, half horrified.

And of course, right then the door opened. The doctor walked in. “Let’s check your progress, shall we?”.

Dean sat up straighter instantly, clearing his throat like a guilty teenager. “Uh—yeah. Great. Progress is good. We love progress”.

You buried your hot face in your pillow as the doc pulled on gloves.

The doctor glanced between you two with the faintest lift of her brow before focusing on the exam. “Not quite there yet”, she reported after a moment. “About three centimeters. Still some time to go”.

Dean exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath through the whole thing, then muttered under it, “Three centimeters. Huh. Usually I can get you to—”. “Dean!”, you cut him off, mortified, smacking him again.

The doctor pretended not to hear, tugging her gloves off with a snap, though you swore you saw the corner of her mouth twitch.

As soon as the door clicked shut, you groaned into your hands. “You are insufferable”.

Dean just grinned, kissing your temple. “And you love me for it”.

Hours unspooled in soft beeps and low light. The lake-black outside the window turned slate, then pearl. You dozed in ten-minute scraps between the milder waves; Dean didn’t blink. He timed every squeeze on his phone, then looked up with a brand-new question each time.

“So when he comes out—does he, like… breathe right away? Or—”.

You smiled, sleepy. “He’s been practicing in fluid. Once he’s out, he’ll clear it and cry. The cry helps open everything up”.

Dean nodded, storing it like intel. “Okay. Crying is good. For once”. He glanced at the monitor. “And he can’t… y’know… drown before that? I know it’s a dumb question, but—”.

“It’s not dumb”, you said. “Cord’s still doing the job till he starts on his own”.

“Right. Backup line”, he murmured, oddly comforted. “Can I cut it?”.

“If you don’t faint”.

He snorted. “I delivered a ghoul’s head once. I can handle a cord”.

-

Three hours later the room had shifted. The contractions had teeth now. Every time one hit, it tore a groan right out of you, your nails biting into Dean’s hand. He never pulled away, even when your grip went white-knuckle.

“Breathe with me, sweetheart”, he tried once. “In through the nose, out through the—”. “Shut up, Dean!”, you snapped, heat and pain slamming through you.

He winced like you’d shot him, but nodded fast. “Yep. Shutting. Quiet as a church mouse. A very helpful—”.

“DEAN”.

“Right. Silent”. He pressed his lips together.

Another wave hit. You curled forward, sweat slicking your brow, a low, guttural sound breaking out of you. Dean made a noise with you half instinct, half helplessness, like his body thought it could share the pain if it just tried hard enough.

The doctor’s voice cut through: “Okay, we’re close. Next one, I want you to push”.

Dean’s hand was shaking in yours. He swiped his thumb across your knuckles. “Almost there, baby”.

The doctor leaned forward, her voice steady but firm. “We’ve got crowning. Keep breathing, almost there”.

Dean risked just a glance. He shifted at your side, craning his neck despite himself. One look between your legs and his face went slack, eyes wide. “Holy shit”, he breathed. “Sweetheart—I can see him. I can see him. He’s—he’s got hair, oh my god, he’s right there—”.

You let out a furious hiss, teeth bared, sweat dripping into your eyes. “DEAN. Not helping!”.

He snapped back upright instantly, squeezing your hand like a lifeline. “Right. Sorry. Just—you’re—he’s—”. He made a helpless noise, a wrecked mix between laughter and a sob. “God, he’s… he’s right there. Push, baby, push—bring him out—”.

Another contraction slammed through you, and you bore down hard, everything inside you clenching, burning. Dean groaned right along with you.

Then the room filled with the sharp, wet cry of a new life.

Dean blinked hard, jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he forced down the swell rising like a tide.

“Strong set of pipes”, the nurse quipped, but Dean barely heard her. He was staring like he’d never seen anything holy before.

When they laid Henry on your chest, the crying stuttered, softened, the tiny body rooting instinctively against your skin. You gasped, tears spilling, both hands trembling as you gathered him close.

Dean leaned in but froze half an inch away, his breath caught, his eyes rimmed red. He clenched his jaw so hard a vein stood out, fighting it—don’t cry, not here, not in front of them. He dragged a hand down his face, muttered a curse under his breath.

But then Henry’s tiny fist flexed, caught nothing but air. Dean couldn’t stop himself. He caught that hand with one finger, let it curl impossibly tight around him.

His head ducked instantly, as if he could hide it in the curve of your shoulder, but his voice betrayed him, wrecked and breaking. “Hi, buddy. Hey…”. He sniffed hard, shaking his head. “God, you’re perfect”.

The doctor and nurses busied themselves, polite enough to let the moment stay yours. Dean’s shoulders shuddered once, sharp, before he forced his breathing back under control. He kissed your damp hair, his voice low, shaky against your temple. “You did it, sweetheart”, he whispered.

You stroked Henry’s damp hair with trembling fingers, your lips brushing his crown. Dean hovered, his forehead pressed briefly to yours before he straightened at the nurse’s quiet prompt. “Want to cut the cord?”.

“Yeah”, he rasped. “Yeah, I got it”.

He lined up the blades, heart hammering in his ears while he cut the cord. He let out a long breath, half a laugh, half disbelief, handing the scissors back.

The nurse moved Henry gently to weigh and clean, his cry filling the room again. Dean followed every step like a shadow, his hand unconsciously braced at your shoulder as if tethering you both.

Then she guided the baby into Dean´s arms, careful. For a heartbeat, he froze, his chest barely moving with breath. Fear, awe, disbelief—all of it tangled in his face. His thumb brushed instinctively over the blanket edge near Henry’s chin, and the baby squirmed, a little squeak tumbling out. Dean’s whole body jolted. “Shit—sorry, bud, I didn’t—”. His voice broke, quiet and panicked. But Henry just settled, tucking into the crook of his arm like it was the only place he belonged. Dean’s lips parted, eyes burning as he whispered, almost to himself, “That’s my boy”.

You watched him, your chest aching in a way you hadn’t expected. You’d seen Dean bleed out on motel bathroom floors, seen him laugh in bars with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, seen him broken and stitched back together. But this? This was different. This was raw.

The nurses moved quietly around you with warm cloths, gentle instructions and the kind of care you half-heard and half-obeyed. But Dean? Dean was somewhere else entirely.

He sat hunched forward in the chair, Henry swaddled tight in his arms, the newborn’s face still flushed, eyes little more than slits. Dean kept his head bent close, his lips moving in a steady stream of words you couldn’t quite catch.

Every so often, Henry made a tiny sound and Dean would pause, grin like the world had just cracked open, then go right back to murmuring.

“Got a sister waitin’ for you, buddy”, he whispered, his thumb brushing Henry’s cheek. “She’s the loud one. You’re gonna love her”.

Henry squirmed, his mouth working around some invisible dream. Dean chuckled under his breath, softer than you’d ever heard. “That’s it… already got opinions, huh? Just like your mom”.

The awe in his voice was unmistakable. He was cataloging everything. From the way Henry’s tiny fingers curled against the blanket, the almost-blue shade of his eyes behind heavy lids to the squashed little nose. It was like he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t believe this wasn’t something fragile he’d only ever dreamed about.

He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the crown of Henry’s head. “Uncle Sammy’s across the street. That’s your guy. He’ll teach you the boring stuff… and I’ll teach you how to drive before you’re supposed to. Don’t tell your mom”.

You watched, half-dazed from exhaustion, half undone by the sight of him.

Dean hadn’t moved for twenty minutes, maybe more. He hadn’t noticed the nurse coming in and checking your IV. Hadn’t even heard the clack of the monitor adjusting. He was in his own little world—just him and Henry. You’d never seen him so still.

You smiled softly. “Hey”. He blinked, like waking up from a dream, and looked over at you. “You okay?”.

You nodded, slow and tired. “Think I could hold our kid now, or are you planning on raising him from that chair?”.

Dean huffed out a breath. Carefully, reverently, he walked over and lowered Henry into your arms. The second your hands took him, Dean leaned over the bedrail, his arms caging you both in. He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the shell of your ear, his lips lingering like he wasn’t quite done grounding himself. “Jesus, you’re incredible”, he whispered. “I don’t know how the hell you just did that, but… you did”.

Your lips curved into a soft, tired grin as you brushed a fingertip over Henry’s tiny nose. “Well… I had a really cute baby to look forward to”. Dean’s chest rumbled with a laugh against your hair, but you tilted your head up just enough to catch his eye. “Though”, you added, smirking faintly, “I gotta say… this is getting a little unfair”.

Dean frowned playfully. “What is?”.

You angled Henry slightly so Dean could see the little furrow between his brows, the shape of his jaw already set, stubborn even at just hours old. “He looks exactly like you. Even worse than Lilah”.

Dean blinked, then laughed outright, dropping his forehead to your temple. “Oh, c’mon—worse?”.

“Way worse”, you teased, though your voice was warm. “It’s like my genes just threw in the towel. Weak. Completely overpowered”.

Dean chuckled again, but there was pride in it. Pride and something a little watery in the way his eyes softened. He looked down at Henry, then back at you, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Guess that means I gotta stick around, huh?”, he murmured. “Can’t have two mini-mes runnin’ around without supervision”.

You let out a tired laugh, pressing your face into his chest. “God help me”.

Dean grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Nah. God helped me. Gave me you, Buzz, and now this guy. Can’t ask for more than that”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 13

-

Yeah right. Robby has never once partook in the gossip had by the nurses, in fact he tries to discourage it most of the time. The only reason Robby cares now is because Jack is involved.

"You've clearly got something to say, so just fucking say it." Jack doesn't say it aggressively, more of a tired tone tinging his words. He wants to head home, to sleep. Has been wanting to do so for the past four hours.

"I hear you've got something going on with the people's princess." Robby releases his hold on Jack, hands coming up to hold the ends of the stethoscope around his neck.

Jack plays dumb, "Diana? I hate to break it to you man, but she's unavailable. You got bad intel."

Robby looks at Jack blankly, hardly a smile on his lips. "Yeah, I was actually thinking a little closer to home."

Jack's pulling his stuff from his locker now, breathing in deep as his eyes flick toward your locker two down from his. Robby catches the look and chuckles. "Yeah, you know who I'm talking about."

"What do you want me to say?" Jack turns, closing his locker door and slinging his bag over his shoulder.

"She's a resident Jack. You're her attending. What do you think I want you to say?"

"I don't know, man." Jack shakes his head, trying to move past Robby, but the man sticks an arm out to stop him from running away. This conversation is happening now, before Jack can find a way around it. Robby's eyes have turned serious, hard with concentration. "I want you to tell me it's not true."

That hits Jack in the chest, the words settling into the painful empty gap within himself. He's been thinking about it for a while now, how he shouldn't feel the things for you that he does, and he was hoping he could avoid that fact for a little longer. But Robby just had to bring it up.

"Nothing going on," Jack lies, the plans for dinner with you festering in the back of his mind. He knows he shouldn't go through with it, but...

Robby clearly doesn't believe the words that come out of Jack's mouth, folding his arms across his chest. "A little birdy told me you left her a little gift last night."

Jack takes a deep breath, his next sentence a harsh exhale. "So what if I did, Robby?"

"That's not nothing."

Why can't Robby just let him have this? This one thing, even if it leads nowhere why can't Jack just have something in peace? Without Robby's attention, opinion, hypocrisy.

"Don't act high and mighty, you've got your own history." Jack slides past Robby, moving toward the center of the ER again. He wonders if he'll make it to the door before Robby comes up with another question to fire his way.

"Are you calling me a player?" Robby has snapped out of his second of quiet shock, following behind Abbot again. Jack shrugs, flashing a look over his shoulder.

"Your words not mine."

Dana seems to hear at least this part of the conversation and lets out a whistle. "Cool it boys, we got shit to do."

As if Dana is on Jack's side, she continues, saving Jack from the bell. "Robby, we got a kid coming in, five minutes out, sliced open his foot playing soccer."

Jack raises a brow, tugging his backpack tighter across his shoulder. "Have fun."

He can tell Robby isn't pleased with him, and they've hardly ever passed over shifts on bad terms, but there's a first for everything. And it's not exactly bad terms, just uncomfortable ones.

"We're not done talking about this." Robby calls, as Jack slips out the automatic doors and into the early morning light.

-

You have been trying to decipher what Jack's kindness means for the past three hours. You've been lying awake, trying to get some rest before your next shift. But the more you stare at the ceiling, the more you see his face.

Is this a date? Could it ever be classed as such when Jack is your attending? Would you lose your jobs or positions or compromise the quality of the workplace if this was a date?

Your phone dings quietly on the nightstand beside you, and since you're not doing much sleeping anyway, you pick it up. The phone screen is almost blinding in the darkness, thanks to the fact you turned off the adjustable brightness feature, but you still manage to read the text on your screen. It's from Jack.

"How about dinner/breakfast before the next shift? We can carpool."

Your heart beats a little faster in your chest. This is really happening.

"Dinner/breakfast?" your text sends with a quiet whoosh.

You glare at your screen, waiting for a response you’re not sure will come. Maybe Jack's gone to bed, maybe he won't respond till later, when you’re both getting ready for work. Three bubbles appear in the corner of the screen.

"Pancakes for dinner. What do you say?"

Yes. Yes is what you say, even though your hands shake as you type.

"Your place or mine?"

-

You said Yes. But Jack is trying not to get too excited. He wants to pump his fist in the air and act like he once did in high school. Proud of himself, but a little fearful too. He's too old to be acting like that, too old for you period.

Still. That didn't stop him from making this mess.

Jack tries to sleep, can't. You'll be here in a matter of hours, knocking on his door. He should clean. He should go out and get you flowers. He should do anything but close his eyes and get some rest. And yet, the day seems to catch up to him, his body aches from all day standing, and his brain is begging to be turned off. Maybe he'll wake up just an hour earlier than usual, prepare the place for your arrival.

He's a grown man. He's done this before. He doesn't need to be nervous.

Jack wakes up hours later, jolting upright. As soon as the alarm pulled him from sleep the memories rushed back. But he's not nervous. That's what he tells himself anyway.

He stretches before shuffling to the side of the bed, where his prosthetic lays by the bedside table. His thoughts race through every possible outcome this day could have. Technically, the both of you never specified that this was a date, not really. But that's how Jack is seeing it. He knows he shouldn't jump to those conclusions, especially when he's your attending and much older than you. The image of Robby scolding him once he hears about this enters his mind.

Still, Jack gets out of bed, makes it. He pulls the sheets up and fluffs the pillows, tidies the room. He's getting way ahead of himself thinking you'll even come near his bedroom but he can't help preparing it anyway.

Then he moves to the kitchen, cleans that up as best he can in his half awake state. And then the living room. He even wipes down the tv screen, just in case you want to watch something. He hasn't watched tv in a long time. He doesn't have time to do so, and he's so tired when he gets home from work that he usually just shuffles to the bedroom and crashes. But he's willing to change his daily patterns for you.

Jack then googles, 'how to make pancakes.'

Shameful, he knows, but he hasn't made pancakes since his wife died. That thought hits him like a freight train to the chest. Is he really doing this? Cleaning the house for a woman that isn't her? Cooking in the kitchen they once shared, for someone new? He knows she wouldn't be upset with him for it. He knows she would tell him to move on. But still it's hard. It's sickening. He checks the time. He has an hour till you show, and he just can't bring himself to cancel on you. He knows he will kick himself forever if he does.

He opens the text chain he has with you. Criticizes everything he's said. His flirting that he once thought was impressive seems embarrassing now, and he wonders if maybe you're just coming over out of pity. Sympathy for the poor widowed old man that hasn't got laid in years. That's not to say he intends to sleep with you or that you plan to sleep with him. He's not a player, he's not like that. Right? God is he?

He forces himself to put the phone down. It's not doing him any favors.

He showers, brushes his teeth, combs his hands through his hair trying to make it look like something it's not. Like it's something less grey and aged. He tries to remind himself that you're an adult, you're coming here of your own interest and accord. That you've never treated him like an old man before. And also that this isn't a date. That it shouldn't be.

There's a knock at the door and he startles, having to adjust his stance as to not fall over. He stands, frozen for a second in the bathroom. What has he got himself into? He exits the bathroom and moves swiftly toward the front door.

When he pulls open the door the sight of you knocks the wind out of him. You look no different than usual, all sunshine and glitter but he's just so shocked that you actually showed up.

"Hi," you raise a hand in an awkward wave, lips pressed together as if to prevent a smile.

Unable to stop the warmth brewing in his chest, Jack exhales. "Hi."

a little bit of sunshine taglist /the pitt taglist

When Dean woke up the next morning, for a moment, he looked confused, caught between dream and waking. Then his gaze found you. And God, the way his whole face softened, made your chest ache. “Hey”, he rasped, voice rough from sleep.

“Hey”, you whispered back, careful not to wake Lilah where she was now tucked in snug between you.

Dean glanced down at her, then back at you, his mouth twitching into the faintest smile. “She sneaks in like a damn ninja”. You smirked, brushing a curl off Lilah’s forehead. “Wonder where she gets it from”.

His smile widened just a little, then faltered when he realized his hand was still resting on your stomach. He stilled, eyes flicking from your belly up to your face, a flicker of awe and fear tangled together.

You swallowed, heart thudding, but you didn’t move his hand. You didn’t want to. Dean’s thumb brushed once, tentative, as if he couldn’t help it. His eyes locked with yours. Neither of you spoke. The quiet was heavy but full, threaded with everything you hadn’t figured out how to say yet.

Then Dean leaned the smallest bit closer, his lips brushing your temple in the barest kiss. “Merry Christmas”, he whispered.

Dean’s lips had barely left your temple when Lilah stirred. For a second she just looked between the two of you, like her sleepy brain was trying to put the pieces together. Then her face split into a grin. “Merry Christmas!”, she shouted, way too loud for the hour.

You and Dean both winced, stifling your laughs as she scrambled upright. She tugged at Dean’s arm. “Daddy, Daddy, get up! Santa came, I heard him!”.

Dean groaned, rubbing his face with his free hand while keeping the other protectively curved over your stomach. “Buzz, it’s barely—”. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned louder. “It’s not even six”.

Lilah gasped like he’d just told her the worst lie in history. “Santa doesn’t care about clocks!”.

You bit your lip, laughing into the blanket. Dean gave you a helpless look, eyes crinkled in amusement despite his grumbling. “You did this to me”, he muttered.

Lilah was already half off the bed, tugging at the hem of his sweatpants. “C’mon, Daddy, presents! We gotta go now!”.

Dean sighed like a man doomed, then leaned over to press a quick kiss to your lips, gentle but sure, before letting Lilah drag him toward the living room. “Alright, alright”, he muttered, shuffling after her with his hand in hers. “Let’s go see what the big guy left”.

A little while later, the living room looked like Christmas had exploded. Shreds of wrapping paper everywhere, bows stuck to the carpet, and Lilah buzzing from one pile of toys to the next, holding up each treasure like it was made of gold. You and Dean sat side by side on the couch, shoulders brushing.

When Lilah finally settled on the floor with her new craft set, already trying to glue three different things together, Dean shifted beside you. He reached down, pulled something from under the couch, and set a small, square package in your lap.

Your brows rose. “Dean…”.

He shrugged, trying for casual, but the way his jaw clenched gave him away. “Just open it”.

You peeled the paper back carefully, and your breath caught.

It was a leather-bound journal, the edges worn like it had already been handled with care. On the cover, embossed into the leather, was a simple golden bee. Inside the front cover, in Dean’s scrawl, were the words: For Bee’s stories. For ours too. Don’t let me miss a damn thing this time.

Your throat closed up. You ran your fingers over the page, blinking fast. “Dean…”.

He shifted, eyes flicking to you nervously. “I figured… you always keep stuff. Pictures, cards, whatever. Thought maybe you’d… y’know, want a place to put it all. For her… For… the baby”.

You laughed through your tears, clutching the journal to your chest. “This is… perfect”.

Dean exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours, a small, crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”.

You leaned into him, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw. “Yeah”.

Across the room, Lilah looked up from where she was gluing two plastic ponies together. “What’d Daddy get you?”.

You smiled at her, eyes still wet. “Something really special, baby”.

By late afternoon, the kitchen was humming with voices and laughter. Jodie had arrived with Claire and Alex, arms full of gifts and holiday dishes. Sam and Cas trailed in not long after, shaking the snow from their coats.

It had been over five years since you’d last seen Jodie and the girls. The second you stepped into the entryway, Jodie’s arms were around you, crushing tight, her voice thick in your ear. “God, I missed you”.

Claire and Alex hovered close behind, taller now, older, but both grinning with genuine excitement. Their attention, though, shifted fast to the little whirlwind buzzing around the living room.

Lilah had been shy for all of thirty seconds. Then she proudly announced to the room, “I’m Delilah, but Daddy calls me Buzz, ’cause I’m loud!”.

The three women lit up instantly. Alex dropped to her knees with a grin, Clair bent low with wide eyes, and Jodie’s hand came up to her mouth like she couldn’t hold back the emotion. “The littlest Winchester”, Alex murmured. “Oh, my God”.

Lilah soaked it up like sunshine, showing off her bee-print pajamas under her Christmas sweater, then dragging them all to the tree to point out her presents.

Sam leaned against the doorway with a smile tugging at his mouth, Cas at his side looking oddly fascinated. “She has your confidence”, Sam said quietly to Dean.

Dean, who hadn’t moved more than a few feet from you since the guests arrived, snorted. “She’s got her mom’s charm too”.

What Sam didn’t point out, though you could feel it in his grin, was how Dean hovered. Always an arm brushing yours, a hand on the small of your back, his eyes finding you across the room whenever you moved too far. And when Jodie’s gaze landed on your hand, on the ring glinting there, her brows lifted high. “Oh”, she drawled, looking between the two of you, the grin spreading across her face. “Well. Looks like Santa brought more than presents this year”.

Claire snorted into her hand. Alex nudged her with an elbow. Sam laughed outright.

Your face burned, and you ducked your head, but Dean just grinned, unashamed. He slipped his arm fully around your waist and tugged you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The whole room knew, without a word: you and Dean weren’t just back in orbit. You were finding your way back, rings and all.

And Lilah, laughing in the middle of it all, cheeks flushed and curls wild, had never looked happier.

During dinner, the table was full. Plates of food were passed back and forth, laughter layered over laughter, Lilah climbing onto every lap she could until she settled squarely between Dean and Sam, proudly showing Claire her new glitter-glue set. It was loud and warm and messy, and for a while, you let yourself sink into it.

Dean was at your side, close enough that his knee pressed into yours under the table, his arm draped on the back of your chair like muscle memory. He hadn’t stopped hovering all day, but instead of feeling suffocating, it felt… steady.

Jodie leaned back in her chair, her eyes flicking from Lilah to you. She hadn’t stopped grinning since she walked in, but now her voice softened, threaded with something more personal. “So”, she said, tilting her head, “how are you doing? I mean, I know you’ve been holding it down all these years, but…”. She glanced at Dean, who was helping Lilah scoop mashed potatoes onto her plate. “This is a lot of change, fast”.

You offered Jodie a small, tired smile, resting your fork down for a moment. “I’m… okay”, you said honestly. “It is a lot. Having Dean back, sharing the load after doing it alone so long—it’s good, but it’s an adjustment. I’ve been in survival mode for years. Now suddenly, it feels like…”. You hesitated, searching for the right word. “Like there’s space to breathe again”.

Jodie’s expression softened, her hand brushing yours across the table. “You deserve that space”.

Dean glanced over then, catching just enough of the exchange to look guilty and proud all at once. He didn’t say anything, just nudged Lilah’s plate closer and quietly filled your glass of water like it was second nature.

The conversation shifted back into laughter. Sam teasing Claire about her appetite, Alex stealing a roll off Jodie’s plate. Lilah giggled at all of it, swinging her legs happily as she shoveled food into her mouth.

Then, out of nowhere, she piped up in her sing-song little voice: “Mommy, you gotta eat more. Daddy said you have to eat for two now!”.

The whole table froze.

You nearly dropped your fork. Dean’s head snapped toward her so fast you were sure he’d pulled something in his neck.

Lilah blinked innocently, chewing on a green bean like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb. “What? That’s what you said, Daddy”.

You closed your eyes briefly, groaning under your breath. Of course.

Jodie leaned back slowly, her grin blooming wide. Claire and Alex both leaned forward at once, like they were front-row for the best kind of drama. Sam covered his mouth with his hand, trying and failing to smother a laugh. Cas, ever helpful, tilted his head and calmly supplied: “She means because you’re pregnant”.

The silence broke into chaos. Jodie laughed so loud it startled Lilah, then pulled you into a fierce hug across the table. “Oh, honey. Congratulations!”. Claire whooped. Alex clapped her hands and Sam finally let his laugh out, shaking his head in disbelief but looking so damn proud.

“Why is everybody laughing?”, Lilah demanded, brows knitting together. “What’s going on? Nobody tells me anything!”.

The table quieted again, all eyes sliding toward you and Dean.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. For all the hunts, all the monsters, all the life-and-death calls he’d made, this, telling a four-year-old her whole world was about to change, made him look nervous.

You reached across the table, laying your hand over his. “Dean”, you said softly. His eyes flicked to yours. The look you gave him said we do this together.

He exhaled slowly, then turned Lilah on his knee so she was facing him. He tucked a curl behind her ear, his voice gentle. “Buzz”, he started, “you know how you’ve been asking if you could have a little brother or sister?”.

Lilah’s pout deepened. “Yeah. But nobody listens”.

Dean’s lips twitched. “Well… turns out, Mommy’s got a baby growing in her belly right now”.

Her whole face froze. Eyes wide, mouth a perfect O.

“A BABY?”, she shrieked, so loud everyone at the table jumped.

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, Buzz. A baby. You’re gonna be a big sister”.

Lilah gasped. Then she flung her tiny arms around Dean’s neck, nearly knocking his beer over in the process. “BEST! DAY! EVER!”, she yelled.

-

April 24 came in on a blue sky. Five candles waited on a bee-yellow cake inside, but out back the real party was already happening: Dean and Lilah were stress-testing the swing he’d hung from the maple yesterday. He’d overbuilt the thing, of course, galvanized chain, lag bolts you could hang a truck from, the seat sanded smooth and painted with black-and-gold stripes. “Engineer-approved”, Sam had called across the street when he pulled up earlier to drop paint swatches at the ex-haunted house he’d bought last week. He wanted to be close. That was the whole point.

Now Dean crouched eye-level with Lilah, all serious business despite the birthday crown crooked in her curls. “Hands tight. Belly forward. Toes reach for the sky, Buzz”.

“Toes to the sky”, she echoed, and launched. The chains sang, sunlight sliced through the leaves, and Dean jogged behind her with a hand hovering like a spotter, laughing every time she squealed.

You watched from the porch, one palm curved over the round you’d started carrying without trying to hide. Twenty-three weeks. Five and a half months. It showed now, under the soft knit of your dress, in the way you leaned back without thinking… in how Dean’s hand drifted to your belly even in sleep.

And God, you remembered the first ultrasound.

Dean had paced before you both got called, jitter simmering under his skin like he’d rather be facing down a bunch of ghosts than waiting for a doctor. He’d cracked a joke about cold gel; then the screen bloomed gray and snow, and there was the baby. “That’s… that’s ours?”, he’d asked, voice already wrecked.

The doc turned the sound on and the room filled with whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh, steady and impossibly fast. Dean’s hand found yours and squeezed so hard it should’ve hurt. He cried without making a sound, blinked them away and pretended he hadn’t. He asked for extra printouts and tucked one in his wallet, one under a bee magnet on the fridge, one—God help him—in Baby’s sun visor.

Last week, at the anatomy scan, he’d been worse. Counting fingers, counting toes, counting tiny ribs on the screen like if he named every part he could make a whole life safe. Lilah had come in a shirt that said PROMOTED TO BIG SISTER and asked the ultrasound tech if the baby liked glitter. The baby hiccuped and kicked; you laughed; Dean had to sit down.

Back in the yard, Lilah yelled: “Did you see me, Mommy? I went sooooo high”.

“So high”, you promised, opening your arms. She barreled into your middle on instinct, then remembered and patted your stomach very carefully with the flat of her hands. “Hi, baby bee”, she whispered.

By ten, the doorbell started a marathon. Little sneakers. Paper crowns. Gift bags. Parents filtering in with polite smiles and casseroles they pretended were “nothing”. You’d slated family for tomorrow. Today was kindergarten land.

Dean had thrown on a gray tee that read BEEKEEPER (you swore you didn’t buy it… maybe Sam did), sleeves clinging to his biceps like a public service. He was thirty-something, tan lines and forearms and that walk—half swagger, half “I’ll fix your cabinet right now”. Every mom over thirty-five short-circuited at least once. You could feel the collective sigh when he lifted the drink cooler like it weighed nothing and said, “Where do you want this, sweetheart?”. (To you. You. Which didn’t stop Mrs. Smith from nearly dropping her hummus).

You stifled a laugh becaue he had no idea. Until it was more obvious.

When a blonde in a very determined athleisure set lingered too long asking about “weekend availability for playdates”, he smiled easy, tipped his chin your way, and added, “My fiancée can text you”. You caught his eye; he winked. The athleisure set melted into apologetic chatter and a fruit cup.

Games helped. Dean herded tiny bees with the authority of a drill sergeant and the patience of a saint. “Alright, workers! Bee Olympics in five! Stations are: Pollen Relay, Nectar Scoop, and Hive Build. No stings, no tears, high fives on demand”. (All his ideas).

You worked the craft table, building bee masks with pipe-cleaner antennae. Every so often Dean dropped a kiss to the top of your head on the flyby because he couldn’t not, because it was muscle memory now. He refilled your water without asking. If anybody hadn’t noticed the ring, they had now.

On late afternoon, a dozen kids sat cross-legged on the blanket, faces shiny with sunscreen and happiness, working their way through greasy slices because Dean had declared, “It’s her birthday, we’re doing pizza. I don’t give a—” (you elbowed him) “—hoot if the kale committee revolts”.

You and Sally—Mia’s mom, your first real friend on the block you met years ago—finally sank into camp chairs by the cooler. She bumped your knee with hers, eyes glinting. “Okay, two things”, she stage-whispered, glancing toward Dean at the drinks table. “One: I now understand why you never showed me a picture. Criminally hot. Two: I also understand why Lilah is that pretty. Genetics did overtime”.

You snorted into your water. “Shut up”.

Sally grinned softer. “He’s good with them. The way he talks to the meltdown kids? I almost cried during Hive Build”.

You looked across the lawn just as Dean crouched to Mia’s level to help her re-tie her bee mask, voice low and patient. Pride punched right through your ribs.

“And… how are you?”, she asked, flicking a glance at your dress, at the way you’d unconsciously braced a palm against your belly. “How far now?”.

“Twenty-three weeks”, you said, smile tipping. “End of August, if this one’s punctual. Which, considering their father—”.

“Hey now”, Dean appeared like he’d been summoned by name, a paper plate stacked with two heroic slices balanced on one hand and a fistful of napkins in the other. “Their father is extremely punctual when pizza’s involved”. He dropped a kiss to your hair without thinking and offered Sally a napkin like a peace treaty. “You want a slice?". Sally took the napkin, amusement blooming. “I’m good. I was actually grilling your fiancée”.

Dean’s mouth did that lopsided thing. He slid a palm over the small of your back, then, like gravity, settled it where it’s been settling for months now: gentle over your bump. “Grill away”.

“So… end of August?”, Sally prompted.

“Give or take”, you said. “Besides that, the baby likes pancakes and naps during staff meetings”. “—and classic rock”, Dean added solemnly. “Kicked me during ‘Fortunate Son’".

Sally bit back a laugh. Around you, the mom cluster tried very hard to keep up a conversation about the Spring Fair volunteer list while not blatantly staring at Dean, who dropped into the chair beside you, knees sprawled wide, jeans stretched indecently tight over thighs and hips.

You’d warned him. He’d ignored you. And now half the kindergarten moms were visibly fighting for composure. Every few seconds, their gazes flicked sideways. To the way the denim clung shamelessly over his thighs. To the curve that made you bite your lip sometimes without meaning to. Dean Winchester was blessed, and there wasn’t a pair of Levi’s in the world built to hide it.

He was oblivious. Mostly. He tipped his chair back, chewing through another slice, his palm resting easy on your knee, and the ring on your hand catching sunlight like a warning bell. Still, you caught one mom drop her phone when he shifted to grab his coke.

You caught him licking pizza sauce off his thumb, casual as anything, while the moms collectively forgot how to spell brownies.

Leaning in, you smirked. “You really have no idea, do you?”.

Dean arched a brow, chewing slow. “About what?”.

You tipped your chin toward the semi-circle of women across the blanket. All of them laughing a little too loudly, eyes darting anywhere but directly at him, like teenagers caught staring at the quarterback.

Dean followed your gaze, blinked once, then turned back to you, smirk curling lazy and wicked. “What, them?”. He leaned closer, and before you could stop him, his teeth grazed your jaw in a playful nip. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath catch. You swatted at him, hissing, “Dean—”, but it was too late. Half the moms visibly sat up straighter, heat crawling up their necks.

And of course, Dean chose that moment to let his voice drop, low and gravel-warm, not even bothering to keep it discreet. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. You look so damn good carrying my kid. Drives me outta my mind every time I see you”. His hand slid across your thigh, casual but not casual enough. You froze, cheeks flaming. Sally choked into her soda, covering it with a cough while shooting you the most oh my God look imaginable.

-

You braced one hand on the tiled wall, head tipped under the spray, letting the warmth run down your spine. Dean stood behind you, bigger than the space allowed, arms caging you in without even meaning to. His lips brushed the back of your shoulder, slow, unhurried, tasting water droplets.

You laughed breathlessly, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him. “Thought we were supposed to be showering”.

Dean’s hands skimmed down your sides, pausing to trace the curve of your belly before sliding back to your hips. “We are”, he said, voice low. He pressed himself against you, hard already. “I’m multitasking”.

You rolled your eyes, but it came out shaky when his mouth trailed down the slope of your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “Dean…”.

“Shhh”. His hands flattened over your stomach. He nosed at your damp hair, lips brushing your temple as he whispered, almost like a confession, “You have no idea what you do to me like this”.

You huffed a laugh, breath fogging the glass. “Dean Winchester”, you teased, voice low and shaky, “do you have a kink?”.

He groaned, forehead pressing to the back of your neck. “Don’t call it that”, he muttered. “I just—”. His grip on your hips tightened. “You’re carrying us. And you’re so goddamn beautiful I can’t think straight”.

Before you could quip back, he shifted, nudging your legs apart with his knee. One hand braced on your belly, protective even now, the other guiding himself. You gasped as the blunt head of him pressed against you. “Dean—”.

“Easy”, he soothed. With one steady push, he slid inside, burying himself to the hilt. The heat, the stretch, the way his chest pressed flush against your back, it was overwhelming. You clutched the slick tile, a broken sound leaving your throat.

Dean’s groan rumbled against your skin. “Fuck—yeah. That’s it”.

The water hammered down, but all you felt was him. Every inch of him, every shift of muscle pressed flush against your back. His hips rolled into you, the motion forcing your palm tighter against the slick tile. Your other hand fumbled for the rail, gripping hard, because these days, damn, you were too sensitive. Every drag of him made your legs shake.

“Hold on for me, sweetheart”, he rasped. He guided you into his rhythm, one arm a steel band across your chest, the other cradling your stomach like he was afraid the world might steal it away.

You whined his name, head dropping forward, water streaming over your face, and his mouth was instantly at your jaw, kissing, biting softly, whispering, “I’ve got you. Always”.

He wasn’t fucking you like it was just about heat. He was inside you like he was memorizing you, claiming you. Every time his hips met your ass, his hand pressed firmer against your belly.

Your thighs trembled with each push, each drag, pleasure curling tight in your spine too fast, too sharp. Dean groaned again, his lips brushing your ear. “Sensitive, huh? Baby, you’re—”. His words broke into another thrust, another groan. “So damn perfect like this. All mine”.

The rhythm didn’t last long. “Shit—”, Dean gritted out, hips grinding deep. “Not gonna—can’t—”.

You grinned breathlessly, even as the pleasure coiled hot and fast in your gut. “What happened to—”, you gasped as he ground harder against that spot inside you, “—iron man stamina, Winchester?”.

Dean huffed a broken laugh, already sliding one hand down to where you needed him, circling you with maddening precision. His favorite trick, the one he always pulled when he knew he was close but refused to leave you behind. “Still got enough”, he rasped, lips dragging down your neck. “Always get you there, don’t I?”.

The words, the hand, the angle, it was too much. Your body clenched hard around him, the orgasm tearing through you so fast you cried out, forehead pressed to the tile, the rail digging into your palm as you shook apart.

Dean groaned, following right after you, his hips driving once, twice more before he buried himself deep and spilled inside with a shudder. He held you tight through it, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as the water roared around you both.

You panted, boneless against him, still twitching from the aftershocks. Then, when you could breathe again, you managed a breathless little laugh. “Guess you’re not twenty anymore”.

Dean chuckled into your damp skin, still catching his breath. “Yeah, well—”, he kissed your shoulder, voice rough but smug, “—didn’t hear you complaining”.

You rolled your eyes, grinning, still trembling. “Not yet”.

“Smartass”, he muttered, pulling you closer under the spray like he never wanted to let go.

When you padded out onto the bathmat, towel knotted under your arms, Dean followed, towel slung low on his hips. Without a word, he grabbed the lotion off the counter, uncapped it, and dropped to his knees in front of you. It had become his ritual. Every shower, every night—you didn’t even have to ask. Lotion spread over his palms, and then his hands were on you in gentle circles over your bump.

“You don’t have to do this”, you murmured, watching the way his lashes lowered, how focused he was.

“Yeah, I do”, he said simply. “Keeps your skin soft. Keeps my head straight”. He glanced up at you then, green eyes bright. “Lets me talk to ‘em without you calling me crazy”.

Your heart tugged painfully. You reached down, brushed your fingers through his damp hair as he bent and pressed a kiss to the center of your belly, lingering there like it was holy.

“Got names”, he mumbled into your skin.

You blinked, surprised. “Oh, really?”.

Dean’s lips curved against your stomach. “Mhm. Been makin’ a list”. He smoothed more lotion. “Not sure which fits yet”.

You smiled softly, hand still in his hair. “Let’s hear one”.

Dean looked up at you again, cheeks a little pink despite himself. “Not till I cross off the dumb ones”, he said gruffly. “But… I’ll get there”.

You laughed quietly, brushing a drop of water off his temple. “You’re ridiculous”.

“Yeah”, he muttered, kissing your bump again. “Ridiculous about my girls”.

-

By late May, your body had given up any pretense of hiding. Your belly had rounded fast, the kind of growth spurt that had you tugging at shirts that fit fine last week and didn’t cover you now. Dean called it “perfect”, Sam called it “biology” and you just called it “unfair”.

The house echoed with the sounds of hammers and saws. Sam and Dean had torn half the upstairs apart in their free time, converting what used to be one big room into three. Lilah’s, yours, and now, a nursery. It smelled like sawdust and fresh paint, a Winchester mix of chaos and love.

Downstairs, you’d claimed the couch, a pillow under your back, one hand absently stroking the swell of your stomach. Lilah had crawled up beside you with her cheek pressed firmly to your bump. “Shhh”, she commanded you, one finger over her lips. “I’m listening”.

You smiled, brushing hair out of her eyes. “And? What do you hear?”.

Her little nose scrunched. She leaned in closer, brow furrowed like she was decoding a secret code. Then, suddenly, she gasped. “The baby said it want a Happy Meal for dinner!”

You laughed, startled and full, your hand automatically cradling her head. “Oh, did they?”.

“Mhm!”, Lilah’s eyes were wide with certainty, her tiny hand splayed across your skin. “With nuggets. And fries. And a toy. It said so”.

“You are so your daddy’s daughter”, you murmured, kissing the crown of her curls.

Lilah tipped her head back to look at you, confused but smiling. “Because of the Happy Meal?”.

“Because of everything”, you said, brushing her cheek with your thumb. “The stubborn, the silly, the way you make up rules no one else knows about…”.

“And because I’m cute?”, she asked, grinning wide, gap-toothed.

You smirked. “That too”.

Upstairs came the muffled sound of Dean cursing when something clattered to the floor, followed immediately by Sam’s long-suffering sigh. Lilah’s giggle mirrored yours perfectly, like you’d both heard this routine a thousand times.

“Daddy says bad words when he thinks I can’t hear”, she whispered conspiratorially, then pressed her ear back against your belly. “Baby probably heard it, though. Daddy better be careful”.

You laughed so hard you had to hold your side. God help Dean—one sass machine in the house was already more than enough, and now you had two.

Just then, Dean’s boots thudded on the stairs. He appeared in the doorway, sawdust in his hair, T-shirt clinging with sweat, and a grin tugging at his mouth. “What’s so funny down here?”.

Lilah sat up, eyes sparkling. “Mommy says I’m just like you”.

Dean wiped his brow with his wrist and smirked. "Damn right you are, Buzz”. Then he pushed off the doorframe and came right for you. He leaned down, braced one hand on the back of the couch, and kissed you. Not a quick peck. Not a “hi, honey, I’m home”. A long, slow, sweaty, ridiculously hot kiss that tasted like sawdust and salt and Dean being Dean. You melted, one hand curling into his damp T-shirt before you even thought about it, your body giving away every bit of how much you craved him, even like this. Especially like this.

“Ewwwwww!”, Lilah squealed, squirming beside you. She slapped both hands over her eyes and fell dramatically onto the cushion. “Mommy, Daddy! That’s so gross!”.

Dean pulled back just enough to laugh against your mouth, still close enough that his breath was hot on your lips.

“Daddy!”, Lilah sat back up, nose wrinkled, eyes squinting like she couldn’t believe what she’d just seen. “You’re all stinky and sweaty. Don’t kiss Mommy like that!”.

Dean smirked, swiping his thumb over your bottom lip. “Buzz, Mommy doesn’t seem to mind”.

“Ewwwwwwww!”, She squealed again, rolling into your side and burying her face against your arm like that would erase the sight. You laughed, cheeks flushed, shoving lightly at Dean’s chest. “She’s not wrong. You do stink”.

Dean just grinned wider, cocky, and pressed another quick, defiant kiss to your temple. “Worth it”. Then he leaned over, and ruffled Lilah’s curls until she squeaked and tried to bat him away. “Alright, Buzz”, he said, his tone gentler now, that softness he saved only for her. “Think Mommy’s up for a little field trip?”.

You tilted your head at him. “Field trip?”.

Dean’s grin widened. He bent down, slid a hand carefully under your elbow, and helped you shift upright off the couch. “Nursery’s pretty much finished. Thought maybe you’d wanna check it out”.

Your heart gave a funny little squeeze. “Already?”.

“Mhm”. He pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head like he couldn’t help it. “Furniture’s built, crib’s set, Sam’s still upstairs cleaning up sawdust”.

Lilah bounced off the couch. “Can I come? Can I come see? Pleeeease!”.

Dean laughed, scooped her up with one arm, and offered his free hand to you. “What do you say, sweetheart? Wanna see what we pulled off?”.

Your fingers curled around his instinctively, your belly brushing the edge of his arm as you stood. You nodded, a smile tugging despite the heat in your cheeks. “Yeah. Show me”.

Dean led the way up the stairs, Lilah perched on his hip and bouncing like she had a spring coiled under her. She had both hands gripping his shoulders, whispering loudly in his ear, “Is it pink? Is it blue? Is it bees? Please let it be bees, Daddy”.

Dean just grinned and shot you a look over his shoulder. “Buzz, I told you—you gotta see for yourself”.

When you reached the door at the end of the hall, he stopped, shifting Lilah to the floor. “Okay”, he said, crouching to her level. “This is important, alright? You and Mommy get to be the first to see it finished. You ready?”.

Lilah nodded so hard. She grabbed your hand with both of hers, tugging like she couldn’t wait another second.

