whisper through a megaphone

The motel bathroom was barely big enough for one person, let alone two grown hunters caked in vampire's blood, but Dean kicked the door shut behind them anyway.

“Jesus, we smell like a slaughterhouse had a bad day,” he muttered, already peeling his soaked flannel away from his skin. It landed in the corner with a wet slap.

She snorted, reaching past him to twist the shower knob. The pipes groaned like they were personally offended before lukewarm water sputtered out. “You’re the one who said ‘aim for the neck, less mess.’”

“Yeah, well, clearly the necks disagreed.” He tugged his shirt over his head, grimacing as it peeled away from a smear of dried blood on his collarbone. “You got some in your hair, by the way. Looks like you went full Carrie.”

She flicked a glance at the foggy mirror, then at him. “And you’ve got a whole handprint on your ass. Classy.”

Dean twisted to check, eyebrows lifting. “Huh. Souvenir.” He grinned, crooked and tired, then stepped under the spray without waiting for an invitation.

She followed a second later, shoving him lightly so she could steal the bulk of the water. “Move, Winchester. Some of us actually care about getting clean.”

He laughed under his breath, grabbing the tiny bar of motel soap and lathering it between his palms. “Here. You first. Ladies who decapitate vamps get priority.”

She rolled her eyes but let him rub the suds into her shoulders, his thumbs working in lazy circles over the knot that always lived there after a hunt. She tipped her head back, letting the water sluice the worst of the mess down the drain.

“You missed a spot,” she said, reaching up to swipe a thumb across his jaw where a streak of red still clung.

He caught her wrist, gentle, and pressed a quick kiss to the inside of it—more reflex than anything else. “Better?”

“Marginally.” She smirked, then flicked soap bubbles at his face. “You still look like you lost a fight with a paint roller.”

Dean retaliated by scooping a handful of water and dumping it over her head.

She yelped, laughing, and shoved him back against the tiles. “Asshole.”

“Your asshole,” he shot back, already reaching for the shampoo bottle. He squeezed way too much into his palm—because of course he did—and started working it into her hair, careful around the tangles, like he’d done it a hundred times before. Which he had.

For a minute there was only the sound of water drumming on porcelain, the soft rasp of fingers against scalp, and the occasional muttered curse when one of them stepped on the other’s foot.

She leaned back against his chest, eyes closed. “We’re burning these clothes.”

“Already planning the bonfire,” he murmured into her wet hair. “Maybe throw the boots in too. They’re cursed now.”

“Everything we own is cursed.”

“True. But these ones are extra cursed.”

She huffed a laugh, small and fond, and turned just enough to rest her forehead against his. The water kept falling, warm now, washing away the last of the night.

Neither of them said anything else. They didn’t need to.

the first few weeks home are a blur of no sleep and sam refusing to put the baby down for more than 10 minutes at a time, he just walks the apartment in slow circles at 3am, one big hand supporting the tiny head, the other rubbing endless soothing circles on the baby’s back while humming “hey jude” so quietly it’s almost just breath

he’s obsessed with the baby’s tiny hands. like, completely mesmerized. he’ll hold one little fist in his palm and just stare, whispering “look at these fingers… how are they so small?” until she teases him that he’s gonna wear out the phrase

bath time becomes sacred. sam kneels by the baby tub like it’s a ritual, testing the water temp on his wrist approximately 17 times even though he already knows it’s perfect. the baby coos and splashes and sam’s whole face lights up like the sun came out — he gets soaked every single time and doesn’t care

he starts a tradition of reading to the baby every night from day one. not baby books at first — he reads mythology, latin primers, even parts of his old law textbooks in that low calm voice. claims it’s “building vocabulary early” but really it’s just because the sound of his voice makes the baby stop fussing instantly

whenever the baby cries in the car, sam pulls over immediately. doesn’t matter if they’re two blocks from home. he climbs in the back seat, unbuckles the car seat, scoops the baby out and just holds them against his chest until the sobs turn to hiccups. “i’ve got you. dad’s got you. you’re safe”

dean visits and tries to burp the baby like a pro wrestler and sam hovers like a nervous hen going “support the head—gentle—dean, gentle!!” until dean smirks and hands the baby back like “relax, sammy, i’m not gonna drop my niece/nephew”

sam has zero chill about tummy time. he lies on the floor for hours, chin on his hands, cheering like it’s the Olympics every time the baby lifts their head even a centimeter. “that’s it! strong like mom, huh? look at you go”

the baby’s first smile is at sam — he’s making ridiculous faces while changing a diaper and it just… happens. tiny gummy grin. sam freezes, eyes instantly glassy, and chokes out “did you see that? she/he smiled at me” like it’s the greatest thing anyone’s ever done for him

nightmares still hit him hard some nights. he wakes up gasping, checks the crib first thing — the second he sees the baby breathing, safe and tiny, he exhales like he’s been holding it for years. sometimes he just sits in the rocking chair watching them sleep until dawn, one finger tucked in that little hand

he learns every cry. hungry is different from tired is different from “i just want to be held.” he’s up before the wail even fully starts, already murmuring “i know, i know, i’m here”

first time the baby grabs a fistful of his hair and won’t let go? sam just laughs — soft, wrecked, happy — and lets them keep it hostage for twenty minutes while he rocks them. “yeah, you got me. i’m not going anywhere”

he keeps the first onesie they ever dressed the baby in folded in his nightstand drawer next to his dad’s old army knife. two pieces of who he is, side by side

late-night feedings: bottle in one hand, baby cradled in the crook of his arm, sam’s head tipped back against the couch whispering all the promises he’s too scared to say in daylight — “you’ll have a real home. you’ll never have to run. i’ll give you normal, i swear”