The bunker smelled like old books and coffee again—comforting, grounding. Dean hadn't realized how much he missed that until he stepped inside, cradling the tiny bundle against his chest. The quiet hum of fluorescent lights overhead felt too harsh, too modern for something this sacred. She was still asleep, warm and impossibly small, tucked into the crook of his arm like she'd been there all along.

Beside him, she walked slowly, exhaustion etched into every line of her face, but her eyes held that quiet, stunned kind of love. The kind they both had only just started to understand.

Sam was somewhere in the bunker, probably in the war room with their boy—four years old, loud, wild, with Dean's eyes and her fire. They had wanted this moment to be calm. Controlled. After all they’d lived through, a soft beginning felt like a victory.

Dean stood just inside the map room, feet rooted to the floor. The walls felt closer somehow, like they were holding their breath with him. The worn leather of his jacket creaked as he shifted her in his arms, pulling the swaddle just a little tighter. He still couldn’t believe she was real. A daughter. His daughter.

He’d spent years thinking he was built for war, not love. But here he was—tired eyes, healing scars, and a fragile miracle in his arms. It scared the hell out of him. And yet, nothing had ever felt more right.

From down the hallway, he heard small feet—his son’s—running, pattering closer. Sam’s calm voice followed, low and steady, trying to slow him down. Dean looked at her, heart thudding, and she gave a small nod.

This was it.

Their boy rounded the corner, eyes wide, hair messy like his dad’s always was after a hunt. He froze when he saw the bundle in Dean’s arms.

Dean crouched low, the bunker floor cold beneath his knees, the baby’s breath brushing his collarbone.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly, eyes never leaving his son’s. “Wanna meet your baby sister?”