#deanwinchtser

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.🥰 

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Part 13

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