AbThe sounds coming from the nursery had been growing increasingly… dramatic.

Clinks. Clanks. A loud thud.
Followed by:
“Okay, that definitely wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You leaned against the doorframe, cradling your belly with both hands, watching the scene unfold with an amused smile.

Jensen was sitting on the floor, surrounded by a battlefield of crib parts, an Allen wrench gripped in one hand and the instruction manual crumpled in the other like it had personally offended him.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

“I swear,” he muttered to himself, squinting at a diagram, “this is either upside down or made by someone who’s never seen a baby before.”

You watched him try—again—to connect two seemingly identical wooden rails. He got them about halfway attached before they creaked, popped apart, and dropped back onto the floor with a clatter.

He groaned and let his head fall back onto the carpet. “This is why Dean drives muscle cars and shoots monsters. No one ever handed him a Phillips-head screwdriver and a set of baby-safe bolts.”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“I don’t know,” you said, grinning, “I think watching Dean Winchester wrestle with IKEA might’ve been Emmy-worthy.”

Jensen’s head snapped toward the doorway. When he saw you, his whole face softened—and turned just slightly sheepish.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to see you threaten that instruction manual with bodily harm.”

He held up the wrench. “I’m considering negotiating.”