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Your feet hurt.
That was the first thing Dean noticed when you walked through the bunker’s door—shoes in hand, a scowl between your brows, and your other hand bracing the small of your back. The pregnancy was nearing its final stretch, and your body had made its rebellion known in every possible way.
Dean was across the war room in two strides. “Hey, hey, come here.” He swept the shoes from your grip and helped you ease into a chair like you were made of porcelain. “You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“I went to the store, not war,” you huffed. “I’m pregnant, not made of glass.”
Dean crouched beside you, hands already on your calves, fingers moving to rub the arches of your aching feet like it was second nature. He was obsessed with touching you lately—not in a weird way but more like he couldn’t believe you were real. Couldn’t believe this was real.
“I just don’t like you carrying anything heavier than a craving,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to your knee before looking up at you with those damn forest-green eyes. “You okay?”
You softened. Always did with him. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He nodded, reaching up to cradle your belly with both hands. Your shirt was stretched tight over it now—his shirt, really, soft cotton with an old Zepp logo, permanently claimed by you months ago. His thumbs traced light circles on either side of the bump, reverent.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I can feel her kick now. Stronger than yesterday.”
You smiled. “She’s definitely your kid. Already throwing punches.”
His jaw ticked slightly, and there was that look again—the one you were starting to recognize. It wasn’t just awe. It was something deeper. He looked at you like he was scared the world would take you from him. Like he was scared of being happy.
“I keep thinking I’m gonna wake up,” he confessed, voice low. “Like this is all some dream I’m not allowed to have. You. Her. A home.”
You reached down, fingers sliding into his hair. “It’s not a dream, Dean. You built this.”
He leaned into your hand. “No. You built this. I just… I’m the guy who got lucky.”
You both were quiet for a moment. Then his hand shifted again, thumb brushing just under the curve of your bump.
“I’ve got this list,” he said suddenly, eyes still fixed on your stomach.
You blinked. “List?”
“Of things I wanna do before she’s born. Stuff I wanna be ready for. I, uh…” He looked a little sheepish. “I read all the books. Sam caught me watching a diaper tutorial on YouTube the other night. Thought I was watching porn or something.”
You laughed, heart swelling.
Dean grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just wanna be good at this. Better than I ever had. You know?”
You cupped his cheek. “You already are. She’s lucky, Dean. We both are.”
His eyes shimmered just a bit. He didn’t cry—Dean Winchester didn’t cry, at least not where you could see it—but you felt it in the way he kissed your palm, slow and grateful.
He stood and pulled you into his arms, careful but close. “Swear to God, Y/N, I’ve faced monsters, angels, Lucifer himself—but nothing terrifies me more than the idea of not doing right by you and her.”
You leaned your head against his chest, hearing the steady thump of his heart.
“Then stop worrying,” you said softly. “You’re already doing everything right.”
His arms tightened just a little.
And when the baby kicked again, right against his ribs, you felt him smile against your hair like it was the best moment of his entire life.