Archive of Our Own

Dean isn’t used to thinking this feeling is going to be forever. He trained himself to know it would’ve be. That happiness was a pit stop that got blown up behind you, rare and dangerous on the long road of life. You could carry bits of it, in the glove compartment and your pockets. You could savor it for a second on your tongue, but then your teeth were getting knocked out and you were choking on blood and you forgot for a long while after. How good that taste had been.

When you finally settled down together, he was happy. But he held onto it with white knuckles. He grit his teeth and dragged it against his chest, always braced for it to slip away. For you to leave.

But you didn’t. You fought, and then just… stayed.

Dean had never had someone stay before. For a while, he still didn’t trust it. You staying was the kind of thing that used to make him think he was in a Djinn dream. Too good to be true.

You don’t talk about that one time, when he had one of those bad weeks, and you found him freaking out in the kitchen with the Colt in his sweating hands. He had thought it was Djinn dream. It took you hours to truly convince him it wasn’t. Sometimes you still have nightmares about it, or Dean does, or you both do and you hold each other tight until sunrise.

He’s gotten better at, at least, knowing that this is real. He’s hitched. He’s a dad, and he hasn’t dropped your kid on her head yet. Once he let her stumble and she scraped her knee. You found them sitting in the Dean cave with popsicles and Scooby Doo after. Dean looked more freaked out by the whole thing that Charlie did. She’d mostly been happy that Daddy let her have a popsicle, and she didn’t even have to promise not to tell Mommy.

You would’ve smacked him upside the head, if he hadn’t looked like he’s just watched Charlie die.

“She’s fine, De.” You’d whispered that night, and he’d grunted.

“I know-“

“Do you?”

He’d let out a slow breath, shoulder slumping. His head had bowed, one hand shooting out to steady himself against the dresser. You’d padded across the room, and wrapped your arms around his stomach. He’d grabbed your interlocked hands, holding them there. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d shuddered like you were pulling him apart.

“I keep thinkin’,” he’d choked out. “That I’m gonna blink and something’ll get past me.”

“Nothing gets past you-“

“Yet.” His voice had lowered. Dark and tired. “There’s always something new, sweetheart. You know that.” He’d let out a slow breath. “Always fucking something.”

You hadn’t answered. There was never anything you could say, to make this kind of thing better. All you could do was stay. Let Dean hold onto you, until he was sure you weren’t going to start dissolving between his fingers like sand. You’d kissed his shoulder, and he’d turned around, pulling you tight into his chest.

He still wasn’t sure, then. Not of you and Charlie—never of you and Charlie—but of himself. He wasn’t sure he was enough. That he’d given enough, to have earned this sticking to his hands.

The first time he is sure is when Charlie is two. She runs around faster than her little body can handle, and wears the kind of sneakers that light up—because he bought them for her, after she gave him that face that’s far too similar to yours, and how the hell was he supposed to say no—and laughs at almost everything anyone does.

Sometimes, she’d get serious, and Dean would think she only got his face. Her little lips pout and wobble, and she crosses her arms and refuses to move, and Jesus, that’s all you. He tells you as much. That does get him smacked.

“She’s just stubborn, that’s not like me.”

Dean smirks down at the dishes in his hands. “Sure, baby.”

“Sure.” You mock, rolling your eyes. “Fuck you.”

“Mhm.”

“Don’t mhm me-“

“Sorry, princess.”

“You- You fucking-“

Dean looks up with raised brows, and finds you flushed and sputtering with anger. He chuckles, and your flush deepens.

“Shut up,” you whine, and his grin turns shit eating.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking things,” you grumble, shuffling right into his side.

Dean smiles to himself, when you press your face into his shoulder and hug his bicep. He’ll let you shove him around all he wants. He likes it more than he’ll ever tell you, and at least it reminds him he has two feet on the ground to trip over. He kisses the top of your head, and goes back to the dishes. He’s done this dance before. A lot, over the past few months. It’s like you got shot up with some kind of horniness serum. He’s a little worried that, at this rate, you’re going to break his poor dick.

Good way to die, though. He never stops you, because he can’t think of a better one.

“Charlie’s asleep.” You say softly, and Dean laughs under his breath.

“Uh huh.”

“She made me tell her the story about Daddy and the evil men again.” You hum, tracing your pointer finger over ever line in his forearm.

Dean sighs. “Jesus, you’re gonna make her think I’m Superman or something.”

“I think you’re Superman.”

“Yeah, well-“ Dean clears his throat, bowing his head so you don’t see his blush. “I fuck you. That doesn’t count.”

You laugh softly, propping your chin on his shoulder. “You know, my favorite story to tell her is about Uncle Sammy and the spooky town.”

“Of course it is-“

“Because.” You cut off his grumble with a dangerously adoring smile. “She always gets so excited when Daddy shows up. And saves Uncle Sammy.”

Dean’s heart stumbles. He has to put the dishes down and squeeze his eyes shut. You’ve seen him cry countless times, but he still hates it. You reach up and wipe the tears escaping down his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“She loves you, Dean. You’re a hero-“

“I’m not,” he grunts. “I sold my soul, heroes don’t do that shit-“

“Oh, I know that. I was there. I nearly killed you myself.”

Dean chuckles, wet and tired. You turn his face, forcing his gaze to meet yours.

“But just because you were stupid, it doesn’t make you less of a hero.”

Dean works his jaw. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Not fully.

One day, maybe he’ll believe Charlie.

