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“Baby,” you say, dropping your head back against the arm of the couch, eyes closed, corners of your mouth pulled down. “It’s just, it’s not gonna be the same.”
You bring your head back up just in time to see Dean lean far enough so that he can see you from the kitchen. There’s a towel slung over his shoulder and a spatula in his hand.
A man on the job.
“Sweetheart, it’s gonna be amazing, don’t you worry about that,” he says, giving you a one sided smile and a wink before nodding your way. “How are we doing on feet and drinks?”
Despite your foul mood, this drags a chuckle from you. You reach forward with a grunt, pick up your big glass of iced tea and take a sip, then rest it on top of your equally big belly and, you guess, your baby’s head.
“Feet are warm,” you report back, “ice tea is being sipped.”
Dean grins, then starts rummaging around in the kitchen again. Meanwhile, you turn your head, look outside.
It’s like being inside a snowglobe. It’s dark out now, even though it never got really light in the first place. The snow lies thick and high in the street, glistening under the streetlights, which you can barely see through the flurry of flakes.
You’re snowed in, plain and simple, which would worry you if you were closer to your due date. It still worries you, but also, it doesn’t feel like it should be so far off. You feel massive. You started waddling recently. Dean thinks it’s adorable.
Speaking of, the cause of your current state rushes from one end of the kitchen to the other. He finished up the central island only a few days ago, and has been making a lot of use of it. Most of the house is done, actually. Except for the nursery. And that’s only because you haven’t been able to settle on a color.
Dean wanted to know the sex of your baby and pick according to that, but you decided you didn’t want to know. When you agreed that he would talk to your doctor on the phone with you hiding out in the next room, that seemed like a good idea. Only when you heard him yell, “yes! A girl!” you realized that the plan had some holes.
Fair to say he was fine with you picking the color for the room after that.
Finally, Dean walks into the living room. He’s hiding the plate you know holds his creation behind his back, has a broad grin on his face. He looks so damn proud.
Too bad you already know you’re gonna shatter that pride in a second.
You just can’t help it. It needs to be the Spicy chili cheese dog, extra jalapenos, extra mustard from Al’s diner. Your order, the one Dean has probably repeated to the guy at the cash register a hundred times or so at this point. Driving out in the middle of the night, or picking one up before coming home after work. Before that, you’d say it, only without the extra spicy and without the extra mustard, when the two of you went to Al’s for dinner on date night.
“No one looks as hot as you eating a chili dog,” Dean would tell you, and you would grin at him, both of you silly and in love and mostly tired from your new day jobs and fixing up the house.
But now you’re snowed in, just when the chili dog craving has come back with a vengeance. You were nearly in tears when you told Dean, but he only shook his head, raised his hands and assured you that he would take care of it.
You didn’t want him to drive out in this weather, risk his life for your dumb cravings, so at first you were happy to realize he was gonna try to make the thing himself. Only once he started working you realized that that means it isn’t gonna be the real deal.
And you’re not totally sure that that won’t break Dean’s heart clean in two.
He’s a fixer, is what he is. You understood that early in your relationship. Your priest got lost on the way out to the location on your wedding day, so rather than wait for the problem to solve itself, Dean got in his car, went out and found the guy. He takes care of things, and you love him for it.
But when he can’t fix something? That’s when he starts getting down on himself. Starts worrying. Like he doesn’t realize that’s not the only reason you and so many others love him.
He sits down on the couch, eyebrows high, and you instinctively bring your hand to his knee, squeeze it. You look into his eyes.
“And here we have it,” he says, revealing the plate while his free hand does a real masculine version of jazz hands. “Dean Winchester’s big chili cheese dog, extra spicy, extra juicy.”
It looks perfect. Like something out of one of those borderline pornographic food photoshoots. Thick, melted cheese, the bun glistening and fluffy. There’s enough jalapenos to make a grown man fart fire. You smack your lips, then lean forward.
“Don’t think I’ll forget that your big chili dog is what got us in this situation in the first place,” you say with a raised eyebrow and a broad grin. Dean laughs at that, happy his joke landed. He passes the plate to you, then leans back. Grabs one of your feet, puts it on his lap and starts massaging it through the fluffy sock.
“I think you had a little something to do with it too,” he says. You chuckle, look down at the plate. Who knows? Maybe it’ll hit the spot. Dean’s pulled off tougher things. Like saving the world, for example.
You take a deep breath, then keep holding the plate with one hand while with the other, you pick up the culinary monstrosity. It’s huge, and some of the chili and mustard plops down on the plate as you bring it to your mouth.
You take a bite, try to get as many of the ingredients as possible. Close your eyes, both for show and in the hope that you can simply convince yourself it’s one of Al’s.
