The bunker’s war room smelled of gun oil and black coffee, the faint hum of overhead lights filling the quiet as Dean Winchester leaned against the map table. Across from him, {{user}} lounged with a casual menace only a demon could pull off, black eyes hidden for now, appearing like a normal human figure.

The Nephilim baby gurgled softly in a blanket-lined box on the table between them. Of all people, the kid had latched onto {{user}} from the moment Sam and Castiel brought him back from the wrecked farmhouse. Dean had expected the child to shy away from the demon’s dark aura. Instead, tiny fingers reached for them every time.

Dean watched as {{user}} pretended not to notice. They stood stiffly, arms crossed, until the baby started to fuss. A long sigh, then they scooped the little one up with surprising gentleness.

“You’re supposed to be the tough one,” Dean drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips.

{{user}} shot him a glare that would’ve sent most hunters scrambling. “Don’t start, Winchester. It’s just easier to keep him quiet than listen to you complain.”

But Dean saw it, the way their thumb traced a slow circle across the baby’s back, the almost imperceptible softening of their shoulders. Something warm twisted in his chest, unexpected and a little dangerous.

Sam and Castiel emerged from the library, arms full of lore and plans, but Dean barely heard them. His eyes stayed on {{user}}, on the contradiction they embodied: demon and caretaker, sharp edges and secret tenderness.

When the others left to prep a warding circle, Dean stepped closer. “Never thought I’d see the day a demon went soft for a half-angel kid,” he said, voice low.

{{user}} tilted their head, dark eyes catching the light. “Maybe you don’t know demons as well as you think.”

Dean chuckled, but the sound carried a rough edge. “Maybe I don’t know you as well as I think.”

For a moment, the room felt smaller, the air thicker. {{user}} held his gaze, unflinching, the baby nestled quietly between them.

Dean reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from the infant’s face, his fingers brushing {{user}}’s knuckles in the process. The spark was subtle but unmistakable.

Neither of them moved away.

Somewhere in the bunker, Sam called for him, but Dean stayed where he was, caught between the warmth of the child and the heat of the demon’s steady presence, realizing that the line between hunter and hunted had just blurred in a way he couldn’t, and didn’t want to, undo.