“I don’t love that you tell her those stories, sweetheart,” he rasps, and you huff a laugh.

“Because they make you look good?”

“’Cause that shit isn’t something she should know about-“

“She thinks it’s fake, Dean. She knows you’re a hero.”

“I don’t tell her about all your stuff-“

“Liar.” You give him a pointed look. “Last week she asked me if I really beat an archangel.” 

Dean chuckles guiltily. “Hey, she asked. I’m not gonna lie to her about how cool her mom his.”

“Well, I’m not lying to her about how cool her dad is.”

Dean sighs. He stares at you for a moment, and you just smile back. You know you’ve won. You always win.

“She’s pretty cool herself,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Yeah. She is. What kinda toddler likes hearing about her old man getting beat up for a bedtime story.”

“Your toddler.”

“Nah, sweetheart. That’s all you.”

You roll your eyes, and your expression shifts. Dean tilts his head, already questioning, and you sigh.

“You have to promise not the be weird about it.”

“Me? Bein’ weird about something? Baby, never-“

“Dean.” You squeeze his bicep. “I’m serious.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah. Alright. Hit me.”

And he’s a little worried. What if he said something. What if you’re done. What if you remembered that he’s not that cool guy anymore. Just some douchebag with a jawline who eats all your daughter’s fruit snacks and lets her sit in the Impala with him while he works on the engine. No better than his dad, no good for you and Charlie-

“I want another one.” You blurt, staring at his neck instead of his face. “Please.”

Dean blinks. “Another… baby?”

You nod, flushing furiously, and a grin breaks slowly over his face.

Another one. Another little piece of him, in a whole lot of you. Another kid. You still love him, enough to have another kid with him, on fucking purpose.

“I think I can swing that,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes, but smile. You smile when he kisses you. You giggle when he throws you over his shoulder, because damn, he’s still fucking got it.

And he thinks it. Right there.

Maybe this is going to last forever.

The second time he thinks it is when you’re full and knocked up and it becomes painfully clear. This place is too big. There are too many sharp and pointy things, too many cold drafts, and—according to you, but Dean never argues—not enough color. Charlie’s going to be going to preschool soon. You’re going to have a second kid, and sure there are plenty of rooms, but raising a family in this place sounds like hell.

Too many memories, as well. There are rooms Dean can’t go in alone, and rooms you can’t go in all together. For Christ’s sake, you have a dungeon, and Charlie’s going to find it one day.

The bunker can’t be home anymore.

You’ve gotta move.

Dean spends weeks, looking at buying land closer to the city. Somewhere mixed with woods and people, so you’re not one of those annoying suburban families  you used to make fun of on hunts. You aren’t getting yoga pants and joining a Friday night book club. Dean isn’t about to start golfing, and he sure as shit isn’t driving a minivan. Block parties sound like hell. All those people, outside on his lawn, messing up the hidden wards. No damn way.

“You can’t build a house, De.” You sigh, leaning over his shoulder. Dean just kisses your cheek and clicks his tongue.

“No faith in me, sweetheart. I got a hammer. We got wood. Put ‘em together-“

“If you say house, I am throat punching you.”

Dean chuckles, and grabs the hand hanging against his chest. It’s the one he put a ring on. Sometimes he likes to fidget with it, just to remember that it’s there.

“Remind me why we’re so against the suburbs?” You murmur.

“’Cause we don’t suck,” Dean drawls your name, and you laugh softly.

“I think we suck.”

“No, I think we’re awesome. Maybe sometimes I suck. And- Heh.” He smirks. “Sometimes you suck, but I ain’t talking about the adjective-“

You clamp a hand around his mouth, and he laughs, grabbing it and turning it over to kiss your knuckles. You get pushy and violent when you’re pregnant. And you’re always a little pushy and violent—in a hot way—but not usually towards him. Not like this.

Charlie had been worse, though. Dean had joked the whole time that she was going to come out like him, because there was no way she was getting all that sass from you. Sam had muttered that he might have rose colored glasses, and you’d thrown a shoe at his head. But you’d been pregnant. Sammy should’ve known better.

“Dean Winchester.” You hiss in his ear, and Dean doesn’t know better. He loves you too much for it to matter anyway. “Charlie is in the other room-“

“Playin’ with her toys, baby. She’s not listenin’ to us.”

“What if she is-“

“She’s not.”

“But what if-“

Dean says your name, stern and low, and you drop your face dramatically into his neck.

“You don’t suck,” you mumble against his neck.

“I know.” He doesn’t. It’s why you always say it. 

“And you- You could build the house, I just- I don’t think we’re going to have time.”

“Yeah.” Dean sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Know that too. Just- Woulda been pretty sweet.”

You hum, looking up at the computer. “You could build use a shed. Or- This one would love a tree house.”

You pat your swollen belly, and Dean laughs. “Would she, now?”

“Mhm.”

“And she’s tellin’ you that through what, the umbilical cord.”

You roll your eyes. “No. She just- She feels more like you.”

And that knocks him off his feet. He would’ve loved a tree house. They never had a tree to build one in—or a dad who would’ve picked up the hammer—but Bobby had come pretty close once. Old thing in his yard, where Dean used to sneak up when he needed no one the find him. Bobby had known, of course. Bobby had always known. He hung up a hammock one afternoon, and never mentioned it to Dean again.

But his kid, they would have more than a hammock that Dad made Bobby rip down when he found out. They’d get a proper tree. A proper dad. A real, full blown childhood.