Dean opened the door with a small, almost nervous flourish. And your breath caught.

The room was transformed. The walls were soft cream, not too babyish, but warm, sunlight spilling across them through fresh curtains. The crib was sturdy, wood smooth and polished, a tiny bee mobile dangling overhead, spinning lazily in the breeze from the window. A rocker sat in the corner, draped with the quilt you’d kept folded away for years, and shelves already held storybooks, toys, and jars of glittering glass marbles Lilah had “donated”.

Dean had even stenciled little honeycomb shapes along one wall, uneven but so unmistakably him.

“Oh my God”, you whispered, your hand covering your mouth. Tears pricked instantly, hot and unashamed. Lilah squealed, breaking free from your hand and running straight to the crib. She peered through the bars, then turned wide-eyed to you. “Mommy! Mommy! The baby’s bed! It’s soooo tiny!”.

Dean stood back a little, watching your face like he was terrified you wouldn’t like it, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “It’s not perfect”, he said, voice rough, “but—”. You cut him off with a watery laugh. “Dean. It’s beautiful”.

Lilah was bouncing on her toes now, pointing at the mobile. “Look, Daddy! Bees! Baby Bee’s gonna love it!”.

Dean chuckled and scooped her up again, and kissed her cheek as she squealed. "Yeah Buzz".

Sam shuffled past the doorway with a broom in hand, his flannel sleeves shoved up to his elbows. His hair was dusted with sawdust like he’d aged fifty years in an hour. He gave the room a quick glance, then huffed out a dry laugh. “Looks good, right?”, he said, leaning on the broom. “Really good. Can’t wait to start all over again in Lilah’s room tomorrow”.

Dean barked a laugh. “Aw, c’mon, Sammy. You love this domestic crap”.

Sam shot him a look. “I don’t love inhaling half a tree’s worth of sawdust, Dean”. He jabbed the broom toward his brother, smirking. “And you’re buying me beer for this. A lot of it”.

That evening, you stood at the little white dresser, folding tiny onesies.

Tomorrow you’d know. Boy or girl. You’d see another little face on that grainy screen, hear that heartbeat again. And this time, you weren’t walking into that doctor’s office alone.

The thought alone had your throat tight.

The floor creaked. You looked up to see Dean in the doorway, fresh from the shower. Lilah was finally down for the night and the exhaustion around his eyes said bedtime had been a battle. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching you. Not saying anything at first, just… looking.

You set another onesie in the drawer, smoothing it flat with your palm, your chest tightening under the weight of it all. Not doing this alone. Not counting pennies. Not carrying all of it by yourself. Being loved so much it scared you.

“Hey”, you whispered.

“Hey”, Dean echoed, his voice low. He stepped into the room and came to stand behind you. His hands slid around your waist without hesitation, palms warm over the swell of your bump. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his reflection meeting yours in the dresser mirror.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get to do this”, he murmured. “Fold baby clothes. Argue about where the socks go. Build a crib that might actually hold”.

You covered his hands with yours, tears pricking.

He kissed your temple, slow and lingering. “Tomorrow we find out, huh?”.

You nodded, smiling faintly at the reflection of his hand cupped so carefully over your belly. “Tomorrow”.

Dean’s grin crooked, boyish, hopeful. “You got a guess?”.

You smiled faintly, resting your hands over his. “I think girl”.

Dean huffed a soft laugh. “Figures. Winchester women outnumberin’ me for the rest of my life”.

You turned your head just enough to catch the edge of his grin in the mirror. “What do you think?”.

He hesitated, then shrugged a little. “Boy, maybe. Just feels like a… buzz cut and scraped knees kinda deal”. His grin widened. “But I’ll be happy either way. Long as they’ve got your smile”.

The words tightened your chest, but underneath them, something else pressed in. A weight you’d only just started to notice the past few days.

Dean was here. Really here. Cooking, building, folding laundry, reading Lilah to sleep. And he was good at it. But every now and then, when he thought no one was watching, you caught it in his eyes. A restlessness. A muscle twitch. The part of him that had been forged by the hunt and hadn’t stretched in over seven weeks. It was the longest you’d ever known him to stay put. And though he hadn’t said a word, you knew. He missed it.

You placed a folded pair of socks in the drawer, fingers lingering, and said quietly, “You’ve been grounded a long time, Dean”.

His body tensed, just slightly, behind you. “What d’you mean?”.

You turned in his arms, searching his face. “Seven weeks. No hunts. No bunker. Just… here. With us”.

Dean’s mouth opened, closed, his jaw tight. He tried to play it off with a shrug. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta make sure your Happy Meal orders are supervised”. But you saw the flicker in his eyes. The truth he wouldn’t say.

“You should join Sammy again”, you whispered, your palm smoothing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath.

“Wait—what?”. His brows drew together, his voice low and rough. “No. No way. I’m not leavin’ you and Bee again. Not now”.

You shook your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “I didn’t say leave. I said join him. Just for a case. A short one. You’ve been here seven weeks, Dean. I see it in your eyes—you miss it”.

He scoffed, looking away, but you caught the flicker of guilt before he masked it. “That life almost took me from you once. I’m not risking it again”.

“Dean…”. Your voice cracked a little. You pressed your hand firmer against his chest, grounding both of you. “I don’t want you to resent this. Resent us. If you need to go out there sometimes, then… then go. Come back. But go”.

“Sweetheart—”. You cut him off softly. “You were a hunter for thirty years. You can’t just switch it off like a light. I know you miss it. And if you don’t let yourself breathe every once in a while, you’re gonna suffocate here. And we’ll all feel it”.

Dean stared at you. The silence stretched, heavy, his thumb brushing unconsciously over the curve of your bump.

“You’d really be okay with that?”, he asked finally, voice raw. “Me takin’ off for a weekend, leaving you here?”.

Your throat tightened, but you nodded. “As long as you come back. Every time. To us”.

-

The next morning, the clinic waiting room felt too small. Dean hadn’t stopped fidgeting since you walked through the door, flipping through outdated magazines without reading a word, cracking his knuckles and tugging his flannel sleeves up and down.

“You’re making me dizzy”, you murmured, sliding your hand onto his thigh to still it.

Dean froze, then huffed out a shaky laugh. “Sorry. Just—”. He shook his head. “I’ve faced down wendigos, demons, hell, even death—and I swear, this is scarier”.

You smiled faintly, leaning toward him. “It’s just an ultrasound”.

He gave you a look. “It’s our kid”. His voice cracked slightly at the last word, and his hand slipped over yours, lacing your fingers tight. “What if I mess this up? What if—”.

“Dean”. You squeezed his hand hard enough to make him stop. “You’re not gonna mess this up. You’re already doing it. Every day”. Before he could argue, the nurse opened the door and called your name. Dean shot up like he’d been drafted. “That’s us”, he said unnecessarily, gripping your hand like he thought you might bolt.

Inside, Dean hovered at your side, one hand braced on your shoulder, the other gripping yours so tight your fingers tingled.

“Healthy heartbeat”, the doc said gently. “And—if you want to know today—we can check the gender”.

Dean looked at you like you were the one holding the whole world. “Do we…? You sure you wanna know?”.

You nodded, your heart hammering as you glanced at Dean.

The doc adjusted the probe, squinting at the screen. “Alright… looks like you’re having…”. She tapped a spot, angled the wand just right, and smiled. “A boy”.

For a second, Dean didn’t react. His eyes flicked from the screen to your belly to the screen again, like he couldn’t make the math work. Then it hit. His lips parted, a shaky laugh escaping. “A boy”, he whispered, his grip on your hand almost bruising now. “Holy shit. A boy”. Dean let out a broken laugh, dragging his free hand down his face, and when he dropped it, there were tears streaking down his cheeks. “I… I got a son?”. His voice cracked hard on the word. He shook his head in disbelief, grinning through the tears. “I got a daughter and a son?”.

You squeezed his hand, your own tears spilling over. “Yeah. You do”.

-

When you walked through the door, Lilah was sprawled on the living room floor, glitter glue and construction paper everywhere. Sam sat on the couch, clearly on babysitting duty, though from the looks of the chaos, “duty” had been stretched thin.

“Mommy! Daddy!”, Lilah scrambled up, eyes wide. “Did you see the baby? Did you? Did the baby say hi?”.

Dean scooped her up mid-run, settling her against his hip. His face was flushed, eyes still rimmed red, but his grin was unstoppable. “We did, Buzz. And guess what—”. He paused dramatically, eyes flicking to you for permission. You nodded, biting your lip. Dean lowered his voice conspiratorially. “It’s a boy”.

Lilah gasped loud. “A brother?”.

Dean chuckled, kissing her temple. “That’s right”.

She wriggled in his arms, eyes sparkling. “What’s his name? Does he have a name?”.

Dean’s grin softened. “Yeah”, he said quietly, his voice catching just a little. “He does”.

Sam leaned forward, curious. You waited too, your heart thudding. You hadn’t known Dean had settled on one. You’d told him weeks ago: I chose Delilah. This time, it’s yours to give.

“Henry”, he said finally, voice low but certain. “Henry Winchester”.

Your chest clenched.

“Always liked that name. Strong. Simple. Feels like… I dunno. Feels like family, without the baggage”.

“Henry”, Lilah said, testing it out with all the drama of a queen declaring a law. Then her face lit up like Christmas morning. “I love it! Henry is perfect! Hi, Henry!”.

From the couch, Sam’s voice came quiet but warm, that deep rumble that always carried. “Henry Winchester”. He let it sit in the air for a beat, then smiled. “Congratulations. Both of you”.

Your eyes stung as you nodded, meeting Sam’s gaze. There was pride there, and relief, and something heavier, like he was seeing his brother finally get the life he’d been robbed of for too long.

Dean’s grip on you tightened, one arm still holding Lilah, the other hand reaching for yours. “Thanks, Sammy”, he murmured, voice a little rough.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 12

-

It had been over an hour since the nurse had drawn your blood. Over an hour since you’d been told, “Just sit tight, the doctor will be with you soon”.

And in that hour, your brain had spun through every worst-case scenario it could conjure.

Something bad. It had to be something bad. The constant nausea, the fatigue, the way your body just didn’t feel like yours anymore, it couldn’t just be the flu. What if it was worse? What if you wouldn’t be able to take care of Lilah? You pressed the heel of your hand to your temple, trying to steady the rush of thoughts. Dean’s got her. She’s safe. She’s laughing. You just have to get through this.

Finally, after what felt like forever, a nurse pushed the door open. “Miss (Y/L/N)? The doctor will see you now”.

Your legs felt shaky as you stood, your palms damp against your jacket. You followed her down the hall. The doctor walked in moments later, a folder in his hand, his expression carefully neutral. Your heart dropped into your stomach.

“Thanks for waiting”, he said, sitting across from you. “We’ve gone over your results, and I think we have an explanation for the symptoms you’ve been experiencing”.

Your chest tightened, your hands twisting in your lap. Just say it. Rip the band-aid off. Your knees bouncing uncontrollably.

The doctor glanced at the folder, then back at you, his tone calm and deliberate. “First, I want to reassure you, you don’t have anything dangerous. Your vitals are good, your labs are strong. What we’re seeing isn’t an illness”.

Your breath caught. “Not… an illness?”.

He shook his head gently. “No. Your bloodwork showed elevated hormone levels. Specifically, hCG. That, along with your symptoms… the nausea, fatigue—points to something else”.

Your throat went dry. Every worst-case scenario had been playing in your mind for the last hour, and this… this wasn’t one of them.

He smiled faintly, like he’d given this news a thousand times before. “You’re pregnant”.

The word landed heavy, ricocheting around the room until it felt unreal.

Pregnant.

You blinked, your mouth parting, but no sound came out. Pregnant. The room tilted for a second, the sound of your own heartbeat loud in your ears.

Not sick. Not dying. Pregnant.

The doctor continued, his voice professional but kind. “I’d estimate you’re about six weeks along. We’ll want to schedule an ultrasound to confirm. But everything else looks healthy”.

Six weeks. Six weeks ago…

Your mind flashed back to that night where Dean had come back, where all the hurt and anger and longing had boiled over into hours that left you wrecked, sore, and unable to think straight for days.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles whitened. Pregnant. With Dean’s baby. Again.

You stared at the doctor, but his face blurred, the edges of the room slipping out of focus. Your ears rang, drowning out whatever else he was saying about follow-ups, vitamins, appointments.

Not flu. Not stress. Not something you could sleep off.

Your chest rose and fell too fast, your breaths shallow. You felt… split open. Like your body had just betrayed you with something you hadn’t asked for, hadn’t planned for—something that changed everything.

“Are you—”. The doctor’s voice broke through the haze. He paused, lowering his tone. “I know it’s a lot to take in. Do you want me to give you a moment?”.

You couldn’t even find words. You managed the smallest nod, your throat locked tight. He stood, offering a reassuring look before slipping out the door, leaving you alone in the glaringly white room.

You sat there frozen, your hands trembling in your lap, staring at nothing.

Pregnant. With Dean’s child.

Your mind skittered to Lilah, to her laugh, her tiny hands, the way she clung to Dean like she’d known him all her life. Your chest clenched, sharp and hot, as the reality pressed down. One child you’d raised alone. And now another. Only this time… Dean was here. But could you trust him to stay?

Your stomach rolled again, not from nausea but from pure shock. You pressed your hands over your face, trying to breathe, the truth pounding in your ears. You’re pregnant. And you had no idea what the hell to do next.

-

The cold nipped at Dean’s ears, but he barely noticed. His focus was locked on the little bundle of energy racing across the playground. Lilah’s boots stomped over the snow-packed ground as she charged for the swings. “Push me, Daddy!”, she called, climbing onto the seat and gripping the chains with her mittened hands.

Dean strode over, hands shoved in his pockets, grinning. “Alright, Buzz. Hang on tight”.

He gave her a gentle push, enough to make the swing creak. Lilah squealed, demanding louder, “Higher!”.

Dean chuckled, giving her a bit more momentum. “Careful what you wish for”.

Her laugh carried over the frosted air, pure and bright. “I can fly!”.

On the bench, Sam pulled out his phone, angling the camera toward them. He caught Dean pushing his daughter higher and higher, both of them laughing like they’d done this forever, not just weeks. Lilah’s little boots kicked the sky, Dean’s smile wide and unguarded.

Sam typed quickly under the video before hitting send:

To Jody: Turns out Dean Winchester’s a total softie. Kid’s got him wrapped around her finger. You gotta meet her.

Jody: Knew it. Been saying for years that man was secretly built for the dad life. Can’t wait to meet her.

Sam smirked, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He watched his brother and felt that familiar ache of pride. For all the scars, all the mistakes, Dean had found something real here.

Dean slowed the swing, steadying Lilah with a gentle hand as she hopped down into the snow. Her cheeks were pink from the cold. “Uncle Cas!”, she squealed. “Come play!”.

Cas blinked, tilting his head as though she’d just spoken in Enochian. “Play?”.

“Yeah!”, Lilah bounded over, mitten closing around his much larger hand. “C’mon!”.

Sam chuckled from the bench. “Go on, Cas. She’s not gonna let you say no”. Dean smirked. “Welcome to my world”.

Cas allowed himself to be tugged toward the jungle gym. Lilah pointed at the monkey bars. “Climb!”.

Cas looked up at the bars, then back down at her, utterly deadpan. “These appear structurally unsound for my weight”.

Lilah giggled. “Nooo, not you. Me! You help me”.

Cas blinked again, then carefully lifted her up under the arms. Lilah squealed with delight as she gripped the cold bars, her little boots kicking in the air while Cas stood solidly beneath her like a guardian statue. “Look, Daddy!”, she shouted.

Cas, meanwhile, frowned up at her. “Is this activity safe?”. Sam barked out a laugh. “Relax, Cas. Kids bounce”. Lilah giggled so hard she nearly slipped, but Cas adjusted instantly, holding her steady with surprising gentleness. “I will not permit her to bounce”, he said firmly.

-

You walked to your car in a daze, keys clutched so tight they cut into your palm. Pregnant. The word hadn’t stopped echoing in your head since the doctor said it.

You slid behind the wheel, the seat cold beneath you, and sat there for a moment, staring at the fog curling over the windshield.

As you finally pulled onto the road, the fog thickened, the yellow lines barely visible ahead. You gripped the wheel harder, eyes fixed on the faint glow of your headlights cutting a narrow path forward. Your mind wouldn’t quiet.

How am I supposed to tell him? What if he leaves again? What if he stays and it’s still not enough?

Lilah’s face flickered in your thoughts. She didn’t know yet. She didn’t understand what it would mean to share you, to not be the only one anymore.

For the first time in years, you felt small, almost afraid. Not of monsters. Not of the dark. But of this life you hadn’t planned and the man who held your heart in his calloused hands. You whispered to yourself, like maybe if you said it enough it would sink in: “Pregnant”.

When you cam home, Sam hovered by the stove with a wooden spoon. Cas stood nearby, frowning at a cookbook held upside down. Lilah sat on the counter in her bee-print pajamas, a wooden spoon in her hand, her cheeks pink with excitement. And Dean, Dean was moving between them all, sleeves rolled up, laughter tugging at his mouth as he tried to keep Lilah from stirring too hard.

“Hey, Buzz”, he said, catching the spoon before it splattered. “Gentle, remember? Soup’s not a race”. She giggled, leaning against him. “But I’m helping!”.

Dean kissed the top of her head, then glanced up and saw you. The grin faltered, softening into something gentler. “Hey. You’re back”.

Sam looked up too, his expression openly relieved. “We’re working on dinner. Got some soup going for you. Should be easy on your stomach”.

Cas finally turned the book right-side up, his voice deadpan. “You require nutrients”.

The laugh caught in your throat before it could escape. You managed a nod, clutching your coat tighter around you. “Thanks”.

Dean was still watching you, eyes narrowing just slightly like he could read something in your face. Like he always could.

You couldn’t meet his gaze. Not tonight. Not with everyone here. Not when the fear of what came next threatened to spill over. So you smiled faintly, ducking your head, and slipped further into the kitchen, praying no one noticed how your hands shook.

-

Later, Sam and Cas had taken their bags and left with promises to see everyone soon.

Now it was just the three of you.

The living room was lit only by the glow of the Christmas lights you’d strung along the mantel earlier in the week. A movie played.

Dean sat in the middle of the couch, his legs stretched out, a big bowl of popcorn balanced between his thighs. Lilah sat snug against him, her tiny hand fishing lazily through the bowl every few minutes. Her head leaned against his arm, her eyelids drooping heavier with each scene.

You sat beside them, wrapped in a blanket, your body sinking deeper into the cushions. The warmth of the room, the soft hum of the TV, and the rhythm of Lilah’s sleepy breathing made your own eyes grow heavy.

Dean glanced down at her, the corner of his mouth lifting as he brushed a curl out of her face. “She’s about two minutes from crashing”, he murmured.

“Mm”, you hummed, too tired to form a proper answer.

He shifted just slightly, careful not to jostle her, and his gaze flicked to you. For a moment, he just watched. Watched the way your blanket bunched around your shoulders, the faint slump of your posture, the way you fought sleep like you didn’t trust it to hold. His chest ached. Because this—his daughter tucked under his arm, you beside him—was everything he’d never let himself hope for. And now that he had it, he didn’t know how to keep from breaking it.

Lilah yawned, her small body curling tighter into his side, the popcorn bowl sliding precariously until Dean steadied it with one hand. “Daddy…”, she mumbled, already half-asleep.

“Yeah, Buzz?”.

Her lips curved faintly, eyes closed. “Best Christmas ever”.

Dean’s throat tightened. He pressed a kiss to her hair, whispering, “Yeah, sweetheart. It really is”.

You turned your head, watching him, and for just a moment your eyes met. The tenderness in his gaze nearly unraveled you.

By the time the movie credits started rolling, Lilah was out cold with her cheek smushed against Dean’s arm and her hand still curled in a lazy fist near the empty popcorn bowl. You shifted slowly, sitting up just a bit. “I’ll carry her”.

Dean shook his head, careful not to move too fast. “Nah. I got her”.

He moved gently, like she was made of glass, cradling her against his chest as he stood. Her little arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, but she didn’t wake.

You followed quietly behind as he padded down the hallway.

In her room, Dean laid her down carefully, brushing a thumb over her forehead before tucking the blanket under her chin. She sighed in her sleep, turning her face into the pillow with a little mumble.

You both walked back toward the living room. Dean scratched the back of his neck as he stood in the hallway, his voice rough when he finally said, “She had a good day”. You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself. “She really did”.

He shifted closer, watching you. “You okay?”.

You hesitated. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the truth was pressing against your ribs, building like a wave behind your teeth. You wanted to tell him. You needed to. But the fear was louder. Instead, you nodded, voice barely audible. “Just tired”.

Dean studied you for a long second. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just… watching. Then he shifted his weight, glancing toward the living room, then back at you. “Couch?”. It wasn’t really a question, more like habit. He always defaulted to giving you space, letting you set the rules.

Your throat tightened. You bit your lip, eyes burning before you could stop them. The thought of lying alone in that big, too-quiet bed with the doctor’s words echoing in your skull made your chest ache. You shook your head quickly, voice trembling. “No. Don’t… I don’t want to be alone tonight”.

For a second, surprise flickered in his face. Then he nodded once, gentle. “Okay”. He followed you down the hall without another word.

In your room, you slipped under the covers, clutching the blanket tight, your body heavy with exhaustion. Dean kicked off his boots, tugged his flannel off, and slid in on the other side. Just sweatpants and a T-shirt.

For a beat, you both just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the silence heavy.

Then Dean shifted, turning on his side to face you. His hand hovered, then settled lightly on your arm. “C’mere”, he murmured.

And you did. Without hesitation, without thought. Curling into his chest like it was the only place you could breathe. His arms came around you instantly, holding you together when you felt like you might fall apart. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into him, even if just for tonight.

Sleep came for you quick, while Dean stayed awake.

He lay on his side, one arm draped protectively over you, eyes tracing the lines of your face in the soft moonlight. The exhaustion in your features. The faint crease between your brows that hadn’t smoothed, even in sleep.

His thumb brushed lightly against your arm, soothing a rhythm you’d never feel.

He should’ve been asleep too. God knew he was running on fumes after the case, after chasing Lilah around the playground, after keeping up the front of a man who had this whole dad thing down pat. But he couldn’t close his eyes. Not when holding you felt like something borrowed, fragile. Like if he blinked, you’d slip through his fingers all over again.

His throat tightened, words he’d never say pressing against his ribs.

I’m not leaving this time. I swear it. I don’t care if I’m not good enough, if you never forgive me for before. I’ll be here. For her. For you.

You shifted in your sleep, murmuring something incoherent, and nestled closer. The movement made his heart twist, sharp and sweet. He bent his head, pressing the softest kiss to your hair. You didn’t stir. So he whispered into the quiet, voice breaking on the words meant only for you and the dark: “I still love you so damn much”.

-

For once, you were warm, cocooned in Dean’s arms, with your cheek pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was a steady drum under your ear. It might have lasted—if you lived in any world other than one with a four-year-old.

The door creaked. Then a burst of energy launched itself onto the bed.

“Wake up, it’s Christmas Eve!”, Lilah shouted, bouncing on the mattress with all the grace of a baby deer.

You groaned, burrowing deeper into Dean’s chest. He let out a grunt as Lilah landed squarely on his stomach. “Buzz”, he wheezed, catching her before she toppled, “it is way too early for Santa-level enthusiasm”.

“It’s not too early!”, she insisted, bouncing again. “It’s Christmas Eve!”.

Dean laughed despite himself, pulling her down into a tickle attack until she squealed, kicking her feet. “Alright, alright, you little maniac. You win”.

You peeked out from under the blanket. “Don’t let her think she can win every time”.

Lilah flopped dramatically across both of you, her little arms spreading wide. “I always win”, she declared giggling.

With that, the morning blurred into chaos. Lilah had you both up and moving before the coffee had even finished brewing; dragging Dean to the tree to inspect every ornament, insisting on Christmas music at full volume and begging for cookies for breakfast until Dean bribed her down to toast with sprinkles.

And you, you felt… almost normal. The nausea had eased, your stomach calm enough to let you nibble on toast and sip warm tea. Your body was still heavy with fatigue, but nothing like the past days.

By late morning, Lilah was sprawled on the rug with crayons, working on a drawing of “Santa’s loud car” (which suspiciously looked like the Impala). Dean leaned against the counter, sipping coffee from his favorite mug, his eyes flicking between her and you.

Finally, when Lilah was humming too loudly to notice, he set the mug down and cleared his throat. “So…”. His voice was careful. Too casual. “What’d the doc say yesterday?”.

Your hand froze around the dish towel. The air in your lungs seemed to thicken. He was watching you now, really watching. His jaw tight, his shoulders tense, but his eyes were soft. Concern edged with something else. Fear.

You forced a smile, weak around the edges. “Said I’m fine”.

Dean didn’t look convinced. “That’s it? Just fine?”.

You nodded, turning back to the dishes in the sink, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your hands. “Yeah. Nothing to worry about”.

Dean let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over his mouth. “If you say so”. But he didn’t believe you.

Later, Dean cranked up “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” way too loud and danced Lilah around the kitchen until she shrieked with laughter.

Cookies came next. Dean showed Lilah how to crack an egg (“tap, tap—not smash, buzz”), fished out the inevitable shells, then guided her hand through a snowfall of flour. She puffed a cloud straight into his face and dissolved into giggles.

While the dough chilled, Dean hauled out the craft bin. Lilah gasped like treasure had been revealed. Glue sticks, glitter, paper, pipe cleaners. You cut circles; Dean threaded yarn; Lilah supervised and added “bee stripes” to everything, including Dean’s wrist again. Together you made a lopsided ornament for Baby: a tiny black oval with yellow tape lines and two googly eyes that would 100% fall off by New Year’s.

“Baby’s gonna buzz”, Lilah declared, holding it up to the light.

As dusk settled, you bundled up for a five-minute backyard breath. Dean draped his arm over your shoulders without thinking, then seemed to realize he’d done it and started to move. You didn’t step away. For a moment you just stood there, listening to Lilah narrate her breath like dragon smoke.

Inside, cocoa (mostly milk for you), and one last craft: a construction-paper “Welcome Santa” sign with a bee drawn in the corner. Lilah dictated a note: “Dear Santa, please be careful. Our house has glitter". Dean added, “P.S. oatmeal raisin is a trap. Enjoy the chocolate chips”.

When the plate and the glass were set, Lilah climbed into his lap in front of the tree, heavy and drowsy. Dean hummed something low and shapeless into her hair, palm moving slow over her back. You tucked the blanket around both of them and felt that same fragile fullness tug behind your ribs.

“Best Christmas Eve”, she mumbled, already slipping. “Best one”, Dean agreed, eyes on you when he said it.

After you carried her to bed together, Dean set out the presents with careful hands. When he set the last present under the tree and sat back on his heels, hands braced on his thighs, you came up behind him. When he turned, you were holding out a small, flat package. Brown paper with red twine and a tiny bee sticker sealing the corner.

“For you”, you said. Your voice was steady; your hands weren’t.

He frowned like he wanted to argue he didn’t need anything, then took it anyway. He worked the twine loose carefully and peeled back the paper.

A simple black frame. Behind the glass: Halloween. Lilah in her bee costume, cheeks pink, sound asleep in his arms. Dean on your front steps, head tipped down to her, his mouth soft in a way you’d never seen on a hunt. You’d caught it just before he carried her inside. “When did you—”.

“After trick-or-treating”, you said. “You were both out cold. I… couldn’t not take it”.

He traced the edge of the frame with his thumb, like the picture might blur if he touched the center. “It’s—”. He tried again. “It’s good”.

“It’s for her wall”, you said, and the words came out a little thick. “If you want”.

His eyes lifted to yours, something raw and bright there. You could see the moment he remembered what you’d told him weeks ago: Make it onto the wall first. Then we’ll talk.

“This mean I… did?”, he asked disbelieving. You swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, Dean. You did”.

Dean´s grin spread slow and wide. It softened the lines around his eyes, lit him up from the inside. And then his expression faltered. His hand lifted, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin with all the tenderness he’d been carrying. He leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed your lips, then stilled. The memory of your words was written all over his face. We’ll talk first. His jaw clenched, and his hand dropped, curling into a fist at his side. “We should—”.

But you couldn’t take it anymore. The ache, the pull, the need that had been gnawing at you since the moment he stepped back into your life. You grabbed a fistful of his flannel, yanked him closer, and pressed your mouth to his. Not soft. Not careful. Hot and desperate.

Dean froze for a heartbeat, shocked. Then he groaned into you, hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t hold back even if he tried. His mouth moved hard over yours, all heat and want, years of restraint snapping.

You gasped against him, tilting your head, letting him in. His tongue slid against yours. Your body pressed flush to his.

“Shit”, he rasped, breaking just enough to drag air into his lungs, his forehead pressed to yours. “You sure?”.

You swallowed hard, your fingers already sliding under his shirt, nails grazing skin. “I need you. Now”.

His eyes darkened, pupils blown wide. He kissed you again, rougher this time, one hand tangling in your hair, the other sliding down to grip your hip and pull you tight against the hard line of him.

The framed picture lay forgotten beside him. The only thing that mattered was the fire sparking to life between you, the one you couldn’t put out, no matter how many reasons you’d told yourself not to strike the match.

Dean barely had time to breathe before you pushed him onto the couch. His eyes went wide, a sharp exhale leaving him as you straddled him, knees braced on either side of his thighs. “Fuck”, he rasped, hands instinctively gripping your hips. His head tipped back against the cushions, jaw tight as he dragged his gaze up your body. “You’re gonna kill me”.

You leaned down, kissing him hard and swallowing the low groan that rumbled out of his chest. Your hands slid up under his shirt, pushing it higher until it bunched around his ribs. His skin was hot under your palms, muscle shifting as he tugged the shirt off in one motion and tossed it aside.

Your mouth trailed down his throat, biting lightly at the sensitive spot beneath his jaw, and he swore under his breath, hips bucking up into you. You could feel him beneath the thin barrier of his sweats and your leggings. You ground down against him, desperate, and his grip on your hips tightened until it bordered on bruising.

“Baby—”. His voice broke. “You sure about this?”.

“Dean”, you whispered, biting at his lip before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. Yours burned with the same heat twisting through your belly. “I don’t wanna think. I just want you”.

That was all it took. He surged up, kissing you hard, one hand sliding under your top to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple until you gasped. You rolled your hips against him, chasing friction and he groaned so low it vibrated through your chest. He leaned back into the couch, chest heaving, his hands shaking just enough to betray how badly he wanted you. Needed you.

In the back of his mind, a voice whispered the same warning it always did: Don’t let it go too far. Don’t wake up alone in the morning. Don’t let her shut down on you again. But when you stood, shoving your leggings and panties down in one sweep, leaving only the hem of your shirt brushing the tops of your thighs, that voice got drowned out by the sight of you.

Dean’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he shoved his sweats and boxers down to his thighs. His cock sprang free, already swollen, thick in his fist as he stroked himself slow. Precum glistened at the tip, slicking his thumb as he worked it over the sensitive head. His breathing turned rougher, chest rising and falling hard.

You swallowed, heat coiling sharp in your belly as your thighs pressed together.

Dean grinned through the strain, tilting his chin up at you. “C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t just stand there. Come take what’s yours”.

Your knees hit the couch before your mind could even catch up. Dean’s hand barely had time to fall away from his cock before you were straddling him, one palm pressed to his chest for balance, the other guiding him to your entrance.

The blunt head of him slid through your slick folds, and Dean’s head snapped back against the cushions with a deep groan. “Shit—”.

You didn’t wait. You sank down in one steady stroke, stretching around him until you were seated flush against his lap, his cock filling you so deep you couldn’t breathe.

Dean’s fingers dug into your hips, hard enough to bruise, his mouth falling open as he stared up at you, wrecked already. His chest heaved under your palm, his eyes locked on yours. Then you shifted, rolling your hips just the way he liked, slow and deep, grinding down until his groan rattled through you.

“Fuck, sweetheart—”. His hands tightened on your waist, knuckles white, holding you steady as you set the rhythm. You did it again, circling your hips, dragging his cock against every spot inside you that made your body sing.

His head fell against your collarbone, hot breath searing your skin as he clung to you. “Shit—don’t—”, his voice broke into a groan. “Don’t stop, baby. Please. Don’t stop”.

The grip on your waist turned desperate. You rocked against him harder, every grind pulling a new sound from his throat. Your hand threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to keep his face buried against your skin, his stubble scraping your collarbone as he groaned again.

Every grind and every drag of his cock pushing you closer. You could feel your body tightening around him with every roll of your hips.

“Fuck—”, Dean choked out, his head tipping back against the couch, jaw slack and eyes screwed shut. His throat bared wide for you, his pulse pounding just beneath the skin. You leaned in and let your lips part over that spot, sucking hard. His whole body jolted, a ragged moan tearing out of him. “Baby—shit, baby, I’m gonna—”. His words broke into a growl as you clenched down around him harder.

Your moans spilling against his throat, your body shaking as heat flooded through you. Your muscles spasming around him as you came, clinging to his shoulders and biting back a cry.

Dean cursed, hands gripping your ass as he pulled you down. He growled against your skin, groaning your name as he spilled into you.

When you finally pulled back, panting, you collapsed against his chest, your ear pressed to the frantic hammer of his heart. His arms wrapped tight around you, one hand splayed wide across your back, the other in your hair, holding you there like he couldn’t bear the idea of letting go.

Both of you were still connected and for a few long, breathless minutes, there was nothing else in the world—just the wreckage of what you’d done and the steady, unshakable fact that neither of you had wanted to stop.

His fingers traced small circles at the base of your spine, absent and gentle, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried. The other hand stayed tangled in your hair, his thumb brushing the damp strands back from your temple.

“Sweetheart”, he whispered finally.

You hummed in response, too wrung out to lift your head.

Dean pressed his lips to your hairline, lingering there, breathing you in. His voice broke low against your skin. “Missed you. Missed this. So damn much”.

You closed your eyes, chest aching. You wanted to say something, anything, but the words lodged in your throat. So instead you tilted your head, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw.

Dean’s lips brushed your hair again, lingering like he wanted to fuse you into him. His breath trembled as he spoke, so low you almost didn’t catch it. “I never stopped lovin’ you”, he whispered. “Not for a second. Don’t think I ever could, even if I wanted to”.

Your throat closed up, eyes stinging hot. You pressed your face harder into his chest, hiding, because if he saw your eyes right now, he’d know too much. You stayed quiet. Long enough that you felt his chest rise with a sigh, his hand rubbing slow circles against your spine like he was bracing himself.

“It’s okay”, he mumbled after a beat, voice softer, almost resigned. “You don’t gotta say it back. I just… I just wanted you to know”.

Your heart cracked wide open.

“I’m pregnant”, you whispered, muffled against his skin but undeniable.

Dean’s entire body went still. The soothing circles on your back stopped. The entire room was quiet for a moment.

Slowly, his hand flexed against your back, but he didn’t speak.

You kept your face pressed to his chest, terrified to lift it. “I found out yesterday”, you added, your voice barely audible“.

Dean’s heart pounded under your ear. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, almost breaking. “So… there’s… someone else?”.

You lifted your head just enough to see his face, but his eyes were cast down, jaw locked tight, throat bobbing as he forced the words out. “You don’t gotta explain”, he rushed, his voice uneven. “You’re allowed to… I mean, I wasn’t here. You had your life. And he—he gave you this”. His hand twitched like he wanted to gesture at your stomach but couldn’t. “So I get it. You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t want me hanging around, not now”.

The look in his eyes, god, it broke you. That quiet resignation. The way he was already bracing to step aside. “Dean—”.

“I’ll still be here for Lilah”, he cut in, his tone sharp but shaking. “No matter what. That doesn’t change. I swear to god, nothing takes me from her again”. His voice cracked, softer at the edges. “But you—you’ve got someone else’s kid now. I won’t… I won’t make this harder on you”.

You pulled back just enough to see his face clearly. His mouth was tight, his shoulders coiled like a spring, his eyes flicking away from yours every time you tried to catch them. “Dean”, you whispered, trying to steady your voice. “What are you even talking about?”.

His laugh was short, hollow, with no humor in it. “C’mon. You said you just found out. You don’t know that quick”. He shook his head, staring down at his lap, his hand dragging over his mouth like he couldn’t believe he was saying this out loud. “Six weeks ago—hell, that’s not even enough time, right? You don’t just… know that fast”.

Your chest ached. Oh. Dean… he’d dropped out of school young, the way most of what he knew came from hunting or hard living, not textbooks or doctors. Dean Winchester could field strip a gun blindfolded, stitch a wound with one hand, hotwire any car in America—but pregnancy math? That wasn’t in his arsenal. And underneath that, woven through every word, was something heavier: that ugly old voice in his head whispering he wasn’t good enough, that he didn’t deserve you, that of course you’d have found someone else when he left you behind. You stared at him, stunned, your own heartbeat racing now.

“Dean”, you started, but he was already moving, hands gentle under your arms as he lifted you off his lap and settled you beside him on the couch. He tugged his sweats back up with clumsy fingers, jaw working, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. He looked wrecked. Trying not to show it. Failing.

“You’re serious?”, you asked, staring at him. The confusion cracked into something almost like a laugh because—God—of all the things Dean Winchester didn’t know, this was one of them. It was… weirdly sweet.

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and shrugged, frustrated at himself.

You caught his face in both hands, made him look at you. “Dean. No“.

He searched your eyes, stubborn disbelief fighting hope. You held his gaze.

“You can know pretty early”, you said softly. “Blood tests pick it up fast. Doctors count from the last period and-….”. You exhaled. “Bottom line? It’s yours“.

Dean just… stared. Green eyes wide, mouth slack between your palms as if his brain had short-circuited.

You realized belatedly that you were squishing his cheeks far too hard, your fingers digging in as you shook a little with nerves. But you couldn’t let go. Not until he said something. “Dean”, you whispered, your voice thin and trembling. “Say something”.

His throat worked, but no words came. He blinked once, twice, like maybe he thought you were messing with him.

When he finally spoke, it was muffled against your hands. “Mine?”.

You nodded, tears clinging stubbornly to your lashes. Your throat was so tight you couldn’t even speak, so you just pressed your forehead to his, hoping he could feel the answer in the way your hands trembled against his cheeks.

Dean’s breath hitched, his chest shuddering under your palms. Then, quieter than you’d ever heard him, like the words hurt to even ask, he rasped, “And you’ll… keep it?”.

Your heart cracked clean open.

His eyes were wide, full of raw, aching fear. The kind that went deeper than just this moment. It was the fear that you wouldn’t want another piece of him, not after everything he’d put you through. That you’d see him as a mistake, again.

You blinked hard, the tears spilling free. “Of course I will”, you whispered. “Dean—this is yours. This is ours. I would never…”. Your voice broke, and you swallowed hard. “I could never”.

For a second, he didn’t move. Just stared at you like he was trying to burn the words into his skin, make sure they were real. Then his jaw clenched, and his hands covered yours, holding on like he’d drown if he let go. “Jesus Christ”, he muttered, shaking his head, eyes wet. “You’re… you’re really giving me another kid?”.

You let out a shaky laugh through your tears, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones. “Looks like it”.

Dean’s laugh broke right in the middle, crumbling into a sound dangerously close to a sob. He hauled you into his arms, crushing you against his chest, his face buried in your hair.

Dean’s words hit you like a punch and a promise all at once. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. “You better still have that ring”, he growled, not mean, more like he was staking a goddamn claim on the whole messy, impossible, beautiful heap of you. “’Cause I don’t fucking care if you want it or not. You’re mine”.

“It´s in the drawer", you whispered.

Dean’s hand closed over yours like a vice, then softened. “Show me".

You got up on wobbly knees and padded to the small bedroom dresser. Your fingers dove into the drawer you’d hidden it in. You’d kept it because you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t throw anything away that mattered without thinking it through. Because it was a thing he’d given you in a different life, and because, God, you weren’t ready to let the symbol die even if the promise it used to mean had.

You came back, holding the ring between your fingers. Dean’s breath hitched the second he saw it, like the sight of it gave the whole room shape.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He scooped you up onto his knee like you were smaller than you felt, like he could keep you safe by the mere fact of holding you. He took the ring from your fingers with a reverent sort of clumsiness, turned it on his thumb once as if re-familiarizing himself with the weight of it, then held out his own hand for yours. His eyes never left your face. “I’m gonna marry you”, he said, not a question. Not a proposal. A promise spoken like a fact. The words were hushed, rough with everything he’d swallowed for years and every hope he’d been too scared to admit. He slipped the ring on your finger slowly, like it was the most important thing he’d ever done.

When his mouth found the knuckles of your hand it was gentle, a kiss pressed there as if blessing the metal against your skin. You let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding.

Then, almost instinctively, he took your hand and placed it palm down against your flat stomach. His own palm went over yours. You leaned your forehead to his. “I still love you too”, you breathed, fingers tightening around his.

Dean’s face, already soft, melted into something that looked dangerously close to relief. He let out a laugh that was half sob, half laugh, and kissed you slowly. It was quiet and steady, not the frantic need of earlier but the kind that meant something deeper.

When he pulled back his forehead rested against yours. “Good”, he murmured. “Because I’m not letting you go again”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 11

-

Later, Dean had ducked into the bathroom, muttering about “this damn glitter being weapon-grade” while the faucet ran.

You padded into the living room where Sam was stacking empty takeout containers, his tall frame hunched in the low kitchen light.

“You don’t have to drive back tonight”, you said softly. “You can stay. Couch is yours if you want it”.

Sam looked up, brow arched. “You sure? Don’t wanna put you out”.

You shook your head. “You won’t. It’s just a couch”.

His mouth tugged into a soft grin. “So Dean gets Lilah’s tiny bed then?”.

You blinked, heat creeping up your neck before you could stop it. “What? No, he—”. You faltered, lowering your voice. “He can… he can sleep in my bed”.

Sam’s grin widened, sharp but not unkind. “Huh”. He leaned an elbow on the counter, looking far too pleased with himself. “Interesting arrangement for two people who are ‘definitely not cuddling’”.

Your face flamed hotter, and you busied yourself with the dishes just to avoid his knowing eyes. “It’s not like that”, you mumbled. "It’s just… Lilah really liked having you here. And I’m still a bit off. I could use some help”. You risked a glance at him, lips twitching despite the heat creeping up your neck. “And, no offense, but I’d rather have my ex… fiancé in my bed than his little brother”.

Sam smirked, shaking his head as he balled up the takeout bag. “Wow. Kinda harsh, considering I brought the food”.

You grinned faintly, setting the plate aside. “Healthy food”, you corrected.

He made a show of sighing, rolling his eyes. “Right. Next time I’ll bring donuts and beer, then maybe I’ll get upgraded from the couch”.

You laughed softly, and Sam’s smile gentled as he leaned back against the counter, studying you. “I’m glad you can still laugh with him here. With both of us here”.

Your chest tightened. You ducked your head, drying your hands on a towel. “It’s complicated”.

Sam’s expression softened further. “Yeah. But complicated doesn’t mean impossible”.

Before you could answer, the bathroom door opened down the hall, and Dean emerged, hair damp and despite his scrubbing still glittering faintly under the light. He paused, eyes flicking between the two of you at the counter, and raised a brow. “What’d I miss?”, he asked, his voice rough, suspicious but careful.

Sam just smirked, shooting you a sidelong glance before pushing off the counter. “Nothing. Just negotiating sleeping arrangements”.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “Sleeping arrangements?”.

You cleared your throat, heart hammering as you met Dean’s gaze. “Yeah. Sam’s taking the couch”. You hesitated, cheeks burning. “And… you’re in my room”.

For a second, Dean just stood there, stunned silent, water still dripping from his hair.

Sam grinned wider, grabbing a pillow off the couch. “Couch is all mine. Have fun”.

Dean blinked, then turned that unreadable green gaze back on you. “In your bed?”.

