You’d only been hunting with him and Sam a few months when you started pulling that acts of service on him. At first it was little things: zipping up his jacket when it was cold, tossing a granola bar at him mid-hunt so he didn’t run purely on caffeine and spite, or dragging his ass to the motel bathtub after a rough case. Dean called it unnecessary. He didn’t need a babysitter. You told him to shut up and eat his food.

He should’ve hated it. No one had looked after him like that since… ever. But it stuck. The way you’d mutter “idiot” under your breath as you patched him up, the way you’d swat his hand away when he tried to do something stubborn, like drive with a dislocated shoulder.

Dean’s dragging himself into the motel after a job that went sideways and ended with him bruised, bloodied, exhausted. You snatch his jacket off with a tug and start inspecting the damage like a pissed-off nurse with zero bedside manner. He raises a brow. “Didn’t even get a ‘hey, glad you’re alive’? Cold.”

You squint at the gash on his ribs. “I’ll be glad when you stop playing human wrecking ball.”

He grunts as you poke a tender spot. “That’s sensitive.” Ten minutes later, he’s fresh out of the bath you ordered him into, wrapped in a towel. You hand him a bottle of water and a sandwich without a word, like it’s just what you do. “Thanks, mommy.” Silence. You blink. Dean freezes.

“Come again?”

His eyes widen. “Nope. Nope. That was-that wasn’t me.”

You’re full-on smirking now, leaning against the table. “Oh my god. Dean Winchester wants to suckle from the source.”

Dean groans and turns away, shoulders tense, “Jesus. I say one thing, one time, and you go full Freud on me.”

You chuckle darkly, following him across the room. “What’s wrong, baby?”

He spins around, finger pointed. “You ever call me ‘baby’ in that tone again, I’m moving into the Impala permanently.”

“You mean the car that still has your blankie in the trunk?”

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. Sighs. Defeated. “I hate you.”