“What’s so bad about the suburbs?” You repeat the question, softer this time. And for the life of him, Dean can’t think of a real answer.

“Those places are expensive.” He mutters, and you hum.

“We got money.”

“Stolen money-“

“Still money.”

He looks back at you. You hold his gaze, gentle but firm.

“I love spiders and foxes as much as anyone else, De-“

“We wouldn’t have spiders-“

“We would in the woods.” You give him a stern look, and he shuts his mouth. “They’ll want their friends to come over. We’ll want our friends to come over.”

“We don’t have friends-“

“We will. And you’ll go fishing with a bunch of other dad’s who suck.” You pet his hair, rising fully up so his head is pressed against your belly. “And I’ll hang out with mom’s who hate their husbands, and tell you all the gossip they tell me-“

“Even the bedroom problems?”

That gets a laugh. “Especially the bedroom problems. And we can make fun of everyone together then host a very nice, boring dinner, then make fun of them some more.”

Dean sighs, looking up at you under lidded eyes. You smile. He smiles back, because that this point his face just does that, in reaction to you.

“You get a grill,” you add, and he chuckles.

“I’m already sold, princess.” He kisses the back of your hand. “I’ll start lookin’.”

You smile, and lean down to kiss his lips. Dean stays up late that night, then the next, looking for that boring, easy house. And he’ll never tell you how right you were—he doesn’t have to, you know—but a small, long buried part of him is poking it’s head up in excitement. Nothing’s more fun that people watching with you. This is just gonna be a whole life of that, and being five minutes from a nice bakery, and not needed to worry about his kids getting lost in the woods and being raised by wolves.

He finds the place in a week. He shows it to you, hands shaking more than he’s ever going to admit, because he wants it. It looks like what he used imagine houses looked like—what he’d close his eyes and try to remember, from the house that burned down—and Dean wants it so bad he can feel it, drumming in his chest.

“Listing says the garage door needs fixing, and- One of the doors doesn’t close all the way- One of the sinks doesn’t get hot right, either, but-“

“You can fix it.” You say, looking back to folding Charlie’s clothes. “Okay.”

Dean blinks. “Okay?”

“Okay. We’ll do that one.”

He coughs. It can’t be that easy. “You, uh- There are more pictures, if you wanna look more-“

“Is it in a good school district?”

“Yeah, and they got a good library, too-“

“Then okay.” You shrug.

Dean swallows. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t logic with. He doesn’t want you to hear it. “You wanna go check it out first?”

“No. I trust you.”

I trust you.

Just like that.

Dean has to sit on the edge of the bed. You notice him falling apart—you always do—and set down the clothing to hug him. He gets to put his face right in your boobs. He always forgets that part. If he remembered, he’d cry a hell of a lot more.

“You think Charlie’s gonna like it?” He chokes out, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s easy. Like he doesn’t think this might be forever again. “I do.”

Charlie loves it. That’s when he feels it the third time.

It takes months to get out of the bunker. There are so many things that need to be boxed up and shipped, more things that need to be given away, and uncountable thing that he doesn’t even know what to do with. Dean didn’t know they had so many things. As far as he could remember his whole life could fit in a duffle bag, and that duffle bag could be stuffed in a car, and if he lost the bag at least he still had the shit on his bag and in his pockets. But now he’s waking up and there are toys and photos and trinkets and shoes and jackets and a million other things to mark and pack.

Charlie keeps growing, but you say that you should keep everything for the next one.

“What if it’s not a girl?” Sam asks, eyeing your belly, and you shrugs.

“It’s a girl.”

“Did you guys check the sex-“

“No.”

“Well,” Sam shoots a look at Dean, like he’s supposed to know what to say about this. “You- You can’t know what the sex of the baby is, then-“

“But I do.”

“No, you literally can’t-“

“Is she inside you, Samuel?” You give Sammy a withering glare, and he flinches.

“No…”

Sam bows his head like a child in time out. You hum, pleased with yourself—you usually are, because they’ve known you for years and Dean can’t remember a single time when you haven’t won an agruement—and rub a hand over your swollen stomach. Dean isn’t sure if you got this big with Charlie. He thinks that might point to it being a boy, but he knows better than to tell you that directly.

“Winchesters get big,” He murmurs to you that night, testing the water. “Sam was five billion pounds.”

You snort, running your fingers through his hair. “Five billion?”

“Mhm. Massive freakin’ head, too. Dad let me hold him, thought he was an alien.”

That just gets a giggle, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. He should keep you pregnant all the time. You get sweet and soft, and mean and sharp, and he’s never sure if he’s supposed to be coddling you like an angry kitten or bracing for the bite of feral dog. He kind of loves it. Sam says that ain’t healthy or whatever. Dean tells him that he’s just never had a wife as hot as you are. Sam says he’s never had a wife at all. Dean says exactly, and walks away before the argument can become something he loses.

Sammy just understand how much you are when you’re knocked up, and how awesome that is. It’s like there’s twice as much of you for Dean to love. You’re perfect no matter what, but you’re so perfect Dean doesn’t know what to do with it sometimes, and when you’re knocked up you just tell him. You kiss him like you’re drowning, then burst into tears when Charlie goes to bed because she’s growing so fast, and Dean feels useful keeping you steady.

“What’re you gonna do if it’s a boy?” He asks casually, and you roll your eyes.

“It’s not a boy.”