Your throat went dry. You hadn’t slept next to him since that night a few weeks back—when all that bottled-up ache had spilled out in hours that left you sore for days, his ring, the one you still wore, glinting on your hand while his mouth wrecked you.

You shifted, the dish towel twisting in your hands. “It’s not…”. You tried to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. “Don’t make it weird, Dean”.

Sam bit back a grin as he flopped onto the couch with his blanket and pillow. “Oh, it’s already weird”, he muttered under his breath, clearly enjoying himself.

Dean shot him a look sharp enough to kill, then pushed off the frame and walked slowly into the kitchen. His eyes stayed locked on you the whole time. “You sure about this?”, he asked finally, his tone stripped of bravado.

Your stomach fluttered, equal parts nerves and something you didn’t want to name. You straightened your shoulders, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s a bed, Dean. Nothing more”. But your blush betrayed you.

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite pain, and he nodded once. “Alright. Just a bed”.

Sam fluffed his pillow on the couch, stretching his long legs out like he owned the place. “You know”, he said casually, “if you want, I could distract Lilah in the morning. Take her out for pancakes or something. Give you two a chance to sleep in”.

Your jaw dropped, heat rushing straight to your cheeks. “Sam—”.

Dean froze mid-step, duffel hanging from his hand, staring at his brother like he’d just grown a second head. “What the hell, Sammy?”.

“What? I’m being helpful. Thought you could use a break”.

You snatched the dish towel off the counter and hurled it at him. He caught it one-handed, laughing.

“Didn’t you say earlier me and him were a bad idea, Winchester?”, you muttered, your voice sharp but your lips twitching despite yourself.

“I said it’d be bad if you messed it up”.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands, and Dean muttered something under his breath about killing his brother in his sleep. But even as you fled toward your bathroom, your face hot, you couldn’t quite smother the little smile tugging at your lips.

You leaned over the sink and put your toothbrush in your mouth. The door creaked and then Dean slipped in behind you without a word. The bathroom felt too small instantly.

He didn’t make a sound, just set his duffel on the counter and reached for his own toothbrush like it was the most natural thing in the world. But he was right there, close enough that the heat of him brushed against your back every time he shifted.

You tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the mirror, on the foam in your mouth, but your eyes betrayed you. He caught your gaze in the mirror, and for a second neither of you looked away.

Dean leaned a little closer, his hand brushing the edge of the counter beside yours as he bent to spit into the sink. The space between you shrank to nothing, and it was all too easy to remember another night; his breath hot against your ear, his chest pressed to your back, his hands gripping your hips until you thought you’d break.

You cleared your throat, spitting and rinsing quickly, trying to push past the weight of it. “You don’t have to hover”, you muttered. “I’m not gonna keel over brushing my teeth”.

“Not hovering”, he leaned just slightly, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Dean”, you warned softly.

“Relax”, he said, but his voice was low, like he was anything but relaxed himself.

You looked up before you could stop yourself, meeting his eyes in the mirror again. The green there was darker, searching your face the way he used to in quieter moments. You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to look at me like that”.

His mouth twitched. “Like what?”.

“Like…”. You trailed off, your voice cracking with fatigue and something else. “Like you want something you can’t have”.

Dean shifted, his chest brushing your shoulder blades. Close. Too close. “Who says I can’t?”.

You closed your eyes, your breath shaky. “Don’t,” you whispered. “Not now. I feel like crap. I look like crap. I can’t—”.

Dean cut you off, his voice softer this time, but unflinching. “You look like the woman who gave me a daughter. Who kept her safe. Who’s stronger than anyone I know. And yeah…”. His jaw worked, the reflection of his eyes locking hard on yours. “I want you. Always have. Always will”.

The silence that followed was suffocating, your heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it.

You turned finally, leaning back against the sink, facing him head-on. He was even closer this way. For a second, you forgot you were sick. Forgot the past. Forgot everything but him, and the way he looked at you like you were still his.

For a beat, neither of you moved. Then Dean dipped his head, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, fast enough that your breath caught. His lips brushed yours gentle, almost reverent. Not the hungry kiss from weeks ago, not the desperate claiming that had left you sore for days. Just a quiet press, soft and aching.

Your eyes fluttered shut and you let him kiss you. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember how it felt to be wanted like this.

But Dean was Dean, and control had never been his strong suit. His hand slid to your hip, his body angling closer until you felt him hard already, pressing insistently against you through his jeans. Your pulse jumped. You broke the kiss, panting softly, your palms pushing against his chest. “Dean—”.

He stilled immediately, breathing rough, forehead pressed to yours. He didn’t move back, but he didn’t push either.

“I can’t”, you whispered, your voice trembling. “Not this time. Not right now”.

His jaw tightened and his eyes were searching yours with something like pain. But he nodded once before pulling in a steadying breath. “Okay”. He stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry”, he muttered.

“Don’t”, you whispered. Just that, nothing more.

Your fingers brushed lightly over his arm as you moved past him, a fleeting touch that lingered longer than it should have. Then you slipped out of the bathroom, padding toward your room without looking back.

Dean stood there, jaw tight, chest heaving, every muscle in his body screaming at him to follow. He sucked in a deep breath, leaning against the sink for support. His jeans pulled tight, his dick a throbbing reminder of what he couldn’t have, what he shouldn’t take. “Easy”, he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Not tonight”. He closed his eyes, trying to will the heat out of his body, to remind himself why he had to hold back. Because this wasn’t about him. Not anymore.

But it didn’t help. Nothing helped. He was still hard. Fucking hard.

“Son of a bitch…”, he muttered.

It had been years. Years of denying himself anything close to this, close to… love. Years of burying the need so deep he almost forgot what it felt like. And now? Just one kiss. Just the brush of your hand. And he was wrecked. Painfully so.

Dean gripped the counter tighter, trying to breathe through it. Because storming down the hall, crawling into your bed, pressing his body to yours until you remembered exactly how good it could be… that wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not like this.

Eventually, your bedroom door opened. You shifted, eyes closed at first, but you weren’t asleep. Not even close.

Dean slipped inside, the faint scent of soap and aftershave clinging to him, still glitter in his hair no matter how hard he’d tried to scrub it out. He stripped down to just his sweatpants, tossing his T-shirt over the chair. His chest was broad and bare, a faint line of hair trailing down to where the fabric sat low on his hips. And beneath it, though dulled from the worst of it, he was still swollen, the outline obvious as he moved.

He exhaled a long breath, dragging a hand down his face before pulling back the blanket and sliding in beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

For a moment, neither of you moved. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, fists clenched like he was holding himself together by sheer will.

“You’re still awake”, he said softly, not a question.

You turned just enough to see the outline of him in the dark. His jaw set, his chest rising and falling steady but too quick. He looked… wrecked. Like being this close to you was torture and comfort all at once.

“I can feel you tense”, you murmured, voice low, still raspy from the days of being sick.

Dean’s lips quirked humorlessly. “Yeah, well. Not exactly a monk here”.

You swallowed, tugging the blanket closer to your chin. “Dean…”.

He rolled his head on the pillow, meeting your eyes in the dim light. And for a moment, neither of you breathed.

“I’m not gonna push”, he whispered. “But I can’t just… switch it off either”.

You knew that feeling. As much as you wanted to hate it, to shove it down, your body betrayed you. You looked away, staring at the shadowed curve of the ceiling. “Yeah”, you murmured, almost too quiet. “I know”.

Neither of you moved with intent, but somehow the distance shrank. His shoulder brushed yours when you shifted, his thigh grazed yours under the blanket when you resettled. Each touch accidental, each one a spark.

The air was thick, every inhale flavored with the warmth of his skin, the faint bite of his aftershave, the ache of what wasn’t happening.

You didn’t even remember moving closer, but when you blinked again, your foreheads nearly touched, the blanket pooled low between your chests. His hand twitched where it lay on the mattress, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

You mirrored him, your fingers curling tighter around the edge of the blanket, the pull between you as fierce as it had been that night weeks ago. Only now it was softer, more dangerous because of what it meant.

Neither of you said another word. Neither of you pulled away.

The silence stretched, heavy, charged, until you found your voice, uncertain, almost swallowed by the dark. “Just… cuddling?”, you whispered.

Dean stilled. His eyes searched yours in the shadows, like he needed to be sure he’d heard right. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah”, he murmured. “That´s fine”.

Slowly, carefully, like he was afraid one wrong move would spook you, he lifted his arm. The blanket shifted, inviting. Your chest squeezed. You hesitated only a second before inching closer, your body drawn to him in a way that felt both inevitable and terrifying. His warmth enveloped you as you fit yourself against his side, your cheek resting tentatively against his bare chest.

Dean let out a breath you hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His arm wrapped around you, strong and steady, pulling you in, his chin lowering to brush the top of your head.

Dean’s heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, but the longer you lay there, the more unbearable it became. His warmth soaked into you, his scent curled around you, and the steady weight of his arm kept you pinned in place.

And it wasn’t enough.

Within moments, your head shifted, lifting off his chest. The blanket rustled as you turned, tilting your chin up. His eyes were already waiting, catching yours like they had a hundred times before, back when there were no walls between you, no years to regret.

You breathed his name, barely more than a sigh. Dean’s throat bobbed, his hand flexing on your side like he wanted to stop you, but couldn’t.

And then you kissed him. Soft, at first. Hesitant. The barest press of lips. But the second his mouth met yours, the dam broke.

Dean groaned low in his chest, kissing you back like he’d been starved of it, like he’d been waiting for this moment every hour of the last four years. His hand slid up your back, steady but firm, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

Heat flared instantly, curling deep in your belly. You gasped into his mouth, your fingers gripping his bare shoulder.

Dean broke the kiss first, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. His voice was ragged, pleading and restrained all at once. “Sweetheart… if we keep going…”. His lips brushed yours again, trembling. “…I’m not sure I can stop”.

“Maybe just one more time then”, you whispered, so quietly you barely heard yourself. Your eyes were still closed, your forehead pressed to his, lips barely brushing his mouth. You weren’t sure if it was desperation or weakness or just the ache of needing something familiar in a world that still felt cracked down the middle. Maybe it was all of it. Maybe it didn’t matter.

Dean stilled beneath you. You felt his heartbeat, hard and fast against your palm where it rested on his chest. You felt the way his breath hitched, the way his arm tightened around you just a little. But he didn’t move. He didn’t kiss you again. Instead, he turned his head slightly, pulling away just enough for your lips to lose contact. His eyes opened, meeting yours in the dark, and they were full of something that looked a lot like pain. “Don’t”, he said softly.

You blinked, your throat tightening. “Dean—”.

He cupped your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek. His voice was low, thick, like every word cost him something. “Every time we do this”, he murmured, “you pull away after. And I get it—I deserve that. But it’s like losing you all over again”. Your breath hitched. He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on yours. “I want you. God, do I want you. But I can’t keep having pieces of you just to watch you take them back the next morning”.

Silence settled over you.

Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead and pulled you against his chest again, cradling you close. “I’m not walking away”, he said. “But not like this. Not just for one more time”.

That hurt more than if he’d taken what you offered. Because for the first time, he wasn’t chasing you for your body. He was waiting for all of you.

The ache of it pressed into your chest. You hated that he was right. Hated that you’d let the push-pull go on this long, punishing him because you couldn’t stop punishing yourself.

Your fingers curled lightly into his skin and in the dark, he pressed another kiss to the top of your head. Just a breath of a touch, but it broke something in you. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, sliding down your temple into his chest. Dean didn’t say anything, but his arm tightened, pulling you closer.

You lay awake like that, tangled up with him in a way that was equal parts comfort and torment, until the sound of tiny feet on the floor snapped you both out of your haze. The door creaked. “Mommy?”, Lilah’s little voice wavered. “Daddy?”.

You both jerked upright instantly, half-asleep and tangled in the blanket. She stood in the doorway with her hand clutching her tummy. Her face was pale, her bottom lip trembling. “My stomach feels weird”, she whimpered.

Dean was out of bed in a second, scooping her up before you could even sit fully. “C’mere, Buzz. Daddy’s got you”.

She leaned against his shoulder, groaning softly.

Your eyes widened. “Trash can—”.

Dean moved fast, grabbing the little bin from under your makeup table and thrusting it into your hands as he sat on the edge of the bed with her.

And just in time. Lilah gagged once, then bent over the bin in your lap, her tiny body trembling as she threw up.

You smoothed her hair back with one hand, steadying the can with the other, while Dean rubbed circles on her back, murmuring, “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay”.

The three of you sat like that until the worst of it passed and Lilah slumped against Dean’s chest, whimpering softly.

You set the trash can aside and reached for a box of tissues, gently wiping her mouth. Her lashes fluttered, eyes watery, and she mumbled, “Sorry…”.

Your throat tightened. “Oh, baby, no. Nothing to be sorry for”. You stroked her hair, then glanced at Dean.

“Let’s get her cleaned up”, he said quietly.

Together, you shuffled into the bathroom. You wet a washcloth with warm water while Dean sat her on the counter, steadying her. Lilah leaned tiredly into him, letting you wipe her face and rinse her mouth. Dean murmured something about “Bee baths in the morning” to make her smile, and she managed the tiniest giggle before resting her cheek against his shoulder again.

Once she was freshened up, you carried the bin back to your room while Dean lifted her easily in his arms. She clung to him, whispering, “Don’t let go”.

“Not a chance”, he promised.

Back in your bed, Dean laid her gently between you. She curled onto her side, one tiny hand finding yours, the other clutching Dean’s shirt.

Dean settled beside her, his arm draped carefully over her small body to rest across your waist, like he was protecting you both at once.

-

You blinked awake slowly, head still heavy with sleep. Lilah’s tiny hand was fisted in your shirt. On her other side, Dean lay flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting protective across her middle, close enough that his fingers brushed your hip under the covers. His chest rose and fell steady, mouth parted slightly in sleep. For once, he looked at peace.

You almost let yourself sink back into the warmth, the rare sense of family, but then a floorboard creaked. You turned your head just as Sam appeared in the doorway, tall frame filling the space. He froze. His eyebrows went up, and then the grin spread, slow and unstoppable.

“Well", he whispered, voice just loud enough to carry. “Would you look at that”.

Your face heated instantly. You pressed a finger to your lips, mouthing, She’s sleeping.

Sam nodded, still grinning like Christmas came early. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking way too pleased with himself. “Didn’t think I’d live to see the day Dean cuddled up with his kid and his—”. He cut himself off, tilting his head. “What are we calling you these days? Ex? Fiancée? …Bedmate?”.

Dean stirred, grumbling low in his chest before cracking an eye open. “Sammy…”. His voice was thick with sleep. He blinked at his brother, then down at the little girl curled between them, and back at you. “Shut up”.

Sam smirked wider. “Not a chance”.

You groaned, pulling the blanket up over your face. Lilah stirred, mumbling sleepily, “Daddy?”, before nuzzling closer into Dean’s side. Dean’s gaze softened immediately. He kissed the top of her messy hair, glaring at Sam over her head. “Out”.

Sam raised his hands in surrender, chuckling as he stepped back. “Fine, fine. Breakfast is on me. But I’m never letting you live this down, man”.

-

It wasn’t until the day before Christmas that it hit again, worse this time. You barely made it from the couch to the bathroom before your stomach rebelled, and by the end of it you were pale, shaking, and wrung out enough that you couldn’t pretend anymore.

For the first time in years, you called Dean.

“Can you watch Lilah for a few hours?”. Your voice cracked, and that was all it took. He didn’t even ask why. “On my way”.

When Baby rumbled into the drive, you weren’t expecting the other doors to open. Sam climbed out, arms full of grocery bags, and behind him was Castiel.

“Seriously?”, you croaked, clinging to the doorframe.

Dean winced. “Wasn’t planning on dropping in with the whole crew, but we just wrapped a case. Didn’t want to waste time driving them back”.

You waved him off, too drained to argue. “Fine. She’s inside. I’ll text if the doctor says anything”.

Lilah came barreling into the hallway, bundled up in her puffy winter jacket and mittens, wool hat pulled so low it almost covered her eyes. “Daddy!”, she squealed, leaping into his arms.

Dean caught her easily, kissing her cheek through the layers of scarf. “Hey, Buzz. Mommy needs a little break, so we’re gonna have some fun, yeah?”.

Her eyes went wide as she spotted Cas, who stood stiffly in the doorway like he wasn’t sure what to do with a four-year-old. “Who’s that?”, she whispered loudly, tugging on Dean’s collar.

Dean smirked. “That’s Cas. He’s… uh… a friend”.

Cas tilted his head. “Hello, Delilah”.

She giggled, hiding her face against Dean’s jacket before peeking out again. “He sounds funny”.

Dean chuckled, ruffling her hat down even further until she squealed. “Yeah, well, you’ll get used to it”.

Minutes later, Baby was back on the road. Sam sat in the back and Cas beside him, looking oddly out of place but calm. And up front, Lilah sat shotgun, swallowed by her jacket, mittens pawing at the dash like she was queen of the world. “Daddy, can you go fast?”, she asked, muffled through her scarf.

“Not with you in the car, Buzz”, Dean said, one hand steady on the wheel.

Cas leaned forward. “Seatbelts are designed to reduce fatal injuries by 45 percent”.

Lilah blinked up at him, eyes huge from under her hat. Then she giggled, pointing at him. “You’re funny!”.

Dean shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Oh, this I gotta see”.

By the time they reached the playground, Lilah was still giggling, announcing to anyone who’d listen, “My daddy’s car is the loudest, and my Uncle Sam is a tree, and Cas is funny!”.

Dean glanced back at his brother and the angel as he parked. “Congrats, Cas. You’re in the club now”.

Cas only blinked, adjusting his coat. “She is… very loud”.

Dean smiled despite himself. “Yeah. That’s my daughter”.

The playground was dusted with snow, the slides frosted over, swings stiff with ice. But Lilah didn’t care. The second Dean set her down, she was running across the park in her puffy jacket, arms out like airplane wings, her scarf trailing behind her.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets, watching her climb the steps to the slide. “Careful, Buzz—”.

“I’m a bee!”, she hollered, halfway up already. “Bees don’t fall!”.

Dean muttered under his breath, “Yeah, tell that to gravity”.

Sam laughed, shaking his head as he sat on a bench, pulling his jacket tighter. “You really got your hands full, huh?”. Dean grinned faintly, eyes still on his daughter. “Yeah. Wouldn’t trade it”.

Beside him, Cas tilted his head, gaze fixed on Lilah as though studying some rare creature. When she zipped down the frosted slide with a squeal, Cas’s brow furrowed. “She appears… fearless”.

“Yeah”, Dean said, pride sneaking into his voice. “Gets that from me”.

“She also seems… sticky”, Cas added as Lilah sprinted back over, mittens covered in snow she immediately tried to press onto Dean’s face.

Dean dodged, scooping her up before she could succeed. “Buzz, c’mon—no snow in the face. What’d I tell you?”. Lilah squirmed in his arms, giggling. “That bees like snow!”.

“I never said that”, Dean countered, but she was already laughing too hard to care.

Cas, still watching closely, finally spoke again. “She is… loud. But endearing”.

Lilah’s head whipped toward him, eyes wide with glee. “You’re funny again!”, she declared, pointing at him like she’d just discovered treasure. She then squirmed in Dean’s arms, still giggling, trying to wriggle free. Dean only tightened his hold, grinning as he shifted her weight. “Oh no you don’t, Buzz”, he said, hoisting her higher. “You’re not getting away that easy”.

She squealed as he lifted her over his head, her boots kicking in the air. “Put me down, Daddy!”.

“Put you down?”, Dean smirked. “No way. You’re a bee, right? Bees fly”.

And with that, he held her aloft, zooming her through the frosty air, complete with buzzing noises that made Sam groan and Cas tilt his head in confusion. Lilah’s laughter rang out, bright and wild, as her mittened arms stretched wide.

“Alright, Buzz", Dean teased, slowing her flight as he cradled her back down against his chest. “You been good this year?”.

She nodded hard, curls bouncing out from under her hat.

“Yeah? Then what’d you ask Santa for Christmas?”, Dean asked, brushing snow off her scarf.

Lilah leaned in, her voice full of giggles but serious in the way only a four-year-old could be. “I asked him that you wouldn’t have to go to work anymore”.

Dean froze, his breath catching in his chest.

She beamed, not noticing, tucking her cold nose under his chin. “’Cause then you could stay with me and Mommy all the time”.

For a second, Dean couldn’t breathe. The snow, the laughter, even Sam’s soft frown as he watched, it all blurred. Because that was the one thing he couldn’t give. “Buzz…”. His voice cracked before he cleared his throat, forcing lightness back in. He kissed her hat, pressing her close. “That’s… that’s one hell of a Christmas wish”.

She giggled again, happy and oblivious.

Sam’s eyes met his over her head, full of quiet understanding. Cas only tilted his head further, murmuring, “She does not yet comprehend the weight of what she asks”. Dean swallowed hard, holding his little girl tighter as though the strength of his arms alone could make her wish come true.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 10

-

A few hours later, you woke to a small voice, muffled but clear enough for you to be awake instantly.

“Daddy??? Are you here?”.

Since Dean barely really slept, he was already half awake and froze. His whole body went still under you. For half a second, you swore you saw a flash of the old Dean, the one who’d stay tangled in bed all morning, coaxing another round out of you with lazy hands and dirtier words. The one who could make hours disappear between the sheets.

But that half second passed.

He let out a breath, kissed your hair once, and pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. He grinned, almost shy. “Guess that’s my cue”.

Dean smoothed a hand down your hip, lingering there like he wanted one more moment, then carefully eased out of bed. His ribs protested. He winced as he tugged his jeans back into place, but he didn’t complain. He hooked his belt, then looked down at his flannel on the florr.

“You, uh…”, he started, scratching the back of his neck, sheepish in a way that did not fit the man who’d had you sobbing under him just a few hours ago. “You wouldn’t happen to still have one of mine, would you?”. He nodded towards the floor. “’Cause this one’s… let’s just say it’s carrying way too much DNA for family hour”.

Your lips twitched, betraying you before you could stop it. “Maybe. Why?”.

Dean smirked, half-bashful, half-cocky. “Because my bag’s still in Baby, and unless you want me teaching our daughter how to identify stains I really don’t think she’s old enough for, I’m gonna need a loaner”.

You rolled your eyes, but your chest ached at the same time. Of course you still had one. Tucked away in the back of your dresser where you’d told yourself it was just for comfort on the worst nights.

“Top drawer”, you muttered, nodding toward your dresser.

Dean’s eyebrows lifted, genuine surprise flickering before his grin broke wide. “You really kept one?”.

“Don’t read into it”, you warned, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s good fabric”.

He swallowed, nodded and then pulled it out. He buttoned it, careful around his ribs.

From the hallway came another shout: “Daddyyy!"

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. He glanced at you, still in your tangled sheets, still sore, still reeling. He crossed back to the bed and leaned down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your hip.

For a moment you thought he’d steal another kiss from your mouth, but instead, he pressed his lips to your forehead. “You stay here”, he murmured against your skin. “Four years of mornings on your own, you deserve one you can sleep through”.

You blinked up at him, still wrecked, still hazy, your throat thick.

He straightened, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “I got the tiny human. Go back to dreamland, sweetheart. I’ll keep her outta trouble”.

Outside in the hallway, Dean crouched as soon as Lilah rounded the corner, her wild bedhead sticking out in about ten different directions.

“Daddy, you´re here", she smiled all over her face. Then, without missing a beat: “I want Cereal. Now”.

Dean chuckled, scooping her up before she could protest. “Well, good morning to you too, tiny boss”.

She squirmed, her little fists pressing into his shoulders. “No, Daddy, I’m starving. My tummy is making the loud noises”. She leaned close, whisper-shouting, “It said rrrrrhhhhrgh”.

Dean gasped like it was breaking news. “Oh no. The monster tummy. We gotta move fast".

By the time he set her on the counter, she was giggling, kicking her heels against the cabinets. “I want the good cereal”, she said, pointing at the cupboard.

Dean raised a brow. “The good cereal? You mean the sugar bombs your mom swears are basically candy?”.

“Yes!”, Lilah squealed, clapping her hands. “The rainbow ones. With the marshmellows”.

Dean opened the cabinet and gave her a look like she was trying to swindle him. “Hmm. Don’t know if we should trust you with that much power this early. Might turn you into a superhero”.

Lilah gasped, eyes going wide with delight. “YES! I’ll fly! And I’ll tell Mommy you didn’t let me, and she’ll say, ‘Deeaaaan…’”. She wagged a little finger at him in her best impression of you, her voice squeaky and high-pitched.

Dean laughed so hard he had to brace himself on the counter. “Alright, alright—you win. But only because I’m scared of your mom”. He pulled the box down. “Breakfast of champions”.

-

When you finally woke up again, the sun had climbed higher, slipping through the curtains in lazy stripes across the bed. The sheet had twisted around your legs, one arm tucked under your pillow, and everything from your hips down ached in that slow, deep way that came from exactly one source.

Dean Winchester. And his frankly unreasonable stamina.

You groaned as you stretched, and the muscles in your thighs lit up in protest.

“Oh shit”, you muttered to yourself, dragging a hand over your face. “What is he made of?”.

Because apparently, four years of being absent and hunting hadn’t taken a damn thing from him. Not his rhythm, not his mouth, and definitely not the way he could wreck you and still be up, taking care of your kid as if nothing happened.

You shifted under the sheet and winced again, both impressed and vaguely annoyed that he’d managed to hit all the right spots and the ones you forgot existed. Now you were reaping the consequences of letting that man take his time like you didn’t have responsibilities the next morning.

A muffled crash echoed from the kitchen. Followed by a very Dean, “We’re okay! Nobody tell Mom!”.

You huffed a laugh into the pillow. Yeah. You were definitely awake now.

Another moment passed before you finally rolled out of bed, slow and sore and… satisfied.

You tugged on your leggings and a soft top, pulling your hair back into a loose knot before padding down the hallway. The smell of eggs and toast, and just a hint of singe, made you raise an eyebrow.

When you stepped in the kitchen, the sight waiting for you nearly undid you.

Lilah was perched at the table, happily digging into a technicolor bowl of soggy cereal (it was in there for over an hour, while she talked instead of eating). Dean sat beside her, his own bowl just as ridiculous. And in the middle of the counter, like it was some kind of peace offering, was a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. Miraculously not charred.

Dean’s face lit up the second he saw you. He pushed back his chair, half-standing, like it was instinct to meet you halfway. “Hey”, he said softly, voice warm. “Made you something. Even remembered not to burn the toast this time”.

He leaned in, aiming for your mouth, but you turned just slightly, his lips brushing your cheek instead. His hand hovered like he wasn’t sure whether to touch your hip or let it fall.

He cleared his throat. “Right”, he muttered, eyes flicking away for a moment.

You swallowed, the words heavy on your tongue. Last night had been… god, it had been everything. The kind of raw, aching need that came from years of wanting and missing and not daring to hope. But amazing sex didn’t erase four years of silence. Four years of you raising a daughter alone. Four years before he even knew she existed.

You sat down across from Lilah, forcing a smile for her sake. “Morning, bug”.

“Morning, Mommy!”, she chirped.

Dean slid the plate toward you, then sat back down, quieter now, his eyes tracking every little movement you made. He looked like he wanted to say something, but for once in his life, Dean Winchester didn’t rush in with the words. And you weren’t sure if you were ready to hear them anyway.

You picked up your fork, more to have something in your hand than because you were hungry. The eggs weren’t half-bad, fluffy even. He’d really tried.

When you glanced up, Dean was watching. Not with that smug, cocky grin you’d grown used to once upon a time, but quieter. Sad, even. His cereal forgotten, spoon idle in the bowl.

Your chest tightened. You hated that look on him. Hated how it made you want to reach across the table and smooth it away with your thumb.

You cleared your throat, eyes flicking to Lilah, who was humming some made-up song under her breath while fishing marshmallows out with her fingers. “Just… not in front of her, okay?”, you mumbled, gesturing vaguely, like that explained it.

Dean’s jaw shifted, his tongue pressing into his cheek the way it always did when he was biting something back. He nodded once. “Yeah. Got it”.

But the look he gave you said different. Said he knew damn well that wasn’t the whole truth. Because last night you hadn’t exactly been shy about pulling him close, clawing at his back, begging for more until you could barely remember your own name. You hadn’t been dodging kisses then.

And now? You were putting walls back up, just as fast as he’d managed to break them down.

You stabbed at a piece of toast, refusing to meet his eyes, but you felt them on you anyway. Heavy. Questioning… hurt.

Lilah shoved her empty bowl toward Dean with sticky hands. “More!”.

The spell broke. Dean chuckled, ruffling her hair as he grabbed the cereal box. “You’re gonna bounce off the walls, kid”.

She beamed, milk dripping down her chin. “Like a kangaroo!”.

Dean shot you a sidelong glance as he poured her a second helping, but didn’t say anything else. Still, the air between you hummed with everything unspoken.

-

That evening, Lilah was curled up on Dean’s lap, her little face pressed into his chest with a blanket cocooning her. His hand stroked gently up and down her back, steady and protective, his eyes fixed on her even as her breaths evened out into sleep.

You watched them from the armchair, your knees pulled up, arms wrapped tight around yourself. For a long time, you said nothing. Just listened to the sound of her soft snores and the tick of the clock on the wall.

Finally, you drew in a breath. “Dean”.

He looked up instantly, eyes finding yours in the low light. He didn’t say anything, just waited.

You kept your voice low, gentle, but steady. “I need time”.

His brow furrowed, his hand stilling on Lilah’s back. “Time?”.

You nodded, shifting in the chair so you could meet his eyes. “I can’t just forget what you did. What it felt like. You put a ring on my finger and then you ghosted me. I´ts been years, Dean. Years of raising her alone. Of her asking questions I couldn’t answer. All because you thought it was—”, your voice cracked, and you forced it back down, “—noble. Protecting us from the monsters by being one yourself”.

Dean flinched. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

You shook your head. “Last night… it was incredible. But that doesn’t erase everything. It doesn’t make the anger go away, or the nights I sat up alone praying you weren’t dead. It doesn’t make up for her first steps, her first words. All the things you missed because you thought leaving was love”.

His throat worked, but still, he stayed silent, holding Lilah like she was the only anchor he had left.

You leaned forward, your voice softening but never wavering. “I need to know if you’re really in this. Not just with her, Dean—”, your chest tightened. "With me too… Because… If you come back, if we try to be… us again? It can’t be halfway. It’ll break her. It’ll break me”.

The silence after was thick, heavy with truth.

Dean bent his head, pressing a long kiss to Lilah’s hair, eyes squeezed shut. When he looked up again, there was no cocky grin, no smart remark. Just raw honesty.

“Then I gotta make it up to you”, he whispered. His voice was rough but certain. “Both of you. And I will. I swear it”.

But you only nodded, sitting back into the chair, because words alone weren’t enough anymore. Time would tell if he meant it.

--

The weeks rolled by, and against every wall you’d tried to keep up, Dean kept showing. Friday nights he’d knock on the door with that damn grin, arms full of groceries or some random toy he swore Lilah needed. Sundays, he’d leave only when the clock forced him, Lilah clinging to his flannel with teary eyes until he promised he’d be back in just five sleeps.

And in between, it was perfect. At least for her.

She glowed in his presence, laughing harder, running faster, talking more. Every drawing came home from kindergarten with Daddy scrawled across the top in shaky letters. Every story started with him. She was so in love with the man who’d been little more than a face on your phone for weeks before this.

--

This Friday afternoon, you were curled on the couch, blanket around your shoulders, tea cooling on the table. The ache behind your eyes hadn’t let up all morning, and you’d finally given in and called in sick. The quiet house was strange without Lilah’s constant chatter, but you’d promised yourself a nap before pickup.

The low rumble of an engine outside broke that plan. Baby.

A knock followed. You pushed the blanket off and shuffled to the door, opening it to Dean leaning against the frame. His eyes softened immediately when they landed on you.

“Hey”. His voice was low, threaded with concern. “You don’t look so good”.

“Thanks”, you muttered. “Just tired. Headache. I’ll be fine”.

Dean tilted his head, studying you the way he used to before a hunt, like he could diagnose everything wrong with one glance. “Figured I’d come early. Thought maybe we could go get Lilah together”.

You blinked at him. “You want to pick her up?”.

He shrugged, but there was a glint of nerves under the casual front. “Yeah. Why not? She’d like it. And…”, his mouth curved into the faintest smile, “I kinda want to see her face when she realizes I´m the one waiting”.

You stepped aside, letting him in. “Alright. But I’m not dressing up for pickup”.

Dean grinned, brushing his lips against your temple before you could dodge. “Don’t worry. You look perfect”.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite smother the smile tugging at your lips.

Dean stepped inside. For once, you hadn’t done your usual sweep of the living room before he came, hadn’t tucked Lilah’s crayons back into their box or stacked her toy animals neatly by the wall. A little doll stroller was tipped on its side near the rug, puzzle pieces scattered like confetti under the coffee table. And then there was the bucket. Right next to the couch where you’d clearly been curled up most of the day.

His gaze flicked from the toys to you, lingering on the bucket before he muttered under his breath, “You said headache”.

You tugged the blanket over you, sinking back onto the couch. “Headache, throwing up, chills—take your pick. Got the full damn buffet”.

Dean’s brows drew together, the crease between them deepening. “And you didn’t call me?”.

You grumbled, shutting your eyes against the light. “Didn’t think I needed a babysitter”.

“Babysitter?”, he repeated, tone low, like the word insulted him. He crouched down in front of you, his hand brushing over your knee through the blanket. “(Y/N), you look like hell. And that’s saying something, considering what I drag home most weeks”.

You cracked one eye open, glaring at him. “Real charming, Winchester”.

His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but there was no humor in his eyes. Just worry. He glanced back at the bucket, then at you again. “You keeping stuff down at all?”. You shook your head, regretted it instantly when the room swayed, and groaned.

Dean let out a quiet curse. Then he stood. “Alright. Change of plans. I’ll pick up Lilah, we’ll grab something easy for dinner, and you—”, he pointed at you, firm as if you were one of his soldiers, “—stay put. No moving. No dishes. No cleaning up toys. Just you, couch, blanket. Got it?”.

You snorted, though it came out weaker than you meant. “Bossy”.

He leaned down, close enough that his voice softened. “Someone’s gotta be”.

For a second, you almost leaned into him. Almost let yourself forget the hurt that still lived between you and just sink into that familiar steadiness. But you pulled back, tugging the blanket up like a shield.

Dean didn’t push. He just nodded, like he’d expected it. “I’ll be back with our girl in twenty. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone”.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving you in the quiet with nothing but your pounding head and the warmth of his handprint lingering on your knee.

-

At the kindergarten, Dean parked Baby and climbed out. A few parents in the pickup line gave him curious looks, but Dean ignored it, shoving his hands in his pockets as the door swung open and kids started spilling out in a rush of giggles and backpacks.

“Daddy!”.

The voice was unmistakable. High, sweet, and loud enough to turn a few heads. Lilah burst through the crowd, her little sneakers flying as she charged toward him. Dean dropped to a knee without thinking, arms open wide.

She crashed into him with all the force a four-year-old could muster, wrapping her arms tight around his neck. “You came!”.

Dean swallowed hard, hugging her close, his throat tight. “’Course I did, baby girl. Wouldn’t miss it for the world”.

From the doorway, Miss Rivera smiled, her eyes soft as she walked over. “Mr. Winchester”, Miss Rivera said with a knowing smile. “Good to see you again”.

Dean adjusted Lilah higher on his hip, clearing his throat. “Yeah, uh. Guess I’ve been promoted from neighborly nuisance to kindergarten pickup”.

Miss Rivera’s smile softened. “She talks about you constantly. You’re all she’s been looking forward to this week”.

Dean felt the tiny arms squeeze around his neck, a warm little cheek pressing into his jaw. Lilah mumbled into him: “Missed you, Daddy. So much”.

Dean closed his eyes, holding her tighter, pressing a kiss to her hairline. “Missed you too, bug. More than you know”.

The weight of it hit him harder when he realized Christmas was only a week away. He’d missed four of them already.

But not this year.

Dean pulled back enough to look her in the eye. “Hey, I got big plans for Christmas. You ready for that?”.

Her little face lit up, eyes wide. “With you?”.

“With me”, Dean said firmly. “Whole weekend. Presents and cookies. You, me, and Mommy”.

She squealed, clapping her sticky hands together, and buried her face in his shoulder again.

Miss Rivera lingered, watching them with that gentle expression, then finally nodded. “She’s lucky to have you here, Mr. Winchester. Don’t waste it”.

Dean gave her a small smile, not his usual flirt but something quieter, almost humbled. “Wouldn’t dream of it”.

With that, Dean settled Lilah into Baby’s passenger seat, buckling her in carefully. She was practically vibrating, tiny sneakers kicking against the seat as she looked around wide-eyed at the dash, the leather, the chrome knobs.

“Daddy”, she whispered, awestruck, “I’m in the front! While driving??”.

Dean grinned, his chest going tight at the way she said it, like she’d just been handed the keys to the universe. “Yeah, Buzz. Shotgun. First time. Don’t tell your mom or she’ll kill me”.

Lilah giggled. “I won’t tell! Promise”. She leaned close, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Bee secret”.

Dean chuckled, starting the engine. Baby roared to life, and Lilah squealed, clapping her hands. “She’s so loud! Like a lion!”.

“Damn straight”, Dean said, proud as ever. He pulled out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching across to ruffle her hair.

She scrunched her nose, grinning. And for a second, Dean swore he was staring at a pint-sized mirror. Same eyes. Same freckles across the bridge of her nose. Even the stubborn set of her mouth looked like his.

As the road opened up, Lilah hummed to herself, tapping her little fingers against the window. “Daddy, can we make glue things for Christmas? Like ormamentz? With glitter and bees”.

Dean blinked, then smirked. “Glue things, huh? Sounds sticky”.

“It’s fun!”, she insisted, bouncing against the belt. “We can make Baby a bee ormament!”.

Dean barked out a laugh. “Now that’s a plan. Baby would look real good with a little buzz on her rearview”.

Lilah lit up at the joke, bouncing harder. “Buzz! Like me!”.

Dean’s chest squeezed again, the joy in her laugh hitting him right where the guilt usually lived. “Tell you what”, he said, “we’ll get all the glue and glitter you want. Make this Christmas shine. First one we’re doing together. Gonna make it big”.

She beamed, her whole face glowing. “Best Christmas ever!”.

-

In front of your home, Dean looked over at Lilah. He reached across, brushing a wild strand of hair from her face. “Hey, Buzz”, he said softly.

She froze like she expected a secret mission. “Yeah, Daddy?”.

Dean’s voice dropped into that low, steady tone she always listened to. “Mommy’s not feeling good today. She’s real sick. So, we gotta be extra nice, extra quiet in the house, alright? Like… little bees buzzing… soft”.

Lilah’s mouth made a perfect O. “Sick-sick?”.

“Yeah”, Dean nodded. “So we help her feel better faster. You think you can do that with me? Be Mommy’s helper?”.

Lilah puffed out her chest nodding hard. “I can! I’ll be quiet and hug her”.

Dean smiled. “That’s my girl”.

With that, Dean unlocked the door and stepped inside and instantly noticed the faint echo of retching down the hall. His chest tightened.

“Mommy?”, Lilah whispered against his shoulder.

“Yeah, Buzz”, Dean murmured and setting her gently on her feet. “Mommy’s not feeling good. Remember what we talked about, extra nice and extra quiet”.

Lilah nodded with her little face serious and tiptoed down the hall on socked feet.

The bathroom door was half-shut. You were on the floor with one hand braced on the tub, the other clutching a washcloth as you tried to steady yourself after another round. Your forehead was damp, hair stuck to your temple, and you felt utterly wrung out.

“Mommy?”.

The small voice made you glance up. Lilah stood in the doorway with her eyes in concern.

You forced a smile. “Hey, Bee”.

She came closer, dropping to her knees beside you. Her little hand, still sticky from glue earlier at kindergarten, pressed clumsily to your arm. “I can help. I’m Mommy’s helper”.

Your chest ached from how big her heart was. “Oh, baby…”, you whispered, brushing her hair back with shaky fingers.

“I can get water”, she offered seriously, already half-standing before you could stop her. “Or a blanket".

Dean had stepped up behind her by now, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. His eyes were soft, watching his little girl trying to shoulder the world. Like her Daddy usual did.

“Buzz”, he said gently, crouching down to her level. “How about you go grab Mommy’s blanket off the couch? The big soft one. That’ll help”.

Lilah’s eyes lit with purpose. “Yes! Blankie mission!”. Then she tore off down the hall.

Dean moved into the bathroom, crouching beside you. “You shoulda called me”, he said again.

You leaned your head back against the tub, closing your eyes. “And say what? ‘Hey Dean, can you come watch me puke my guts out?’”.

He huffed, shaking his head. “Exactly that”.

Before you could answer, the sound of little feet came pounding back, and Lilah burst in holding the blanket half-dragging behind her. She spread it clumsily over your lap and chest, patting it into place with all the seriousness in the world. “There, Mommy”, she said proudly, tucking it like you’d done for her a hundred times. “Now you’ll feel better faster”.

Just then, Dean slid one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

“Dean”, you groaned, weakly pressing at his chest. “Put me down—”.

“Nope”. He started down the hall. “You’re going to bed, end of story”.

You wriggled half-heartedly, but your body had other plans. Too weak, too wrung out, and the steady warmth of him was almost a relief. Still, your mouth worked, because if you didn’t at least try, you weren’t you.

“Lilah’s hands—”, you mumbled, your head dropping against his shoulder. “She needs to wash them. And clean clothes. And… and something not… not sugar for dinner…”.

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, nudging your bedroom door open with his boot. “Always thinking ten steps ahead, aren’t you?”. He lowered you onto the bed gently, pulling the blanket up around you.

“I mean it”, you slurred with your eyes already heavy. “Can’t just… nap”.

“You can, and you are”. He smoothed your hair back, his rough palm surprisingly gentle. “’Cause I’ve got it covered. Sam’s already on his way”.

That dragged your eyes half-open, confusion cutting through the haze. “Sam?”.

Dean nodded, settling on the edge of the bed like he wasn’t planning on moving until you were asleep. “Yeah. He’s been on my ass about meeting his niece. Figured today was as good a time as any. He’s bringing food”.

You snorted softly, your lips quirking despite yourself. “So… kale and quinoa. Not cheeseburgers”.

Dean smirked. “Yeah, yeah. He’ll probably try to sneak a salad into her, but I’ll fight him off if I have to”.

“Sam’s healthy”, you whispered, already drifting. “Unlike you…”.

Dean leaned closer, brushing a kiss to your temple before you could turn away. “Guess it’s good for all of us he’s showing up then, huh?”.

From the hallway came Lilah’s triumphant little voice: “Daddy! I washed my hands!”, followed by the sound of running feet.

Dean grinned, whispering, “And Buzz is on top of her missions. Don’t worry. Sleep, sweetheart. I’ve got it”.

You must’ve drifted off, because the next thing you were aware of was the muffled sound of laughter from the living room. Not just Lilah’s giggles, but Dean’s deep chuckle rolling right along with it. You tugged the blanket tighter, sinking further into the pillow. Maybe for once, you could let go and let them handle it.

Meanwhile, Dean was getting his first real taste of life as “solo Dad”:

“Daddy, sit still!”, Lilah scolded, tongue poking out in concentration as she pressed a marker to his arm. Dean glanced down at the bright pink streak already zigzagging across his forearm. “Buzz, I don’t think tattoos usually come in glitter pink”.

“They do now”, she declared, drawing another line. “It’s a bee road. The bees need roads too, Daddy”.

Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Right. Of course. What was I thinking?”.

When she finished her masterpiece, she handed him a glittery plastic tiara. “Now wear this. Bees need a queen”.

Dean gave her a look. “Pretty sure I don’t qualify”.

