It’s late, your body aching from the long day, but the sight in the living room melts everything away. Dean’s on the couch, reclined back, one arm curled protectively around your baby boy who’s tucked into his chest, sound asleep. The little guy’s chubby cheek is smushed against Dean’s neck, and Dean’s hand cradles the back of his tiny head like it’s the most precious thing in the world. His eyes meet yours, soft and warm beneath the dim light of the TV.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low so he doesn’t wake the baby.

Your heart swells, a smile tugging at your lips as you cross the room. “Hey, handsome,” you whisper, crouching beside them. “You two look perfect.”

He grins, that easy, quiet Dean smile he reserves for moments like this. “He knocked out ten minutes into Finding Nemo. I was gonna put him down, but…” he glances at the tiny body sleeping on his chest and shrugs, “he was kinda comfortable.”

You chuckle. “Let me help.” Together, you gently scoop your son into your arms while Dean rises, carefully trailing behind you to the nursery. Once he’s tucked safely into his crib, you both linger a moment, just watching him breathe, so tiny, so peaceful.

Then Dean lets out a breath and turns to you, brushing your hand lightly with his fingers as you step into the hallway. “So… how was work?”

You study him for a second. There’s something behind his eyes; heavy, a little distant. You gently reach for his hand. “It was okay. Tiring. I can explain later… what’s going on in your mind?”

He leans against the wall, running a hand over his face. He pauses, then his gaze flicks toward the nursery door. “Y’know, having a kid with you… it’s one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Hands down.”

Your heart catches a little. “Dean…”

“He looks at me like I hung the damn moon,” he says, voice quieter now. “And sometimes I just… I look at him and I wonder how the hell my dad could ever treat us the way he did. How he could look at me like I was just a soldier in his war. ‘Cause I can’t imagine doing that to him.”