Dean sighs. “Sweetheart-“

“It’s not.”

“I know, but I just kinda wanna know what’s gonna happen if it is.”

You glare at him. His lips twitch up—you’re pretty when you glare—and you don’t seem to know if you want to smile back or keep trying to kill him with your eyes.

“I know you’ll love him either way,” he adds, softer this time. “I’m just thinkin’- like- Names, y’know?”

That makes you relax. You look up the ceiling in thought, and Dean kisses your breasts over your shirt. It’s his shirt, but you’ve long claimed all rights to things that he touches. He doesn’t mind. Makes him feel wanted. And son of a bitch, if you don’t look like a wet dream with your belly all swollen from his kid and his shirt hanging just above your thighs. Dean’s had that wet dream. He thinks it might’ve been practice, for not blowing his load when he has you like this for real.

“If it’s a boy…” You say slowly. “We can name it Robert.”

Dean likes that plan, and kisses your cheek. You smile at him, and it knocks him out every time. You keep pulling that shit, you’re going to end up pregnant all the time.

“How’d you know it’s not a boy, anyway?” He asks, because he kind of hopes you have a real answer.

He wants it to be a girl. He’ll love the little monster if they’re a boy too, but Charlie looks too much like he does. Doesn’t mean he loves her less. He just wants one that looks like you. He wants fifty that look like you. They can start a new nation of little Amazons that don’t try and kill their dads, and every country in the world can be run by his brilliant daughters. 

“It feels like you,” you tell him, and Dean pauses.

“You think I feel like a chick?”

You giggle, and kiss his forehead. That doesn’t feel like an answer.

“I’m not a freakin’ girl-“

“You’d be a very pretty girl.”

“Oh, I’d be smokin’, that’s not the issue-“

“Dean-“

“Nothing wrong with being a girl,” he cuts you off with an aimless grumble, mostly because you’ve been married for two years, together for far longer, and now he’s finding out you think he’s a girl. “But I’m not.”

You hum, clearly amused. “You’re right. You’re a very pretty man.”

Dean scowls, and you kiss him, and that’s a little better. He still doesn’t love it, at least until you show him some fancy article the next morning about how men with higher testosterone have more daughters, and that fixes pretty much everything.

“You’re an idiot.” Sam says flatly, and Dean flips him off.

“You’re just jealous you don’t have daughters, Sammy,” he says smugly. “Don’t worry. Few horse pills and performance enhancers, you’ll get there.”

 Sammy throws a paper towel at his head, and you laugh. Dean considers himself rich, for a moment. Maybe an elite, when Charlie starts shouting for him from her room, and demands that he sits with her while they go through her room.

“You wanna keep this one, kiddo?” Dean asks, holding up one of those poofy flower dresses she wears. Charlie nods, and Dean sighs.

She’s wanted to keep every dress. Dean doesn’t think there are enough boxes in the world, to get them all to the new house.

“You sure?” He tries. “You don’t even let Mommy put you in this one-“

“Not for me.” Charlie frowns at Dean like he’s crazy. “For baby.”

Dean blinks. For a second he thinks she’s talking about the car. “Uh- I’m sure baby appreciates it, but I don’t think it’s gonna fit-“

“Mommy says baby is growing.” Charlie says wisely, and Dean feels like an idiot.

The literal baby. Right.

“Did you give uncle Sammy your dresses?” Charlie asks, and Dean snorts.

“Oh, yeah. All of them.”

Charlie hums, pulling on the ears of her stuffed animal. “Did he like them?”

“Yep. Still has them today.”

An hour later, Charlie asks Sam if she can see his dresses. Dean dies laughing, holding himself up with a hand on the counter while Sam glowers at him. The kid will get over it. Dean’s the one who gets in trouble anyway, because now he has to go out and buy dresses for Sam to pretend were his, and you’re not happy with him for lying.

He apologizes and gets away with it. He gets away with more than he cares to admit. Probably because he’s just that good at being a husband.

“Think we got everything,” he mutters, looking around the library for a stray mug or blanket. “Just gotta- Y’know,” he grins at you. “Move.”

You hum, and lean into his side. Dean rests a hand on your bump, and pointless tears sting at his eyes. This kid is never going to know what it’s like to live in a place with alarms and guns and chains. There won’t be halls with blood crusted on the wall, that Dean might’ve spilt himself. She’s going to grow up with Charlie, in a house with a backyard, and the ability to throw a punch but never a need to.

And part of him is worried, when they take Charlie to the house, that she’s going to hate it. He spent hours painting rooms and building furniture. Hours thinking about exactly what she’d like, what you’d like, and—secretly, although he thinks you know anyways—what he would’ve wanted for himself.

Charlie toddles behind him through the door, holding his hand. He’s got you on the other arm, and tries not think about how chick flicky this feels. Like a shot from a cheesy movie, the kind he used to avoid like the toxin of happiness would seep into him, and he’d start to miss what he knew he’d never even had.

Dean looks at you, and you’re smiling around the hall. That’s a good sign. You’ll probably tell him that painting is a little crooked, but he left some things wrong on purpose, because he knew you’d want to fix a few things.

Charlie tugs on his arm, and he glances down. She’s blinking up at him with those eyes you say are just like his. He’s never been able to agree. They look better on her. More hopeful. More important.

“Daddy.” Charlie whispers, and Dean raises his brows.

“Charlie.”

“Mr. Ears needs to go potty.”