“Do it”, Lilah demanded with all the authority of her four years.

And damned if he could say no to that face. So on went the tiara, crooked and sparkling like hell had frozen over. Dean had accepted his fate as a glitter-covered bee road for the next hour.

“Daddy, can I have bee face now?”, she asked with that bright, irresistible smile.

Dean blinked. “Bee face?”.

“Like paint. Or markers. I saw it on TV”. She pointed at the pack of markers she’d been using on his arm. “You do it!”.

Dean rubbed a hand down his face, leaving a streak of blue marker across his cheek, then grabbed a yellow and black marker. “Alright, hold still, Buzz”.

It was… a disaster.

He tried. God, he tried. But her little cheeks were round and kept moving every time she giggled, and his hands weren’t exactly designed for delicate art. The stripes ended up crooked and patchy, the “antennae” he drew on her forehead looked more like weird bent rabbit ears, and when he added a little swirl on her nose, she squealed so loud he nearly dropped the marker.

But when she looked in the mirror and gasped, eyes going wide with joy, he felt like he’d just won a goddamn Oscar.

“I’m the best bee ever!”, she declared. “You’re the best daddy ever!”.

Dean swallowed hard at that. He didn’t deserve it. But she believed it, so fiercely, so purely.

And after another hour of Lilah bending every existing line, a knock rattled the old door. Dean looked up from where Lilah was still running in circles. “Daddy!”, she gasped. “That’s uncle Sam, right? The giraffe one?”.

“Yeah, Buzz. That’s him”, he chuckled.

She bounced on her toes, whispering loudly, “Open it! Open it!”.

Dean stood, brushing glitter off his jeans and pulled open the door.

Sam stood there, a paper bag of takeout containers balanced in one arm and a reusable grocery tote slung over the other. He froze halfway through raising a hand in greeting, because Dean Winchester, the hunter, the soldier, the big brother Sam had always known, was standing in the doorway wearing a glittery tiara, streaks of marker smeared across his face and arms and enough loose sparkles clinging to his shirt to make him look like he’d been mugged by a preschool craft club.

Sam blinked once, then deadpanned: “Wow. Case must’ve been rough”.

“Shut up”, Dean muttered, stepping aside to let him in.

Before Sam could get another jab in, Lilah came tearing around the corner. “There he is!”, she shouted. “Uncle Sam the giraffe!”.

Sam’s mouth dropped open just a little as she ran straight at him. She wrapped herself around his leg, glitter transferring instantly to his jeans. Sam laughed, startled but touched, carefully lowering the bags to free a hand and ruffle her hair. “Well. Guess introductions aren’t necessary”.

“Daddy made my face”, Lilah said proudly, pointing at her smeared stripes. “I’m a bee. Bzz bzz!”.

Sam looked up at Dean, who was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, smirking through his humiliation.

“Nice work”, Sam said dryly.

Dean shrugged. “She wanted bee. She got bee”.

Lilah tugged on Sam’s hand with all the strength of her tiny frame. “Come on, Uncle Sam! You brought food, right? Mommy’s sick so we were starving!”.

Sam chuckled, letting her lead him. “Already on it. Hope you like veggies, kiddo”.

From behind them, Dean groaned. “God help us all”.

-

The last half hour had been nothing but a blur of laughter, glue sticks and questions. Lilah hadn’t needed a second of warm-up with Sam, she’d latched onto him like she’d known him her whole life.

“Uncle Sam, do you like bees?”. “Uncle Sam, can Baby drive faster than a lion run?”. “Uncle Sam, did you know daddy can jump real high?”.

Sam answered each with a patience that made Dean shake his head in disbelief. He even let her smear a lopsided “bee stripe” on his own cheek with the yellow marker.

Still, when dinner came, there was no contest. Lilah scrambled straight back onto Dean’s lap at the table, her little hand fisting in his flannel like it was her anchor.

Sam watched the whole scene unfold with a huge grin. “You know”, he said with his voice low but warm, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen you out-charmed, Dean”.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”.

Sam gestured with his chin toward Lilah, who was happily spooning rice off Dean’s plate and into her own. “I mean look at you. Tiara. Marker tattoos. Letting her eat off your plate. You’re not just a good dad, Dean. You’re… a sweet one”.

Dean shifted, like he wanted to deny it, but Lilah picked that moment to lean back against his chest and sigh happily. “Daddy’s the best”.

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day. Dean Winchester, world’s toughest hunter, reduced to glitter by a four-year-old”.

Dean tried for a scowl, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Shut up, Sammy”.

Sam only smiled wider. “Nah. Not this time. I’m proud of you, man”.

And for a moment, Dean didn’t have a comeback. He just held Lilah a little tighter and let himself feel it.

-

A while later, you woke groggy, but for the first time in two days you didn’t feel like you’d been hit by a truck. Your head was clearer, your stomach, though tender, wasn’t rolling like the ocean anymore. Mostly, you were hungry. Starving, actually. Forty-eight hours of keeping nothing down left a hollow ache in your belly that made you sit up slow, blinking against the dim light in your room.

The muffled sound of laughter pulled you toward the living room. Lilah’s high, bubbling giggles. Dean’s rumbling chuckle. And underneath it, Sam’s softer, lower laugh.

You pushed the blanket off, padded barefoot down the hall, and leaned against the doorway. The sight stopped you cold. Dean sat at the table, Lilah still planted firmly on his lap, a tiara still crooked on his head, faint streaks of marker decorating his skin. Lilah had her bee face smeared across her cheeks, spoon in hand as she tried to “help” Dean eat from his plate. Sam sat across from them, arms folded, grinning so wide you thought his face might split.

Dean noticed you first, his eyes flicking up, softening immediately. “Hey”, he said gently. “Sleeping beauty’s up”.

Lilah gasped, spinning around. “Mommy! You’re awake! We were so quiet! Daddy said we had to be quiet baby bees!”.

Dean smirked, kissing the top of her messy hair. “Told you we could pull it off”.

You stepped closer, rubbing at your temple. “What… what’s all this?”.

“Dinner”, Sam said, pushing a container toward you. “And before you panic, it’s not just kale. I brought rice, chicken, veggies. Stuff you can actually keep down".

Your stomach growled, loud enough to make Lilah giggle. “See, Mommy’s hungry! You need food so you can feel better". You sank into the chair beside them.

"It’s good to see you again”, Sam said, quieter than the rest of the noise in the room. “I missed you”. His eyes flicked toward his brother, toward Lilah giggling happily between them. “Back then, when we left—it wasn’t my call. You know that, right?”.

Your throat tightened, the weight of those years pressing down again. You nodded faintly, not trusting yourself to say more.

Dean cleared his throat, setting Lilah’s spoon down before she could fling rice across the room. “Alright, Buzz, let Mommy eat before she keels over. We’ve gotta keep our queen bee strong”.

Lilah beamed, leaning over the table to pat your hand. “Don’t worry, Mommy. Daddy’s got it”.

The food was a godsend. You ate slow, testing each bite, but it stayed down.

Sam watched you with that soft frown of his. “So… what’s got you down?”.

You shrugged, mumbling around your fork, “Probably the flu. Nothing dramatic”.

Dean, already up at the freezer with Lilah tugging on his flannel, glanced over. His brows pinched like he didn’t quite buy your answer, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he knelt to help Lilah scoop ice cream into two little bowls.

“Extra sprinkles, Daddy!”, she ordered, bouncing on her toes.

“You got it, Baby”, he said, ruffling her hair. But even as he sprinkled rainbow sugar over the ice cream, his gaze kept drifting back to you. Watching the slow way you ate. The tired slump of your shoulders. Making sure you didn’t tip forward into the plate. Sam noticed. Hell, he noticed everything.

By the time Dean carried the bowls to the table, Lilah happily clambering back onto his lap, Sam’s eyes flicked between the two of you, reading the air the way only he could. “So”, he started carefully, “you two…”. He let it hang, almost casual, but there was a weight under it. “Think that’s a good idea?”.

You blinked at him, fork halfway to your mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”. Dean arched a brow. “Yeah, Sammy. Care to elaborate?”.

Sam leaned back in his chair, not aggressive, not judgmental, just worried. “I’m just saying, Lilah’s getting used to this. To you, Dean. And to you two… being something. Again. If it’s not solid, if it doesn’t work out—”. He hesitated, glancing at the little girl licking sprinkles off her spoon. “She’s the one who gets- who´s in the middle of it all”.

You shifted uncomfortably, stabbing at your rice. “No one’s talking about that”.

“Yeah”, Dean said, voice flat, almost too quick. “Nothing’s happening”.

Sam’s brow ticked up. “You sure about that?”.

You and Dean spoke in unison, both a little too fast, a little too sharp: “Yep”. “Positive”.

Sam tilted his head, disbelief written plain across his face. “So the two of you aren’t… cuddling?”.

Both you and Dean nodded a little too fast, voices overlapping again. “Nope”. “Nothing going on”.

Sam’s mouth quirked, like he wasn’t buying it for a second. Before he could call you out, Lilah piped up through a mouthful of ice cream. “Mommy and Daddy did cuddle”, she chirped. “Daddy was nakey”.

You froze, fork clattering onto your plate. Dean choked on his own spit, thumping his chest with the heel of his hand. “Buzz—what? When—what are you even—”.

Sam’s face split into the widest grin you’d ever seen. He slapped a hand over his mouth but couldn’t stop the laugh that rumbled out anyway.

You buried your burning face in your hands. “Lilah”.

She looked between all three of you, innocent as anything, and repeated proudly, “You cuddled. And Daddy was nakey”.

Dean groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Buzz, you don’t just… you can’t just…”. He shot Sam a death glare. “Don’t even”.

Sam leaned back in his chair, chuckling so hard his shoulders shook. “Relax, Dean. She’s four. Not exactly drawing a PG-13 conclusion here”.

“That’s not the point”, Dean hissed.

Sam lifted his brows, all faux-innocence. “So… not cuddling, huh?”.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth just to shut himself up. You groaned again, half-mortified, half-ready to laugh, because of course Lilah would say something like that.

Sam was still grinning like Christmas came early, but the longer his eyes lingered on you, the more the grin dimmed into something quieter. Concern, threaded under the amusement. “You know I’m just teasing”, he said finally, softer. “But really—are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, for her?”.

Dean shifted in his chair. Lilah was too busy licking the back of her spoon to notice the way the air shifted.

You cleared your throat, poking at the last of the rice on your plate. “That’s why we won’t”, you mumbled. “Cuddle. Not again. It’s… safer for her if we don’t”.

Dean’s head jerked toward you, a flash of something raw in his eyes. He didn’t argue, not with Lilah perched on his lap and sprinkles smeared across her cheeks. But his grip around her tiny frame tightened, like he was holding onto more than just his daughter in that moment.

Not again.

He’d known, deep down, that this was where you stood. That he had a mountain to climb to earn back what he’d thrown away. But hearing it out loud… it stung in a way even the sharpest blade never could.

His hand smoothed over Lilah’s back, steady and protective, but his jaw flexed hard enough that Sam saw it. Ha also saw the way your eyes stayed fixed on your plate, deliberately not looking at Dean. He saw the way Dean’s gaze stayed pinned to you anyway, like he couldn’t stop, even when it hurt. He felt the tension vibrating across the table, heartbreak and longing wrapped so tight it was a wonder Lilah’s innocent little humming didn’t shatter it.

Sam had always known how much you meant to Dean. Always. Back then, when Dean was younger and lighter, you’d been the closest thing to that normal life Dean secretly craved. The dream he never admitted, not out loud. The white picket fence, family dinners and Christmas mornings that didn’t end in blood.

Now, here it was. Right in front of him. A daughter who looked at him like he hung the damn moon. You, sitting just across the table, still in his life but just out of reach.

And Dean? Dean was breaking quietly, holding it together only because of the tiny arms wrapped around him.

Sam cleared his throat softly, leaning back in his chair. “She’s happy, you know”. His voice was gentle, almost an offering. “Lilah. That’s what matters. Whatever the rest of this looks like”.

Dean finally tore his eyes from you, glancing at Sam with a look that said drop it. But Sam only nodded, giving him that subtle, steady reminder that he wasn’t blind. That he knew how badly his brother wanted this to work and how much it gutted him to hear you say maybe it never would.

And you? You kept your gaze fixed on your plate, pretending the food still mattered, pretending you couldn’t feel Dean’s hurt radiating across the table like a storm. Because maybe you couldn’t handle what it would do to you if you let yourself look back.

-

Lilah was tucked in tight beneath her blanket. Her breaths came slow and even, lashes resting against cheeks still faintly smudged with marker. Sam moved quietly around the room, careful not to wake her. His gaze drifted up and settling on the wall above her dresser. It was full, lined with photos. Lilah’s life, frozen in snapshots.

Her first birthday. Christmas mornings. Baptism photos. School crafts tacked up around the edges, glitter and glue heavy on the paper.

Always you. Always her.

But no Dean. No Sam. No family.

Sam’s throat tightened. He whispered, more to himself than anything, “Four years… all this time”.

Behind him, the floor groaned. Dean leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching his brother watch the wall.

“She did it alone”, Sam said quietly, still staring at the photos.

Dean’s jaw flexed. “Yeah”.

Sam finally turned to look at him. “And now?”.

Dean´s eyes stayed on the wall that told four years of stories without him. Every memory Dean should’ve been in, but wasn’t. His arms unfolded, hands burying deep in his pockets like if he didn’t, they’d shake. “Now… I don’t get to screw it up again”.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “That’s not an answer”.

Dean’s laugh was humorless, just a puff of breath. “It’s the only one I’ve got. I walked away once. Thought I was doing the noble thing—keeping them safe. Turns out all I did was leave them alone. And now…”. He trailed off, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a picture of Lilah covered in finger paint, your smile weary but wide. “Now she knows me. Calls me Dad. Thinks I hung the damn moon. If I vanish again…”. His voice cracked, and he ground his teeth against it. “That’d kill her. And it’d kill me too”.

Sam studied him, seeing the weight his brother was carrying, heavier than any hunt, heavier than hell itself. “And her?”, Sam asked carefully. “It’s not just Lilah“.

Dean’s eyes flicked up, sharp and pained, then dropped again just as fast. His voice was low, almost too quiet. “She doesn’t want me, Sammy. Not really”. He swallowed hard. “And I can’t blame her”.

Sam’s frown deepened. “That’s bullshit, and you know it”.

Dean let out a breath, heavy and tired, dragging a hand down his face. “You heard her tonight. ‘Safer if we don’t’. That’s what she said. And she’s right. I ghosted her, left her holding the bag for years. She raised Delilah alone while I—”. He broke off, shaking his head. “I don’t get to walk back in and play fuckin´ husband like nothing happened”.

Sam’s voice dropped into a grumble, thick with frustration and affection both. “You’ve always been an idiot about this stuff. She wants you, Dean. Maybe she’s scared. Maybe she needs you to prove it. But don’t stand here pretending you don’t mean everything to her, because I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Hell, I saw it years ago”.

Dean’s mouth twitched, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. His gaze slid back to the wall of pictures, his shoulders heavy.

From the hallway, you froze. You’d come to the laundry room for fresh clothes, bare feet padding across the floor, and then you’d heard your name, your life, your pain being laid bare between them. You should’ve turned around. You should’ve let them have their moment. But you couldn’t move.

Every word lodged in your chest. You pressed your back against the cool wall. You knew you shouldn’t be listening. But you couldn’t stop. Because no matter how much you tried to bury it, you needed to hear it too.

“You said it yourself earlier. That us getting back together isn’t a good idea. Not with Lilah in the mix”.

Sam blew out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head. “Yeah. If you mess it up. If you walk away again. If you can’t stick it out. That’s when it’s bad for her”. His eyes cut sharp toward Dean. “But if you won’t? If you finally pull your head out of your ass and stay? Then it’s the best damn thing for her”.

Dean’s jaw worked while his eyes dropped to the floorboards.

Sam took a step closer. “She doesn’t need you to be perfect. She needs her dad. And she needs to see you and her mom not just coexisting, but choosing each other. That’s what makes her feel safe”. Sam’s voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. “I watched you today, Dean. With her”. He nodded toward the little bed. “You were good. Better than good. You were a dad”.

Dean’s eyes flicked to his daughter, then away again, guilt carving deep into his features.

“And that’s all you have to do”, Sam pressed on. “Keep showing up. Keep being her dad. Keep wanting this life. Wanting her”. His gaze shifted deliberately, the unspoken and wanting her mom, too hanging between them.

Dean sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders tight.

Sam didn’t let up. “You do that—if you keep fighting for them the way you fought for me my whole life—then she won’t get hurt. Not Lilah. Not (Y/N). Not this time”.

For a long moment, Dean just stood there. Then his shoulders sagged, his head tipping down like the fight had drained out of him. “God, Sammy…”. His voice was rough. “I want it. More than I’ve ever wanted anything”.

And from the hallway, you closed your eyes.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 9

-

The day stretched long and soft into evening, the kitchen was cleaned and the toys were scattered across the living room in the kind of chaos that just meant she’d been happy. By the time the clock ticked past seven, Lilah was yawning between sentences but still talking and clinging to Dean like she thought he might sneak out the door if she let go.

Bath time was always the last big hurdle before bed. She dragged her little basket of bath toys down the hall with her rabbit in one hand, her bee tucked under the other arm. Dean followed with a bemused expression, sleeves rolled to his elbows, like he’d just been assigned guard duty for the world’s most important plush entourage.

You were already running the water. Lilah plopped her toys onto the tile. You tested the water with your wrist, then reached for the lavender bubble bath. Behind you, Lilah was already lining her toys along the edge of the tub like soldiers waiting for inspection.

You glanced over your shoulder at Dean, who was standing in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come further.

“Wanna stick around for bath time?”, you asked, casual, though your voice came out softer than you meant. You tipped the bubble bath into the water, sweet foam blooming instantly. “You could wash her hair”.

Dean blinked. “Wash her…?”. His gaze flicked to Lilah, who was now arguing with her rabbit about which duck got the first turn in the tub. Then back to you. “I mean, yeah. Yeah, if—if you want me to”.

“Not me”, you corrected gently, standing to grab a towel from the rack. “Her”.

As if on cue, Lilah turned to him with all the seriousness. “You have to be careful”, she instructed. “No soap in my eyes. Mommy knows the trick”.

Dean crouched, bracing a hand on his knee, and looked her dead in the eye. “Yeah? Then you’ll have to show me, kiddo. Don’t worry—I’ll take notes”.

Her grin was instant, wide and bright. She shoved her bee into your hands and started tugging at her hoodie with all the urgency in the world.

Dean caught your gaze again, and for a second he looked younger. He looked nervous but also hopeful, like this moment mattered more than he knew what to do with.

You just nodded once, handing him the little plastic cup you always used for rinsing. “The trick”, you said, smiling faintly, “is a steady hand”.

Within seconds, the bubbles had already taken over half the tub, white mountains swallowing every rubber duck and toy boat Lilah owned. She was in the middle of it, crown of curls damp, cheeks glowing, waving a plastic shark around like it was the grand finale of the bath-time circus.

Dean rolled his sleeves higher and crouched on the mat, cup in hand, staring at the scene like he’d just been enlisted into battle. “Alright, Buzz”, he said. “You ready for the hair wash?”.

Lilah narrowed her eyes, shark still in her fist. “Do you know the trick?”.

Dean tilted his head. “You mean this one?”. He tipped the cup, way too fast. Water sluiced down, bubbles and all, splashing across her face.

“Daddy!”, she squealed, sputtering and wiping her eyes. “That’s not the trick!”.

Dean’s eyes went wide. “Shit—shoot! Sorry—hold on—”. He scrambled for the washcloth, dabbing her face.

You leaned against the doorway, laughing so hard you had to cover your mouth.

“Mommy tilts my head back like this”, Lilah explained, demonstrating with dramatic precision. “And she pours slowly. Slowly, Daddy”.

Dean blew out a breath. “Okay. Slowly”. He lifted the cup again, this time exaggerating the pour so much it looked like he was pouring fine wine. A single trickle ran down the back of her head. Lilah giggled. “Too slow!”.

Dean groaned. “Kid, make up your mind!”.

You nearly doubled over. “Welcome to bath time”.

He shot you a look, then back to Lilah, whose curls were finally wet enough for shampoo. He squeezed a blob into his palm, then froze. “Uh. How much of this stuff am I supposed to use?”.

“Daddy”, Lilah said with infinite patience, “you rub it. Like this”. She scrubbed at her own head, bubbles exploding everywhere.

Dean followed suit, gentle but clumsy, and in thirty seconds there was more foam on his jeans and arms than on her head. She laughed so hard she slid under the bubbles, popping back up with her curls crowned in white suds.

“Alright, Buzz”, he muttered, tongue caught between his teeth. “Tilt back, eyes closed. Daddy’s got this”.

Lilah obediently leaned back. For a glorious two seconds, the water poured exactly where it should. Then Dean misjudged the angle. Half the cup splashed across her forehead.

“Daddy!”, she shrieked, scrunching her eyes shut, sputtering bubbles out of her mouth.

Dean panicked, one hand darting uselessly through the water. “Crap—hold on! I got it—”. He grabbed the washcloth again, blotting her face. “See? No soap in the eyes. It’s all good. No tears”.

Lilah peeked out from one squinted eye, then broke into giggles. “You’re bad at this”.

Dean huffed, but his grin broke through. “You’re tellin’ me. Guess I need a lot of practice, huh?”.

“Yeah”, she agreed immediately, dunking her shark into the water. “You can do it again tomorrow”.

Dean blinked, caught off guard by the casual certainty in her little voice. He swallowed hard and smiled, brushing the wet curls from her forehead. “Yeah, kiddo. Tomorrow”.

Ten minutes later she was wrapped burrito-tight in a fluffy towel and marched down the hall. Dean followed, carrying the sheep-print pajamas you’d laid out. He sat on the edge of the mattress, helping her wriggle into the soft cotton, tugging the sleeves down over her small wrists with careful fingers.

“There we go”, he said softly, smoothing the fabric at her shoulders. “Cozy, right?”.

She nodded, her bunny was already pressed to her chest. Then, without a word, she climbed into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dean melted, circling his arms around her and rested his chin in her damp curls.

You cleared your throat gently. “Alright, kiddo. Story time”.

Usually, she’d leap for her shelf and start the long, dramatic process of choosing The Perfect Book. Tonight, though, she just tipped her head back against Dean’s chest, curls sticking to his jaw. “Daddy can read it”.

“Uh—me?”.

She nodded, eyes wide and certain. “Yeah. You”. She reached toward the shelf, pointing. “That one. The bee one”.

Your throat tightened. She’d skipped over you entirely,like the decision had been obvious, like she’d been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.

Dean’s hand hovered, unsure. “You sure? Your mom usually does—”.

“Daddy”, Lilah leaned up, her tiny hand pressing against his stubbled cheek, her voice dropping into that insistent tone you knew all too well. “Please”.

He swallowed hard, green eyes flicking to you, searching. You just nodded once, lips pressed tight to keep from crying. “Go on”.

So he did.

You leaned on the doorframe, watching your daughter press closer to her father’s chest, her little body relaxing with every word he read. And you thought: God help you. Because in less than a month, she’d given herself over to him completely. Like she’d known all along exactly who he was.

Dean’s voice rumbled low, steadying with each page. He gave the bee characters little gruff tones, made the flowers sound snooty, and when he buzzed, Lilah laughed so hard she nearly toppled out of his lap. By the time he hit the last line, her giggles had turned into yawns, and her lashes were fluttering heavy. “—and the busy little bee went to sleep, because even bees need rest”, Dean read, closing the book carefully. He looked down. Lilah was already curled into his chest.

You stepped closer. “She’s out”.

“Yeah”, he whispered back. He shifted and laid her down gently, one hand smoothing her curls back, the other tucking the blanket around her. For a second he just stood there, staring at her sleeping face. Then he bent and pressed the faintest kiss to her temple. “Night, Buzz”, he murmured, so soft you barely caught it.

You switched off the lamp, the bee-shaped nightlight glowing in its place, and motioned him out into the hall. You pulled the door, leaving it cracked just the way she liked.

Outside, Dean leaned back against the wall, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ. She just… she just trusts me.”

You folded your arms, trying to steady your own voice. “She knows who you are, Dean. She always did. She’s been waiting for you her whole life”.

He shook his head slightly, eyes glassy, jaw tight. “I don’t deserve it”.

“Maybe not”, you admitted softly. “But she doesn’t care. She just wants her dad”. Swallowed while following you to the living room.

You poured the whiskey without asking, slid a glass across the coffee table, then sank into the opposite end of the couch. Dean caught it, his bruised knuckles brushing the rim, and gave you a nod that was more gratitude than words.

For a while, you just sat. Sipped. Let the burn roll through your chest and loosen the knots the day had tied there.

Then Dean spoke up. “She didn’t even hesitate”, he muttered, staring into his glass. “One minute I’m just some guy who shows up with pie, the next I’m…”. He trailed off, swallowed hard. “She just decided I was hers. Just like that”.

You leaned back into the cushions, the whiskey warming your blood. “That’s how kids work. They don’t overthink. They just… feel. She feels safe with you. That’s all she needs”.

His jaw flexed, eyes flicking toward the hallway like he could still see her through the walls. “Scares the shit outta me. How fast she grabbed onto me. Like I didn’t even have to earn it”.

You gave him a look over the rim of your glass. “Oh, trust me, you’ll earn it. She’ll make sure of that. Wait until she wants you to learn all the songs from Frozen”.

That pulled a laugh out of him, low and tired but real. He rubbed a hand over his face, then glanced at you, the humor fading into something rawer. “You, though… you didn’t just hand me the keys back”.

You set your glass down carefully. “I couldn’t. Not after everything”.

Dean nodded, like he’d expected that. He leaned back, stretched one arm along the back of the couch, the other clutching his whiskey. His voice went softer. “Still. You let me in the door. You let me hold her. You don’t know what that means”.

You looked at him, the dim lamp light cutting across his profile—the lines deeper now, the bruises darker, but his eyes the same. Always the same. “It means you’re here”, you said quietly. “And that’s more than I ever thought I’d get”.

Dean’s throat worked, his gaze catching yours and holding. Too long. Too heavy. The air between you hummed with everything unsaid. He tipped his glass back, drained it, then set it down with a soft clink. “I’ll spend the rest of my life tryin’ to be worth it”.

“You always get like this after two fingers of whiskey?”, you asked. “All soft and apologetic?”.

Dean huffed, lips twitching. “Only for you. Everyone else just gets the grumpy ‘seen too much’ version”.

“Oh, I remember that version. Pretty sure you once told a ghost to ‘shut the fuck up’ and punched it in the face”.

He grinned. “Worked, didn’t it?”.

You laughed into your glass, and the sound made something flicker across his face. Something warm and wrecked all at once. He watched you like he was memorizing every line. “You always did get too pretty when you were tired”, he muttered, thumb running over the rim of his empty glass.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “There it is. Knew it couldn’t stay sweet forever”.

Dean didn’t miss a beat. “Sweet’s not exactly what I’m thinkin’ when I look at you right now”.

You turned toward him slightly, just enough to let your knee graze his thigh. “No?”.

He shook his head slowly, a lazy half-smile pulling at his mouth. “Nah. I’m thinkin’ about that noise you used to make. Right before you came. That little hitch in your breath. You still do that?”.

The heat rose up your neck. You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. He saw it. Felt it in the way you didn’t move your leg. In the way your lips parted just a little, like your body remembered before your mind did.

“I think about that way more than I should”, Dean murmured, voice just above a whisper now. “Usually when I’m tryin’ not to. In the shower. In the dark. Every damn night for the last three weeks”.

You exhaled slowly. “You’re not subtle”.

“Didn’t come here to be”.

Your eyes locked again. He wasn’t smirking anymore. He wasn’t trying to win something. It was just there. Honest and bare, hung in the silence between you like gravity pulling you back under.

You swallowed hard, then lifted your brows, trying to keep the tone light. “So what? You wanna make out on the couch like teenagers while our daughter sleeps down the hall?”.

Dean smiled again, that infuriating mix of cocky and sincere. “Wouldn’t be the first time I had you on a couch”.

You bit your lip. “You always do that”, you murmured, your voice quieter now. “Look at me like I’m still yours”. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t deny it. Just let the silence hold it for him.

“Damn it”, you muttered. “Why’d you have to show up looking like that and saying things liket that?”.

Dean tilted his head, smirking faintly. “You gonna kiss me or hit me again?”.

You hesitated, then set your glass on the coffee table and leaned in close enough that your nose brushed his. Your hand found the back of the couch beside his shoulder. “I’m thinking about it”, you whispered. “But if I kiss you, I’m not stopping at that”.

Dean’s hand came up, fingers ghosting along your jaw. “Then don’t stop”.

With that, your lips met his. He kissed you back like he’d been holding that breath for four years.

“You’re still a pain in my ass”, you mumbled into the kiss. Dean grinned against your mouth. “Yeah. I know”.

The kiss deepened, slow, and before you knew it, your knees had shifted, straddling his lap. The whiskey glass was gone—his, yours—you didn’t remember setting them down, but you remembered the way his hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t believe they were allowed to again.

Dean groaned low in his chest when you pressed closer, your mouth slanting over his with a hunger that wasn’t careful anymore. His tongue brushed yours, and the sound he made was raw and so damn unguarded.

Your hands curled into his hair, tugging, desperate, and he tipped his head back against the couch, eyes shutting, mouth breaking from yours only long enough to rasp, “Fuck—sweetheart—”, before pulling you back down to kiss him harder.

The world tilted when he shifted beneath you, strong hands bracing your thighs. He stood, carrying you like you weighed nothing, your legs instinctively locking around his hips.

You could feel him against you, thick and hard through both layers of fabric, every step toward your bedroom jarring enough to make you gasp into his mouth. His shoulders were still bruised, ribs still tender, but none of that stopped him.

By the time your back hit the bedroom doorframe, his mouth was on your throat, kissing and sucking, and your fingers clawed at his flannel like you’d tear it off right there.

“Bed”, you breathed, voice wrecked.

Dean grinned against your skin, teeth catching your pulse. “Already there, baby”.

And with one last step, he laid you down with your thighs still snug around his hips, his weight braced over you, his cock straining hard against the heat between your legs.

“Shit, I missed this”, he rasped. His hips shifted, grinding once against the cradle of your thighs. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the bruises like they didn’t matter anymore. “Shut up and kiss me”, you whispered.

He obeyed instantly. His mouth took yours, hungry now, tongue sliding against yours, all heat and memory and years of want packed into a kiss that left your toes curling. His hand slid from your waist down to your thigh, gripping it tight, tugging you higher around his hips.

The friction made both of you groan into each other’s mouths.

Your fingers tugged at his flannel, popping the buttons open the rest of the way. You pushed it down his shoulders, your palms greedy against the broad stretch of his chest and stomach, even with the bruises mottling his skin.

He kissed down your jaw, to your neck, sucking just enough to leave a mark, his stubble scraping your skin in a way that made your thighs tighten around him. His hands fumbled with the hem of your shirt, sliding beneath it, warm calloused palms spanning your waist. “You’re still fuckin’ perfect”, he groaned against your collarbone, pushing the fabric higher.

“Dean—”, you gasped when his mouth found the top of your chest, hot and open, teeth grazing where your bra dipped. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging, guiding his mouth back up to yours. His lips were swollen, wet, but left you again to pull off your shirt. His hands were surprisingly steady for how wrecked he looked, how desperate his breathing sounded. He dropped the fabric somewhere behind him, but his eyes never left you, not once.

“God", he murmured. “Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, and then his mouth was back on you.

He kissed down the line of your collarbone, sucking gently at the tender skin, his tongue soothing over the marks he left. Every press of his lips drew a sound out of you you hadn’t meant to give, small, breathless moans spilling without control. It had been so long and your body remembered him instantly, remembered how to come undone under the drag of his mouth.

“Dean—”. Your fingers fisted in his hair, pulling him closer when his teeth grazed the curve of your breast. He hummed against you, low and satisfied, one hand slipping behind your back to undo the clasp of your bra with the kind of skill that only came from knowing your body like his own.

The straps slid down your arms, and then his mouth closed over you fully. Heat shot through you, every nerve lit as he sucked, his tongue swirling slow, deliberate circles that had your hips jerking up against him. You gasped, arching into the pull of his mouth. “Oh, my—”.

“Shh”, he whispered against your skin. He shifted to your other breast, giving it the same attention, lips and teeth and tongue working you with a tenderness that left you trembling. Because he just knew. Knew how to angle his mouth, how long to suck, when to bite just enough to make you moan his name and clutch his shoulders like you’d drown without him.

You hadn’t been touched like this in over a year. Not properly. Not like this. And shit, you could feel how close your body already was, how easy it would be to unravel completely under just his mouth.

Dean’s lips trailed lower, kissing his way down your stomach in unhurried devotion.

When he reached the waistband of your leggings, he hooked his fingers into it before dragging the soft fabric down slowly, peeling it over your hips, thighs, and calves.

“Geez", he rasped, his voice gone wrecked. His thumb brushed the lace of your panties, tracing the delicate pattern that barely hid a thing. “Still wear these?”.

Heat shot up your neck. “I… yeah”. You know damn well how much he loved these.

You gasped when he kissed lower, right over the sheer fabric. The lace dampened instantly against his lips, and your hand flew to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. “Dean—”. It came out broken, need thick in your voice.

He hummed against you, the vibration sinking deep, his tongue pressing against the lace. His hands slid up your thighs, holding them open, holding you steady.

Every slow lick, every press of his mouth against that fragile barrier made your body jolt, made the moans you’d been biting back slip free.

When he finally slid them down your thighs and tossed them aside, he just… looked.

“Fuck…”, he rasped. His hand slid up your inner thigh, trembling just slightly.

You were already throbbing, already soaked from the heat of his mouth through the lace, and now exposed fully under his gaze, you felt bare in every sense.

Dean leaned in, kissing the inside of your thigh, then the other. His nose brushed you, breathing you in, and his groan was guttural, straight from his chest. “Fuck Sweetheart…”. He pressed his lips right against you, kissing you open. His tongue slid through your folds, the warmth of him spreading through every nerve.

Your moan filled the room, high and needy, and your hips lifted without you meaning to.

Then he buried himself between your thighs, licking, sucking, like a starving man finally fed. His hands pinned your hips down, keeping you spread for him as his tongue worked every inch.

You could barely breathe. Your thighs were trembling around his shoulders, your hands tangled in his hair, holding him there like you’d die if he stopped.

And then, just as you were falling apart on his tongue, he pulled back. Slowly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he stared up at you. His lips were wet, his beard damp with you, his eyes blown wide and wrecked.

He stood in one smooth motion and leaned over you. His weight pressed you down, and then his mouth was on yours. Messy, making you taste yourself on his tongue. You whined into him, wrapping your arms around his neck, your body begging without words.

Dean reached down between you, fumbling with his belt. “I need—”. His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged. “Fuck- I need you".

The sound of the buckle, the rasp of the zipper, it all blurred together with the heat of his body pressing closer. He pushed his jeans and boxers down just enough, baring himself. He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock pushing into your wet heat, and his eyes fluttered shut. His whole body trembled as he sank into you inch by inch, stretching you wide, filling you. “Shit”, he groaned, burying his face in your neck as he bottomed out. “Still fits. Fuck—still perfect”.

Your nails dug harder into his back, dragging down the line of his shoulders, your body clenching around him in answer. He groaned, the sound so guttural it vibrated through your chest.

Every nerve in you was alive, stretched to breaking, your hips tilting instinctively. The smallest shift made him jolt, a shudder ripping through him as he gripped your thighs tighter, grounding himself against the urge to let go too soon.

“Don’t—”, he panted, lifting his head just enough to meet your eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his mouth swollen from your kisses. “Don’t move. If you move—I’m done for”.

But you did. Just a roll of your hips, subtle… cruel. His jaw snapped tight, a hiss tearing from between his teeth. “Fuck, babe”, he growled, his forehead dropping to yours. “You’re tryin’ to kill me”.

Your lips brushed his, a shaky whisper spilling out before you could stop it. “Then die in me”.

His control broke. Dean dragged his hips back, until you felt the stretch all over again and then he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt with a sound that was half a groan, half your name.

He tried to keep it slow. To make this about memorizing you, not devouring you. He kissed you through every roll of his hips. His thrusts started steady, deep, but gentle. The kind of rhythm that had your toes curling and your breath stuttering into his mouth.

“God, I missed you”, he murmured against your lips, the words shaking as much as your body. “Missed this—missed you”.

But the longer he moved, the less control he had. Every slick squeeze around him dragged another growl from his throat. His pace quickened, the restraint slipping, until each thrust rocked you higher up the bed, until his hands were gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise.

And you just clung to him, nails scraping his back, moans breaking loose without shame. “Dean—”.

That broke him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, hair sticking to his damp forehead, eyes wrecked and hungry. “Say it again”.

“Dean”, you gasped, and his hips snapped harder, faster, until the headboard thudded soft against the wall.

“You’re mine”, he ground out desperate, “Always were. Always fuckin’ will be”, and braced one arm beneath the small of your back, arching you up into him just the way he remembered you needed. It was instinct, muscle memory, something burned into his bones.

The change was brutal in the best way. He drove deeper, rougher, the angle hitting that perfect place inside you with unrelenting precision. Each thrust dragged a sob from your throat instead of a moan, too much, too good, overwhelming after so long without him.

“Yeah—yeah, there it is”, he rasped, voice breaking around his own need.

You tried to answer, but all that came out was a broken sound.

Dean’s jaw clenched, eyes fixed on you like he’d come undone just watching you unravel. “That’s it, baby. Come for me”.

And just like that, you shattered under him. He held you tighter, kept you safe even as he fucked you through every quake of it. Until his thrusts stuttered, desperate now, his grip on your back iron-tight as he buried himself all the way inside you. A guttural groan tore out of his chest, his forehead grinding into yours as he let go, finally, after holding on for too damn long.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—”. His voice cracked with it, hips snapping hard once, twice, before he sank deep and stayed there, spilling hot and messy into you, filling you so completely you gasped at the sheer heat of it. Dean groaned again, while grinding his hips into yours to give you every last drop, exactly the way he always had, the way that had once made Lilah.

Your chest rose and fell like you’d just run a marathon, lungs dragging in air that still didn’t feel like enough. Every muscle in you trembled.

Dean was no better. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, damp with sweat, his breath ragged and hot as it spilled against your lips. He was still deep inside you, still pulsing faintly.

Neither of you moved. Couldn’t.

The only sounds were the uneven breaths you shared and the faint creak of the mattress under the weight of you both. His hand still braced under your back, holding you up, keeping you close, while his other slid shakily over your hip.

You swallowed hard, your voice breaking when you finally found it. “Dean…”.

“Yeah”, he rasped, not lifting his head, his mouth brushing clumsy against your cheek. “I know. I know”.

But his chest just pressed harder to yours with each shuddering breath, his heart thundering so loud you could feel it against your ribs. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t even try. Just stayed there, buried in the mess of you, breathing like you were the only thing keeping him alive. His nose nudged clumsily along your temple, his lips brushing wherever they landed: your hairline, your damp skin, the corner of your mouth. Not kisses, not exactly. Just desperate contact.

“I missed you so much”, he whispered, the words spilling raw before he could catch them. His hand smoothed up and down your spine. “Never stopped. Not once”.

Your chest ached, but your body still pulsed around him, still clenched as if it didn’t care about time or heartbreak. And Dean felt it and hissed softly, a broken laugh rumbling in his chest. “Geez, baby, you’re still—fuck”.

He shifted, pulling his hips back just enough to slide inside you again, slow, unhurried, making you gasp before he kissed you. His tongue sweeping slow, his teeth catching your lip as he rolled his hips, drawing another trembling sound out of you.

“Can’t get enough”, he rasped against your mouth. “Gonna fuck you ‘til you can’t even think, sweetheart. Make up for every damn year I wasn’t here”.

And he did.

He worked you through wave after wave, his hand never leaving the small of your back, his voice breaking with every praise, every filthy promise in your ear.

By the third round you couldn’t tell where one orgasm ended and another began. Your legs shook around him, your voice cracked with every whimper of his name, and he held you through it.

When he finally came again, you couldn’t even think anymore. Couldn’t form words. Just clung to him, shaking and spent, his arms tight around you.

Finally, with a groan that was equal parts relief and complaint, he rolled to the side, dragging you with him, keeping himself tucked deep. “Not goin’ anywhere”, he muttered into your hair. “So don’t even think about movin’”.

You huffed a laugh, too spent to fight. “I can’t move even if I wanted to”.

“Good.” His hand smoothed over your hip before he finally pulled out. Slowly and immediately pressed his palm between your thighs, holding you shut as his come spilled warm and messy out of you. “Well look at that”, he muttered, half in awe. “Still the prettiest mess I’ve ever made”.

“Romantic", you said dryly, voice cracked from moaning, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

He smirked, kissed the sweat-damp curve of your jaw. “You love it”.

He reached over, snagged his flannel from the floor, and, like it was the most natural thing in the world, used it to clean you up. When he was satisfied, he tossed the ruined shirt to the side, slid back in beside you, and tugged the blanket over both of you like he belonged there. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his chest, your head tucked perfectly under his chin.

You couldn’t help it, you chuckled, breathless and wrecked.

“What?”, he asked, hand splayed over your hip, thumb tracing absent circles like he couldn’t stop touching you.

You tipped your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “You really used your shirt as a towel”.

Dean smirked, no shame whatsoever. “What? Multi-purpose. You know how many times that shirt’s patched a radiator hose, cleaned a gun, or kept my sorry ass from freezing? Wiping you down’s the best use it’s ever had”.

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. “You’re disgusting”.

He leaned in, kissed your nose, grinning even against your mock-annoyance. “Disgusting, huh?”, he murmured. “Funny—didn’t sound like you thought I was disgusting when you were sobbing my name into the pillow”.

You groaned, burying your face against his chest. “You’re unbearable”.

He chuckled. “Unbearable and unforgettable. Don’t act like I didn’t just fuck you into another dimension, sweetheart. You can barely keep your legs still”.

Your thighs twitched in protest, and you swatted weakly at his ribs, immediately regretting it when he hissed. “Don’t make me remind you you’re still bruised to hell”, you muttered.

Dean caught your hand before you could pull it back, lacing his fingers through yours and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Yeah, well, doesn’t matter. Still managed to put you flat on your back. Twice”.

“Three times”, you corrected automatically, then cursed yourself when his grin turned feral.

“Three”, he repeated, smug as hell. “Guess I still got it. Damn, sweetheart, thought you’d have tougher rules for a guy who can’t keep his dick outta you”.

You groaned again, half mortified, half too sore to fight him. “I hate you”.

His nose brushed your temple, voice dropping softer now, teasing but threaded with something real. “Nah. You don’t”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 8

-

You’d barely settled the bedtime routine of a bath, a ton of books and Lilah insisting that the bee needed its own pillow again, when your phone buzzed. Dean’s name popped up. FaceTime. You smirked. He’d actually figured it out.

“Someone’s calling”, you said aloud and Lilah perked up instantly from where she was drawing on her blanket with her finger.

“Is it Daddy?”, she gasped.

You nodded and tapped to answer.

The screen blinked and Dean appeared, looking slightly disheveled with his hair ruffled and the unmistakable look of a man absolutely concentrating too hard on holding his phone at the right angle.

“Hey”, he said with furrowed brows. “Okay, I think I got it. You can see me?”.

Lilah squealed instantly. “Daddy!”.

Dean’s entire face softened. “There’s my girl. Did Mommy let you stay up late?”.

“Yes!”, Lilah declared proudly, then immediately climbed onto your lap to be closer to the screen. “I was waiting for you”.

Dean gave a soft, surprised smile. “Yeah? Well, I got this phone just for you, y’know. Sammy’s been laughing at me for twenty minutes”.

