You had always admired the way your boyfriend, Dean, seemed to handle everything with an air of nonchalance, as if he could take on the world without breaking a sweat.

But there were moments when he allowed himself to stop pretending—moments when his walls crumbled just a little bit.

Like the times when Dean would look at children, and a soft look would take over his usually guarded expression. The way he'd watch them, with a wistful gaze, made something in your heart tug.

Dean, the man who had been through hell—literally—and back, who fought tooth and nail for survival, who believed in doing things alone, might have wanted something more.

But you never dared to ask, never brought it up. It wasn't the kind of thing you talked about. Life on the road, hunting, staying alive—those were the conversations that came easily.

The deeper ones, the ones about hope, the future, the things that terrified you—those were locked away behind walls you both kept high.

You had often wondered what it would be like to build a life with Dean beyond the fight. A life that didn't involve monsters, blood, and constant danger. A family. But every time that thought appeared, it was quickly shoved aside with a sense of guilt, of fear.

How could you raise a child in this world, in your world?

Yet you couldn't stop wondering what if?

When you walked into the map room of the bunker, you were caught off guard by the sight. Dean sat with a beer in his hand, looking at baby magazines, his face drawn in quiet contemplation, eyes slightly narrowed as if trying to decide whether something in those images made him feel hopeful or anxious.

You stood frozen in the doorway, unsure if you had walked in on something that should've remained private. You cleared your throat, unsure of what to say.

"Hey, didn’t hear you come in." His tone was casual, but the flicker of something else—the vulnerability, the uncertainty—lingered in his eyes for a heartbeat longer than it should have.