Mr. Ears is the elephant. Dean bites back his laugh. “You think so?”

Charlie nods solemnly. “He told me.”

“Alright.” Dean stretches out a hand. “I’ll take him, you can stay with Mommy-“

“No.” Charlie holds Mr. Ears tight to her chest. “He wants me to go potty with him.”

You laugh softly. It makes it pretty hard to keep his serious Dad face on.

“Well, do you need to go potty too?”

Charlie shakes her head, and Dean shrugs.

“I think Mr. Ears is gonna want some privacy, then. So I’ll just take. Him, and-“

“I do need to go potty!” Charlie says quickly, and Dean grins, scooping her up with one arm.

“I know, kiddo.” He kisses her cheek, and she giggles.

He’ll never get sick of that sound. It’s more like your laugh than his, and you’ve got the best laugh in the whole damn world.

Charlie observes the halls as he carries her upstairs—leaving you to collapse on the couch, because you’re getting to the point of pregnant where Dean has to pretend he’s not half-carrying you everywhere—and seems to be mimicking your analyzing face. It’s the one where your brows pinch and your lips pout, a sharp glint in your eyes as the world becomes a courtroom and you become a judge.

“Horses.” Charlie points to a picture Dean found at some yard sale, and he hums.

“Horses.”

“Do we have horses now?”

Dean snorts. “No, Char. You can’t have a horse in a neighborhood.”

Charlie huffs. “Why not.”

“’Cause. They’re too big.”

“But you’re big, Daddy. And we keep you.”

Jesus. He’s glad you’re not here. He’d never get you to stop laughing. “I’m think I’m smaller than a horse, sweetheart.”

“Hm.” Charlie tips her head up, and she might look like him, but that righteous, confident look is all you. “Mommy told Auntie Eileen that you were big.”

Dean chokes on the air. He sputters for a second, trying to think of what the hell he could possibly say to explain that, but Charlie’s already moved on.

“You’re bigger than a doggie.” She examines Dean like he’s just some asshole walking around in her house. “Can we get a doggie?”

Dean sighs. “Let’s do the baby first.”

Charlie looks skeptical. “Are you bigger than a baby?”

“I’m bigger than you,” Dean pokes her, and she giggles. “And you’re gonna be bigger than the baby.”

“I’m gonna be bigger than the baby?!”

“Oh, yeah. Baby can fit in Mommy. We can’t.”

Well. Dean can. He’ll tell you that joke later, and it’ll probably get him smacked, but it’ll also be worth it when you kiss him stupid after.

“Pants.” Dean reminds Charlie when she tries to climb on the toilet with them still up. She rolls her eyes like he’s crazy. Another thing that’s all you.

“I was gonna take them off, Daddy.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I was showing Mr. Ears how to get up.”

“Ah. ‘Course.” Dean smiles to himself. “Very thoughtful of you, Char.”

Charlie nods, like she already knows. Dean helps her with the potty—she ain’t that big, he doesn’t know where the hell she keeps those massive shits in her body—and when he checks on her face, she’s staring at the bathtub with an open mouth. Dean tips his head.

“You alright, kiddo?”

Charlie nods, hugging Mr. Ears tighter to her chest. “We have a pool,” she whispers, and goddamnit. There’s a lump in his throat now, and he has to grab the toilet seat to keep himself up on his knees.

Because it’s just a damn tub, but the Bunker didn’t have those. And he can swear on his battered, fogged up memory of his childhood that Sammy once said the same thing, when Dad finally swindled them a motel with more than a rusty shower.

“It’s called a bathtub.” He says, so choked he worries Charlie is going to hear. “Kinda like a tiny pool.”

“Can I play in it?” Charlie looks at him hopefully, and even if she couldn’t, there was no way in hell Dean could ever say no.

“Yeah. We can do some bathtime tonight.”

Charlie beams, and there it is. That feeling. You were right, talking him into this white picket house with bathtubs and horse pictures on the wall and a big garden that Charlie rolls around in, all afternoon. It’s everything he never let himself dream about. He almost cries there in the bathroom, then in the garden, then that night with his face back in your boobs because he feels it, and it’s lasting more than a moment.

He can see himself here in ten years. Twenty years. Thirty, maybe forty if he’s got that much left in him. He’s never been able to see himself past next month.

But he’ll be here until something finally gets him. Couldn’t drag him away.

And this. This is going to last.

Years pass, and Dean doesn’t feel it all the time, but it comes and goes with more certainty. Like a desert that’s slowly turning to ocean, the tides rising higher and higher every day. It’s small. He doesn’t even really notice the difference until it’s at his ankles, then his knees, then his waist.

He really realizes how high it’s gotten when Charlie hits six, and the second one—Ella, the exact photocopy of you he wanted, but with a bubbly little kick in her that you say is all Dean—is in preschool. He’s trying to get you to go for just one more. You say you’ll think about it, and Dean doesn’t say it, but he knows that means yes. If you didn’t want to do it, you would’ve cut off the shooter supply yourself with the scissors in the kitchen. But he tells you he’s scheduled the appointment, and you make him cancel it.

He grins, wiggling his brows, and you give him that disgusted look that’s always a little too flushed to be real.

“Shut up.”

“Didn’t say anything-“

“You’re thinking things.” You point an accusing finger, and he just keeps grinning.

“Yeah?” Dean slides a hand up your waist. “What kinda things am I thinking, baby?”

Your breath hitches, and your body leans, but you keep that pretty little pout on your lips. “You know.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Do I?”