“You really bought an iPhone?”, you teased, eyes wide.

He shrugged. “Figured if I’m gonna call my daughter before bed every night, might as well be with a screen she can smudge up with syrup or marker or whatever the hell else she’s got on her hands”.

“I don’t got marker!”, Lilah said quickly. “Just bee stickers!”.

Dean laughed. “Of course you do, Buzz”.

She didn’t even blink at the nickname this time. “You still comin’ back?”.

“Wouldn’t miss it”, he said softer now. “Few more days. Told you I’d call, didn’t I?”.

She nodded hard, then squinted. “Where are you?”.

Dean tilted the phone a little, the camera wobbling as he tried to frame the room behind him. “This here’s… where I’m stayin’ right now”, he said carefully. “It’s called… the bunker. Lots of books, lots of old wood. Not very fun, trust me”.

Lilah leaned closer to the screen, nose almost smudging it. “It’s your house?”.

Dean’s mouth tugged, a beat of hesitation. He glanced at you and the way your brow lifted in a silent warning: don’t confuse her. So he cleared his throat, shifting. “It’s… kinda like my work house”, he said slowly, meeting Lilah’s eyes again. “Where I go when I have jobs to do. But my home? That’s where you are”.

Lilah blinked, head tilting. “So this is like a Daddy office?”.

Dean’s grin broke out. “Exactly. Big, boring Daddy office. Nothin’ but dusty books and Sam telling me to eat kale”.

"Who’s Sam?”, she asked, her voice thick with curiosity and just a hint of suspicion, like she’d found a character in the story she hadn’t been introduced to and wasn’t quite sure she trusted yet.

Dean’s eyes crinkled, clearly amused. “Sam is my brother. Your uncle”.

Her brows shot up. “I have an uncle?”.

“Yup”, he said with a nod. “A really tall one. Like, really tall. He’s got long hair and reads too many books. Doesn’t like cartoons. Kind of a nerd”.

Lilah giggled, already delighted. “Does he eat pancakes?”.

Dean smirked. “He does, but he puts weird stuff on ’em. Like fruit”.

“That’s silly”, she said, then leaned sideways into you like this was too much to handle. “I want to meet him”.

Dean’s face softened. “Yeah? I think he’d like that. He already saw a picture of you”.

Lilah perked up. “The bee one?”.

“The bee one”, Dean confirmed. “Said you looked like trouble”.

“I’m not!”, she insisted scandalized.

“I know”, Dean said, voice dipping low and warm. “You’re perfect”.

You felt her sink a little heavier into you then, thumb rubbing against the hem of her pajama sleeve. Her eyes were growing glossy and slow, but she kept trying to sit up straighter, stay up longer.

“Uncle Sam”, she repeated, like she was filing it away.

Dean leaned closer to the camera, grin soft. “You get some sleep, Buzz. And tomorrow, I’ll tell you a story about the time Uncle Sam turned into a giant dog”.

Lilah’s eyes went huge. “Whaat?”.

Dean nodded solemnly. “Big paws. Whole tail. Barked like a beagle”.

Her laugh was muffled by your shoulder as she buried her face in you. Seconds later, her body finally giving way to sleep.

-

Three weeks of FaceTime calls every night. Three weeks of pancakes on Sundays, even if Dean wasn’t there to eat them. Three weeks of Lilah carrying her rabbit in one hand and your phone in the other like it was a lifeline, because to her, it kind of was.

And she talked. God, did she talk. To you. To her bee. To her teachers. To strangers.

“Did you know I have a daddy now?”, she’d said to the barista last Tuesday, propping her chin on the counter like a regular. “His name is Dean and he has bruises but they’re not scary because they’re zombie makeup”. You were still apologizing for that one.

But she didn’t stop there.

She told her teacher Miss Rivera that her daddy was coming to her next art day “so he can see how good I draw his car”, told the music aide that Dean could sing and play guitar “and maybe drums and probably roar like a lion too”, and told another kid’s mom that her daddy worked in a secret library underground and sometimes “hunted the dark”.

You couldn’t even blame her. Years of wondering, and now he was real. Alive. Funny. Gentle. Here.

And somehow… so were you.

You were more present in your own skin lately. More patient, more still. Your shoulders didn’t live up by your ears anymore. You’d caught yourself smiling at nothing three times that week. It was like the world had tilted just slightly back into place, one slow degree at a time.

And it all clicked hardest on a Friday.

You’d just picked Lilah up from daycare after a twelve-hour shift and a vending machine lunch. Your hair was a mess and your badge still clipped crooked to your coat when your phone started buzzing in your pocket with Dean’s name already popping up.

You walked into the classroom. Lilah was in the little blue chair at the craft table with her little legs swinging. She lit up when she saw you. “Mommy! Is daddy home??”.

Miss Rivera looked up from the stack of watercolor paintings she’d been helping organize. “She’s been talking about him all day”, she said with a soft smile, wiping her hands on a paint-stained towel. “Told every kid at her table that he’s coming this weekend. Said, and I quote, ‘My daddy is strong and knows everything, but also, he’s nice’”.

You laughed half delight, half mortified. “God. I can’t take her anywhere anymore”.

Lilah tugged on your sleeve, eyes bright. “He is coming, right?”.

You nodded, brushing her paint-crusted fingers into your palm. “That’s the plan, baby. He’ll be here tomorrow morning”.

She squealed, spun in a half-circle, and hugged your waist so tight it knocked your purse sideways. “I’m gonna show him everything”.

You glanced up at Miss Rivera again, who just smiled and said, “She’s got a lot of love to make up for, doesn’t she?”. You didn’t have to answer.

Outside, the fall air had turned crisp, the golden hour casting long shadows across the playground blacktop. Leaves rustled in the parking lot as you held Lilah’s hand and walked toward the car, her bouncing more than walking.

You were two feet from your car when a familiar, low rumble sounded from across the lot. You froze. Lilah did too. She gasped first. “Baby”, she whispered with wide eyes.

The Impala came to a stop one row over and then the driver’s side door creaked open. Dean stepped out like the moment had been staged, wind catching the edge of his flannel, his hand raking through his hair as he spotted the two of you.

Lilah screamed. “Daddy!”. She didn’t wait. She ran like a flash of pure joy, with arms too wide and her rabbit swinging wildly behind her. You were already lifting a hand, ready to call her back to slow down, but she was halfway across the lot by then, and nothing was stopping her.

Then her toe caught the edge of a crack in the pavement. One second she was flying toward her father with a smile that could’ve lit every power grid in Kansas and the next, she was flat on the concrete. Hard. Face first. You heard the slap of her little hands. The sharp crack of her chin. A whimper cut off too fast. Then silence. No scream.

Dean didn’t even remember moving. He was there on his knees before she’d even finished falling, the car door still wide open behind him. “Lilah!”, he gasped.

She was stunned. Not crying yet, but that terrible quiet shock had settled over her. Her hands were scraped. Her knees too. But it was her chin that caught the worst of it. Blood was already beading at the edge of her lip, a smear blooming down the front of her hoodie.

Dean reached for her like she was made of glass. “Hey—hey, baby girl, I got you, I got you—”.

You jogged over fast, but not panicked. Lilah was… well, she was Lilah. A walking whirlwind. The sidewalk and she were well-acquainted.

Still, Dean looked up at you with horror in his eyes like someone had just torn the earth open beneath him. “She’s—she’s bleeding”, he choked out, one hand hovering near her lip, the other still barely steadying her back.

“I see it”, you said softly and crouching beside them. “She’ll be fine. It just looks bad because it’s her face”.

Lilah’s lower lip trembled, eyes huge and glassy. Her hands were clenched into fists, scraped raw, and she was clearly trying her very best not to cry, but her breathing was catching, shaky. “I- I fell”, she mumbled, voice cracking.

That was it. Dean pulled her into his chest carefully, like he didn’t trust his own strength. He kissed her temple, voice wrecked. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You pulled a pack of wipes from your bag (always stocked) and gently started to clean her hands first. “You’ve had worse, remember when you fell out of the hammock?”.

Lilah blinked up at you like she was trying to remember. “Was that the time I got a leaf in my butt?”.

Dean made a sound that might’ve been a sob or a laugh. Maybe both.

You nodded, smiling gently. “That’s the one”.

You dabbed her chin next, careful, wincing when she did. The cut was shallow but messy, and her lip had split a little. Nothing a little ice, ointment and maybe a popsicle couldn’t fix. You’d cleaned up worse. She’d bounced back faster.

Dean, though, Dean still looked wrecked. His hand cradled the back of her head like he could will the pain out of her. His knuckles were white where they curled into her hoodie.

“She’s fine”, you said gently, looking over at him.

He didn’t answer right away. He was watching her with wide eyes. “I never—”, he started, then swallowed. “I never thought about what it would feel like”.

You softened a little. “She bleeds once a week. Sometimes twice if it’s Thursday and she’s had juice”.

He huffed a laugh, but there was no real air in it. His hand brushed her curls again, brushing away bits of gravel. “I thought I’d seen it all”, he murmured. “But that…”.

You reached out, thumb catching the tear that had finally broken loose and slipped down Lilah’s cheek. She didn’t flinch or fuss, just watched you with big, watery eyes and that same stunned quiet that came after a real fall. “She’s got grit”, you murmured while gently brushing her hair back.

Dean’s arms were still locked around her, steady as stone now, but you saw the strain in his jaw. He hadn’t let go for a second. Like maybe if he held her tight enough, he could undo the pavement entirely.

“Okay, baby”, you said softly and digging once more into your purse . “You know the drill”.

Lilah nodded, sniffling, and sat slowly on Dean’s bend led, her little hands fisted around his flannel now. She didn’t even ask for you to hold her this time. She wanted him. She chose him. And Dean looked down at her like she was holy.

You unzipped the little pouch, the one with princess Band-Aids, triple-antibiotic cream and those single-serving ice packs that popped when you twisted them just right.

“Which color today?”, you asked.

“Unicorn”, she whispered. “For bravery”.

“Brave as they come”, you said, handing the packet to Dean without thinking. “Here, squeeze this. Crack it down the middle”.

He took it like it and followed your instructions. It popped cold a second later, and you saw the flicker of awe in his face as it activated. That this was a thing. That you just… had it. Like magic.

You dabbed ointment on the scrape at her chin first. Then the knees. Then her palms. Her little body wobbled with each touch, but Dean steadied her silently, his hand curved protectively over her ribs, his cheek resting lightly against her hair.

“Almost done”, you said gently. “Ready for the unicorn?”.

She nodded, eyes brimming again. She held out her hand, chin tilted up.

You peeled the sticker and pressed the bandage gently over her chin. Dean watched every second of it like it was surgery. Like this was sacred.

Lilah leaned back against him with a tiny sigh. “That one stings more”, she whispered.

“I know, baby girl”, he murmured, brushing his lips against the top of her head. “But it’s done. You did so good”.

She went quiet for a moment, chewing the edge of her lip, then asked, as casual as only a four-year-old could manage: “Do you still wanna home?”.

Dean choked on a laugh, his voice rough. “You kidding? You’re not gettin’ rid of me”.

She smiled again, just a little. Her hand found his collar and tugged him close. “I missed you, Daddy”.

Dean’s body jolted like she’d hit him in the chest. You saw the breath go out of him. Slow, uneven. Like maybe the words cracked open something that had been locked down for years. She hadn’t even known him three weeks ago, and now she was hugging him like this. Saying that.

He dropped his chin to the top of her head and closed his eyes. Tight. “I missed you too, baby girl”.

She squeezed him tighter in response, like she could somehow make up for the time they’d lost with the strength of her little arms alone. And Dean was wrecked.

-

You pushed the front door open with your hip, juggling your purse and her backpack, while Dean carried her inside like she was made of spun glass.

“She’s probably due for Tylenol and a snack”, you mumbled, half to yourself, already kicking off your shoes. “And a fresh outfit—she’s got sidewalk all over her”.

Lilah didn’t say a word. She just tucked her face into Dean’s neck and made a soft, sleepy hum, like she was content staying right where she was forever.

You made it to her room on autopilot. Drawer open. Cotton in your hands before you could even think twice. You turned, holding the new outfit out toward Dean, already stepping back toward the hallway. “Can you help her change? I need five minutes to pee”.

Dean blinked like you’d just handed him an alien artifact. “Uh—yeah. Yeah, sure”.

“Thanks”, you said, already halfway down the hall. “If she gives you hell about the shirt tag, just cut it off. Second drawer”.

He nodded, shifting her gently in his arms as you disappeared around the corner. Lilah blinked up at him from his arms, her cheek still resting against his shoulder. She was warm and pink-cheeked, the adrenaline of her fall long gone. Her lashes fluttered half-sleepy.

Dean cleared his throat and gave her a mock-serious look. “Alright, Buzz. I got a mission for us. Clothes change. You up for that?”.

She nodded against him. “But not the scratchy socks”.

“No scratchy socks. Got it”. He carried her to the couch and eased her down onto the blanket, keeping her bunny within arm’s reach. He looked at the soft outfit you’d handed him like it was made of silk and landmines.

“How is this shirt so small?”, he muttered, turning it over in his hands. “This is like… napkin-sized. You sure you’re not secretly a cat?”.

Lilah giggled. “I’m not a cat, Daddy”.

He grinned, trying not to melt at the way she said it—Daddy—like it had always belonged to him.

“Alright, cat or not, let’s get this sidewalk outfit off you”. He helped her out of the dusty top first, doing his best not to tangle her arms. “How the hell do moms do this one-handed?”, he mumbled, then caught himself. “Sorry—heck. How the heck do moms do this one-handed?”.

“You can say bad words when I’m asleep”, Lilah offered helpfully.

Dean snorted. “Noted”.

When she was finally dressed and tucked under the blanket, she let out a sigh like she’d just run a marathon.

“You did good”, Dean said, brushing a curl back from her forehead. “You’re tough”.

She looked up at him, serious. “You did good too”.

Dean blinked. “Yeah?”.

“Yeah”. A small pause. Then: “But Mommy’s faster”.

Dean laughed, full-bodied this time, and leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Yeah, she is”.

From down the hall, you called out, “I heard that!”.

Dean looked toward the hallway, grinning. “You were supposed to be peeing”.

“I was! I can still have ears!”.

Lilah laughed, a giggle that turned into a yawn, her eyelids beginning to drift. Dean pulled the blanket higher over her chest, watching her settle into the couch.

You stepped into the room a moment later, comfy clothes on and hair pulled back. Dean looked up at you and everything in his expression softened. “She’s out”, he said quietly, nodding at Lilah.

“She always crashes hard after crying and Tylenol”, you murmured, moving closer. “And after throwing herself face-first into a parking lot”.

Dean flinched. “Don’t remind me”.

You smiled. “You did good”.

His eyes flicked up. “Yeah?”.

“Yeah”, you said and reached down to gently adjust Lilah’s little sheep-patterned sleeve. “But next time, maybe you catch her”.

Dean mock-scoffed. “I was trying. Kid’s fast”.

“She’s yours”, you teased, then met his eyes again.

A few minutes later in the kitchen, you handed Dean a cold beer without a word. He took it with a soft grunt of thanks, glancing down at the label. “Didn’t even know they still made this”.

“Barely”, you said, cracking a small smile. “I bribed the guy at the liquor store. Told him it was for a war hero”.

Dean snorted, easing himself onto the barstool. “Guess I am a little battle-worn”.

You shot him a look as you pulled steaks from the fridge. “You’re bruised and dramatic. Not ancient”.

He sipped the beer, watching you move with quiet amusement. “You always cook like his?”.

“Only when the occasion calls for it”.

“And this counts?”.

You gave him a side glance as you peeled potatoes at the sink. “You’re here. That counts”.

That shut him up. He looked at the beer, then at you, then at the couch where his daughter slept like she hadn’t turned his whole damn life inside out in the best way.

You turned back to the stove and kept moving. Steak, coleslaw and mashed potatoes. The classics. His classics. And, funny enough, now hers too. “Lilah actually asks for this sometimes”, you said, voice casual as you seasoned the meat. “She calls it ‘Daddy food’. Even before she met you”.

Dean blinked. “Wait, really?”.

“Yeah. Like she knew somehow”.

He swallowed, his eyes going a little soft again, voice low. “That’s… a little spooky”.

“Told you she is your kid”, you replied, not looking back at him.

That earned a grin. He watched you with that easy look, with elbows on the counter, beer in hand, like he belonged in that kitchen… like he’d never left. Like he wanted to memorize this version of you, too: sleeves pushed up, barefoot, making dinner while his daughter snored five feet away.

“Need help?”, he asked.

You shot him a look. “With mashed potatoes?”.

“Don’t insult my peeling skills”.

“Dean, you once tried to microwave potatoes in a foil tray”.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m teachable”.

“You better be”, you said. “Or Lilah’s gonna run circles around you”.

“Already does”.

You just smirked. He leaned on the stool.

“So”, he said after a sip, voice casual but edged with curiosity. “These last three weeks. Did I miss anything? She do somethin’ new I should know about?”.

You arched a brow, glancing over your shoulder. “Besides telling every stranger within a mile radius that her daddy is a bruised zombie who hunts for a living? No. You’re caught up”.

He groaned. “Great. First I’m the absent dad, now I’m the weirdo in the pickup line”.

“It’s better than her telling people about the time she fell out of the hammock and got a leaf in her butt. That story’s a fan favorite”.

Dean laughed, low and warm. Then his eyes flicked over you, lingering just a little too long.

You turned from the stove, wiping your hands on a dish towel, and leaned a hip against the counter. Your eyes narrowed just enough to make it playful. “What about you?”, you asked. “Hiding any new bruises? Another near-death experience you’re planning to brush off until I catch you bleeding again?”.

Dean’s grin tilted sharp. “Depends. You gonna check me over later?”.

“You’re bold”, you said flatly. “So bold it’s stupid”.

“Yeah?”. He took a slow sip, eyes fixed on your mouth. “You sound turned on”.

You scoffed. “You sound like someone who hasn’t been punched in the throat recently”.

Dean leaned forward. “I dunno, sweetheart. Could be worth it”.

“You think everything’s worth it if you get a smartass line in before you black out”.

“And if I get to die with your thighs around my ears?”. He shrugged. “I’ll go smiling”.

You nearly choked on your own breath. Your jaw dropped for half a second, and then your eyes narrowed again, sharper this time. “You’re lucky I’m holding a hot pan right now”, you muttered, turning back to the stove, the spatula in your hand threatening to become a weapon. “If I weren’t, I’d leave a print of it on your fuckin´s smug face”.

Dean whistled low, grinning into his bottle. “Geez. That mouth. I forgot how mean you get when you’re horny”.

You spun, spatula pointed at his chest. “Say horny again like that and I swear, Dean, I’ll stick this handle down your throat”.

He blinked. Then licked his lips. “Promise?”.

You stared at him. He stared back. A beat passed.

And then you made a disgusted noise and turned back to the mashed potatoes.

Dean leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Damn. I missed this”.

You didn’t turn around. “You’re not getting laid just because you survived three weeks of FaceTime and didn’t drop my kid”.

Dean’s laugh was deep and honest and so full of trouble. “Sure. But I’m getting closer. You didn’t hit me. Yet”.

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes trailing down his torso, not subtle at all.

“Closer?”, you repeated. “With that?”. You gestured with the spatula at his middle. “Please. You’ve gone soft. Literally. Steak and beer gut creeping in, Winchester”.

Dean sat up straighter, hand immediately going to his belt like he was ready to defend himself in court. His grin, though, only widened. “Soft? Sweetheart, this—”, he patted his stomach once, cocky as hell “—is tactical comfort. Besides, the only muscle that matters is still working just fine”.

You raised a brow. “Oh really? Which one’s that? The one that helps you lift burgers to your face?”.

Dean leaned forward, eyes dark, voice dropping so low it brushed over your skin like smoke. “Nah. The one that gets hard the second you so much as glare at me. The one you used to ride until your legs shook”.

Your spatula froze mid-stir. Heat shot through you so fast it made your ears ring. And he saw it. That bastard always did. Dean’s smirk grew. “Yeah. Bet you’re remembering exactly what it feels like”.

You forced a laugh. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that memorable”.

Dean’s brow ticked up. “Oh, you’re full of shit”. He leaned even more forward, grin spreading. “That time in Sheridan… You tried to walk straight the next day and couldn’t even make it to the vending machine without wobbling”.

Your face went hot, your mouth opening before you could stop it. “That’s only because you’re… freakishly big. Like—concerningly big. Somebody should’ve filed a fuckin´ complaint”.

Dean’s laugh came out rough and so deep from his chest, and God help you, it still did things to you. He tipped his beer bottle toward you in mock salute.

“Concerningly big”, he said, savoring it like it was the punchline of the decade. “That’s a hell of a Yelp review. Bet you’d still give me five stars”.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to hurt. “More like three. Points docked for arrogance and absolutely zero aftercare”.

“Zero aftercare? I used to keep you in bed so long you begged me to let you go pee. Don’t rewrite history just ’cause you’re mad I’m right”.

“You’re insufferable”.

“I’m insufferable, but you still loved how I stuffed you. Couldn’t take all of me half the time, and still—”, he leaned back, spreading his knees wide, voice dropping to a near growl, “—you always came back for seconds”.

Your pulse hammered, traitorous heat licking up your neck. Your grip on the spatula tightened, the handle slick against your palm. You should’ve shut him down. Should’ve turned back to the stove, kept the upper hand. But instead, your eyes betrayed you. They dragged over him: the spread of his knees. The flex of his fingers around the beer bottle. The way the flannel strained across his shoulders, hiding bruises you knew were there. You hated how your body reacted before your brain caught up, how your mouth went dry, your thighs pressed closer together and how every nerve remembered him.

Dean set the bottle down with a soft clink and leaned back just enough to give you room to look. And shit, you looked.

Your gaze traced the line of his jaw, the scruff shadowing his bruised chin. Down to his chest, the open collar of his shirt, the hint of skin beneath it. His stomach—not soft, not really, but lived-in, older, broader than the boy you remembered. Your eyes dipped lower still, and you hated the pulse that jumped when you saw the shift in his jeans.

His eyes swept over you in return, just as deliberate. The loose fall of your shirt over your curves, the movement of your chest when you tried (and failed) to steady your breathing and the faint flush creeping up your throat. He lingered at your hips, your thighs, then back up to your mouth.

By the time your eyes met again, it wasn’t teasing anymore. It was bare. Charged. Like undressing each other without a single touch.

Dean’s tongue darted across his lip. Then he braced one hand on the counter, pushing himself up from the stool. He closed the distance slowly, giving you every chance to shove him back, to remind him of all the rules you’d laid down.

You didn’t. The spatula slipped from your fingers, landing on the counter with a dull thunk.

He stopped just shy of you, so close the heat of him pressed into your skin without contact. His chest rose and fell hard, like holding himself back took more effort than fighting any monster ever had.

He lifted his hand. Rough fingertips brushed your hip, featherlight and so hesitant. Testing. Your breath hitched.

Dean let out a sound half groan, half laugh, like touching you again after all these years was both agony and relief. His palm settled fully against your waist.

You couldn’t help it, you leaned into him, just barely. And his other hand came up, slow, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear before tracing down your jaw. Your eyes fluttered shut at the contact, traitorous. His thumb rested at the corner of your mouth and you felt the tremor in his touch.

“You know…”, he murmured, leaning in so close the stubble of his jaw skimmed your temple, “you should really think about dodging some of those rules of yours”.

Your breath hitched, your pulse loud in your ears. “Dean—”.

“Not all of ‘em”, he cut in, voice a husky tease. “Just the ones that keep me from fucking you until you forget your own damn name”.

Heat flooded you in equal parts want and fury. You shoved lightly at his chest. Not enough to push him away, just enough to remind him you could. His ribs flexed under your palm, and he groaned half in pain, half in amusement.

Your hand lingered on his chest and instead of backing off, your fingers found the edge of his flannel. The top button slipped open with an easy flick, then another. Dean’s grin faltered, replaced with something tighter, wary.

“So there are bruises after all, huh?”, you muttered, more accusation than question.

“Sweetheart—”.

You ignored him, tugging the fabric aside. The third button gave and the shirt fell just enough for the truth to spill out. His ribs, his stomach—blue, purple, yellow, ugly splashes of pain painted across skin you remembered once being unbroken.

You exhaled through your nose. You let the fabric slip from your fingers. Your jaw clenched as you stepped half a pace back, crossing your arms to keep from pressing further.

Dean’s eyes tracked you, cautious, waiting for the scolding you weren’t giving yet. Then his mouth curved, he never could leave silence alone.

“Usually”, he drawled, “women don’t walk away after they started to undress me”.

You shot him a flat look, unimpressed. “Usually, women aren’t peeling back layers to check if you’ve got internal bleeding”.

“Still counts as foreplay in my book”.

“Geez“, you muttered, shaking your head.

“If you really wanted to check for damage, you could start lower—maybe see if my—”.

You moved faster than he expected, stepping into his space and pressing a single finger against his lip. The words died there. His mouth stayed half-parted, breath ghosting over your knuckle. His lashes flicked up, green eyes locking on yours, wide for just a second before they narrowed in something darker.

“Don’t”, you warned, voice quiet but steady.

He went still under your touch, his grin tugging slow at the corner like he knew damn well you’d shut him up and liked it more than he should. His eyes dropped, slow and deliberate, like he was guiding you there on purpose. His gaze made it impossible not to follow. Down. And sure as shit—he was hard. The denim pulled tight, straining in a way that left no room for doubt.

Heat coiled in your gut before you could stop it.

Dean huffed once against your fingertip, his smirk creeping back even as his lip pressed to the pad like a kiss he wasn’t allowed to take. His voice was muffled when he spoke, but it still punched through you. “See what you do to me?”.

You swallowed, pulse pounding in your ears.

“Four years”, he rasped, lips brushing your skin. “Still takes one look from you, and I’m fuckin’ gone”.

“God, you’re so damn… childish”, you muttered, your voice trembling more with heat than with anger.

“Childish?”, he murmured, lips moving against your skin, that damn smirk leaking into every syllable. “Sweetheart, I’m hard in your kitchen, bruised to hell, and still begging for your hands. That’s not childish. That’s desperate”. His eyes locked on yours. “And you don’t sound too mad about it”.

“Dean…”, you warned, but it was more plea than threat. And he knew it. He leaned just a fraction closer, your finger still against his mouth, his breath warm on your skin. “One rule, sweetheart. Break just one… let me to kiss you”.

The air between you was thick enough to choke on. Your finger was still pressed to his mouth, while his eyes were daring you to make the call.

Then Lilah´s little voice, drowsy and cracked with sleep, broke it clean in half. “Mommy?”.

Both of you jerked like guilty teenagers. Your finger dropped from Dean’s lips so fast it might’ve burned you, and you spun toward the sound of her voice. Lilah stood at the edge of the couch, hair sticking up like static, rabbit clutched to her chest. Her eyes were still puffy with sleep, her voice heavy with it too.

“Hey, baby”, you said quickly, soft and warm as you crossed the room. “You’re hungry?”.

Lilah nodded. She rubbed at her eye, bottom lip jutting just slightly like she was still half in her dreams. “Yeah”, she mumbled. “Hungry”.

You crouched to smooth the curls from her face, kissing her warm cheek. “Perfect timing, then. Dinner’s ready”.

Behind you, Dean cleared his throat, too casual and too obvious. “Got mashed potatoes and everything, Buzz”, he said, voice a little rough around the edges. “Bet you’ll like it”.

Lilah’s sleepy face lit up immediately. “And steak?”.

Dean’s mouth curved, softer now. “And steak”.

She blinked once, then padded straight past you to him, lifting her arms like it wasn’t even a question who was carrying her this time. Dean didn’t hesitate. He scooped her up carefully, mindful of her scraped knees, and she tucked right into his chest. “C’mon, Buzz”, he said gently, chin resting against her hair. “Let’s get you fed before you start gnawin’ on me”.

She giggled into his chest, muffled, and you felt something twist low in your stomach because it sounded so easy, so right.

You plated the food with your back to them, mostly because you didn’t trust your face not to give you away. Dean was settling with her in his lap at the table.

By the time you turned with the plates, Lilah was already chattering through her sleep haze, head tipped back so she could see him properly.

“And then I painted a spider at school, but the legs were too big so it looked like a crab, and Lucy said it wasn’t scary but Ms. Rivera said crabs are scary if you’re a clam”.

Dean listened like she was briefing him on a mission. “Well, Lucy doesn’t know what she’s talkin’ about. Crabs’ll take a toe clean off”.

Lilah gasped. “Really?”.

“Really”. He gave her the fork you handed him, letting her spear the first piece of steak herself. “So, scary spider-crab. Makes perfect sense”.

She hummed, satisfied with the logic, and dug in like it was the best thing she’d ever eaten.

You slid into the chair opposite them, forcing yourself to focus on your own food, on cutting your steak, on anything but the picture across the table: your daughter in his lap, her curls brushing his jaw, his hand steady around hers when she tried to balance the fork.

Every so often, though, you caught Dean’s eyes flicking up to you. Like he couldn’t stop himself.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 7

-

By late morning, the rain had rinsed the sky to a dull nickel. Sam was already waiting. His duffel was zipped and coffee in a to-go cup waited for Dean on the table. “Bunker’s an hour”, he said, nodding toward the door.

Dean sat on the bed edge like his bones didn’t fit right. He shook his head once. “Can’t. I gotta stay a little longer”.

Sam stilled. “Because…?”.

Dean’s jaw worked. “Just… need to”.

“Uh-huh”, Sam set the keys on the table and folded his arms. “Last night you told me ‘not tonight’. That was last night”.

Silence stretched. Dean dug out his phone like it weighed a hundred pounds. He thumbed it open, found the photo and turned the screen so Sam could see.

A little zom-bee blur, cheeks glitter-smudged, wings crooked, chin tipped up with the kind of pride that only comes from the best costume in the world. Green eyes brighter than his ever were.

Sam didn’t say anything for a full breath. Then, so damn soft: “Dean”.

Dean stared at the carpet. “Yeah”.

“She looks like you”. The corner of Sam’s mouth pulled, not quite a smile, not pity, just recognition. “And like…”. He didn’t finish your name.

Dean nodded once, slow. “Ran into her at the daycare. Ran into my… ”. The word stuck; he swallowed it down. “Didn’t know. I swear to God, Sammy, I didn’t know”.

Sam sat down heavy on the edge of the opposite bed, his hands dangling useless between his knees. His face was a tight knot of things he didn’t say right away. Shock, understanding and maybe even a little grief at the years gone.

Dean kept his eyes on the carpet, thumbs pressing hard into his thighs like he could hold himself together with sheer pressure.

After a long while, Sam cleared his throat. His voice came quieter than usual, like he was afraid too much volume might break something already cracked. “How’s (Y/N)?”.

Dean dragged a hand down his face, then propped his elbow on his knee, eyes glassy but guarded. “Mad”, he admitted. “Mad as hell. And she should be. I left, Sam. She had to do it all—pregnancy, diapers, first steps… all of it—alone”. His jaw worked, eyes darting to the photo still glowing on his screen before he locked it dark. “I don’t think I’ll ever crawl out of that hole”.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But she let you in the house”.

“Yeah”. Dean huffed out a humorless laugh. “Right after she nearly tore me a new one for being four years late”. He looked down, thumb rubbing a raw spot on his knuckle. “Held me anyway. When I broke. That’s just who she is. Strong. Too good for me”.

Sam was quiet, watching him carefully.

Dean exhaled hard. “She laid out rules last night. Said if I bail again, there’s no comin’ back. Told me straight up she’d rather raise Lilah without me than risk me bein’ ‘sometimes’”. His throat tightened around the name, like it was still too new to fit in his mouth.

Sam nodded slowly, letting that settle. “Sounds like she still… cares for you”.

Dean’s laugh cracked, bitter at the edges. “Sounds like she remembers what I did”. He leaned back. “I’ll take that over nothin’. I’ll spend the rest of my life earnin’ whatever piece she’ll give me”.

Sam studied him another long moment, then said softly, “And… the kid?”.

Dean’s whole expression softened, almost against his will. “She’s… perfect. Loud, sticky, stubborn. Smarter than I was at her age. Way smarter”. His lip twitched into something close to a smile. “She called me rude for not introducin’ myself with my name”.

“Yeah, that tracks”. Sam sat back. “You’re a Dad, Dean”.

Dean’s head dropped. He let out a shaky laugh that didn’t have any humor in it. “Yeah”, he muttered, voice rough. “Hell of a job to hand a guy like me”.

Sam shook his head firmly. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t write yourself out before you even start”. He leaned forward again. “You’ve been raising me since you were four. You’ve been watching my back on hunts, saving people, carrying the weight of everyone around you for years. If anyone knows how to protect and give a damn, it’s you”.

Dean blew out a long breath, sat back, and finally let his head tip toward the ceiling. His eyes blinked fast, glassy, the fight drained out of his shoulders. “She deserves better than me”, he whispered.

“Maybe”, Sam allowed, because sugarcoating never worked with Dean. “But she doesn’t want better. She wants you”.

“She’s gonna know tomorrow”.

Sam looked up. “You’re telling her?”.

Dean swallowed. “Over pancakes”. A humorless huff of air left his nose. “Real wholesome shit, right? Sunday morning, cartoons on in the next room, syrup on her fingers—and I get to look her in the eye and tell her why I wasn’t there the first time she said ‘daddy’”.

Sam didn’t say anything. He just let Dean speak.

“Sam, I don’t… I don’t know how to do this”, he admitted. “You can hand me a gun, throw me at a nest of vampires, drop me in the middle of a demon deal—I’ll figure it out. But this? Sittin’ at a kitchen table, lookin’ at a kid who’s got my eyes, and tellin’ her I’m the guy who didn’t show up for four years…”. His throat closed around the rest. Sam stayed quiet, waiting. Dean blew out a shaky breath. “What if she hates me? What if I open my mouth and all she sees is the son of a bitch who wasn’t there? I already feel like that’s all I am”. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “And she—she’s so damn little. She asked me if I knew her daddy like it was… like it was the easiest thing in the world. What if I tell her the truth and it wrecks her?”. Dean shook his head hard. “I’m scared shitless, Sammy. More than hellhounds, more than the cage, more than anything. This isn’t a fight I can win with my fists. It’s… it’s her heart. And I don’t trust myself not to break it”.

Sam let the silence stretch, gave him the space to breathe. “Then don’t”, he said finally. “Don’t break it. Just show up. Keep showing up. That’s all she needs”.

-

At the same time you parked under a maple that had decided to shed all at once, buckled Lilah out of her seat, and set her down so her yellow rain boots could test every puddle between the curb and the sliding doors of the grocery store.

“Remember the rule”, you said, catching her hood before she made a sprint for the automatic mat. “One thing”.

She nodded, solemn as a judge. “One thing”. Then, because she was four and a lawyer, “But bananas are a bunch, and a bunch is one”.

You bit back a smile. “Nice try”.

Lilah insisted on standing on the front bar of the cart like a ship’s captain, stuffed bee tucked under her arm, her rabbit riding in the seat. “List, Mommy”, she said, pointing at your phone like a tiny foreman. “Read it. We need the things”.

You read it out because you both liked the ritual: milk, eggs, flour, butter, syrup, blueberries, coffee, paper towels, salt. (You didn’t add why the extra salt)

In cereal, Lilah got distracted naming mascots. In pasta, she whispered to the box shapes through the little cellophane windows like they could hear her, choosing the shells because “they are tiny bowls for butter”. She put them in the cart and then put them in again for emphasis.

At the end of the baking aisle, you stopped at the syrup. Your hand hovered over the glass bottle you always bought on sale. “What do you think?”.

“Pancake juice”, she said and tapped the bottle with one decisive finger. “The red one. ’Cause Sunday is special”.

Your throat tightened. You made your voice easy. “Sunday is special”.

She didn’t know why. She didn’t need to.

She kept to her captain’s post almost the whole trip, making you stop to smell candles with names like “Frosted Pumpkin” and “Autumn Hearth” (the first got a scrunched nose, the second a serious nod), saying hi to a baby in another cart like they were colleagues. By the time you hit the Halloween aisle, her restraint was wearing thin.

“One thing”, she reminded herself out loud, hands clasped behind her back like a monk as she walked past masks and plastic fangs. She paused at the glitter, considered it, then at a bag of tiny ghost marshmallows, then at a roll of black-and-yellow ribbon.

Then she ran back to the cart, eyes bright, breathless with the kind of idea that takes up a whole kid. She was clutching a little aluminum package in both hands like treasure. “Can my one thing be for Dean?”, she asked, already answering herself as she wiggled a six-pack of mini graham-cracker pie crusts.

You blinked. “For… Dean?”.

She nodded so hard her hood bounced. “’Cause he likes pie. And these are baby pies so they won’t spill in Baby”. She patted the air like she’d just solved logistics at a national level. “We can put apples in ’em and pancake juice and the honey bear—”, she gasped, eyes going wider—“we have to get the honey bear! Pleasepleaseplease?”.

Your mouth did that treacherous soft thing. “One thing”, you reminded, even though the rule was already melting in your hands.

She hugged the little package tighter, earnest and fierce. “Then this is my one thing. For Dean. You can get the honey. For you”. She tipped her head, bargaining. “Or for Sunday”.

You swallowed but nodded. You were too stunned to say something.

From there, she treated the mini crusts like a VIP. She refused to put them in the big basket “in case they get squished”.

At checkout she lined everything on the belt in a bossy little parade. Milk, eggs, “baby bowls for butter”, blueberries… and then set the mini crusts down last, both hands, like a ceremony. She looked at the cashier with solemn authority. “These are for my friend Dean”, she explained. “He has a loud car but it’s nice. He’s gonna sit with us on Sunday and eat baby pies”.

The cashier’s smile turned gentle. “Sounds like a very good friend”.

Lilah considered this, then nodded once. “He brought bee. So yes”.

Outside, the rain had softened to a whisper. She insisted on carrying the pie crusts herself, arms wrapped around them, rabbit hooked in the crook of her elbow. Halfway to the car she stopped and looked up at you, serious as a judge again. “Do you think he’ll like them?”.

You knelt to her level, smoothing a curl that had escaped her hood. “I think he’ll love them”, you said, and your voice surprised you by not wobbling. “Especially because they’re from you”.

She let out a breath like she’d been holding it for days and beamed, small face bright even under the gray sky. “Good. ’Cause Sunday is special”.

“It is”, you said and buckled her in with the mini crusts tucked safely beside her like a passenger.

-

On sunday morning the bathroom mirror was fogged from the bath you and Lilah had shared. Now she sat on the closed lid, wrapped in a towel like a burrito with cheeks flushed pink from the warmth. Her curls clung damp to her forehead, and she leaned toward you with the kind of serious concentration that only four-year-olds possessed. “Make my hair pretty please”, she said with big eyes blinking up at you.

“Pretty how?”, you asked, comb already in hand.

“Pretty-pretty”, she clarified, which of course explained everything. “Like… for pancakes”.

You bit back a smile, parting her hair carefully, working the tangles out in slow, patient strokes. “For pancakes, huh?”.

“Yeah. And for Dean”. Her voice dipped softer on his name, like she was saying it to the mirror more than to you. “So he knows I’m fancy”.

Your chest tightened, but you nodded, keeping your voice even. “Fancy it is”. You twisted her curls into two soft buns, tying them off with the yellow scrunchies she loved.

When you guided her back into her room, she didn’t even hesitate. She went straight for the drawer where her favorite set lived: mint cotton pants soft from a hundred washes and the long-sleeve shirt with the little ears stitched on the hood. She hugged it to her chest like treasure. “This one”, she declared.

You knelt to help her dress, easing her arms through the sleeves, tugging the soft fabric down over her still-warm skin. She bounced a little on her toes, too excited to stay still, and once the hood was up, she beamed at you from under the floppy ears. “Do I look pretty-pretty?”, she asked, spinning once.

You caught her mid-spin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You look perfect”.

She giggled, cheeks hot against yours, then wriggled out of your arms and hopped twice on the rug, hood ears bouncing. “Dean’s gonna like it”, she announced with the kind of confidence only she could manage. “He’s gonna say, ‘whoa, fancy ears!’”. She pitched her voice low and gravelly in her best Dean impression, then cracked herself up.

You arched a brow, tugging her hood straight. “That what you think he’s gonna say?”.

“Uh-huh”. She tapped the stuffed bee’s head like it agreed. “Dean likes funny stuff. He laughed when I said Baby can’t cuddle”

She hadn’t stopped since that first night. Dean this, Dean that. She talked about him the way she used to talk about invisible friends, only this time the friend was flesh and blood and walked right through your front door.

“He’s nice, Mommy”, she went on. “He listens when I talk. He says I’m smart”. She tipped her head, curls brushing her cheek. “Do you think he likes me back?”.

You swallowed, smoothing the shoulder seam of her shirt even though it didn’t need it. “I think he does”.

“Good”. She nodded decisively. “’Cause I like him. A lot”. She pressed her rabbit to her chest, voice going small. “He feels like… like he’s my friend”.

You brushed your thumb across her cheek, forcing your voice steady. “You really do like him, huh?”.

Her little mouth curved into a secret smile. “Mm-hm. I like him forever”.

You kissed the crown of her head, holding her closer for a moment, your throat thick.

She wriggled away a second later, clapping her hands. “Now pancakes! Dean’s gonna be hungry!”.

A few minutes later Dean knocked just as you were flipping the last pancake onto the stack.

“Dean!”, Lilah squealed, launching off her stool before you could catch her. She skidded across the floor in sock feet, hood ears flopping, and yanked the door open with both hands.

Dean stood there in the soft light, shoulders a little hunched like the air was heavier outside than in. The bruises were worse today. His eye swollen darker, jaw edged in purple, a stiffness in the way he held himself that made your ribs ache just looking at him. But he was smiling. Careful, small. And in his hand was a bright yellow gift bag with black tissue paper poking out the top. “Morning, kiddo”, he said, voice low, like he wasn’t sure his throat would hold up.

Lilah gasped, grabbing the bag like treasure. “You brought me another surprise?”.

He chuckled. “Don’t get used to it”. He tipped his chin toward the bag. “Go on. Open it”.

She ripped into the tissue paper, squealing when she pulled out a plastic bumblebee headband, the antennae tipped with glitter balls that bobbed with every movement. She shoved it onto her curls without hesitation, crooked buns sticking out underneath, and beamed up at him. “Now I’m a real bee!”.

“Looks good on you”, he said softy.

Her gaze snagged on the bruise at his jaw. She reached up without thinking, little fingers brushing his stubble. “Dean… your zombie costume didn’t wash off”.

His smile twisted. “Yeah, this kind of sticky makeup’s tough. Doesn’t come off easy”.

“Cool”, she breathed. “Mommy! Dean brought me bee sparkles!”.

Dean lingered in the doorway, the weight of his lie sitting between you, his eyes flicking up to yours. “Come in”, you said, softer than you meant, stepping aside.

Dean stepped in while Lilah scrambled back onto her chair like a general climbing into command. She was too busy adjusting her new headband in the back of a spoon to notice when Dean slipped something from the pocket of his flannel. It wasn’t flashy. Just a bar of chocolate, the same kind he used to pick up at gas stations when the two of you were on the road, when you were pissed at him for ditching you at a diner or forgetting to call. He’d never said the word apology out loud back then, just slid the wrapper across the table and waited until your mouth twitched.

He held it out now, the edges softened from the heat of his hand.

Your breath caught. “Dean—”.

His voice dropped low, meant only for you. “I’m sorry. For the other night”.

Heat rushed your face, memory flaring. Your chest tightened, a mess of want and anger and four years of hurt.

Dean’s jaw flexed. “I wasn’t thinkin’. Not with my head, anyway”. His mouth twitched at his own phrasing, but he pushed through. “Shouldn’t’ve put that on you. Or made you feel like that was all I came for. Wasn’t fair”.

Your fingers curled around the chocolate without meaning to. The wrapper crinkled like old times, like muscle memory.

