Dean had noticed something was off ever since he got back from the latest hunt. You’d been quieter, a little distant, but whenever he asked, you brushed it off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He knew better than to push—at least, not yet.

But tonight, when he wakes up to an empty bed, a knot of worry tightens in his chest. He gets up, padding through the dimly lit hallway, stopping when he hears something from the bathroom. A quiet, muffled sound.

Crying. His baby is crying.

His heart clenches as he pushes the door open. You’re sitting on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn up, shoulders shaking. Your hands are clutching your head, fingers gripping strands of hair. The sight guts him.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping inside. You flinch, hurriedly wiping at your face, trying to mask the tears. But it’s too late—he’s already kneeling in front of you, his hands resting gently on your thighs, gently rubbing the flesh with his thumbs to try and soothe you. “What’s going on, darling boy/girl?”