“Mhm.” You’re hugging yourself now, and Dean chuckles. He’s gotta work for it. He can do that.

“You know, if we call Sammy, he and Eileen need practice herding the monsters tonight.” He kisses under your jaw. “Really, we’d be doing them a favor.”

You sigh, your arms wrapping around Dean’s neck, and he smirks against your skin. You always fit so well against him, so soft and pliant in his arms. He’s feeling pretty generous tonight. Generous and selfish. Not much of a difference, when it comes to you.

“Know that sweet pussy of yours is already dripping for me, sweetheart.” He pulls your thigh up, tracing his fingers on the curve of your ass. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s gonna take care of it.”

You hit him and whine, but it doesn’t do much. You’re strong, you’ve only gotten stronger, but your punches against Dean have always landed flat. Hell, some days he thinks that the only reason he’s still kicking. Just like he’s never been able to push you away, you’ve never been able to get properly pissed at him. Fair trade, he thinks. He can’t even pretend to be mad at you.

“Gonna go call Sammy,” he mutters. “He’ll take them tonight, the gremlins will love it. He can feed them sugar and learn what that does to them after midnight.”

You pause, your nails digging into Dean’s neck. “Tonight tonight?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan-“

“We can’t tonight.” You sigh, dropping your face into his shoulder.

Dean reaches up, rubbing your shoulders as he tries to figure out why you can’t tonight. Ain’t a holiday or birthday. Charlie’s got none of those kid activies she’s gotta be driven to, the ones where Dean sits on some cold bleachers for an hour while you ignore his texts about how awesome Charlie is at everything. You’re not bringing Ella to any of those toddler classes where you get in a sexy swimsuit then just sing nursery songs for half an hour. You got that neighborhood book club thing now, but you hate it—you spend three hours in bed after, complaining about the book and the women—and he’s pretty sure it’s on Fridays anyways-

“Sam’s already taking them.” You sigh, a light dancing in your eyes. You know he forgot.

Dean grimaces, his smile tighter as he keeps trying to figure out what he fucked up. “Right- Uh- Because…”

You raise your brows, and Dean swallows. It better not be something real. He’s been so fucking good about remembering everything, and if it’s your anniversary or something, he’s going to find the nearest ghost and let it kill him.

“It’s… Our…”

“Parent teacher conference.” You prompt gently, your smile stretching your cheeks all pretty, and Dean groans.

“Shit, you said that was the ninth-“

“It is the ninth.”

“No, it’s Thursday, that’s the tenth.”

You roll your eyes, grab his phone out of his pocket, and show him the date. The big, fat 9 on the screen is mocking. Dean groans and drops his face into your chest.

“I wanted to have sex tonight,” he grumbles, and you laugh.

“I know, big guy.” You lower your voice to that honeyed, sweet coo he only gets when you’re real confident. “Sammy’s got them the whole night. If you’re on good behavior…”

You trail off, and Dean pulls back, scanning over your teasing expression.

“Yeah?”

You shrug, and he grins. He’ll be on the best behavior. No jokes that make the other parents look at him like he’s some kind of asshole. No snide comments about how soft they all are. No bullying the other kids, even though they’re not half as good at math as his Charlie. You probably don’t want him smacking your ass or making out with you in front of the other, perfectly classy and boring couples. But he really misses having you for a whole night. It’s been too many months of quickies and hushed fucks under the covers. As sexy as it is, to cover your mouth with his and rut into you until you’re crying, he needs to hear it again. The way you moan and scream his name.

So he’s on the up and up. He wears a shirt that he irons, like an asshole, and jeans without oil handprints. His shoes are clean. He even puts some of that good smelling shit in his hair and rolls up his sleeves like an adult. You smile at him, adjusting his buttons—he doesn’t think he did them wrong, but you seem dead set on touching him, and he’ll never say no to that—and Dean kisses your cheek.

“Look at us,” he says. “So normal.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re wearing a dead guy’s watch.”

“Everyone’s got a dead guy’s something, baby. Mine is just cool as shit.”

“Mhm.”

“Mhm?”

“What? I’m agreeing with you-“

“You’re sassing me.”

Dean noses at your cheek, and you roll your eyes. He doesn’t know why you bother, when he can feel your heartbeat under his fingers. “Shut up.”

He hums, kissing your nose. “Fighting words.”

“They’re not-“

“They will be. Trust me, pretty girl.” He leans back, holding your blown out gaze. “I’ll take care of you later.”

You try to scoff, but it’s so pathetically breathy, Dean knows he’s not going to be the one begging by the time the night is over. He squeezes your ass once for the road, and you drag him out the door. You’re always so worried about being on time, and Christ, Dean wouldn’t give less of a shit if he wasn’t worried about you snapping yourself in half.

“Breathe, baby.”

“I am breathing-“

“You’re gonna hurt yourself-“

“I’m gonna hurt you.”

You mutter the words under your breath, and Dean snorts. “Oh, now you’re just askin’ for it.”

He gets smacked, and laughs it off. You get violent and bratty when you’re trying to invite him to do something about it. And he will. After being—as you told him to—on his best behavior.

Usually, during these kinds of activities—the ones where his kids aren’t actually there to need his support, he’s just supposed to show face and smile for the sake of all the other families—Dean tunes out. His hand rests on your hip and his eyes stay fixed on the curve of your mouth when you talk, the melodic sound of your voice over all the other noise. He’s barely more than a figurehead for the Queen. You’ll deal with it, and tell him what to say, and he’ll keep an eye for when you start to get too tense and it’s time to take over or—even better—just hit the road.