Lilah banged her fork against her plate, syrup already smeared across her cheek. “Pancakes! Mommy! Dean! Hurry!”.

You set the chocolate down by the napkins, throat too tight to answer him, and turned toward the table. Dean’s hand brushed back through his hair, his breath shaky as he followed.

You carried the plate with a stack of pancakes to the table.

“Pancake juice, please”, she said, reverent.

Dean sat like he was afraid the chair might collapse under the weight of the morning. He wrapped his bruised hands around the coffee mug, holding on tighter than he needed to, and watched Lilah buzz through her pancake ritual like it was the most important mission he’d ever witnessed.

For a while, the only sound was forks scraping plates and Lilah humming some garbled version of a kindergarten Halloween song. Every few bites she broke the silence with news. How Ms. Rivera let her have two cookies because one fell on the floor, how her friend Lucy wore sparkly tights that made her itchy, how she’d decided Baby and Midnight (her paper bat) were “officially best friends forever”.

Dean responded to each detail. “No kidding”. “That’s a solid choice”. “Best friends forever’s a pretty big deal”.

He also tried to hold back his emotions when Lilah handed him the pie crusts filled with hand-cut apple slices, and you told him that she had picked them out at the grocery store as “her treat” instead of chocolate or glitter for herself.

You watched him across the table. He was trying. God, he was trying. Every nod, every hum of interest was practiced but not false. And Lilah… she glowed under it.

The weight of what had to come pressed harder with every laugh she gave him. Your fork slowed. You could feel the moment gathering in your chest, like the coil before a storm breaks. Dean must’ve felt it too. His smile slipped, just a notch. He set his fork down and rubbed his thumb against the edge of his plate, then looked at you. Not at her. At you. His green eyes asked, now?

You swallowed, nodded once, and wiped your hands on the napkin to steady them. You drew a breath, steadying yourself, and leaned forward just a little. “Lilah”, you said softly, “can you look at me for a second, baby?”.

Her fork clinked against the plate as she set it down. She blinked up at you, syrup shining on her cheek. Her big green eyes (his eyes) fixed on yours with all the patience of a child who knew something important was coming.

“You know how you’ve asked me about your daddy before?”.

She nodded once, very serious. “Uh-huh. He’s saving the world”.

“Well”, you said, voice softer still, “there’s more to that story. And I think you’re ready to hear it”.

Her head tilted.

Dean cleared his throat and immediately botched it, coughing once into his fist like a kid caught talking in class. His eyes flicked to you, then back to Lilah. “So… you know how you asked me if I knew your daddy?”.

Lilah, now looking at Dean, nodded. The glitter balls on her headband bobbed.

Dean’s mouth worked. He tried a smile and it landed crooked. “I do. Know him, I mean. ’Cause it’s… it’s me”. He winced at his own delivery, shoulders hunching a little. “I… I’m your dad”.

He braced for confusion, for questions. What he got was that tiny tilt of her head, the way she always looked at a new puzzle piece she’d already figured out. Her lashes blinked slow. Syrup shone on her lip. “Like… you you?”, she asked, pointing a sticky fork at his chest. “Dean-you?”.

“Dean-me”, he said, and tried that smile again. It came out softer this time.

Lilah stared at him for a long moment, fork still in the air like the next bite could wait until this very serious matter was solved. Her eyes narrowed just slightly. Not suspicious, just thinking. Then, gently, she set the fork down on her plate.

She climbed out of her chair and padded around the table in her socked feet. She stopped right in front of Dean, looked up at him with those impossibly big green eyes, and blinked once. “Okay”, she said.

Dean blinked back. “Okay?”.

She nodded. “Okay, Daddy”.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until it left you all at once. Dean’s face crumpled, just a fraction. His fist pressed against his mouth like he was trying to hold everything in. But Lilah didn’t give him time to fall apart.

She wrapped her arms around his middle and hugged him tight, cheek pressed against his stomach.

For a second, Dean didn’t move. Then his arms folded around her, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other holding her against him. His eyes clenched shut. “I missed so much”, he whispered, voice so low you barely caught it. “I missed you, baby girl”.

Lilah didn’t answer in words. She just hummed. Her own soft, content little sound she made when she was happiest. Like a kitten in a patch of sun. Like nothing in the world could touch her, not when she was safe in someone’s arms. Her daddy’s arms.

Dean bent forward until his forehead touched the top of her head. His voice broke as he said it again, more to himself this time. “I missed you”.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him. “But you’re here now”, she said simply, like it solved everything. And to her, it did.

Dean smiled through the tears he wouldn’t let fall. “Yeah. I’m here now”.

And with those words, Lilah beamed (beamed) like someone had turned the sun on behind her eyes. Joy rushed in and took over, quick as sugar hitting her bloodstream. She bounced on the balls of her feet, curls bouncing with her, rabbit flopping in one hand like he’d been drafted into the celebration. “So now we’re a family”, she announced, turning to you, then back to Dean. “Right? Like a real one. With pancakes and Baby, and we can all drive in her and go to the zoo and eat ice cream even when it’s raining—”.

Dean blinked. “Uh—”.

“—and I can sit in the middle and maybe we get a dog but not one that barks too loud ‘cause Bee gets scared, and—and—”.

She gasped, clutching the collar of her hoodie like the most important thought in the universe had just arrived fully formed. “And I’m getting a little brother!”, she declared, like she’d just solved world hunger. “A real one. Then I’ll be the big sister and teach him everything! Like how to buzz and how to draw spiders and how to sneak cookies when Mommy’s not looking—”.

You nearly inhaled your coffee the wrong way. Heat and bitterness hit the back of your throat, and you spluttered into your mug, coughing so hard your eyes watered.

Dean’s chair scraped against the floor as he half-rose, wide-eyed. “Jesus—hey, you good?”.

You wheezed, waving a hand, throat burning. “Fine—”, cough, “—just coffee. Just… choking on the idea of a brother”.

Dean’s mouth twitched, a helpless grin fighting through his bruises. He dragged a hand over his face, trying to school it back into seriousness. “Kid moves fast, huh?”.

“Fast?”, you rasped, still pounding your chest lightly. “She went from pancakes to pregnancy announcements in under a minute”.

Lilah, oblivious, plopped back into her chair with her rabbit under one arm and her stuffed bee under the other, beaming at both of you like she’d just drawn up the family contract and signed it in syrup.

Dean sat back down slowly, eyes flicking between you and Lilah with something that looked suspiciously close to panic wrapped in awe. “She’s a Winchester”, he mumbled while running a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. “No brakes. Just full throttle into family planning”.

“She didn’t even ask”, you whispered, still half-choking on caffeine and disbelief.

Lilah, meanwhile, had turned her attention back to her pancakes, humming to herself as she drew shapes in the syrup with her fork. “I’ll name him Bug”, she said, like it was already in the birth certificate queue. “Or maybe Rocket. No, Buzz. Buzz is good. Like a bee”.

Dean let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Buzz Winchester. Awesome. Can’t wait to tell Sam”.

You shot him a look over the rim of your mug. “I swear to God, if you encourage her…”.

Dean lifted both hands, surrender style, bruised palms facing you. “Hey. I’m just along for the ride, sweetheart”.

“I will stab you with a butter knife”.

He grinned, real this time, wide and shameless, and damn it if it didn’t put a dent in your resolve.

Lilah looked up again, eyes wide and earnest. “Can we get the baby next weekend? Please?”.

You bit down on a laugh, coughed once to cover it, and leaned across the table to brush a crumb off her cheek. “Honey, that’s… not exactly how that works”.

She frowned thoughtfully. “Why not?”.

Dean sipped his coffee, eyes dancing. “Yeah, Mommy. Why not?”.

You aimed a kick at his shin under the table. Missed. Regretted trying. Luckily Lilah was already on the next topic. Rabling on about her stuffed animals.

Eventually, without ceremony or permission, mid rambling, she stood up and carefully grabbed her plate with both hands. “I’m done sitting over here”, she announced, like the shift had been pre-approved. “I’m gonna sit with Daddy now”. Dean froze mid-sip.

She didn’t wait for an answer. Just padded over and climbed straight into his lap like she’d done it a hundred times, like he’d always been there. She set her plate on the edge of his, adjusted herself with a little wriggle to get perfectly cozy, and stabbed her fork into the half of a pancake she hadn’t finished.

Dean’s arms hovered for a second, stunned into stillness, until she leaned back against his chest. Then his arms came around her instinctively, protectively, palms spanning her little sides. His chest rose on a quiet breath you felt more than heard, and his jaw flexed like it was the only way to keep everything in.

Lilah didn’t notice. She was humming again, content and with syrup on her chin. She took a bite, chewed, swallowed, then tilted her head up toward Dean’s face. “You´re compfy”.

Dean’s mouth twisted like he was trying to smile and cry at the same time. He didn’t answer, just tucked his chin down and pressed a kiss to the top of her curls, closing his eyes as he did.

You watched all of it through a blur. You’d never seen her this settled. This whole. No hesitation, no shy warm-up. Just trust, as if the piece she hadn’t even known was missing had finally clicked into place. She belonged in his lap. And somehow… he belonged there too.

Eventually, Dean spoke again. So soft you almost didn’t catch it. “Sam asked about you”.

Your eyes lifted to his. “He did?”.

He nodded. “Wanted to know if you were okay. How you’ve been. I think he didn’t know how to say it, but—he was askin’ if you still hated me”.

Your brow twitched. “And you told him…?”.

Dean’s thumb rubbed slow circles on Lilah’s back, his other hand resting against her tiny leg where it crossed over his. “Told him you didn’t break my nose”, he said, mouth tugging into a faint smirk. “So that had to count for something”.

You arched a brow, arms still folded. “Yet”.

His grin widened. “Right. He said to keep my distance if I valued my face”.

“That’s smart of him”.

Dean chuckled under his breath, ducking his head, a lock of hair falling into his eyes as he kissed the top of Lilah’s curls. Then, quieter, without quite looking at you: “He also… asked how you’d feel about… us”. The sentence barely made it out, almost lost in the hush of the room. Like it wasn’t meant to be heard at all. “Didn’t have much of an answer. Wasn’t sure if I had the right to wonder, let alone say anything”. He swallowed. “Figured I should just do right by her first. Rest of it’s a gift if it comes”.

You stared at him. At this man, bruised and weathered and still managing to say the most devastating things like they were just facts he’d been forced to accept. Your voice came out softer than you meant. “Dean…”

But Lilah shifted, mumbling something sleep-slurred about “bee pajamas” and “pancake rocket ships”, and Dean smiled at her like his whole heart was wrapped in her tiny hands. He rocked her slightly, eyes still cast down, brushing his thumb once more across the back of her hoodie. She’d gone fully boneless now.

“I don’t expect anything”, he murmured. “Not from you. Not after what I did”. You opened your mouth, but he kept going, just a little faster. “You lettin’ me in the door at all… that’s more than I thought I’d get. Hell, I figured I’d be lucky if you slammed it into my face”. His mouth twisted like he wasn’t sure if it was funny or just a bruise on the inside.

Before you could say a word, before your lips could part or your eyes could soften, he looked up finally, green eyes flicking toward yours, cautious and a little too bright. “I should, uh… should I put her down? She’s—”. He glanced at the small, sleeping weight curled in his arms like she’d grown there. “She’s gone”.

You nodded, throat too tight to form a real answer, and stepped back to lead the way. Dean stood carefully, mindful of his ribs, one arm steady under Lilah’s legs, the other cradling her head like it was the most important thing he’d ever held.

You walked ahead of him down the short hall. When you opened her door, he paused, taking it in. The fairy lights, the little bed with the bat and the bee-themed blanket, the messy bookshelf. The life he’d missed.

Then he stepped in, slow and sure, and laid her down as gently as if she were made of glass. She murmured in her sleep but didn’t wake.

Dean straightened with a soft exhale, ran a hand over his face, and backed away from the bed like anything louder than breath might undo it all.

Then, slowly, cautiously, he stepped further into the room.

He crossed to the bookshelf first, eyes grazing the crooked rows of worn board books, glittery spines, stuffed animals that had been loved threadbare. He reached out like he might touch one (a little bear with one eye) but pulled his hand back last second.

He crouched instead, ribs protesting, to peer at a toy piano half-buried under blocks and a tiara. He smiled faintly, tracing the scuffed wood of it with his gaze. “Looks like she’s got better taste than I did at her age. I think I tried to build a rocket out of soup cans and duct tape”.

“She tried that”, you murmured from the doorway. “Used juice boxes. More colorful than soup cans”.

That pulled a real chuckle out of him. "Of course”.

He stood again, slower this time, and his eyes landed on the far wall. The photos. You saw the change in him the second they registered. His posture shifted like something inside him dropped through the floor. He stepped closer, one hand lifted, hovering near the first frame.

Her birth. Lilah swaddled and red-faced, eyes barely open, still wet from the world, your exhausted smile soft and dazed. You were the only adult in the picture. He stared at it a long time. Then moved to the next.

Her first birthday. Cake on her nose, you holding her, clapping her frosting-covered hands together. No one else around. Just the two of you. A single candle.

Then Christmas—twice. Her in pajamas with little snowmans, then in reindeer antlers a year later. You in the background each time. Tired. Smiling. But always… alone.

No family. No partner. Just you. Always just you.

Dean’s jaw clenched, and his hand closed into a fist at his side. “I should’ve been there”, he said. You didn’t answer.

He moved on, one photo at a time. A Halloween where she was dressed as a spider with too many legs. A trip to a pumpkin patch with someone’s friendly golden retriever licking her face. Her second birthday, then her third, each cake a little messier, each smile a little bigger, but still only you in the pictures. Friends in the background, maybe, but no family. No dad.

His shoulders tensed, then dropped with a slow breath. His voice came next, low and careful. “Did you…”. He cleared his throat. “I mean, over the last years… was there someone?”.

You blinked. The question landed heavier than you expected, because of the way he said it. Not angry. Not accusing, just quietly terrified of the answer.

He still hadn’t turned to face you. And from where you stood, leaning against the doorframe, you saw the flush start at the back of his neck. You let the silence stretch a little longer than you needed to. Just to make him sweat.

“No”, you said finally.

Dean exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t relief, more like disbelief laced with guilt.

You stepped into the room behind him, voice gentler now. “There were people who offered. One or two good ones”. You paused. “But no one stuck. I didn’t want anyone else around her that I couldn’t trust with my whole damn life”.

He nodded slowly. Still didn’t turn.

“And you?”, you asked, just to be fair. “Anyone?”.

Dean’s neck stiffened again, then softened. “One-night things”, he admitted, jaw tight. “Nothing that ever made it to daylight. Nothing that ever stayed”. A beat. “No one I wanted to stay”.

You breathed in through your nose. The air in the room felt heavier now. More fragile.

Dean finally turned, his eyes meeting yours across the little girl’s room where you’d lived a whole life without him. “I don’t deserve another chance with you”, he said. “I know that. I’m not asking for one. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere. I just needed to know if… I’d be in the way”.

You stepped closer, stopping just shy of him. You studied his face. The way his bruises were healing, but slower than you expected. The way his eyes looked more tired than they used to, but softer, too. “You’re not in the way”, you said, barely above a whisper.

His jaw flexed. “But not back in either”.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you glanced at the photo wall. At the space that had always been missing. A beat passed. Then another. You looked back to the photos, to that crooked line of birthdays and Christmases where one corner had always been just a little too empty. You let your fingers brush the frame closest to you. “We can talk about that… if you make it to the wall.”

Dean blinked. His brows tugged inward, that little flicker of hope chasing across his face before he could stop it. He looked down at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right, like he wanted to believe it but didn’t trust himself to.

And you—traitorous, tired, whole-heart-exhausted—you let your lips twitch. Just barely. A ghost of a smile. Not an invitation. Not yet. But not a no either.

His voice cracked a little. “Yeah?”.

“You show up. You stick. You help raise that girl like she’s your heartbeat”.

“She is”, he said immediately. No hesitation.

You took a breath, slow and quiet, and let your fingers slide from the photo. “Then maybe…”, you whispered, “we’ll talk about us”.

The word hung there, softer than it had any right to be, but solid. Real.

Beside you, Dean didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You could feel the stillness of him, like the very idea of us had frozen him in place. But he didn’t press. Didn’t even breathe too loud. And you were grateful for that. Because the truth was sitting heavy in your throat, aching behind your ribs.

The truth was you never wanted another man. You never even tried to. No matter how many nights you told yourself you should. How many well-meaning friends said you deserved someone who stayed. Someone who chose you. But no one else was Dean. No one else had ever been Dean.

You didn’t say it out loud. Wouldn’t. Not yet. You couldn’t afford to hand your heart over again that easy. But the weight of it pulsed through your silence, and you knew, he knew, it was there.

“I’ll earn that talk”, he promised. “Even if it takes the rest of my life”.

You finally turned to look at him. His eyes were softer than they’d been in years. Brighter, even with all the bruises. And he was standing like a man not at the edge of something, but finally walking into it. All in. And you gave him one nod.

-

The next hour softened into something you hadn’t felt with him in years—normal.

You sat at the kitchen table, your feet curled under you, nursing a mug of tea. Dean leaned back in the chair across from you, an ice pack tucked lazily against his ribs, a second cup of black coffee at his elbow. Lilah was still down for her nap.

And instead of the sharp, jagged pieces of what he’d done to you, what you’d been through alone, the conversation drifted to safer ground.

“Wait”. You raised a brow, skeptical. “You actually turned into a demon?”.

Dean smirked, a little too pleased with your disbelief. “Yeah. Black eyes and everything. Not my best look”.

You snorted into your tea. “No kidding”.

“I’m serious”. He leaned forward, gesturing with his free hand. “Sam had to chain me up. Whole nine yards”.

“And he didn’t put you down?”.

Dean’s smirk faded, replaced with something more thoughtful. “Nah. He… he believed I’d come back”. His eyes flicked down, softer. “Guess he was right”.

You let the quiet linger before saying, “Bet you were a nightmare”.

He grinned again, the cocky edge returning. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea”.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the twitch of your lips.

From there it was easier: Talk of old hunts, the strange case in Wisconsin with the murderous scarecrow, the one in Minnesota where a cursed rabbit’s foot nearly got them both killed. You told him about the ghost story Lilah’s daycare teacher swore was true, how you had to bite your tongue to keep from explaining salt lines at pickup.

“Guess you never really got away from it”, Dean said, tipping his head toward you.

You shrugged. “I tried. But… it sticks, you know? The way you taught me”.

His eyes warmed, a little pride sneaking through the bruises. “Guess I didn’t screw everything up”.

“Don’t push it”, you warned, but your voice had softened.

He chuckled low, sipping his coffee.

The talk rolled on. Lighter, almost easy. No confessions, no broken promises dragged back into the light. Just you and him, sitting across a kitchen table like you had a hundred times before, trading stories about monsters and scars and the bizarre life that still somehow tethered you both.

By the time the clock crept toward three, the sunlight had gone soft and low across the kitchen floor. You sat on the counter with your tea refreshed and long gone cold again, arms folded, watching Dean pretend to read the sports section of yesterday’s paper while he kept glancing at the hallway.

He wasn’t fooling you. He was waiting for the sound of small feet, for curls and rabbit ears and sleepy eyes. He wanted to be here when Lilah woke, and you knew it wasn’t just because of her. It was because he couldn’t stomach leaving without a goodbye.

“You’re not exactly subtle”, you said finally.

Dean lowered the paper, smirk crooked. “Never was”.

“Sam’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now”

He shrugged, winced when it tugged his ribs. “He can wait. She’d be pissed if I disappeared without saying somethin’”. His gaze softened. “Not doin’ that to her”.

You chewed your lip, studying him. He was older. More lines cut deep around his eyes. But damn if he wasn’t still trouble in flannel, still the same stupidly handsome man who could drive you crazy with a grin and a memory.

“Gotta admit”, you teased, leaning back against the cabinets, “you’ve aged better than I thought. Guess demons don’t wrinkle”.

He shot you a look, his smirk deepening. “Still got it, huh?”.

You snorted, sipping at your tea. He clearly still got the ego thing. “Please. Couple more weeks and you’ll be griping about your back going out instead of ghosts”.

“Yeah?”, he shot back, eyes glinting. “Couple weeks and you’ll be missin’ me so bad you’ll be dreamin’ about that back”.

Your jaw dropped, heat flashing over your cheeks. “Dean!”.

He just chuckled, rubbing at his jaw like he hadn’t just lobbed a grenade across the kitchen. “What? You asked”.

“I didn’t ask”.

“You implied”, he said easily.

Just then, Lilah appeared in the doorway, her hair a wild halo. She blinked sleepily, rubbed her eyes, and then spotted Dean. “Daddy”, she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Dean froze, just long enough for the word to crack him wide open again. Then he opened his arms without thinking. “C’mere”.

She crossed the room, climbed right into his lap and tucked her head against his chest. His arms folded around her, protective and gentle. She clung tighter, like she knew he was leaving soon and wasn’t going to waste a second. Dean held her like he could stall time just by doing it right.

Lilah curled tighter into his chest, small hands fisting his shirt, her rabbit squished between them like he was part of the deal too. You watched from the doorway, arms crossed, pretending your throat wasn’t tight, but it was. Because that word. Daddy. He’d flinched, even if barely. From the weight of it. The word sounded new in her mouth, awkward in his ears, but real. It was going to take time for him to wear it without it cutting both ways, guilt and joy in equal measure.

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him breathe through it.

He looked up after a long minute, met your eyes over the top of her curls. And then he whispered, like she was the one who needed to be braced: “I gotta head out soon, sweetheart”.

Lilah stirred, sleep still clinging to her limbs, nose smushing into his collar. “Why?”.

“Gotta go see my brother”, he said gently. “But I’ll be back in a couple days. Maybe even spend the night next time—”, he glanced at you, soft grin, “—if your mom lets me”.

Lilah pulled back slowly, blinking up at him like she’d misheard. “But… you’re my Daddy”. Her face crumpled a little with the logic of it, like she was trying to do the math and it wasn’t adding up. “Daddies stay”.

Dean’s heart shattered. You saw it. But he didn’t look away. “I know, bug”, he whispered. “I know they’re supposed to”.

Lilah’s lip trembled. “You’re not gonna leave forever, right?”.

Dean held her closer. “No”, he said firmly. “I’m not. I’m not gone, I’m just… not here every day. Not yet. But I’m coming back. That’s a promise”.

You crossed the room slowly, lowering yourself to crouch beside the chair. Lilah turned toward you, confused and a little hurt, her eyes wide and wet at the corners.

“Hey”, you said gently, brushing a curl from her forehead. “He’s right. He’s not gone. We’re just figuring it all out, okay? He’ll be back before you even get through all the pancakes in the freezer”.

Dean huffed softly through his nose. “Wait—you freeze them?”.

You side-eyed him. “You think I make fresh ones every day?”.

Lilah sniffled and giggled all at once, the sound catching in her throat. Dean kissed her forehead.

“Hey”, he whispered again. “I’m not going anywhere for good. You’re stuck with me now”.

She blinked up at him. “Forever?”.

His voice broke. “If you’ll have me”.

She nodded into his chest like it was a pact.

You stood again, trying not to stare too hard, trying not to fall into the way he was already folding into this new version of himself. But God—it was there, plain as day. Even with the bruises and the guilt and the years behind him, this was the truest you’d seen Dean Winchester in a long, long time.

A few minutes later, Dean stood by the door, Lilah still perched in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder now. Still a bit sleepy. She wasn’t letting go. He looked at you over her shoulder. You nodded.

He looked down at her. “Okay”, he murmured, shifting her so he could look her in the eyes. “I really gotta go now”.

“No”, she whispered, clutching his collar tighter. “No thank you”.

Your heart cracked. Dean let out a breath that was almost a laugh, kissed her forehead once, twice, then gently tried to set her down. She whined, soft and small. “No, Daddy”.

He froze, his hands still on her arms, brow furrowing like he was trying not to let the sound wreck him. It did anyway. But he kept his voice steady. “I promise I’m coming back. You got my word, and that’s a big deal. You remember what I said?”.

She sniffled, nodding. “Promise”.

“Right. And I don’t break promises to my girls”. His hand brushed her cheek, thumb swiping a tear she didn’t notice. “I’ll call, okay? You want that? We can talk on the phone. Like secret agents”.

She hesitated. “You call before bedtime?”.

Dean smiled. “Deal”.

You stepped in, crouched, reaching for her hand. “Come on, honey. Let’s let him go this time. So he can come back next time”.

She looked at you, then at him. Slowly, she let go.

Dean stood fully, ruffled her hair. “I’ll see you in a few days, Buzz”.

That got a smile. A sleepy, tear-splotched one, but still a smile.

You walked with him to the steps. The Impala waited at the curb, sun hitting her hood like a memory. Dean paused, turning back just once, eyes on the open door behind you where Lilah stood, framed in golden light. He looked at you then. And said, just loud enough: “I’ll be back”.

You nodded. “I know”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 6

-

Dinner ended the way most meals with Lilah did: her chattering a mile a minute about kindergarten songs and pumpkins, you trying to keep her from spilling juice all over her costume and now Dean quietly eating every bite like it was the first real food he’d had in days.

By the time the plates were stacked in the sink, she was bouncing in her chair, too excited to sit still. “Mommy! Trick-or-treat time!”, she declared, wings bobbing as she scrambled down. “I need my bucket! And my ears are crooked again!”.

You bent to straighten the felt headband, brushing her curls back into place. “Okay, okay. Jacket first. Candy second”.

She darted for the hallway, pumpkin bucket clutched tight, then paused halfway and spun on her heel. “Dean’s coming too, right?”.

You opened your mouth, ready to redirect, but she was already bounding back, tugging on his good arm with all her tiny strength. “You have to come. Everyone else has daddies for trick-or-treat. You can be mine tonight”.

Your chest clenched and words failing you. Dean looked down at her, his battered face softening in a way that made your throat ache. He glanced up at you, waiting for you to shut it down. But Lilah’s eyes were wide, hopeful and she was practically vibrating with excitement.

You exhaled, sharp, already knowing you’d lost. “Fine. But stay close. And no scaring the neighbors”.

Dean smirked faintly, winced when it pulled at his lip. “Yes, ma’am”.

-

The three of you walked the neighborhood in the crisp October air. Lilah darted from house to house. Her wings were flapping and the bucket clinking with candy. Dean kept pace beside you, his hand brushing hers whenever she reached back to make sure he was still there.

Neighbors smiled, complimented her costume and dropped fun-sized candy into her bucket. More than one pair of eyes flicked curiously to Dean, to his bruised face and to the way he kept close to your side. Gossip would fly tomorrow, you knew it. But you didn’t care.

By the time her bucket was half full, her steps slowed, yawns sneaking past her chatter. “Mommy”, she said as you started back toward your street. “I wanna sit in Baby. Just for a little. Please?”.

Dean looked at you, hesitation written all over him, waiting for your word.

You sighed, knowing the look in her eyes too well. “Five minutes”, you said firmly. “No driving”.

Lilah squealed, dropped her candy bucket at your feet, and bolted for the Impala parked at the curb. Dean’s lips twitched into something helpless, almost a smile, as he trailed after her.

He popped the passenger door open for her with a flourish, wincing only slightly when his ribs protested. “Careful, Zom-bee”, he muttered. “She’s older than all of us put together”-

Lilah climbed onto the bench seat with wide eyes, hugging her stuffed bee. “Whoa. It smells funny”.

Dean snorted. “That’s leather and history, kiddo”. He leaned in, showing her the dash. “See all those knobs? Don’t touch the one with tape on it. That’s Baby’s bad ear”.

She giggled, bouncing in place. “Can I—can I honk it?”.

Dean looked at you over the roof, brow raised. You sighed, folding your arms. “Once. Just once”.

He grinned, crooked and dangerous, and leaned down to guide her tiny hand. The horn blared, loud and proud. Lilah shrieked with laughter, clapping her hands.

Dean straightened, shutting the passenger door a bit with a gentle push. Lilah was giggling so hard she could barely sit upright, wings flapping as she hugged her stuffed bee.

Dean leaned against the car, his hand slid lazily along the Impala’s roof, fingers tapping like he was coaxing a rhythm only he knew. His grin crooked as his gaze caught yours across the hood. “So”, he drawled. “You miss her?”

You frowned. “The car?”.

His brows lifted, feigning innocence that didn’t fool either of you. “Baby”. His hand patted the roof affectionately. “Her leather, hum of the engine, the way she purrs under you”. His smirk edged dirtier. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it”.

Heat crept up your neck. “You’re impossible”.

Dean tilted his head. “C’mon. Four years is a long time to go without a ride like that”. He leaned a little closer over the roof, voice dropping conspiratorial. “Bet you’d still fit just right”.

Your pulse kicked hard. “Dean”. It came out sharper than you intended, but your throat was tight.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about it”, he pressed, bruised jaw set, one eye darkening, his whole body wrecked from the fight but still managing to look at you like you were the only thing keeping him standing. “You close your eyes and I know it’s there”.

The worst part was, he was right.

Your hands curled into fists, nails digging into your palms, because you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction. “You really think you can crawl back here bleeding all over my kitchen and pull this crap?”.

Dean smirked, even with the swelling around his eye. “Not crap if you’re wet just thinkin’ about it”.

Before you could bite back, Lilah shifted, her tiny voice drowsy: “Mommy, Dean… quiet. Bee‘s sleeping”.

Dean straightened, winced at the pull in his ribs, and scrubbed a hand over his bruised jaw. His gaze slid past you, into the car where Lilah had curled herself around the stuffed bee. The grin on his mouth softened into something raw, almost reverent. He exhaled, low, like the fight had finally left him. “What a beautiful little thing came out of it”, he murmured. Not dirty now, not cocky, just honest. You swallowed. His eyes stayed fixed on her. “Out of us”, he added, softer, almost to himself. “She’s… Christ. She’s perfect”.

The words punched something loose in your chest. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, because if you didn’t, you weren’t sure what would spill out.

“Never thought I’d… get to see it”, he admitted. “Didn’t think I had any right to”.

He finally looked at you, eyes glassy, battered face open in a way that made you want to slam the door in his face and pull him into your arms at the same time.

“She’s the best thing I ever made”, he whispered, and for once, Dean Winchester wasn’t teasing.

You pressed your arms tighter around yourself. “Come on”, you said finally. “She can’t sleep out here”.

Dean blinked at you, then nodded, careful as he eased the heavy door open. He bent slowly, ribs protesting, and slid his arms under her. He lifted her against his chest like she weighed nothing.

Lilah stirred, eyelids fluttering, then melted against him when she realized who held her. “Dean…”, she mumbled, half-asleep, tiny fingers curling into his torn flannel.

His throat worked. “Got you, sweetheart”, he whispered, so soft you almost didn’t hear it.

You shut the car door quietly and led the way up the walk, your hand hovering near his back in case his shoulder gave out. He carried her all the way inside, the two of you moving together like you’d done it a hundred times before. In her room, he bent to lay her down, slow and careful.

Then you gently untangled Lilah from her costume, while Dean lingered at the edge of the bed. She barely stirred as you slipped her out of the black tights and wings, replacing them with her favorite pajamas: the pale yellow set dotted with ladybugs and tiny bees.

Dean crouched lower, his bad shoulder stiff, watching every motion like it was a ritual. Like he didn’t want to miss a single step. His green eyes softened at the sight of the pajamas, a faint huff of something like a laugh escaping him. “Ladybugs and bees”, he murmured. “Figures”.

You glanced at him, catching the corner of his mouth twitch despite the split lip. “She picked them out herself”.

“Smart kid”, he said quietly.

When the last button was fastened and her blanket pulled up, you smoothed a hand over her curls, brushing the glitter that still clung stubbornly to her hairline. She stirred once, then settled deeper into sleep, her tiny hand still curled around the stuffed bee.

Dean reached forward and tugged the blanket a little higher over her shoulder. He hesitated, then let his fingers barely graze the crown of her hair. So gentle.

You turned out the light, leaving only the soft glow of the bee lamp in the corner. For a moment, the two of you just stood there.

Finally, you straightened and tipped your head toward the door. “Let’s go”. Dean nodded once and followed you out.

Downstairs, you sat him at the kitchen table and left the light low. Then you slid a glass of water to his good hand. “Talk”, you said. No heat, but also no place to hide.

He stared at the glass of water for a long beat, then lifted his eyes. “I left because I thought it would keep you safe”, he said. “That’s the headline. The truth underneath is I was a coward about it. I should’ve told you. I should’ve stayed. I didn’t”.

You kept your hands around your own glass so you didn’t clench them into fists. “You decided for me”.

“Yeah”. He didn’t try to dodge it. “We were on a case. It went bad. People, well demons, knew your name”. His mouth twitched with memory, regret. “I scrubbed everything, burned phones, left town before anybody decided to look you up. And then it got… easier to pretend disappearing was noble”. He huffed out something like a laugh and shook his head. “It wasn’t. I know that”.

Silence stretched.

He shifted, winced but kept going. “At the daycare… I heard her laugh before I saw her. Then I saw her eyes”. His voice thinned. “I knew. Didn’t know how to breathe, but I knew. And I wanted to do the right thing and still be the guy who doesn’t make a mess in your life”. He looked down at his cut knuckles and flexed them once. “Turns out I only know how to show up bleeding with pie”.

Despite yourself, your mouth almost twitched, but you flattened it out. “You were late”.

“I was”. He reached into his pocket, set the melted bell charm on the table like evidence. “One of them hitched a ride last night. It wasn’t bones—this was the anchor. I didn’t catch it until it started throwing me around. I broke it. I’m sorry it was ever in your house”.

Your stomach rolled at the thought. “Is she safe?”.

“She’s safer”, he said. “Your place is thin on the thresholds. I can fix that… iron in the frames, salt lines, a couple nails at the vents. Won’t turn it into a bunker, but it’ll make anything think twice”.

You stared at him and the blood dried in the seam of his lip, the swelling around one eye, the stubborn set of his jaw that hadn’t changed in four years. “I don’t want her growing up in a bunker”.

“Me neither”. His voice softened. “I’m not asking you to change her life into mine. I’m asking you to let me help keep hers the way you made it”. He swallowed. “And if you let me, I’ll earn my way into it. Under your rules”.

“You don’t get to be a tourist”, you said.

“I’m not”. He met your stare squarely. “I want in. As much as you’ll give me. I can’t promise I stop hunting—this is… who I am. But I can promise I won’t disappear. I can promise I call if I’m late. I can promise I won’t bring anything through your door. And if it gets hot, I warn you first”.

You folded your arms and kept your voice steady. “My rules”. You ticked them off. “No lies. No disappearing. No weapons where she can find them. You don’t teach her anything about the ugly until I say. If you’re late, you call. If you can’t come, you say it like a grown-up, not a ghost. You don’t flirt with her teacher again”. A glance you didn’t mean to be sharp slid right through him. “And you respect my no, even when you think you know better”.

“Done”, he said, without blinking. “That last one’s the hard one for me. But… done”.

You reached for the first-aid kit again without thinking, pulled out the little tube of antibiotic, and caught his hand before he could tuck it under the table. His knuckles were split and gritty. You cleaned them in small, efficient swipes and he watched you. “Last time you did this”, he murmured, almost a smile, “you threatened to stitch my mouth shut”.

“You were talking too much”, you said, and the corner of your mouth betrayed you for a half-second. “Still are”.

He huffed, then sobered. “I’m sorry, for the years. For all of it. You did it alone. That’s on me”.

Your throat pulled tight. You capped the tube and put it away. “You don’t get forgiveness because you brought pie”.

“I know”. He glanced toward the hallway, then back. “I’m not asking for forgiveness. I’m asking for a chance to be the guy she already thinks I am”.

“Listen to me”. Your voice didn’t rise, yet. “If we do this… if we tell her—you don’t get to vanish again. Not for a hunt, not for a ‘good reason’, not because you think you’re protecting us. You disappear after we put that word in her mouth, and it’ll crack her little heart clean through”.

He held your gaze like he’d been waiting to be hit with exactly that. “I know”.

“You don’t get to be ‘maybe’”, you pressed. “You don’t get to be ‘sometimes’. You want in? You’re in. That means calls. That means visits, often. If you’re hurt, you say so. If the road pulls you, you look her in the eye and tell her goodbye”.

His throat worked. “Okay”.

“And no surprises. No turning up at midnight bloody on my porch unless it’s life or death. You follow my lead with her. You earn it. Slowly”.

He nodded. “Okay”.

“I mean it, Dean”. You felt your jaw set, that stubborn old part of you refusing to blink first. “If we go all in and you bail, there’s no coming back from that. For her. For me”.

He drew a breath like it hurt and turned his busted hands palm-up on the table—empty, nothing hidden. “Then we don’t bail”, he said.

Against your will, something in your chest loosened. He slid his battered cell over without being asked. You entered your number, then handed it back.

“When”, he asked quietly, “do you want to tell her?”.

You stared past him at the hallway. “Sunday”, you whispered. It came out softer than you meant, fragile in a way you hated. “Two days. Pancakes and a quiet morning together”.

The weight of it hung there. A line you couldn’t uncross.

Dean leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding his breath for years. “Sunday”, he repeated. Then his bruised mouth curved. “You makin’ the pancakes, or you want me to?”, he asked, voice rough but laced with that damn teasing edge.

You shot him a look. “You’ll set the kitchen on fire”.

“Probably”, he admitted, grin deepening. “But we’d make some good memories in the ashes”.

You shook your head, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. “You’re impossible”.

He leaned forward on his elbows. “Nah. Persistent”. His voice dropped lower but also softer. “You used to like that about me”.

Heat crept up your throat. “It’s not going to work, Dean”.

“What’s not?”. He tilted his head, bruised jaw flexing as his mouth tugged into something almost wicked. “Me sittin’ here beat to hell and still managing to get under your skin?”.

You folded your arms, leaning back against the counter to put distance between you. “Under my skin? Dean, you’re an infection. Stubborn, irritating and impossible to get rid of”.

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Funny, ‘cause last time I remember being under your skin, you weren’t complainin’. Matter of fact—”, his eyes raked over you, slow and fucking unapologetic, “—you were beggin’ me not to stop”.

Your pulse kicked hard. “You’ve got a busted rib. Don’t make me prove how easy it’d be to crack another one”.

Dean just smirked. “Go ahead. Always liked it when you left me sore”.

Heat shot straight to your stomach, traitorous and hot. You clenched your fists against it. “God, you’re disgusting”.

“Mm, no”, he rasped, eyes glinting. “Just honest. And you—”, he tilted his chin, catching the way your throat bobbed and the flush creeping high on your chest, “—you’re still tryin’ real hard not to remember how good it was”.

You exhaled through your nose, trying to steady yourself. “Four years, Winchester. You think a couple dirty lines are gonna undo all that?”.

He sat back, voice dipping lower. “Not the lines. The way your knees are lockin’ together right now”.

Your breath stuttered. Your glare should’ve burned him alive, but his smirk only deepened. You shot back before you could stop yourself. “Last time we were in that car, you’re the one who couldn’t keep it together. Rushed me like the world was ending”.

Dean’s laugh was rough. “World was ending. Every damn time I touched you, it felt like it”. His voice dropped to a softer whisper. “Still does”.

You stood, grabbed your glass, and took it to the sink because your hands needed a job that wasn’t shaking. You turned on the faucet hissed and stared at the swirl down the drain, willing your pulse to quit acting like it was twenty and stupid.

And then you felt his heat at your back and heard the soft catch of his breath when his ribs pulled wrong. He didn’t touch you, but he stood close enough that the air changed, close enough that your skin remembered him against your better judgment.

“Hey”, he breathed at your ear.

You didn’t answer. Your knuckles tightened against the edge of the counter, eyes locked on the sink as if staring hard enough might undo the way your chest was caving in.

Two fingers brushed your elbow, barely there, just enough to coax. He turned you with that gentleness you hated him for, the kind that made resisting feel like trying to fight gravity.

“Look at me”, he said, softer than you remembered him ever being with you.

You did. Against every wall you’d built in the last four years, you looked.

His throat worked, words caught for a beat before they broke free. “I never stopped loving you”.

There was no smirk behind it, no sly edge. Just stripped-down truth in a voice too rough to carry anything else.

Your eyes stung before you could blink it back, heat rising sharp. You hated that one sentence could unravel you this fast. “Don’t you dare say that now”, you whispered.

Dean’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t move closer, didn’t touch you again. He just stood there, every line of him aching, and whispered back, “It’s the only thing I never stopped sayin’, even when you couldn’t hear it”.

Tears slipped hot down your cheeks, and you hated how much of you still wanted to believe him. He lifted his hand and set it along your jaw. The warmth of it shorted out every defense you’d spent four years building. Muscle memory did what reason couldn’t. You leaned.

Everything from before slammed back. Cold air and rain on glass, his mouth in the dark saying your name like it was the only one he knew and you were moving before you decided to. You caught his shirt, pulled and kissed him through the tears. Still, your mouths met soft. His split lip was careful against yours, the first press almost weightless, a question he didn’t dare ask out loud.

He breathed your name into the kiss, a fragile break in sound that tasted like salt and copper. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair the way they used to when the world was ending and the only proof it wasn’t was the two of you. He trembled and steadied, mouth angling, relearning you in careful increments. No hurry. No games. Just that old gravity pinging back to life.

You rose onto your toes; he leaned down, ribs protesting, a soft hiss swallowed by your mouth. The counter pressed the small of your back. He tried to keep space for your rules even now, even wrecked, but when you chased him that inch he gave it, stepped closer, the heat of him bracketing you without crushing. His thumb stroked once at your nape and the sound he made when you opened for him was so unguarded.

With a rough exhale, he bent and caught the backs of your thighs, hoisting you onto the counter like he’d done a hundred times before. The movement jarred his ribs, but he bit back the groan, too gone in the feel of you under his hands. You let him, breathless, legs parting on instinct, making room for him where there’d been nothing but air for four long years.

He stepped between your knees and pulled you forward until your hips hit the edge and your chest brushed his. The kiss broke and reformed with more urgency. His hand gripped the curve of your waist while the other tangled deep in your hair.

You felt him already hard against you through the rough press of denim. He rocked once and swallowed your gasp with his mouth, pulling you tighter like he could climb inside your skin and stay there. “Shit—”, he groaned into your mouth, the sound low and helpless, “—I forgot what you do to me”.

Just like that, it snapped something clean in you. You tore back like you’d been burned, your breath ragged, hot tears blurring. Your palm hit his chest, more in a shove than punch, but it landed right over the cracked ribs. He sucked in a breath, pain flashing across his face, and you didn’t care. “You left”, you said, the words breaking as they came. “You left”.

He steadied himself, hands up, not touching you, eyes blown and hurting. “I know”.

“I looked for you”, you pushed, voice climbing, all of it spilling now. “I was alone. I did everything alone. And you show up and— and you kiss me like the last four years are a bad dream I just wake up from?”.

He shook his head hard. “No. No, that’s not—”.

“Don’t you dare make me forget”. You swiped your cheeks with the heel of your hand, trembling. “Don’t you dare make this easy!”.

“I’m not”, he said, hoarse. “I’m not tryin’ to make it easy. I’m tryin’ to be here”.

“You weren’t!”, you shot back. “You weren’t here when it mattered”.

The words hit, his shoulders dropped while his mouth working around the truth of it. He took a half-step back, giving you space, breathing through the hurt like he deserved every bit of it. “Okay”, he said finally, quiet. “Okay. You’re right”.

Your legs wobbled as you slipped off the counter. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t stop the words clawing up your throat. “You don’t get to okay me!”, you snapped. “You don’t get to stand there and nod like you’re some saint taking his punishment. You left, Dean. You—”, your voice cracked and you flung your hand toward the door, the world, the years, “—you left and I had nothing but a crib I built up by myself and a baby who looked like you every damn time I opened my eyes”.

He flinched, shutting his eyes.