It tastes… well, it tastes like a death sentence, but in the best kind of way. It’s savory, a touch of sweet, spicy, sharp on your tongue immediately. But it’s just not right.
You put it down on the plate, blink open your eyes but you can already feel tears building in them. You’ve been a goddamn cry baby with your hormones all funky, and today seems to be no different. What’s even worse is Dean’s bright and expectant expression meeting you. The look of a man who knows he’s done a good job and is ready for his praise and reward.
“Too spicy?” he asks, completely misunderstanding what is happening. You chew, then swallow. Just in time before the waterworks start.
It’s a slow whimpering, your shoulders going up and down, and you’d hate the sound of it if you weren’t so overcome with it all.
Dean’s expression changes immediately, eyes going wide as he sits up.
“Baby?” he says but you’re already blubbering. You pull in your legs as far as you can, which isn’t very far at all and the fact that you can’t even look cute and small and curled up is the final straw. You start sobbing right as Dean takes the plate out of your hand, puts it on the low couch table. Your hands go to your face.
“I’m sorry,” you say, sniff. “I’m sorry, it’s just… it’s really good. It’s just not, you know…” You wipe at your eyes, angry at your own emotions, and look at Dean. He looks like someone just slapped him, confusion and pain mixing on his pretty features. Oh God, he’s gonna leave you and your unborn child over this. You just know it.
“I–” he says, but doesn’t continue.
“It has to be just right,” you try to explain. “And it’s not. I mean, fuck, it’s better than the one from Al’s. That one’s shit, if we’re honest, the cheese is cheap and the chili tastes like nothing. This is a five star meal compared to that. And you spent so long on it, but it’s… it’s just not…” You feel tears well up in you again, so you stop talking, breathe in slowly through your nose and out through your mouth. Then you look at Dean again.
He’s watching you and your little outburst. He blinks, then tilts his head to the side a little.
“Okay,” he says, slowly, like he’s thinking about every single letter. “I… that’s fine, sweetheart.”
You lick your lips, some of their salt from your tears transferring to your tongue. Blink a few times.
“It is?” you ask. Dean frowns at you.
“Yeah, of course,” he says, then shrugs. “Look, the ones at Al’s are fucking horrendous. I don’t know how you eat that stuff. I guess it’s good that it’s better. Even if it’s not… right.” You nod slowly.
Dean looks at your face, then looks away quickly. He moves his lips without saying anything, looking defeated.
“I didn’t know it had to be right,” he says, voice quieter.
You press yourself up and scoot closer to him. Dean turns to you, then opens his arm and wraps it around you, pulls you close. You look at him, his face close. He looks a little sad, and you feel the tackiness of your tears on your face. What a lovely evening this turned out to be. You bring your hand up, stroke his chest.
“Hey,” you say. Dean smiles softly.
“Hey,” he replies. You press yourself closer.
“We love you, both of us,” you say and Dean drops his head forward, his forehead against your cheek as he looks down at where your baby is slumbering. He brings his hand up, softly runs it over you. “And we’re so happy you take such good care of us.”
“Except I can’t even make a shitty enough chili dog,” he says and you chuckle.
“Except you can’t make a shitty chili dog,” you repeat. Dean huffs. He pulls his head back when you lean forward, just barely reaching the plate from where he put it on the table. You bring it back with you, hold it out to him. He looks at you for a moment, then grabs the dog, takes a bite, over the plate so he doesn’t spill anything. He closes his eyes, moans.
“That’s so good,” he says as he puts it down, licks some chili off his thumb.
“It is,” you say and then you put the plate back on the table before leaning against him, your head on his shoulder. Dean presses his head against yours. You close your eyes and let your hand run over his chest.
“So,” he says, “what am I gonna do with you for dinner?” You bring your head up, look at him.
“There’s a pint of Cherry Garcia in the freezer,” you say. Dean raises his chin.
“You know what you’d tell me if I tried to have ice cream for dinner, right?” he says and you shrug.
“I was just gonna dip the dog in that,” you say. It’s a success, because Dean actually looks more shocked than he did when you started sobbing earlier.
“You…” he starts and you laugh.
“I’m kidding,” you say and Dean’s hands immediately go to your sides, squeezing and you squeal and laugh.
“Kidding, huh?” he says as he leans you back, still tickling your side before he presses a fat, wet kiss to your cheek. “You think this is a joking matter?” You’re laughing, and the bright grin on his face is enough to make your heart surge with love.
“Well, don’t knock it until you try it,” you say, wiggling your shoulders as you pull Dean in, as much as you can with your belly in the way. “You never know.”
“I think I should be doing some dog dipping,” Dean says as he presses his nose against your temple. Your loud cry of laughter and shock is silenced by his lips.
Meanwhile, outside the snow keeps falling. The world is silent and soft and you’re all wrapped up and safe. And still craving a shitty chili dog.