But Dean stands in the little first grader classroom, and he can’t stop thinking about it. How tiny all the chairs are. How bright and colorful the walls and carpet are. He never got this far, in school. Dad kept them out of the systems until he couldn’t anymore, so first grade was a workbook he picked up in a goodwill with half the questions already done in red felt marker.

You’re floating through the room—you always do—and Dean lingers in your wake, trying to wrap his head around it. Everything is so small.

“I was never this small,” he mutters in your ear, and you laugh softly.

“Yeah? You popped out six feet?”

“Six-two, baby.”

“Your poor mother.”

“’Least I wasn’t Sammy. That’s actually what killed her, you know.”

You snort, shooting him a disbelieving look of amusement. He’s gotten better at joking about that. Distance and time and you, all mixing together to make old gashes turn to muscles that ache when he twists them just wrong. He sits down at Charlie’s desk, knees pushed up to his chest, and pats his knee in offering. You shake your head.

“C’mon-“

“No.”

He glances around the room. All the other families have the mom sitting in the chair. Oops. He tries to get up, but you push him back down by his shoulders.

“She’d want you to sit there.” You crouch down at his side, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“She’s five. She doesn’t know what she wants-“

“Well, I want you to sit there.”

Dean huffs, because what the hell is he supposed to tell you, no. Never really been an option before, and it’s sure as shit not one now.

“I love you,” you whisper, and he grunts.

“Sure you do.”

“You look very handsome-“

“I look like I’m being packed to ship, sweetheart.”

You laugh, and take a picture of him that’s probably getting sent to Sammy, and he’s never going to get it down. At least he talks you into perching on his knee. Anyone who’s got a problem with it better remember that they all got kids here, so no ones got any puritan legs to stand on.

The teacher rambles about learning objectives and goals for the year. Dean doesn’t pay attention—he tries, but it’s not like there’s a pop quiz later—and his gaze wanders over Charlie’s desk. She clearly wrote her nameplate, and probably drew the fat unicorn that covers the ie. Her a’s look better. Dean’s pretty proud of that. They’ve been working on them a lot.

Charlie left a pile of her papers on the surface. Dean doesn’t know if he’s supposed to look at them, but he does anyway. It’s a lot of first grader stuff. Rainbows and letters and numbers all in crayon. Dean smiles to himself, thinking of Charlie scribbling her name on the top of the paper the same way she does on diner napkins. He thinks she’s shaping up to have good handwriting, even though he has no idea what the hell good handwriting looks like for a kid.

But that’s not what gets him.

It’s the drawing. Four stick figures, all stringy proportions and massive heads. There’s the little on in the middle, with pigtails. Dean doesn’t think Charlie’s ever had pigtails, but it’s labelled me in wobbly, scribbled letters. There a tiny lump on the floor that’s got feet poking out of it, labelled Ello, and the kid ain’t wrong. Ella’s not much more than a lump right now. Of the big ones, there’s the one got your hair, and is labelled Moomy. He chuckles, and almost pulls on your arm to make you look at it.

Then he sees himself. He’s got spiky sticks for hair and scribbles all over his face. He touches his jaw, and his beard has gotten longer than he meant it to, but you never complain. He’s the only one with shoes on, and the only one without any scratched on clothing. He’s holding your hand, standing a foot over your head, and he’s not that tall. Or broad. And he sure as shit doesn’t have bug eyes like Charlie gave him, but he’s never loved a picture of himself more.

A lump forms in his throat, as his fingers trace over the label. Doody. He snorts, but it’s wet and quiet, and you give him a strange look. He gestures weakly to the paper, and you smile. You kiss his brow and rub his shoulder, and Dean just bows his head. He’s not going to break down like a little bitch right now. Not with so many people around.

He folds the paper up, and shoves it in his pocket. He’ll put it in his wallet later. Hug Charlie real tight when he gets home. She’s still so small, but she’s getting bigger. She’s already older than Dean was, when he had a gun in his hands and one eye on the door all night. He never allowed himself to think she’d end up with a life like that. But now time passes, and he realizes in that first grade classroom that he was still clenching his jaw. Bracing himself for the other shoe to drop, for the luck to dry out and his sorry ass to be stranded back in the burning, cold and lonely desert.

But it’s only getting better. Dean allows himself to sit in it, for the first time. All of this is only getting better. And he’s never going to allow it to get worse again.

Ella has her first nightmare when she’s about three. Dean’s dealt with them from Charlie before, but it’s different. Charlie’s quieter. More serious. Usually he doesn’t figure out she even had a nightmare until she comes down the stairs in the morning with drooping eyes and messy hair, then says she didn’t sleep the night before. Ella gets loud. She screams and cries, and Dean thinks he’s about to walk into a murder scene. His heart gets hard like softer metal being pressed into something they could make bullets out of. He grabs the gun you let him keep in the dresser the kids can’t reach, and runs out of the bedroom before you can even call his name.

He locks you in the bedroom. If it’s a fire he’ll go back, if not you shouldn’t be anywhere near a monster. You can be pissed at him later, but you’ve got the third one cooking in your stomach, and Dean can take care of the ones with legs. He’ll take care of all of it. That’s what he’s for.