“I screamed for you in the middle of the night”, you choked. “I begged for you in hospital rooms, I cursed you while rocking her at three a.m., I hated you so much I thought it would kill me. And then she—”, your throat closed, but you forced it out, “—she started asking where her daddy was, and I had nothing. Nothing to tell her but a lie”.

Dean’s jaw flexed, his eyes were glassy, his chest rising uneven with the effort not to break. “I know”.

“No, you don’t!”. The shout ripped free before you could stop it, echoing off tile and wood, making you flinch at yourself. You dropped your face into your hands with shoulders shaking. “You don’t know. You weren’t here”.

The silence after was a graveyard, your sobs the only sound alive.

Without another word, his arms came around you. It was instinct as much as choice. You fought. Your fists pushed against him, shoving at his chest, pounding at the flannel until he hissed through his teeth. “Don’t—don’t you—”.

But his grip didn’t loosen. His chin dropped to your temple, voice rough but quiet. “I got you”.

“Let me go!”. You shoved harder, tears so warm and furious, but he just tightened a fraction, taking every strike, every sob against his battered body.

“I should’ve never left”, he rasped, forehead pressing to your hair. “I should’ve been here. Every night. Every morning. I know. I know”.

The fight bled out of you in jagged bursts. You pushed, hit, shoved again, then your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging instead of striking. The anger changed into grief and you crumpled against him.

His arms tightened more. He rocked you without thinking, the way he’d once done after nightmares in cold motel beds. “I got you. I’m not goin’ anywhere”.

You hated how your body remembered this, how fast it gave in to the safety of his hold, how your breath synced to his rough, steady rhythm. Hated it and needed it all the same. Your tears soaked his shirt while his hand rubbed slow circles into your back. “Let it out”, he whispered into your hair. “Every bit. I can take it”.

He held you until your breathing stopped hitching and your fists went slack in his shirt.

“C’mon”, he murmured eventually, more breath than sound.

You didn’t help him. You didn’t fight either. He slid an arm under your knees and one behind your shoulders and lifted. He carried you down the hallway you’d walked alone a thousand times. He nudged your bedroom door with his shoulder and laid you on the mattress like you were breakable. You rolled away automatically, curling toward the wall, dragging the blanket high like a barricade you could finally hide behind. Your face felt hot and raw, and you didn’t want to look at him.

He sat down on the edge but didn’t touch you.

“I’m so damn sorry”, he said, plain. “For leaving. For not picking up. For making you do all of it alone. I wish I could rewind the tape and take every mile back, but I can’t. All I can do is try”. He swallowed. “I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make it right—if you let me. For you. For Delilah. I’ll show up, I’ll call, I’ll be there for the colds and costumes and school forms and bad dreams. You set the rules. I live by ’em… Just…Please.”

The word landed in the room and didn’t echo. You kept your face turned to the wall. You couldn’t give him anything, not now. Not with your chest still shaking and salt drying at the corners of your mouth.

He waited anyway. Long enough that you could feel the warmth of him through the quilt, long enough that your heartbeat crawled down from the ledge.

But eventually, he stood. "I’ll be here on Sunday”, he whispered, so low you almost wondered if you’d dreamed it. The quilt lifted a fraction higher over your shoulder, his knuckles ghosting fabric, then the weight of him was gone.

You stared at the wall until the dark blurred, your chest heavy with everything he’d left in the room and everything he’d carried out with him.

-

Dean eased the Impala into a spot at the far end of the lot, the rain was still needling down. He killed the engine and sat there a moment. One hand still on the wheel, listening to the tick of the cooling hood.

He’d texted Sam after the salt-and-burn, keeping it clipped: It’s done. Don’t wait on me. No details, no excuses. Sam had hesitated, but he hadn’t pressed. Just a short: Okay. Be careful.

Now the curtains to their shared room glowed faint yellow.

Dean shoved the door open, the cold night air rushing in, and his body groaned in protest as he stood. Every rib, every bruise, every split knuckle had something to say about the last twenty-four hours, but none of it was louder than the echo of your voice: You left. You left.

Sam was already at the door by the time Dean reached it, tall frame filling the threshold, face tight with exhaustion and questions.

“Thought I told you not to wait up”, Dean muttered, trying for gruff as he brushed past, dripping water onto the carpet.

Sam shut the door behind him. “Yeah, well, I don’t usually take orders from the guy who looks like he went a round with a freight train”.

Dean dropped onto the chair by the table, leaning back with a hiss when his ribs pulled. “Poltergeist”, he said simply. “Hitched a ride. Took me longer to put down than I thought”.

Sam studied him, arms folded, brow furrowed. “That’s not all”.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s enough”.

Silence stretched between them. Sam’s gaze stayed steady, heavy, the way it always did when he knew Dean was holding back.

Dean leaned his head against the chair, closing his eyes. “Not tonight, Sammy”, he muttered. “I’ll give you the whole sermon when I can… breathe”.

Sam didn’t move, arms still folded across his chest. His eyes tracked Dean like he could dig the truth out by sheer force of will.

“Dean”, he said finally, his voice low. “You’ve got that look… The one you get when you’re sitting on something you think I won’t understand. So why don’t you—”.

“I said not tonight”, Dean snapped sharper than he meant.

Sam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “Dean—”.

“Goddammit, Sam!”, Dean’s hand slammed against the table, rattling the cheap lamp. He lurched forward, eyes blazing, chest heaving with the effort it took to keep himself upright. “I said let it go!”.

The room went silent. The only sound was Dean’s breath, ragged and uneven. His eyes, bloodshot and raw and… glistened.

Sam froze. He’d seen his brother furious, wrecked, even hollow—but this was different. Dean wasn’t hiding behind anger this time. He was breaking under it. The glassy sheen in his green eyes said everything words hadn’t. Whatever he was carrying, it was bigger than another ghost. Bigger than bruises and lies.

Sam’s arms dropped to his sides, his voice gentling. “Okay”. He nodded once. “Okay. You don’t have to tonight”.

Dean swallowed hard, leaned back in the chair, and turned his face away like he couldn’t stand being seen. His hands fisted in his jeans, trembling with the effort of holding steady.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 5

-

Eventually, Dean lay on the couch with the blanket tossed aside, staring at the ceiling. His body was bone-tired, but his mind wouldn’t quit. He was replaying the sound of Lilah’s sleepy night-night on a loop and the ghost of almost-kissing you was burning on his lips.

Down the hall, you lay on your side, back to the door, eyes wide open. The wine haze had thinned, leaving only the heaviness of memory and the weight of him in your house. You hated how the air felt different with him under your roof. Hated even more how a piece of you… felt safer.

Then it shattered. A scream ripped through the quiet. High, shrill and terrified. “MOMMY!”.

You were out of bed before your brain caught up. Dean was faster. He bolted upright, gun already in hand (where the hell had that come from?) and sprinted down the hallway.

Lilah’s room was lit only by the bee-shaped night-light. She was sitting up in bed, tears streaking her cheeks, her little hands clutched tight around her rabbit. “I saw it!”, she sobbed, breath hiccupping. “In the corner… big and dark—and it looked at me!”.

You rushed to her, climbing onto the bed and pulling her against your chest. “Shh, baby, it’s okay. Mommy’s here”. But your own heart was hammering, because you’d seen enough hunts with Dean to know when fear was real.

Dean swept the room with his gun. He checked the closet, under the bed, even the corners where the shadows clung too thick. Nothing. Still, he didn’t holster the weapon. He glanced back at you. “Something’s here”.

Lilah sobbed harder, burying her face against your chest. “It was looking at me”, she whimpered.

You kissed her damp curls, whispering promises you weren’t sure you could keep. Your eyes met Dean’s over her head, and in that instant, every wall between you and him felt useless. Because the look in his eyes wasn’t just hunter’s focus. It was his little girl, your little girl—scared and crying, in danger. And the two of you were pulled together by the one truth that mattered more than anger, more than history, more than heartbreak. Protect her.

Dean lowered the gun slightly, moving closer, his free hand brushing the air like he wanted to steady both of you but didn’t know if he had permission. He crouched by the bed, watching Lilah’s breathing stutter against your shoulder. When he started to pull back, her small fingers found his wrist. You felt his breath catch.

Lilah didn’t say anything. She just tugged and patted the narrow mattress with her rabbit-squished hand.

“The bed’s small”, you murmured, because practicality was the only raft you had left.

“I’ll make it work”, he said so damn soft.

He climbed on awkwardly, trying not to jostle either of you. You shifted to give him room, tucking Lilah back into the curve of your arm. Dean lay on his side in those damn boxerbriefs, warmth bleeding through the thin blanket. His palm hovered above the quilt like he was afraid to touch anything and then settled, careful, outside the covers near Lilah’s knee. Her breathing steadied. Yours didn’t.

“Still with me, baby?”, you whispered, brushing a damp curl from her forehead.

She nodded against your arm, eyelids heavy, then turned her face toward Dean, curiosity beating back the last of her fright. “Do loud cars scare monsters?”, she asked, voice husky with almost-sleep.

Dean’s mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile. “Sometimes”, he said. “My car’s especially good at it”.

“What’s her name?”, Lilah demanded, because this mattered.

“Baby”, he answered, like a secret. “She’s very brave”.

Lilah considered this solemn. “Midnight is brave too”, she said, patting the mangled paper bat tucked near her pillow. “Midnight and Baby can be friends”.

“Sounds like a plan”, he murmured. His eyes met yours over her head, and there was something so naked there, that you had to look away.

“Are you gonna stay?”, Lilah asked, eyelids drooping. “All night?”.

Dean swallowed. “Yeah, kiddo. All night”.

Your body finally believed it. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving you shaking in tiny aftershocks. You shifted closer without thinking, your temple finding the heat of his chest. His heartbeat knocked steady under your ear, a sound you hadn’t realized you remembered until it was there again. He went very still, like one wrong move might break the spell, then let out a breath that warmed your hair.

“Hey”, he whispered, for you alone. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was thick and your eyes stung and the night had been too long already.

Lilah’s fingers found Dean’s again, smaller grip this time, not tugging, just holding. “If the thing comes back”, she mumbled, drifting, “you make it go away”.

“I will”, he said.

Minutes ticked by and sleep claimed you.

However, Lilah was still awake. Barely. “Dean?”, she fought the last of her wakefulness.

“Yeah?”. His thumb barely moved against the quilt, a tiny, calming rhythm.

“Do you know my daddy?”. He went very still.

Lilah blinked at him, wide-eyed and serious. “’Cause… um… all daddies know each other”, she explained, logic absolute. “At the… the daddy place”. She nodded once, satisfied she’d found the right words. “So do you know him?”.

Dean’s mouth worked. He looked at you, out cold, lashes stuck to your cheek from old tears, and then back at her. When he answered, his voice was careful. “I… yeah”, he whispered. “I know him”.

“Is he nice?”, she asked around a yawn, brave already rebuilding itself in her bones. “Mommy says he has to save the world. That’s why he can’t come. That’s a big job”.

“It is”, Dean said, and you would have felt the way the words scraped him if you’d been awake. “He’s trying real hard”.

Lilah considered this, thumb rubbing the worn ear of her rabbit. “Is he brave like Baby? And like Midnight? And like Mommy?”.

Dean’s laugh was a breath against your hair. “He wishes he was. Your mommy’s the bravest person I know”.

She thought about that for a whole two seconds. “Are you his friend?”.

Dean swallowed. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “Family”.

She nodded, satisfied, and scooted the rabbit higher under her chin. “Okay. You can stay then. Mommy doesn’t let boys sleep here”. She squinted at him, conspiratorial. “No boys inside. Just the mailman but he goes away. You’re the first”.

Dean’s eyes went glassy in the dim. He looked at the doorway, then at you, then back to the little hand still looped around his wrist. “I’ll be good”, he promised. “I’ll be quiet. I’ll keep watch”.

Lilah’s lids sank. “’Kay”. Another beat, softer: “Can you tell my daddy I have a bee costume?—and tell him Midnight is brave”, she mumbled, words bumping into each other. “An’… an’ my favorite snack is apple pie. Not the store one. The warm one. Wif the… the melty”. Her fingers worried her rabbit’s ear, then found Dean’s wrist again like it was a handle to sleep.

“Got it”, he whispered. “Bee costume. Midnight is brave. Warm pie. Melty”.

She nodded, almost asleep, then rallied for a last handful of thoughts. “An’ Baby can park by our house but not block the mailbox ‘cause Ms. Hayes yells. An’ I can be a bee forever if I wanna. An’ Ms. Rivera says I’m good at gluing”.

“You’re excellent at gluing”, he said, mouth bending. “World-class”.

Silence slid in. You breathed him deeper and didn’t know it. He watched your lashes settle, the way your hand on Lilah’s ribs rose and fell like a metronome.

Then Lilah’s voice came again, tiny but serious, the way kids get when something important knocks at the door of their brain. “Dean?”.

“Yeah?”.

“If you see my daddy at the daddy place… can you tell him…”. She hesitated, throat working. “Tell him I’m not mad he’s not here. ’Cause he’s savin’ the world. Mommy said. An’ I… I still love him always”. Her grip softened. “An’ I’ll wait. I can wait a long time”.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But something in his chest cracked.

“Can you tell him?”, she asked, barely air now.

Dean cleared his throat, the sound so soft it barely existed. “I will”, he said, and had to pause, because the words wanted to break on him. He found them again, steadier. “I’ll tell him every word. And he—”. He looked at you, asleep against him, and finished carefully. “He loves you more than anything, Lilah. That’s the truth”.

She sighed like that lined the world up right. “’Kay”. A beat. “Night-night”.

“Night-night”, he whispered.

Her fingers loosened on his wrist a bit more, slipping into sleep. He stayed where he was, your cheek warm on his chest, her weight in the crook of your arm, eyes on the corner she’d pointed to. When the dark there thickened again, not quite a shape, he didn’t disturb either of you. He didn’t sleep. Not even when the storm finally spent itself. He just kept watch, over the door, over the dark, over the two steady breaths pressed to him, carrying a message he’d already started delivering to himself: She’s not mad. She loves him. She’ll wait.

-

The next morning, you woke up to soft giggles and the rasp of tiny fingers on sandpaper.

Lilah had propped herself on one elbow, solemn as a scientist, rubbing her fingertips over Dean’s stubble. “It’s pokey”, she informed the air, delighted. “But soft pokey”.

He lay very still, eyes half-lidded, letting her map him like a new continent. “That’s a new review”, he murmured, voice rough. “Pokey-soft”.

Your alarm trilled on the nightstand: Don´t forget the costume. You jerked, awareness slamming in: your cheek on his chest, your knee thrown over the blanket across his hip, his arm bracketed behind your shoulders. You pulled back fast, heat hitting your face.

Dean’s hand lifted, palms-up, the universal I’m-not-moving sign. “Morning”, he said, carefully neutral.

You sat up too fast, heart thudding in your throat. The alarm kept shrieking until you slammed your hand down on it. Lilah giggled again, utterly unfazed.

Dean was still lying there, half covered by the blanket. “You always wake up like a grenade went off?”.

You didn’t answer. Not right away. Instead, you turned to Lilah, who was now patting Dean’s jaw with both hands, studying him like a science project.

“Time to get dressed, little bee”, you said, voice still a little scratchy from sleep. “Today’s the Halloween party, remember?”.

Lilah gasped. “I forgot!”.

Dean winced as she launched off the bed and bolted toward the closet, rabbit dragging behind her. “The wings!”, she yelled, digging through drawers. “And the glitter! Mommy, I need the glitter for my cheeks!”.

You stood, tugging your tank down and hoping your shorts still counted as decent. Dean was absolutely not helping, stretched out like that. Bare chest rising slow with his breath, one hand tucked behind his head, the other lazily draped across the dip where you’d been sleeping a minute ago. You blinked hard and turned away.

“Your clothes are in the dryer”, you muttered, heading toward the hall. “You’ve got ten minutes to be wearing pants or I’m locking you outside without them”.

Dean chuckled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yes, ma’am".

-

Fifteen minutes later, the house smelled like toast and kid shampoo. You had Lilah on the bathroom stool in her yellow tights and puffy striped dress, wings clipped securely to her back, black antennae headband slipping sideways as she bounced in place.

Dean stood in the doorway, now mercifully dressed. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching you apply blush to Lilah’s round cheeks in gentle swirls. “I like the sparkles”, he said after a beat. “Very pretty”.

“They’re bee dust”, Lilah explained seriously. “Bees are sparkly sometimes when they fly in the sun”.

“Obviously”, he nodded solemnly. “That checks out”.

You caught the soft lift of his smile in the mirror and tried not to let it do anything to your stomach. But it was there, dangerous and warm and familiar, and it lit up the whole damn hallway behind him. You bent closer to your daughter, applying a soft swipe of yellow over her eyelids. “Almost done, baby”.

“Looks good. I’d screw it up”, he said. “I’d try, but she’d end up lookin’ like a zombie bee”.

Lilah giggled. “That’s not a real thing”.

“Not yet”, he said, shooting you a look that—God help you—almost made you laugh.

Once the makeup was finished and Lilah was dressed in full bee glory, she stood in front of the full-length mirror and gasped. “I look so buzzy!”, she said proudly, spinning once and nearly wiping out on the rug.

You grabbed her tiny backpack, slipping in the snack you’d prepped last night, plus the Halloween party treat she insisted on bringing: a container of pretzel sticks and candy eyes you’d glued together into tiny “witch broomsticks”.

Dean crouched down beside her. “Can I get a picture?”, he asked, tentative. “If that’s okay”.

Lilah nodded instantly, striking a lopsided pose with her wings crooked and one sock already falling. Dean lifted his phone slowly, like it was sacred, and snapped a few.

He looked at you after, something unreadable in his eyes. “She’s…”. He swallowed. “She’s perfect”.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Not without unraveling. So you tried to ignore it. You glanced at your phone and swore under your breath. “Crap. We’re behind”.

You hadn’t showered. You weren’t dressed. Lilah was supposed to eat something before the party sugar rush started, and you still had to sign her in, then get yourself across town in time for work. Your pulse ticked higher. “Okay”, you muttered, half to yourself as you set the container of witch broomsticks on the counter. “If she eats half a banana and some toast in the car, we can make it. I’ll just—shower later, maybe. Coffee… no, no time for coffee. Shoes, backpack, lunch bag, we’re fine”.

Dean was still crouched, Lilah leaning into his side like she’d done it a thousand mornings before. His head tilted just slightly, like he was cataloging the way you were already ten steps ahead in your own head. “I can get breakfast”, he offered, casual but steady. “Toast, apple slices. You go get ready. We’ll eat here, not in the car”.

You froze, phone in one hand, your other pressed to your temple. “Dean—”.

“I’m not gonna poison her”, he said, lifting both hands. “I know which side of the toaster’s up. I’ll even cut the crusts off if that’s still a thing”.

Lilah perked up immediately. “Crusts are yucky”.

Dean winked at her. “See? I got this”.

You wanted to argue. But the truth was, you were running out of time, and Lilah was already bouncing on her toes, chanting, “Toast, toast, toast!” like it was a battle cry.

You narrowed your eyes at him, half a warning. “One slice. And she needs fruit”.

“Apple slices coming right up”, he said, moving toward the kitchen with your daughter at his heels. He pulled a stool up to the counter for her without missing a beat, rabbit tucked safely beside her, then reached for the bread.

You lingered in the doorway for a second longer, watching him open your cabinets like he live here. Lilah giggled as he flicked a slice of apple peel across the counter into the sink with dramatic flair. She was already talking a mile a minute, her voice high and bright, and Dean was nodding, throwing in just enough comments to keep her rolling. You caught a glimpse of his smile, soft and unguarded, and your chest squeezed. It was dangerous, leaving them like this. But you didn’t have a choice, you had ten minutes to pull yourself together.

So you forced yourself to turn away, muttering under your breath as you headed for the shower, “God help me if you burn the place down, Winchester”.

Behind you, his laugh rumbled low, followed by Lilah’s squeal: “Extra butter, Dean! Extra!”. And you hated how easy it sounded, like he belonged here.

You stepped under the spray, scrubbing fast, every second accounted for. You kept the bathroom door cracked, half to listen for Lilah, half because some reckless part of you couldn’t help it.

“Okay, official taste test”, Dean announced. “Is the toast up to bee standards?”.

A dramatic pause. Then Lilah, giggling: “Mmm… buzzy toast!”.

Dean laughed low, the sound ricocheting through you like it always had. “That’s the highest honor I’ve ever gotten”.

Water pounded your shoulders. You closed your eyes, let yourself hear.

“Why’s it called Baby?”, Lilah asked around a mouthful, words muffled.

“Because she’s special”, Dean answered. You could hear the smile in his voice. “She’s been with me a long time. Kinda like family”.

“Like Mommy’s rabbit?”.

“Exactly like that”. A beat. Then softer: “Except Baby can’t cuddle”.

Lilah squealed. “Cars don’t cuddle, silly!”.

Dean made an exaggerated gasp. “Hey, don’t let Baby hear you say that. She’ll get jealous”.

Under the water, you let yourself think the thing you never said out loud: you had always hoped, that if Dean ever had the chance, he’d be a good dad. You’d tried to find him for over a year after the test turned positive. You called the last three numbers he’d ever used, mailed a letter that came back undeliverable, stood in two different parking lots you were sure he’d remember. Nothing. Silence like a bad spell.

And Lilah, god, since her third birthday she’d started asking in that small, matter-of-fact way kids had. Do daddies live at the store? Can I borrow one? When will mine be off saving the world? You’d given her everything you could: the warm house, the soft pajamas, the safe rules, the silly songs. But she wanted a dad the way bees wanted sun, and that was a light you couldn’t fake. Maybe that’s why she clung to Dean within seconds without asking your permission. Why her fingers had found his wrist like she’d been practicing in her dreams. He was the only man who’d crossed your threshold since she was born. You’d made sure of it.

You dressed fast, twisted your hair into something respectable and stepped into the hallway. In the kitchen, Lilah sat on the stool, wings bobbing, face glittering, swinging her feet as she worked through a perfect triangle of toast. A plate waited beside it with your toast, crusts quietly gone. An apple was fanned into thin slices like a tiny sun. Dean stood at the counter, your kettle just off the boil, coffee grounds already measured. He looked up when you walked in and straightened a fraction, like he remembered he was inside your life and didn’t want to smudge the edges.

Then, he cleared his throat, grabbed two lunch boxes off the counter, and set them down with the kind of proud grunt men usually made after fixing an engine or killing a werewolf. “Made lunch”, he said, flashing that hopeful, lopsided smirk that used to get him out of all kinds of trouble.

You raised an eyebrow. “You made lunch?”.

“Yep”.

You opened Lilah’s first. It was packed with love—and absolutely no nutritional value. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich so thick with jelly it was bleeding through the bread, a pack of mini marshmallows, Halloween Oreos, two lollipops, and, for some reason, a mini bag of sour cream and onion chips.

You stared. “Dean”.

“She’s a growing girl”, he said, dead serious.

“She’s not growing into a hummingbird on a sugar bender”.

Lilah peeked over from her stool, still chewing. “What’s a bender?”.

You snapped the lid shut. “Nothing. It’s a grown-up word for when someone eats too much candy”.

Lilah shrugged, pleased. “I do that”.

You sighed and opened the second box.

Your sandwich looked exactly the same: PB&J, emphasis on the J. There was a banana (half-bruised) and a small chocolate bar.

You looked up at him. He was sipping his own mug of coffee like he’d just won the goddamn parenting Olympics.

“I don’t even know what to say”. You held the lunchbox up like evidence in a trial. “This is what you think qualifies as a responsible meal?”.

Dean smirked over his coffee, unbothered. “Hey, there’s fruit in there. Bananas are practically health food. You’re welcome”.

You shot him a look, sharp enough to cut. He just chuckled, set his mug down, and reached behind him. “Here”, he said, sliding a second mug toward you. Steam curled from it, the scent rich and familiar. “One cream, two sugar”.

You froze. You hadn’t taken it that way in years, but that used to be your order, always. Back before you had to wean yourself off the extra sweetness because late nights and early mornings didn’t mix with that much sugar anymore. You wrapped your hand around the mug anyway, ignoring the way it tugged at your chest. “Thanks”. Dean pushed off the counter, reaching for the flannel draped over the chair. He shook it out once, then slid his arms through the sleeves, muscles flexing under the thin cotton of his shirt as he tugged the fabric into place. The flannel stretched tight across his back for a moment, outlining the shape of him in a way that made your throat go dry. You hated yourself for noticing. For remembering.

Dean Winchester had been the best you’d ever had. Not just in bed—though your body still carried the muscle memory of every rough, careful, desperate way he’d touched you—but in those quieter moments too. The way he knew how to pull a blanket over you without waking you, the way his hand always found yours under the table without thinking. He’d ruined you for anyone else without even trying.

Now here he was, buttoning up his damn flannel like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t once had you pressed up against the window of that car outside, rain dripping down the glass, his mouth swallowing every word you couldn’t say.

You forced your eyes away, lifting the coffee to your lips, even though your pulse was tripping too fast.

Dean tugged the cuff of his flannel into place, eyes flicking to the door where Lilah was already busy trying to zip her backpack over the wings you’d clipped on. His mouth twitched like he was holding something back. “She asked if she could ride in the Impala”, he said finally, tone light and… testing. “Said she wants to hear how loud Baby can roar on the way to the party”.

You froze mid-sip of coffee. “Absolutely not”.

Dean lifted a brow, palms out like he was innocent. “Hey, I’m just passing the message. But—”. He leaned his shoulder to the counter, easy and coaxing. “You’re running late. I could drop her off, save you the hassle”.

Your head snapped toward him. “Over my dead body”.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”. He smirked, and damn it, that dangerous half-soft curve of his mouth had no business looking that good first thing in the morning.

You set your mug down hard. “Dean. She’s four. She’s not riding in that tank with you”.

“Tank?”, he repeated, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Baby’s a classic. Safer than half the junk on the road”. He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping low, threaded with that familiar rasp. “Besides, you used to like riding… her”.

Heat shot to your face before you could stop it. “Dean”.

He grinned, unapologetic, eyes glinting with the memory. “What? You always said the backseat was magic”.

Lilah turned from the door, rabbit clutched under one arm, oblivious. “Can Baby roar today, Mommy? Please?”.

You swallowed hard, glaring at Dean even as your ears burned. “We’re taking my car. End of discussion”.

Dean lifted his hands, surrendering, but his smirk stayed. “Your loss”. He winked. “Baby’s great with kids”.

“Shoes, car, now”, you told Lilah, louder than necessary.

Lilah dug her heels in halfway to the door, little arms crossed over her bee-striped chest, rabbit dangling precariously. “No”, she declared, chin tilted up. “I wanna ride in Baby”.

“Lilah”, you warned, already juggling your bag, your keys, and your temper. “We don’t have time for this”.

Her pout deepened, lower lip wobbling just enough to make your chest pinch. “But Mommy…”. She stomped one yellow-tighted foot, glitter shimmering under the kitchen light. “You never let me. Just one time!”.

You crouched down, smoothing her curls, trying to keep your voice even. “Sweetheart, you don’t even have a booster seat in Baby. Safety first, remember?”.

She huffed, unimpressed, her little brows furrowed. “You always say no. You never listen to me”.

Behind you, you heard Dean shifting into his boots. When you turned your head, he was bent over lacing them, fighting hard not to grin at the whole exchange. His shoulders were shaking with the effort.

“This isn’t funny”, you snapped at him.

“Didn’t say it was”, he answered, lips twitching anyway. “Kid’s got a point though. You are kinda harsh”.

You shot him a glare that should’ve melted him on the spot. He just ducked his head, smirk deepening.

Lilah stomped again. “If Baby can’t roar, then I don’t wanna go!”.

Your patience frayed. “You’re going. With me. In my car”.

She crossed her arms tighter, the rabbit’s ear trapped under one elbow. “Then I’m not buzzing at the party. Bees buzz in Baby, not in your squeaky car”.

Dean coughed into his hand, failing miserably to hide his laugh this time.

You stood and pinched the bridge of your nose, pulse thrumming, trying not to snap. “Lilah, enough. We’re late. You are going, and you’re going in my car”.

Her chin trembled, and she stomped again, harder this time. “Not fair! You never let me do anything!”.

Your temper spiked. You were seconds from losing it when Dean’s voice cut in, low and even. “Hey, hey”. He stepped forward, crouching down so his eyes were level with hers. No smirk this time, no teasing. “Listen. Your mom’s right. Booster seat’s the rule. But…”. He paused, letting the word dangle, drawing her attention. “I promise we´ll check out Baby tonight. We’ll make her roar just for you, okay? After candy. Deal?”.

Lilah blinked up at him, her lip wobbling, suspicion warring with hope. “Promise?”.

Dean nodded once, firm. “Promise. You can sit up front while I rev the engine. Your mom can stand there and make sure we don’t do anything crazy”.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the way Lilah’s face lit up, like the sun cracked open just for her, knocked the breath out of you.

“Okay”, she whispered, and then she launched forward, throwing her little arms around his neck.

Dean froze, just for a second, then his hands came up. Awkward and careful, like he was afraid to break her. Her tiny body pressed against him, her curls tickling his jaw. He bit his lip hard, eyes clenching shut, as if holding back everything he couldn’t let spill out right there in the entryway.

“Thanks, Dean”, she mumbled against his shoulder.

His throat worked and his voice came out low and rough. “Anytime, kiddo”.

Your heart ached watching them, an old wound throbbing under a fresh bruise. Because damn him—damn both of you—this was what you’d pictured once. What you’d wanted, dreamed about, begged god for in the quiet.

You blinked fast, grabbed your keys, and turned toward the door before either of them could see your eyes. “Let’s go”, you said, your voice steadier than your chest.

Dean pressed a kiss to the top of Lilah’s curls before setting her down, quick and instinctive, like he hadn’t even thought about it. And from the look on his face when he stood, you weren’t sure if that slip made him proud, or scared him half to death.

But Dean being Dean, recovered quickly. “Guess I’ll be back tonight?”, he murmured. “Maybe you’ll wanna talk to me then”.

You sighed, veeery deep, knowing full well you should tell him to go to hell. He deserved it. Every part of you screamed that he deserved it. But Lilah, your little girl who’d just hugged him like he’d been built for it, already liked him. Already trusted him. Already wanted him back.

You shut your eyes for a second, pressing the keys into your palm hard enough to sting. When you opened them, his gaze was still steady, waiting. “Be here for dinner”, you said finally, your voice firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Six p.m. Not a second later. We have rules”.

For a heartbeat, Dean didn’t move. Then his mouth twitched. “Six sharp”, he said like it was a vow.

Before you could second-guess yourself, Lilah came barreling back to grab your hand, tugging you toward the car. “Mommy, come on! Party time!”.

Dean stepped back, letting you pass, but you felt his eyes on you as you locked the door behind you. And for the first time in four years, you weren’t sure if that weight was something you wanted to shrug off or something you wanted to lean into.

A few minutes later, you signed Lilah in. You kissed her hair. You did the whole routine with your chest weirdly light and heavy at the same time.

On the walk back to your car you checked your jacket pockets. Keys, wallet, phone and… the folded receipt with his number. You didn’t text and sure as shit didn’t call. You drove across town to work with the radio low and your brain building to-do lists that cracked open and refilled like a leaky bucket. Every red light, you told yourself the same thing: 6 p.m. Dinner. Then you get to decide.

-

Back in the motel, Dean barely got one boot inside before Sam’s eyes flicked up. “You were supposed to be back last night”.

Dean shut the door with his heel, jaw tight. “Yeah”.

“You said you’d watch the house an hour or two”. Sam leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms. “It’s now—”, he checked his watch pointedly—“the next freaking morning”.

Dean rolled his shoulders like he could shake off the hours he’d spent in your house, your kid’s bed. His flannel still carried the faintest trace of your detergent. Glitter, goddamn glitter, clung stubbornly to his collar.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Where the hell were you?”.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, buying time. “Ran into… a neighbor”.

Sam blinked. “A neighbor?”.

“Yeah”. Dean grabbed the motel coffee pot and poured the sludge into a Styrofoam cup, not meeting his brother’s gaze. “Kid saw something in the shadows. Figured it was safer if I stuck around”.

Sam’s brow furrowed. “You stayed all night?”.

Dean sipped the coffee, grimaced. “She was scared”.

“She?”.

Dean’s throat bobbed. He kept his voice even. “Little girl across the street. About four. Cute kid. Brave, though”.

Sam studied him, too smart not to notice the hitch in his tone. “So you’ve been across the street instead of watching the actual target house?”.

“I was watching”, Dean snapped, sharper than he meant to. He set the cup down hard. “Lights still flicker at three. Cold spots crawl along the vents. That dog still won’t step past the gate. Same damn signs, Sam. But something else… something in that place is bleeding out. It’s reaching”.

Sam leaned forward, his voice calmer. “And the neighbors are catching it”.

Dean nodded once.

Sam drummed his fingers on the table. “We’ll sweep the house again today. Crawlspace, foundation, attic. If it’s a ghost, we salt and burn. If it’s worse…”.

Dean finished for him. “We adjust”.

But Sam didn’t move yet. His gaze snagged on Dean’s collar, on the stubborn shimmer of yellow glitter. He plucked at it with two fingers, holding it up. “You gonna explain this?”.

Dean scowled, swiping it away. “It’s Halloween. Crafts. Don’t start”.

Sam’s mouth twitched. “Crafts, huh?”.

Dean shot him a look that would’ve shut up anyone else. Sam only leaned back in his chair, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “We check the house by noon. I’ve got something at six”.

Sam’s brow lifted. “A date?”.

Dean froze, then muttered, “Not exactly”.

Sam let him have the out, but his eyes followed Dean all the way to the door. “Whatever it is, don’t be late”.

-

By three o’clock, the front steps of the daycare looked like a battlefield. Kids were in costumes half falling apart, paper pumpkins wilting in the sun and glitter was ground into the floor. Lilah came barreling out with glue on her cheeks, in her hair, smeared across her little tights like war paint. Again.

“Mommy!”. She flung herself at you, thrusting another lopsided craft that might once have been a spider. “Look! Ms. Rivera says mine’s scary”.

You managed a smile, even as your fingers stuck together when you took it. “Terrifying, baby. Let’s get you home”.

By the time you pulled into the driveway, she had picked most of the glue off her fingers and spread it across the backseat. You sighed, scooped her up and carried her inside like a sticky whirlwind.

In the bathroom you stripped her down, dropping tights and wings and glittery shirt into the hamper and lowered her into the tub.

“Not too hot”, she reminded you primly, settling in with a dramatic sigh of relief.

“Not too hot”, you echoed, rolling your sleeves up.

Glue floated to the surface as you scrubbed her little hands, her curls, the back of her neck. She giggled when you tickled too hard. She always did.

“Hold still”, you said, though you were laughing under your breath.

“Dean said Baby’s brave”, she announced suddenly, lifting her sudsy hands like antennae. “And tonight I get to make her roar”.

Your chest tightened. “Yeah”, you said softly. “He promised, didn’t he?”.

Lilah nodded and grinned wide. “He keeps promises”.

You swallowed hard, rinsing shampoo from her curls. God, please let that be true.

-

By the time the first tray slid into the oven, flour dusted not just the counter, but your shirt and most of Lilah’s curls . She insisted on baking heart-shaped cookies for Dean.

“Careful, baby”, you said while brushing glue, still somehow stuck to her elbow, off with a wet cloth. “Don’t touch the pan”.

“I know, Mommy. I’m big”. She smushed three huge chocolate chips in a row, then leaned back proudly. “Dean’s gonna say they’re buzzy”.

You bit the inside of your cheek, turned back to the stove where dinner simmered low and steady.

-

Across town, the graveyard stank of rain and rot. Dean wiped blood from his split lip with the back of his hand, shotgun still cocked against his shoulder. Three poltergeists, maybe four, had come screaming out of the cracked soil, riding a wave of bone-dry wind that sliced through the trees. “Son of a—”. He ducked, barely avoiding a hurled headstone that shattered against an iron fence. The salt-and-burn should’ve been quick, but the damn spirits were clinging hard to what was left of their bones. Every swing of his shovel was met with another violent shove, another lash of icy air that rattled his ribs.

He gritted his teeth, dropped another match into the pit, flames catching fast on the bones he’d finally scattered. One spirit shrieked, then another, firelight twisting their forms until they vanished into smoke.

Dean staggered back panting, his jacket was torn at the shoulder and blood was dripping from a cut at his temple. His whole body hummed with adrenaline while aches waiting to bloom.

The last poltergeist screamed once more before the fire swallowed it, leaving the graveyard eerily quiet.

At 5:58, Dean checked the time with grave dirt under his nails and ash in his mouth and told himself he could still make it.

At 6:03, something cold kissed the inside of his jacket pocket.

He froze, hand sliding in. His fingers closed on a little circle of beads. A tiny tarnished charm shaped like a bell. When seconds later he was slammed spine-first into a headstone, he understood: not all of them had been tied to bones. One had hitched a ride. Planted its heart in his pocket. That´s why it was in Lilah´s room last night. “Son of a—”.

He didn’t finish because the next shove tried to fold him in half. The bracelet burned his palm. He flung forward, salt already in his fist, teeth rattling as he hit gravel. He threw the line, snapped iron through the air, went down again with a grunt when the thing yanked his legs out from under him. “Not tonight”, he growled, and slammed the bracelet onto a flat stone, boot grinding down while his other hand fumbled a match. He lit the salt he’d poured, flame catching and held the beads in the heart of it until they blistered black and cracked. The pressure blew out like a bad lung. He staggered, shoulder already swelling where he’d met granite. His phone said 6:17. He swore and ran for the car.

-

At 6:20, the kitchen clock ticked loud enough to feel like a taunt. You’d set the plates out. You’d warmed the bread twice. The steam from the pasta had thinned to nothing.

You sat down anyway, fork in hand, trying to keep the routine intact. “Dinner”, you said lightly, like the word wasn’t dragging through your throat.

Lilah climbed into her chair, but her wings sagged. She wasn’t a normal bee anymore, she’d changed after her bath, insisted on a mix of her bat costume and bee costume. You hadn’t asked why, but you knew.

She folded her arms on the table and laid her cheek on them, eyes fixed on the untouched cookie plate in the middle. The heart-shaped ones she’d pressed chocolate chips into with sticky little fingers. “He’s not coming”, she whispered, not looking at you. “He promised. I dressed up like a zombie bee for nothing". You reached across, smoothing her hair, but she pulled back, shoulders hunched. “I don’t want hawoween anymore”, she muttered.

Your heart ached. You’d told yourself you’d kept her safe from this. Safe from the hunger, the wanting, the disappointment. But there it was, sitting across from you in felt wings and a sagging headband, cookies untouched.

You set your fork down, your appetite clearly gone. You were fighting to keep your voice steady. “He might be late, but that doesn’t mean—”.

“It means he didn’t want to come”, she cut in, and her voice cracked on the last word.

You blinked hard, throat burning, and reached for her again. This time she let you gather her up, wings crumpling as she climbed into your lap. Her little chest hitched once, then again, like she was trying to swallow it down, like if she just held her breath long enough she wouldn’t cry at all. But it broke loose anyway. Thin, wet sobs muffled against your shoulder.

The black glitter you’d brushed across her cheeks smeared under her eyes, streaking her skin in crooked shadows. She sniffled hard, trying to swipe them away with the back of her hand, but that only smeared it more. “He doesn’t like me”.

The words tore through you. “That’s not true”, you said firmly, even though your own chest hurt from how much you wanted to believe it. “That is not true, Lilah”.

She sniffed again, pulling back just enough to look at you, eyes red-rimmed, glitter sticking to her lashes. “Then why didn’t he come?”.

You didn’t have an answer. Not one that wouldn’t break her even more. So you kissed the glitter and the tears from her temple, rocking her gently in your lap like she was still a baby instead of four, like you could protect her from this the way you protected her from scraped knees and bad dreams.

A few minutes later however, you heard two hesitant knocks on the door. You stiffened with your arms still wrapped around Lilah. She lifted her head. “Mommy?”

Your heart kicked hard. You smoothed her hair back. “Stay here”, you whispered.

But she slid off your lap anyway, bare feet padding across the floor, rabbit dragging behind her. She froze halfway to the door when the another knock came, her shoulders hunched like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to run to it or hide.

You pushed up from your chair, forcing your legs to move.

When you opened the door, he was there, looking like the grave had tried to keep him. His lip split and swollen, dirt streaked across his jaw, one eye already darkening around the socket. His flannel was torn, shoulder crusted with blood where the fabric stuck. He hadn’t showered, hadn’t let Sam patch him up. He’d come here, straight here.

In one hand, he clutched a dented pie tin, foil crimped but sagging on one side. In the other, dangling awkwardly from his bruised knuckles, was a little stuffed bee. It was round and fuzzy, antennae crooked from being crammed into a bag. His voice scraped raw. “I’m late”. His eyes flicked past you, to the table where the cookies sat untouched, then to the small bat-winged shadow clinging to the archway. “I’m sorry”.

For a second, nobody moved. Then Lilah’s voice, small and broken: “You came”.

Dean’s throat worked. He went down to one knee right there on your porch, the pie rocking dangerously in his grip. He held up the stuffed bee like it was treasure. “Picked this up for you”, he said, softer than you’d ever heard him. “Thought maybe… maybe she could buzz with you next time”.

Lilah blinked at him, glitter smeared across her cheeks, and her little chest hitched again. She darted forward, wings crumpling. She didn’t even look at the pie. She grabbed the bee out of his hand and hugged it to her chest, then threw her arms around his neck.

Dean bit his lip, eyes clenching shut as he caught her, careful not to crush her wings, his body trembling with the force of holding her and holding himself together.

You stood in the doorway, torn open, watching your daughter bury her face against the man who’d once vanished like smoke and who had come back bloodied, broken, and late, but come back.

Dean stayed crouched on the porch, Lilah clinging to his neck with one arm and her new stuffed bee crushed in the other. His lip was split, his jaw bruised and his shoulder… God, even from here you could see the way it hung wrong.

“Inside”, you urged, stepping back so the door opened wider. “Now”.

Dean looked up at you once, then nodded. He shifted carefully, lifting Lilah onto his hip like he’d done it a hundred times before, grunting at the strain on his bad shoulder but refusing to set her down. The pie tin balanced awkwardly in his other hand.

The moment his boots crossed the threshold, Lilah leaned back just enough to get a good look at him. Her wet lashes blinked wide, her small hand brushing the dirt smudges across his cheek. “Your costume looks so cool”, she whispered in awe.

Dean swallowed hard, mouth twitching like he wanted to smile and couldn’t quite manage it. “Yeah? You think so?”.

She nodded fiercely. “Zombie. With bruises”.

He huffed a laugh, winced when it pulled at his lip. “Something like that”.

You shut the door behind them. Lilah clung tighter, thrilled by the idea, while you saw the truth plain as day: this wasn’t paint, wasn’t play, wasn’t anything but blood and bone and the kind of damage you’d prayed she’d never have to see up close.

“Kitchen”, you said briskly, and Dean obeyed, lowering himself into one of the chairs with Lilah still on his lap. She adjusted her wings so they didn’t get crumpled and patted his chest like she owned the spot.

You crossed to the freezer, yanking out a bag of peas. When you set it down in front of him, you kept your voice low, careful not to rattle Lilah any more than she already was. “Your shoulder looks wrong”.

Dean’s eyes flicked up, surprised not at the offer but at the gentleness in your tone. “Thanks”. He adjusted Lilah carefully, then pressed the peas to the swollen joint, hissing softly through his teeth, trying not to let the pain show. But Lilah was too busy to notice. She wriggled on his lap, stuffed bee tucked tight under her arm, rabbit abandoned on the floor.

“Dean, guess what!”, she burst out, words tumbling fast. “We had a Halloween party at kindergarten and I was a bee! Not this zombie bee, but a bee—and we had cookies and juice and I peeled a banana but then I dropped it on the carpet and Ms. Rivera said it was still okay but it had fuzz, and then we sang the pumpkin song and I buzzed extra loud because I was the best bee!”.

