It’s late. The whole bunker is in that heavy, sleepy silence, broken only by the soft hum of the old fridge in the kitchen. Dean’s sprawled on the bed beside you, one arm behind his head, the other resting across his stomach, fingers absentmindedly tapping against the fabric of his Henley. You’d said it softly, almost in passing “I think you’d be a good dad.” And now the room feels different, like you shifted the air itself. He hasn’t looked at you yet. Just staring up at the ceiling like it’s got all the answers he’s too afraid to ask for. Finally, he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You’re insane, you know that?” His voice is low, almost like he’s afraid of waking ghosts that don’t live here anymore. Dean turns his head then, finally meeting your eyes. There’s something sharp there, something cracked, like he wants to believe you, but every bruise his old man ever left behind is standing between him and the truth you’re offering. “Why would you even say that, huh? After everything I’ve done? Everything I am?” The corner of his mouth pulls upward, but it’s not a real smile. It’s the I’mbreakingandIdon’twantyoutosee kind of smile. “Convince me,” he finally says, eyes holding yours like they’re the only safe thing left in the world. “Why the hell would you think that about me?”