But there’s nothing in Ella and Charlie’s room. Charlie’s knocked out and grumbling in her sleep, the closet is a little ajar, and Ella’s curled into a tiny ball against her headboard. The blankets are bunched in her little hands, but she lets go of them to reach for Dean. He lowers his gun and goes to scoop her up, scanning around for the threat. He finds only silent room, and isn’t really sure what to do with it.

“Ella, what’s wrong-“

“Monster.” Ella sobs, pressing her little face into Dean’s neck. “Monster in- In the closet-“

She starts crying so hard she can’t talk, and Dean sets his jaw. There’s no bad smell. No temperature drops and flickering lights, but he knows better than to just dismiss it.

“Alright, sweetheart, I’m gonna put you down and check it out-“

“No!” Ella wraps her arms around his neck, and Dean doesn’t know how such stringy little arms can choke him better than some demons ever managed.

“El,” he tries gently. “You’re just gonna wait on the bed, and I’ll make sure there’s nothin’, okay?”

Ella sniffles, shaking her head, and Dean sighs. The fact that he’s been in here so long without an attack is a good sign. He kisses her forehead and pries her off his neck, slinging her onto one arm. He almost asks her to keep quiet, but that’s what Dad would’ve told him. And Dad never warded the house like you did. The more he thinks about it, the more Dean realizes that there’s no damn way something could’ve even gotten past the driveway.

He keeps his gun in his hand, though. Old habits.

Ella’s still shaking, when he pokes open the closet and finds nothing but lumps of clothing and boxes of toys. Charlie seems to have shoved everything in, before bedtime, and it’s made a strange shape and cast long shadows. And there, on the top, is that damn stuffed dog Sammy got Ella for her birthday. The one she drags around everywhere and screams about when they so much forget about it in the car. Dean grabs it and holds it near Ella’s face, lips twitching.

“This the monster?”

“Don’t wanna look, Daddy-“

“You sure?” He sighs, pressing the dog’s nose to her cheek. “Think he might be your friend.”

It takes a few seconds, but Ella looks. She shrieks in delight, and rips the dog out of Dean’s hands. It does the trick, even if she’s still a little spooked. Dean carries her back to your room to drop off the gun, then brings her back to bed.

“Did he fight the monster?” Ella asks him when he puts her down, and Dean pauses.

And he’s got a choice. Tell Ella there was never a monster, and that monsters aren’t real, or tell her that a damn stuffed dog can fight them off. Dad would tell her there was never a monster, but that when one comes she better not reach for the stuffed animal.

But Dean isn’t Dad. And looking at Ella’s big, soft eyes—far too much like yours for him to know how to let them cry—he doesn’t understand how Dad ever managed to let Sammy be afraid like that. How he let either of them be afraid like that. It’s not like Dean’s not going to be there, if something like that comes. Ella never has to worry.

“He was the monster, El,” Dean says, and it feels like the right thing. “And do you need to be scared of him?”

Ella giggles. “He’s not a monster, daddy-“

“You thought he was-“

“Because he was looking scary.”

“But was he scary?”

Ella pauses, still sniffling, then shakes her head. Dean smiles, running his fingers through her hair.

“Told you.”

“Hm.” Ella pulls at the dog’s ears, then looks up at Dean. “Can you sleep here, Daddy?”

Dean sighs, glancing at the door. “I think Mommy wants me with her-“

“Mommy can come too.”

Ella looks at him with those big eyes, and Dean caves. He always caves. You say he’s just big and soft like that, but he’s not. Stronger men would give in, if they had kids like his.

“How about we go to Mommy,” he offers. “So Charlie can keep sleepin’.”

Ella considers it, then agrees. It’s a bit of a trial, getting in bed without waking you up or letting Ella kick the baby bump, but Dean manages. Ella goes out in seconds, wrapped more around you than Dean, and he doesn’t mind. You pulled her into your arms without thinking, and she’s got her face pressed into the pillows just like yours, and Dean doesn’t know how he got so luck. Maybe he’d been banking up, all those years, and it just decideds to cash itself out. Maybe he hit some kinda lottery. Doesn’t really matter. All he knows is that he’s got this, and it’s not going away.

It’s not going away.

He lets himself breathe in that, for the first time in his life.

He’s got this good thing, and it’s not going to go away.

He doesn’t notice anymore. And he notices that he doesn’t notice on his birthday. You make him a cake. Charlie and Ella get him a mug and a shirt, and they’re kind of crappy but they picked them out, so he loves them more than anything else he owns.

You’re so pregnant you waddle more than walk, and Dean refuses to hear about you taking care of it. He doesn’t care that it’s his birthday. You’re the gift, he tells you, then laughs when he gets smacked in the face.

And he spent so many years, making his birthday one real nice pie and some expensive motor oil for baby. He glanced at red, analogue motel clocks and watched the clock hit midnight, before sighing and throwing an arm over his face. He wouldn’t sleep, because he was never sure if he’d make it to the next one. If this was the year his time ran out, and he was hitting the last number on his line.

But he has this birthday, and he blows out his candles, and he’s just… Not surprised. Another year. For the next one you won’t be all round and wobbly—which he’s still into, but you don’t seem to find that as reassuring as he means it to be—and you can take care of everything the way you keep insisting. Charlie will be older, and Ella will be stronger, and he can rent that lake house he’s always wanted and take his girls fishing.

The next one.

He thinks it, and doesn’t pause. Because it’s not a feeling worth dwelling on forever. This is just it.

This is going to last forever.