Dean’s bruised mouth pulled into something soft. “Bet you were”.

“And then I made a spider, but the glue went everywhere! Mommy says it´s sticky, but it’s scary, I promise. Do you like scary things?”.

He chuckled, shifting the peas higher on his shoulder. “I’ve seen a few”.

“And I saved you a cookie but I thought you weren’t gonna come so I almost ate it but then I didn’t because—because maybe you would”. She gripped his flannel with both little hands. “I’m happy you came”.

Dean’s throat worked. He swallowed, eyes darting to you, but you were already watching the jagged stain on his shirt where the flannel clung darker to his ribs.

“Baby”, you interrupted gently, brushing Lilah’s curls back. “Go get your rain boots, okay? We’ll need them when we go out later”.

Her head popped up. “Now?”.

“Now”.

She slid off Dean’s lap with a dramatic sigh, antennae bobbing as she shuffled toward her room. “Don’t eat the cookie without me”, she warned, pointing at the plate as she went.

Dean huffed out a weak laugh, but it cut short when you stepped closer, your eyes locked on his ribs.

“Lift your shirt”, you said quietly.

For half a second he tried for the old grin, even through the split lip. “Here? With the little bee still in the house?”. His voice dropped a shade lower. “Didn’t think you wanted an audience”.

You didn’t bite. Your arms stayed folded, your expression flat, even though your stomach still knew how to flip at that tone. “Dean”, you said quiet but firm. “Not this time. I see the blood”.

The smirk faltered and he leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose. “You never did let me get away with anything”.

“Shirt”, you repeated.

He gave in, tugging the flannel aside and lifting the hem of his T-shirt. The fabric stuck, dark and tacky against his ribs, peeling free to reveal the gash slashed across his side. Raw and still weeping through the half-crusted edges.

You grabbed a clean towel from the drawer and pressed it gently to the wound, ignoring the sharp hiss that punched from his throat. “Christ”, you muttered and shaking your head. “You walk around like this and think you can bluff me with a joke?”.

His jaw tightened, eyes locking on yours. “I was trying not to scare her”.

You pressed the towel a little firmer. “She thinks it’s a costume. That’s how close you came to scaring her anyway”.

Dean swallowed, the tease gone, his voice rougher now. “I know”.

You didn’t give him the chance to talk his way out of it. The towel in your hand was already blooming red. “Sit still”, you ordered and reached for the first-aid kit you kept under the sink.

Dean let out a long breath through his nose but didn’t argue. He shifted enough to give you space, wincing as his shoulder pulled.

You worked quickly, your hands steady even though your heart wasn’t. He flinched when the alcohol touched raw skin, biting back a curse, but stayed silent. Your fingers were careful but firm as you smoothed the last piece of tape flat.

Dean’s breath came out rough, almost a laugh, but not quite. “Feels familiar”, he muttered.

You paused, not trusting yourself to look at him. “What?”.

“The last time you patched me up like this”, he said. “That smelly motel outside Tulsa. Sam was snoring like a freight train in the other bed”.

Your stomach dropped. You remembered. God, did you remember. How his shirt had stuck to his ribs then too, how you’d pressed gauze against a cut almost exactly like this one, your hands shaking with the adrenaline of nearly losing him. How he’d watched you, green eyes burning into you like you were the only thing holding him together. And how afterward, after Sam rolled over and muttered something in his sleep, you hadn’t been able to stop yourself. How Dean had pulled you down onto him, mouth hot and body desperate, both of you moving like the world might end before morning.

Heat crawled up your neck at the memory. You forced your hand back, closing the kit with more force than necessary. “That was four years ago”.

Dean gave a half-smile, . “Feels like yesterday”.

You shot him a look sharp enough to cut, even as your pulse betrayed you.

His smirk faltered, but the softness in his eyes stayed. “Wasn’t complaining”, he said, quieter this time, almost earnest. “Just… saying thanks”.

Before you could answer, Lilah barreled back into the kitchen. “I’m ready!”, she declared.

Dean sat back quick, hiding the wince in his shoulder, his gaze snapping to her like she was the only person in the room. And maybe for him, she was. You swallowed hard, pushing the first-aid kit aside, telling yourself the heat in your chest was just frustration.

Lilah stomped across the kitchen with boots squeaking on the tile, and plopped herself right back onto Dean’s lap like she’d never left. She balanced her stuffed bee on the table beside the nearly empty cookie plate, then picked one up carefully. She held it right under his chin. “Eat this one”.

Dean blinked, taken off guard. “Before dinner?”.

“Yes”. Her tone left no room for argument. “It’s the best one. I made it for you”.

He looked at you, searching for backup, but you just arched a brow. “She’ll win”, you said evenly, arms crossed. “Might as well give in now”.

Dean’s mouth curved faintly. “Alright, kiddo. You drive a hard bargain”. He took the cookie from her hand and bit into it.

Lilah watched him with wide, unblinking eyes, as if waiting for the verdict.

Dean chewed, swallowed and let out a dramatic sigh. “That’s it. Best damn cookie I’ve ever had”.

Lilah squealed, clapping her hands, antennae bobbing wildly. “Told you!”.

He ruffled her curls. “You were right. Guess I’ll have to save room for more after dinner”.

You shook your head, fighting the warmth that crept into your chest despite everything. The image of him, bruised but holding your daughter on his lap while she fed him a cookie like it was communion, was too much. Too close to something you’d once wanted and told yourself you’d never get.

“Alright”, you said briskly, before the silence stretched too long. “Cookie first, pasta second. Lilah, sit in your chair”.

She groaned but slid off Dean’s lap, wings and all, scrambling back into her spot at the table. “Only because I’m hungry”, she muttered, stabbing at her pasta with exaggerated seriousness.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 4

-

The Impala parked half a block down from your house with headlights off. Dean sat behind the wheel. One hand curled tight around a bottle of water he hadn’t touched, the other was drumming against his thigh in restless rhythm.

The street was damn quiet. Halloween decorations hanging limp in the cool night air, a plastic skeleton clattering on a neighbor’s porch when the wind caught it. Every so often the flicker came again from the house across from yours, the one Sam had flagged in the reports. Three sharp flashes. Then dark. Then silence. But Dean’s eyes weren’t on the house.

They were on your windows.

Yellow light glowed behind the curtains. Warm, lived-in. He’d seen you carry the little girl inside earlier, bundled in her towel like a burrito, her giggles spilling into the night before the door shut. That sound was still lodged in his chest like a bullet.

He leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. Four years. Four years of hunting, bleeding, running, and trying not to think about what he’d left behind. And then today he heard your voice, saw your eyes… your daughter’s smile. Four years old.

He didn’t need to do the math. He had done it in the daycare hallway, every tick of the clock carving it deeper. November first. One night after Halloween. A cold, rainy night in the Impala. You on his lap, his jacket shoved off, windows fogging with your breath. Sam waiting back at the motel, rolling his eyes when you finally showed up late.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. He remembered every second of it. Remembered the taste of your lips, the way your hands fisted in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish if you let go. He hadn’t known he already would.

The memory cut deeper now, sitting here in the dark, because it wasn’t just a night anymore. It was a child with his eyes and your stubborn chin. Or maybe his. A child who made bat crafts and talked about sprinkles. A child who looked at him like he was a stranger.

His knuckles went white on the steering wheel. “Goddammit”, he muttered low.

The house across the street flickered again. Sam would want him focused, nose to the ground, case first. He should get out, knock on doors, measure EMF. Do the job.

But his eyes went back to your window, unsteady, like they’d been wired there. He could picture you inside, moving through your kitchen, folding pajamas, kissing a damp forehead goodnight. He’d walked away thinking it would protect you, protect himself. All it had done was leave you carrying everything alone.

Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, forcing his gaze away from the glow of your living room. He told himself he’d just make sure the street was safe. Just finish the hunt, salt and burn whatever the hell was in that neighbor’s walls. Then he’d go. He’d leave you the choice, the space, the number he’d written down.

The rain came down hard. Cold needles pricking Dean’s skin as he crossed from the Impala to your porch. Midnight, and your living room light was still burning soft through the curtains. He told himself he wasn’t going to do it, wasn’t going to bother you, wasn’t going to stand dripping on your welcome mat like some stray mutt. But his knuckles still rose. Three taps. Careful and quiet. Not enough to wake a kid, not enough to spook you.

He heard footsteps inside. Then the click of the lock. The door swung open. And there you were. White tank clinging to your skin, shorts riding high on your thighs, hair a little wild. He knew that look on your face. Cold, annoyed, already bracing for whatever trouble he was about to drag in. But your eyes were glassy, unfocused. Wine. He caught the sharp sweetness of it even under the rain. You never drank. At least not when he knew you.

“What the hell are you doing here?”, you asked, your voice flat.

Dean pushed a hand back through his soaked hair, water dripping down his jaw. He didn’t try to step in. Didn’t even lean close. “I just… wanted to make sure you were okay”.

“I told you”. Your hand tightened on the door, as if you might slam it in his face. “We’re fine”.

His gaze flicked past you, instinctive, like he had to see with his own eyes that the house was safe. Warm light, toys scattered by the couch, a blanket left crumpled from storytime. No sign of Lilah. He exhaled, relieved. “She asleep?”.

“Don’t pretend you get to ask. Don’t act like you’ve earned the right to care about her bedtime, Dean”. You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Four years, and you knock on my door like you’re still allowed in”.

His throat worked. The rain plastered his shirt to his chest, water dripping from his jacket onto your porch. “I know I don’t get to ask”, he admitted. “But I needed to see you. Needed to—”. He stopped himself, his jaw tightening. His hand hovered at his side. His voice dropped so low you almost didn’t hear it over the rain. “Just… tell me”, he whispered. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Tell me if she’s mine”.

The laugh tore out of you before you could stop it. It scraped your throat on the way out, tasted like wine and hurt. You leaned against the doorframe, one arm crossed tight over your chest like it might hold you together. “Are you serious?”, you asked, shaking your head. “You really need me to say it out loud? After today? After looking in her eyes? After she—god, Dean, she made vroom noises all the way home”.

He flinched, just barely, but you saw it.

“You think I’ve been raising some stranger’s kid?”, you pressed. “You think I—what?—moved on that fast? Got myself knocked up two weeks later? You need me to spell it out for you?”.

Dean’s chest rose and fell like he’d been punched, rain dripping from his lashes. He didn’t defend himself. Didn’t try to argue. He just stood there, soaked through, letting you empty the years you’d carried without him.

“It’s fucking obvious”, you hissed, softer now, your throat tight. “She’s yours. She’s been yours from the second she was born. From the second I felt her kick. From the second I knew I was alone”. The words cracked. You hated that your voice gave you away, hated that the fire bled into ache.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, you saw everything he wanted to say fighting to get out, but all he managed was a single, rasped truth: “I should’ve been here”.

Your hand tightened on the door, torn between slamming it in his face and pulling him inside.

“Delilah”, he said it slow, almost reverent, like he was tasting it for the first time. “It’s… beautiful. Fits her”. His throat worked, eyes softening despite the cold. “She’s so damn pretty. Just like—”. He cut himself off, gaze locking on yours.

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “Don’t you dare try sweet-talking me in the middle of all this”.

But he kept going, stubborn in that way he always had been. “I mean it. She’s—she’s perfect. And her name? You couldn’t have picked better”. His voice cracked, just enough to betray him. “You couldn’t have made her more perfect if you tried”.

“Jesus Christ”, you muttered, glancing down the street. Curtains twitched. Old Mrs. Hayes across the way was definitely nosy enough to stay up past midnight if something interesting was happening. The last thing you needed was to be tomorrow’s gossip… half-naked, arguing with a drowned man on your porch.

“Fine”, you snapped, stepping back. “Get in before the neighbors start rumors”.

Dean blinked, surprised, then ducked his head and moved past you. He smelled of wet jeans, cold air, and something that yanked you straight back to motel nights and fogged windows.

You shut the door harder than you meant to. The sound echoed through the quiet house. Lilah stirred faintly down the hall, you froze, but then she settled again. You exhaled slowly, running a hand over your face.

Dean stood in the middle of your living room, dripping onto the rug, those stupid green eyes roaming over the space. Over your daughter’s toys, the blanket on the couch, the faint glow of the night-light plugged in by the hallway. His jaw tightened, like the sight of your life without him was more than he knew how to carry.

“You’re dripping on my floor”, you said flatly, arms crossing over your chest.

He huffed a short laugh, shaking water from his hair. “Yeah. Sorry”. But he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded like a man who’d just stepped into a place he hadn’t believed he’d ever be allowed again. He huffed out a laugh, sheepish, then tugged at the collar of his jacket. It slapped wetly against his shoulders when he shrugged it off. He caught your look, half glare, half something else, and held his hands up. “Relax, I’m not stripping down or anything”.

“Good”, you shot back, though your voice wavered. “Last thing I need is you naked in my living room”.

He froze mid-step, water still dripping down his jaw, and tilted his head at you. “Last thing?”. The words carried a tease, faint but unmistakable. His lips twitched, like he couldn’t quite stop himself. “Sounds like maybe not the last thing”.

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck, wine humming through your blood. “God, you’re impossible”.

“Always have been”, he said, tugging at the soaked flannel under his jacket. It clung to him, buttons gaping slightly. He fumbled with the first one, fingers slipping on the wet fabric, and muttered, “Son of a bitch”.

Your eyes betrayed you, flicking down to his broad chest outlined by damp cotton, to water trailing down the slope of his throat. You cursed yourself for remembering the feel of it, the weight of him against you, the way you’d once drowned yourself in that exact heat.

Dean caught you looking, and for a second his clumsiness faltered into something heavier. He smirked, faint, crooked. “What?”.

“Nothing”, you snapped, spinning toward the couch before your face gave you away. “Towel’s in the drawer by the fridge. Try not to flood the place before you find it”.

Dean found the drawer you’d pointed to and yanked out a towel, big enough but not nearly big enough for the amount of water pouring off him. He scrubbed at his hair, rough, muttering curses under his breath as droplets splattered your kitchen floor.

You sat on the couch, legs folded under you, glass of wine balanced in your hand. Pretending. Pretending this was just an inconvenience. Pretending your chest wasn’t in knots from the sight of him in your home.

When the towel hit his face, he tugged it down and started peeling off his flannel again. His T-shirt underneath was plastered to his skin, every line of muscle visible. He hesitated, caught your eye, and then tugged that off too. Water dripped down the ridges of his stomach, down the scar you remembered tracing once with your fingers in some anonymous motel bed.

You took another slow sip of your wine, eyes fixed on him like you weren’t watching at all.

Dean smirked faintly, a bit awkward under your gaze. “You always were a hell of an audience”.

“Don’t flatter yourself”, you said, cool as you could manage, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

He toed off his boots, socks squelching, then glanced down at his jeans, equally soaked. “These too or you want me catching pneumonia on your rug?”.

You raised your brows, swirling the wine in your glass. “Not my problem if you do”.

He chuckled, shaking his head, towel dragging across his chest and shoulders.

You sighed, long, setting your wine glass down on the coffee table with a little clink. If there was one thing Dean Winchester had never been, it was practical. He’d stand there dripping until dawn and ruin your floor before it occurred to him to think ahead. So you pushed yourself up, crossed the room, and scooped up the flannel and T-shirt from the chair. They were heavy with rain, cold against your fingers. You carried them toward the laundry drawer, then came back, planting yourself right in front of him. You didn’t say a word, just held your hand out, palm open, eyes flicking deliberately down at his jeans, then back up to his face.

Dean blinked, caught between sheepish and smug. “You sure about that?”. His mouth tugged into that crooked half-smile you’d once loved and now hated for how it still made your chest ache.

“Dean”. Your tone was flat, edged with the kind of patience you usually saved for a four-year-old with glitter glue. You nodded once toward the denim clinging wet to his thighs. “Hand them over”.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, smirk softening into something awkward, almost boyish. “Never thought I’d get bossed around in my boxers by you again”.

You rolled your eyes, biting back the memory that rose up uninvited. “You’re not getting bossed around”, you said, voice sharp to cover the crack in it. “You’re getting your clothes dry. There’s a difference”.

For a moment, he just looked at you. Then, with a resigned shake of his head, he popped the button and dragged the zipper down. The sound made your throat tighten. He shoved the jeans halfway down his thighs before shoving them the rest of the way off, bunching them in one hand. He held them out to you with a mock flourish, eyebrows raised. “Happy?”.

You snatched them from him before your expression betrayed you. “Ecstatic”, you muttered, turning on your heel before he could catch the heat rising in your cheeks. You carried his wet jeans to the laundry room as well. Your hands shook just slightly as you hit the settings, blaming the wine, blaming the storm, blaming anything but him standing half-naked in your living room.

When you came back out, Dean was barefoot on your rug, towel draped over his shoulders, boxer waistband riding low on his hips.

You reclaimed your spot on the couch, reclaiming your glass too, swirling the last of the wine like it might distract you from the heat crawling up your chest.

Dean didn’t sit. He hovered, green eyes darting once toward the hallway where the night-light glowed faintly, then back to you. He opened his mouth, shut it again, rubbed at the back of his neck like the words might come out if he pushed hard enough.

“Spit it out”, you said finally, exasperated.

He huffed a breath, shaking his head. “It’s nothing”.

“Bullshit. With you, it’s never nothing”.

His gaze slid again, unsteady, toward the hall. You followed it instinctively, already knowing. “Don’t even think about it”, you warned, sharper than you meant to.

“I’m not—”. He stopped, sighed. His voice came out quieter this time, frayed around the edges. “I just… I just wanna see her. Even if she’s asleep. Just for a second”.

Your stomach twisted. You gripped your wine glass tighter, nails biting into the stem. “Dean…”.

“I won’t wake her”, he rushed out, hands lifted in surrender. “I swear. I just—after today—I can’t get her face outta my head. The way she looked at me, the way she—”. His voice cracked, and he pressed his lips together, swallowing whatever else he might’ve said.

For a long moment, you just stared at him. At his stupid green eyes, still wet, still asking questions he had no right to ask. At the towel slipping down his shoulder, at the stubborn hope written in every tense line of his body.

“You don’t get to just walk back in and play daddy”, you said, your voice low, hard. “You left, Dean. You don’t get to rewrite that”.

“I know”. His reply was immediate, desperate. “I know. I’m not—I’m not asking for that. I just… I need to know she’s real. That she’s not just…”. He gestured vaguely, helplessly. “That she’s here. Breathing. Safe”.

The silence stretched long and tight, broken only by the rain tapping against the windows.

You drained the last sip of your wine, set the glass down with deliberate care, and sighed. “One minute”, you muttered. “That’s it. You wake her, and I swear to—”. “I won’t”, he cut in quickly. “I promise”.

You pushed yourself off the couch, motioning him to follow, though your chest squeezed tighter with every step down the hallway. The night-light cast the walls in soft gold, the faint glow of painted bees and stars from Lilah’s stickers catching the dim. You paused at her door, hand on the frame, and turned to him. “Don’t say anything”, you whispered. “Don’t touch her. Just look”.

Dean nodded, throat bobbing, eyes wide with a kind of fear you hadn’t seen on him before. Not the fear of monsters or death, he’d faced those a thousand times. This was something rawer.

You pushed the door open slowly.

Inside, the room smelled like berry soap and crayons. Toys were scattered across the rug, a little doll tucked under the blanket with her. Lilah lay sprawled in the center of the bed, curls still damp from her bath, thumb resting just shy of her mouth. Her chest rose and fell in steady, untroubled breaths.

Dean froze in the doorway. His hand gripped the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His gaze locked on her tiny form, taking in every detail. The stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm, the faint smile curving her lips, the soft snore just audible in the hush. He didn’t breathe for a moment. Then, quietly, hoarsely, he whispered, “She’s perfect”.

You swallowed hard, arms crossed over your chest while pretending his words didn’t splinter something inside you.

Dean’s eyes shone in the dim light, and he didn’t dare blink. He looked like a man memorizing, carving the sight into himself so it could never be taken away. His lips parted like he might say more, but nothing came out. Just a rough exhale, heavy with years of what-ifs.

Finally, he stepped back, careful. He met your gaze in the hallway, and you saw it there. The plea, the apology, the vow, all without him saying a damn word.

You cleared your throat, forcing your voice steady. “Now you’ve seen her. That’s enough”.

Dean nodded slowly, but his eyes lingered on the door behind you like he was already aching for more.

You sank back onto the couch, glass empty and heart raw. Dean lingered in the middle of the room, like he wasn’t sure if he should sit or run. He cleared his throat, voice rough. “What… what did you tell her?”. He kept his eyes on the floor, as if looking at you would make the question break apart. “About… her dad”.

Your chest tightened. You crossed your arms, nails digging into your skin, and stared at the wine glass instead of him. “Why does it matter?”.

“Because—”. He stopped himself, ran a hand over his face. His tone softened. “Because I need to know what she thinks. What she… knows”.

You hesitated. The truth sat like a stone in your throat. Finally, you let it tumble out, voice low, almost a mumble. “I told her… her daddy needs to save the world”.

Dean’s head snapped up, eyes wide, green cutting right through you. For a moment, his mouth opened, but nothing came. He just stared, chest rising hard, like you’d sucker-punched him.

You shrugged, forcing the words sharper. “What else was I supposed to say? That he vanished? That he left us? She deserves better than that, Dean. She deserves to believe she was worth staying for”.

His jaw worked, but he didn’t argue. He just stood there, looking at you like you’d given him something he didn’t know how to hold. “She is”, he whispered finally. “She’s worth… everything”.

Your throat ached. You looked away, back to your empty glass, because if you looked at him any longer you might break apart completely.

Dean finally sat, lowering himself onto the armchair across from you like he was dropping into the confessional booth. “You think I wanted to leave?”. His voice was low, strained, like every word scraped on the way out. “You think I just… woke up one morning and thought, hell, let’s disappear on the best damn thing I ever had?”.

Your laugh came bitter. “Worked out that way, didn’t it?”.

“I didn’t have a choice”.

“There’s always a choice”, you snapped, leaning forward, your wine-loosened tongue finally giving the anger teeth. “You could’ve called. You could’ve written. Hell, you could’ve left a goddamn note, Dean. Instead, you vanished, like I was.. just another stop on your highway”.

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists on his knees. “I thought I was protecting you”.

“From what?”. You spread your arms wide, sharp and shaking. “From knowing the truth? From having a chance to decide if I wanted to stick it out with you? You didn’t protect me, Dean—you abandoned me”. The words cracked at the end, breaking into something rawer. You pressed your lips together, but it was too late, the ache had bled through.

Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “I never wanted this for you. For her. For us”.

You swallowed, throat thick, but your anger clung hard. “Wanting doesn’t change anything. You left me to do this alone, Dean. Every fever, every nightmare, every time she asked why she didn’t have a daddy—”.

He flinched like you’d cut him open. For a long moment, the only sound was the rain hammering the roof. Then he said, softer, hoarse, “I should’ve been here”.

You looked at him. At his rain-soaked hair, the scars carved deeper in his skin, the regret weighing down every inch of him. And for the first time all night, your anger faltered against the raw truth in his voice. But you forced the steel back into your spine, lifting your chin. “Damn right you should’ve”.

“I know I screwed it up, okay?”. His voice was rough, torn straight out of his chest. “I left because I thought it was the only way to keep you safe. And yeah—I figured if you hated me for it, maybe it’d make it easier for you. Easier to move on. Easier not to wait around for a guy who was never gonna come home”.

You opened your mouth, but the words stuck. His gaze dropped to the floor, like he couldn’t hold yours while he peeled himself open.

“I didn’t want this life for you”, he went on, quieter now. “The blood, the hunts, the running. I’d already dragged Sam into it. I couldn’t drag you too”. He huffed out a humorless laugh. “And the night… she was made… I knew. I knew I’d ruin everything if I stayed”. Dean’s jaw tightened, throat working like it hurt to swallow. “I still remember that fuckin´ rain, the car windows fogged up so bad I couldn’t see the damn motel sign anymore. You—”. He broke off, shut his eyes a moment, then forced himself through it. “Holding onto me like I was worth something, mumbling about a little house someday, a yard, maybe even a damn cat. You didn’t even realize you’d said it”.

Your chest ached. You did remember… your face pressed against his shoulder, words slipping out between moans, that warm, dizzy ache in your chest that had nothing to do with sex.

Dean shook his head, eyes finding yours again. “And right then, I knew. I could never give you that. Not a house. Not a white picket fence. Not a future that didn’t end in fire”. He laughed again, bitter and so damn broken. “So I left before you could figure it out for yourself. Before I could poison it worse”.

The silence that followed pressed heavy, thick with rain on the roof and the ghost of that storm years ago. For a long moment you just sat there, arms folded tight around yourself, staring at the man who had broken you open four years ago and somehow still had the power to do it now.

“You idiot”, you whispered finally, voice thick. “You absolute idiot”.

Dean blinked, taken aback. “What?”.

“You think you were protecting me?”. The laugh that broke out of you wasn’t sharp this time, it was wet and cracked, almost a sob. “Dean, I knew. I always knew what your life was. The hunts, the blood, the way it never ends. You didn’t need to explain it—I saw it every time you came back cut up, every time Sam patched you up in some crappy bathroom. And I stayed”. Your voice faltered, breaking on the words. “I stayed anyway”.

Dean’s face crumpled, just slightly. He opened his mouth, but you shook your head, forcing yourself through it.

“You don’t get it, do you?”, you said, softer now, tears burning hot in your eyes. “I didn’t care about a house. I didn’t care about the damn white picket fence. I just… I just wanted you. Whatever scraps of a life we could make in between hunts, in between the nightmares. That was enough for me”. Your chest heaved, the confession ripped raw by wine and four years of silence. “And you left anyway”.

Dean’s breath came out ragged, his green eyes shining in the dim light, and for the first time since you’d opened the door, he didn’t try to explain, didn’t try to justify. He just looked at you like the weight of what you said had knocked the air out of him.

“I never stopped wanting you”, you whispered, broken now, the fight gone out of you. “Even when I hated you. Even when I told myself I was better off without you. Part of me…”. Your voice cracked, a tear slipping free. “Part of me still wanted you to come back”.

Dean’s jaw worked. His hands clenched on his knees, knuckles white, as if the only thing keeping him from reaching for you was the memory of how badly he’d already burned you once.

You wiped at your cheek, annoyed at yourself for letting him see you cry, but you couldn’t take the words back. They hung between you, raw and trembling.

Finally, he shifted forward, elbows sliding off his knees. He didn’t ask permission, he just moved slow, like a man testing ice he wasn’t sure would hold.

You should’ve stopped him. You meant to. But when he crossed the room and sank onto the couch beside you, close enough that you felt the heat radiating from his bare skin, your breath stuttered instead of protesting.

“Four years”, he murmured, voice hoarse, “and I still…”. His eyes met yours, green and wrecked, his mouth barely a breath from yours.

You turned your head to tell him don’t, but it came out as a tremble of air against his lips. His hand twitched on the cushion between you, then lifted, knuckles brushing the edge of your thigh through the thin cotton of your shorts. It was too much. Too close. And you hated how much you wanted it.

Your wine-loosened body betrayed you, you leaned in, just a fraction, just enough. His lips ghosted yours, not even a kiss yet, just the promise of one. The world shrank to that point of heat, to the storm hammering outside and the silence stretching between your heartbeats.

“Mommy?”.

Both of you jolted like teenagers caught in the act.

Lilah stood in the hallway, curls a frizzed halo around her sleepy face, clutching her stuffed rabbit to her chest. She blinked at you both, confused, eyes squinting against the living room light. “I’m thirsty”.

Your heart thundered, guilt burning hot in your chest. You pushed yourself back against the couch, creating space between you and Dean like it might erase what almost happened.

Dean sat rigid, his eyes wide with the kind of panic he never showed on a hunt. He looked at Lilah like she’d just walked straight into his soul.

You cleared your throat, forcing your voice calm. “Okay, baby. Let’s get you some water”.

Lilah yawned, shuffling toward you, and her gaze snagged on Dean, half-dressed, sitting too close. She tilted her head, curious, but said nothing, just hugged her rabbit tighter.

Dean swallowed hard, his hand twitching against his knee like it wanted to reach out but didn’t dare.

Lilah slipped her small hand into yours, rabbit dangling from the other. Her little feet padded against the hardwood as you led her toward the kitchen.

Behind you, you heard Dean shift, then stand. His bare footsteps followed, hesitant, almost guilty, like he knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t stay away.

In the kitchen, you grabbed a cup from the cabinet and filled it with water. Lilah leaned against your hip, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She was too sleepy to notice the way the air in the room was charged, stretched taut between you and the man hovering in the doorway.

Dean leaned on the frame. His eyes softened as they landed on Lilah. He couldn’t seem to help it. Like every glance at her knocked another piece loose inside him.

She drank greedily, then handed the cup back to you with a sleepy sigh. “Thanks, Mommy”.

“You’re welcome, baby”. You crouched down, brushing a kiss across her damp curls. “Back to bed now".

Lilah turned toward the hallway, rabbit tucked under her chin, but her gaze snagged on Dean again. She squinted at him through the haze of sleep. “Are you sleeping here?”.

Dean´s lips parted, but no sound came out. He looked at you first, as if waiting for you to cut him down, then back at her. Before you could step in, she added with all the blunt honesty only a four-year-old could muster, “It’s rude you didn’t tell me your name”.

Dean let out a low breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so wrecked. He crouched again, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “You’re right. I’m Dean”. He paused, searching her sleepy face. “Nice to meet you, Lilah”.

She blinked, swaying on her little feet, and then gave a decisive nod. “Okay. Night-night, Dean".

The way she said his name, so simple and unquestioning, knocked something right out of him. “Night-night, kiddo”, he whispered back, like the words were sacred.

Lilah yawned, turned, and shuffled down the hall again, rabbit trailing across the floor. Her door clicked shut softly behind her.

The silence that followed was thick. Dean stayed crouched, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty doorway as if replaying every second in his head. Then his gaze lifted, landed on you. His green eyes were raw, burning, like you’d just handed him the world and the weight of it was crushing him. Eventually, he straightened slowly. He shoved both hands into his damp hair, exhaled hard, then met your eyes. “Let me stay”, he said. No preamble. Just that.

You barked out a laugh. “Absolutely not”.

“Not in your bed”, he added quickly, as if he could hear the minefield under your tone. “Couch. Floor. Hell, I’ll sleep in the damn bathtub if you want me to. Just… under the same roof”.

“Dean”. You folded your arms, spine stiff. “You don’t get to disappear for four years and then ask to crash here like nothing happened”.

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back down. “I’m not asking for me. I’m asking for her”.

Your chest clenched, and you hated it. “Don’t you dare use her as an excuse”.

“I’m not”, he shot back, stepping closer. “Look, that house across the street? It’s not just flickering lights. I’ve seen enough of this crap to know when something’s wrong. And if I’m right, it’s not safe out there for you two. Not tonight. Let me stay until I know for sure”.

You shook your head, anger and fear tangling in your chest. “You always have a hunt, Dean. There’s always something. But you left me to handle life alone, and now you want back in because of one spooky house?”.

His eyes burned into you. “Because I saw her. Because she’s mine”. His voice cracked on it. “Because if anything happened while I was parked down the block instead of right here, I’d never forgive myself”.

You swallowed hard, forcing your expression flat. “You already left once”.

“And it’s the biggest mistake I ever made”. He stepped closer still, hands open at his sides, like he was surrendering. “Please. Just tonight. I won’t ask for more than that”.

The plea in his voice scraped at you, dug under the walls you’d built. Damn him. Damn those stupid green eyes and the way he could sound like he meant every word, even when he broke you before.

You stared at him for a long, heavy moment. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just let you decide.

Finally, with a sharp sigh, you muttered, “Fine. Couch”. You jabbed a finger at him, steel in your tone. “You so much as breathe too loud near my bedroom door, I’ll salt and burn you myself”.

Dean’s lips twitched, like he almost smiled, but his eyes stayed solemn. “Promise”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 3

-

You were late. Again. Half your brain was on the grocery list and the other half on the neighbor’s house two doors down from yours, the one with the lights that flickered at three a.m. and the dog that wouldn’t cross the gate anymore. You told yourself it was wiring maybe old pipes. Even if you knew better.

Tomorrow was Halloween. The hallway smelled like tempera paint and orange slices. Little ghosts cut from coffee filters dangled from the ceiling on clear thread.

You rubbed at the tired spot between your eyebrows and reached for the clipboard, already forming the apology you’d give for being late, again. A man leaned over the desk, saying something low to Ms. Rivera that made her laugh in a way she didn’t for anyone else at pickup.

“…could leave my number”, he was saying, tapping the pen against the margin instead of writing. “You know, in case any of the kids mentioned noises across the street. Strange hours. Flickering lights”.

Ms. Rivera tucked a curl behind her ear. “Right. The neighbors”. Her voice brightened, like you’d just walked into a commercial for toothpaste. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but—sure, why not”.

You signed your name where it always went, thinking about canned pumpkin and whether you had enough sugar, about salt and doorways and windows that didn’t latch right. You were in your list, your little ordinary raft, when the man at the desk gave a soft laugh, and something in your chest stuttered.

It took a second. Of course it did. You’d trained yourself not to hear that sound. Still you glanced up. On reflex.

Dean’s gaze stayed on Ms. Rivera, the smile turned down just enough to look sincere. Your heart stopped anyway. That laugh, stupid, impossible, stitched into you like a scar you had learned to dress around. You told yourself it was coincidence. You told yourself a hundred men in a hundred bars had laughed like that. You told yourself anything that wasn’t his name.

“Mommy!”.

Delilah—Lilah—came at you like a small hurricane in light-up sneakers (the sweetest, clumsiest whirlwind there ever was), paper-plate craft flapping in one fist, a smudge of orange paint on her cheek. You bent without thinking, arms opening in the exact shape of her. The world righted itself around the weight of her. Play dates, park snack bags, cartoon theme songs at 6 a.m., all of it, your anchor.

“Look what I made!”, she declared, thrusting a construction-paper bat into your face. The googly eyes were crooked and perfect.

“It’s amazing”, you said, and your voice steadied on the easy truth. “Museum quality”.

Ms. Rivera cooed appropriately. “Oh, that is museum quality, Lilah. I love her little fangs”.

“Her name is Midnight”, Lilah announced, still brandishing the bat like a parade flag.

A shift in the air told you he’d finally turned. You didn’t look right away. You fixed the corner of the bat, smoothed your daughter’s hair, checked the time on the wall clock as if any of that mattered. Then you lifted your head.

He looked exactly like your memory and not at all like it. Older around the eyes, the jacket broken in deeper, the mouth still fighting not to soften. The sight of him didn’t knock you back so much as tilt the floor, just enough that you had to plant your feet.

Dean’s gaze finally met yours. It held. He looked at you like he was trying to line up two transparencies, who you’d been and who you were now, and the longer he stared, the more the room thinned to the quiet between two heartbeats. It went on long enough that you felt Lilah’s weight lean into your leg, her patience in short supply. “Do you like her?”, she piped up, tilting the paper plate so the bat’s crooked smile faced him. “My bat. Her name is Midnight”.

The sound broke the spell. Dean’s eyes cut to her, then back to you, then to her again, like a pendulum that couldn’t decide where true was. The movement was small, precise, the way he’d always measured rooms for exits. Only now the exit seemed to be you, and the door he couldn’t quite bring himself to touch was a four-year-old with glue on her knuckles.

“She’s… awesome”, he managed, voice softened down to something careful. “Midnight’s a tough name to live up to”.

Lilah’s whole face lit. “She can fly. But not inside. Mommy says nothing´s around to fly inside”.

“Mommy’s smart”, he said, and on that word his gaze snapped back to you, pinned there a breath too long before it slid to Lilah again. The green of her eyes caught the struggling light and threw it back at him. That was when he faltered. Not much. A stutter in breath, a shift in his jaw, a tighten-and-release of his fingers at his sides, but you felt it like a temperature drop. His eyes stayed on your daughter, then flicked to you, then back as if testing the same answer three times.

“How old are you, kiddo?”, he asked, too quickly to be casual, the question pushed out on instinct, suspicion, hope - whatever ugly, holy mix lived in the space behind his ribs.

“Four", Lilah announced, very proud, holding up too many fingers and then fixing it with serious concentration. “Four”.

The number seemed to echo. You heard it bounce off the cinderblock walls, off the paper ghosts and the cup of dull pencils; you felt it land in him like a stone dropped in deep water. He looked at you, sharp, then back to her, and you could see the math drawing itself across the back of his eyes. Counting backward. Counting forward. Counting all the places where he hadn’t been.

“C’mon, baby, we need to go”, you said, scooping Lilah onto your hip. It was to her, but it was for him. An end to a conversation he hadn’t started yet and you weren’t going to have in a hallway full of paper ghosts.

Ms. Rivera’s smile faltered as her gaze bounced from Dean’s eyes to Lilah’s and back again. You watched the recognition click into place behind her professional cheer. She pressed a folder toward you like a shield. “I’ll—um—finish the attendance”, she murmured, already retreating. “See you both tomorrow”. And then she disappeared, shoes squeaking a polite escape.

“Wait”. Dean’s hand lifted, palm out, stopping short of your sleeve like he’d hit an invisible fence. “Can we—”.

“Not here”, you said, low. Lilah’s arm looped around your neck, her bat bumping your shoulder with each breath. “Not now”.

His jaw worked. Four years collapsed into the space between heartbeat and regret. “I didn’t—”. He shut his mouth, swallowed the excuse. “You’re right”. A beat. “But… can you give me a minute?”.

You angled past him toward the door. “You had a year”, you said, even, for the sake of the kid whose ear was pressed to your collarbone. “Then you had four”.

He took it, the hit and the history. “You’re angry”.

“You think?”. The edges of your voice were sanded for little ears, but the shape of the word was still sharp. “We’re done”.

Lilah patted your cheek, oblivious diplomat. “Mommy, can Midnight have sprinkles, too?”.

“Midnight can bathe in sprinkles”, you said, and kissed her temple because it helped.

Dean shifted, blocking the door just enough that you had to look at him. He didn’t touch you, or crowd. He just stood there with his questions bleeding through the seams.

He was always so much taller than you. The hallway lights caught on the slope of his shoulders, and you hated that your body remembered what it felt like to stand under his shadow.

“Dean”. You made your voice calm and flat. “Get out of my way”.

His jaw clenched, green eyes flicking down at you like he was trying to peel back every layer you’d built since he left. “Just… a minute. That’s all I’m asking”.

“You already long enough”, you snapped, low enough that Lilah wouldn’t hear it as more than a hum in your chest.

He flinched but didn’t move. “I just—look, we could grab a coffee. Sit down. Talk like adults”. His voice dropped, softer, trying for gentler. “Catch up”.

You laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Catch up? Like we lost touch after high school? You ghosted me, Dean. Vanished. And now you want coffee?”.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing like the words cost him. “I had reasons”.

“Yeah? So did I”. You shifted Lilah higher on your hip. “Mine wore diapers”.

His eyes dropped, just for a second, to the girl nestled against you. Then they snapped back to your face, as if he wasn’t allowed to stare too long, as if staring too long would break something he didn’t know how to fix. Still, you the loop his gaze kept making: Lilah’s lashes, your mouth, Lilah’s hands, your eyes. Back and forth, like a man trying to solve a puzzle without touching the pieces.

“She’s beautiful”, he said, quiet, reverent. “She’s… she’s got your smile”.

The lie hung there, soft and heavy. You didn’t correct him. You didn’t need to. His gaze gave him away, lingering on the green in her eyes, the stubborn lift of her chin, the way her curls bounced when she fidgeted. He didn’t say the words, but the question was in every breath he took.

“She likes loud cars”, you said flatly, because if he wanted clues, you’d toss them like knives.

He blinked, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Figures”. He exhaled, almost shaky. “So she’s—”.

“Don’t finish that sentence”.

His hands flexed at his sides, the fight in him trying to crawl out, but he held it down. “I just… I need to know if—”. He caught himself, scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “If you’re okay. If you both are”.

You met his eyes, steady. “We are. Without you”.

The words landed, and he didn’t even try to dodge them. He nodded once, slow, like he deserved every bit of it. Still, he didn’t move. “Coffee”, he said again, quieter, like maybe if he whispered it you’d hear something else in it. “Just half an hour. No excuses or vanishing. Just… me and you. Please”.

You stood there in the too-bright hallway with paper pumpkins rustling and Lilah humming against your shoulder, and you hated that a part of you wanted to believe him.

“Get out of my way, Dean”, you said again, softer this time, but no less certain.

His throat worked. For a moment, you thought he might argue. Then, finally, he shifted sideways, giving you space. But his eyes followed you, asking all the things he couldn’t say out loud, burning with a truth he was too much of a coward, or too much of a Winchester, to name.

And you walked past, Lilah in your arms, every step steady even though your chest was on fire.

Later, in the bathroom that smelled like bubble soap and wet towels, with steam fogging the mirror, you rolled your sleeves up, kneeling on the bathmat with one hand steady on Lilah’s back as she splashed and hummed, glue peeling off her little fingers in gummy strings.

“Don’t eat it”, you warned, pulling the sticky wad away before she could test her luck.

“I wasn’t!”, she giggled, then immediately changed the subject, because that’s what four-year-olds did. “Mommy, did you see the black car? The loud one?”.

Your chest tightened. You reached for the shampoo bottle, forcing your voice into its calm, bedtime cadence. “Yeah, I saw it”.

“It was shiny”, she said dreamily, tilting her head back so you could lather her curls. “And so big. Not like ours. Ours is… ours is squeaky”.

“Our car gets us where we need to go”, you said, rinsing her hair with the plastic cup, watching the suds slide down her shoulders.

“But the black one was like—vroom!”. She made the noise with her whole body, water sloshing over the side of the tub. “Can we get one like that?”.

You swallowed hard, focusing on rinsing the last of the shampoo from her curls as she splashed and squealed about engines and vrooms.

“Can we get one?”, she asked again, stubborn in the way only Dean Winchester’s child could be.

You wrapped the towel around her small, slippery body and lifted her out, settling her onto the bathmat. She giggled as you rubbed her hair dry, soap bubbles popping under your palms.

And all you could think about was the Impala. That night.

Rain pelting down hard enough to blur the motel sign across the lot. Cold air spilling in every time the passenger door opened and slammed shut. Sam’s tall shadow moving inside, muttering something about giving you two five minutes, which had stretched into thirty.

You remembered the creak of leather under you, the way Dean had dragged you into his lap, his hands gripping your thighs like he couldn’t believe you were real and alive after what you’d just faced. You remembered how the windows fogged faster than you could wipe them clear, how his mouth moved against your jaw, your neck, your chest like he was starving.

And the way the world had gone quiet in that front seat, with the hunt behind you, the storm outside and his body warm and solid beneath yours. That night had left more than memory. It had left your little girl.

You cleared your throat, willing the memory back into its box, sealing it tight before it could leak out where she might see it on your face.

“Someday, maybe”, you murmured, kissing the top of her damp curls. It was easier than saying never, easier than explaining that the car she was dreaming about had already given her all it was ever going to give.

She giggled when you spread the towel wide, then squealed as you wrapped her up tight, tucking every corner in until she was nothing but a squirming little burrito with green eyes peeking out from the folds.

“Mommy! I’m stuck!”.

“That’s the point”, you teased, securing the last corner. “No escape for the burrito”.

She wriggled delighted. “Burrito with sprinkles!”.

You laughed, the sound breaking something loose in your chest, and lifted her against your hip, towel trailing like a cape. She pressed her wet cheek against your neck, and for a moment, just a moment, the memories dulled, the Impala faded, the storm quieted.

This was what you had now: sprinkles, towels, bedtime stories. Not the growl of an engine in the night. Not the man who drove it.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 2

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