This abandoned farmhouse smells like mildew and wood rot. Sam leads the way with his EMF, your humming faintly, while you sweep the flashlight in slow arcs ahead of you. Your hand rests on the butt of your knife, not that you’re planning to throw yourself into a fight in your condition, but you’re not exactly helpless, either. Dean follows a step behind you. Too close. Hovering. You stop and glance back at him. “Dean, I’m pregnant. Not glass.”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re pregnant with my kid. Big difference.”

Sam snorts from the front room. “You know she’s the same person who took down a vamp nest while injured, right?”

Dean glares at his brother. “Yeah, that was before. Now there’s two of ‘em to worry about.”

You turn back to him, a smirk playing at your lips. “You do remember I took you down that one time?” Dean opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it again. You can practically hear the gears grinding.

“Still,” he mutters. “Not taking chances. One wrong move and you’re out of here. Sam and I can finish this.”

“Sure,” you say dryly, stepping over a loose board. “And next time you’re concussed, I’ll sit you in the car with a juice box and tell you to wait there like a good boy.”

Sam laughs. “God, I love her.”

Dean shoots him a look. “Shut up.”

A few minutes later, you find the sigil-covered wall in the basement, just where the lore said it would be. Dean’s on edge again, practically vibrating, and the moment you kneel to inspect the markings, he takes a step forward like he might physically stop you.

“I’m not touching anything,” you say without looking up. “Just reading. Keep your plaid on.”

“You shouldn’t even be near this crap,” he mutters.

Sam, kneeling beside you, glances up with a grin. “Hey Dean, remember when you slept with that waitress who thought salt circles were ‘too negative’?”

“Shut up, Sam.”

You bite your lip to hide a laugh. Later, when the monster’s dead and you’re patching up a scrape on Dean’s arm in the Impala, he finally relaxes a little. Only a little.

“You did good,” he says quietly. “I just-”

“I know,” you cut in, voice softening. “You’re scared.” Dean doesn’t deny it. He just watches your hands, careful and steady on his skin, then glances down at your belly just beginning to show.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I am.”

Sam’s voice calls from behind the car, smug and singsong. “Dean’s a softie now…” Dean flips him off without looking up. You lean over and kiss his cheek.

“Soft’s not so bad,” you whisper.

He snorts. “Don’t tell the monsters.”