You pace the length of your shared bedroom, arms folded closely over your chest, hoping that clutching yourself tight will prevent everything from unraveling. Twenty years. Twenty years of marriage, four children, and a life built on trust, romance, and the peaceful reassurance that no matter what, you and Dean were going to chose each other.

But now? You aren't sure.

Your gut turns at the thought of what he did. It wasn't simply a mistake. It wasn't something you could brush off over time. It cut deep, leaving you wondering whether the foundation you'd built your life on was crumbling beneath your feet. You never thought you'd consider kicking him out, forcing him to leave the bunker.

Your fingers dig into your arms, and your nails crush crescent moons into the skin. How could he? After everything?

And yet, beneath the rage and deception, there's something else—a gnawing pain, an unspoken plea for him to repair this before it's too late.

You quit pacing and press your hand to your abdomen. It's barely there, barely real, yet you know. You've done this four times before; you understand what it means.

Pregnant.

The word itself weakens you. It makes things more complicated than you anticipated. If not for this, perhaps the choice would be apparent. Maybe you'd give in to your emotions. How about now? Now, it's not all about you.

Thankfully, and rather unexpectedly, Sam has been secretly in the know of everything that has been going on. Lately, he'd been a shoulder to cry on when you felt like you couldn't go to Dean. Because, right now he's the reason you're crying. Sam continued these past couple weeks to urge you to talk to Dean.

A slow breath shudders past your lips.

You have to talk to him. You have to talk to the kids.

You have to face him, tell him what you’ve been thinking, what he’s done to you. And tell him about the baby.

Your feet feel like lead as you leave the bedroom, every step toward Dean heavier than the last.