Dean’s got one hand on the small of your back and the other gripping the edge of the diner table like he’s about two seconds from flipping it if anyone looks at you wrong.

You’re fine. You’re just pregnant. Not dying. Not cursed. Not hunted. But try telling him that.

“You didn’t even eat your fries,” he says, staring at your plate like it personally offended him. “You feeling okay? Is the baby okay? You want me to get the cook? I’ll go talk to him right now.”

You sigh, sipping your water. “Dean. I’m just not in the mood for fries.”

He narrows his eyes like you’ve said something illegal. “You always want fries.”

You level him with a look. “I’m growing a whole human. I think I’m allowed to change my mind.”

Dean opens his mouth, then shuts it, then leans back in the booth— still tense, still watching you like you might fall over or burst into flames at any second. His hand’s on your stomach before you even realize he moved it there, thumb brushing slow circles over the fabric of your hoodie.

“I just wanna make sure you’re good,” he says softly. “You and the little guy.”

You smile, covering his hand with yours. “We’re good, Dean.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days, then presses a kiss to your temple. “Still not lettin’ you carry groceries though.”