The bunker was quiet, a soft, warm silence that only seemed to exist in the early morning. You stood in the kitchen, your mug of coffee cradled in your hands, the smell of it rich and comforting. The light was just starting to filter in, casting a pale glow over the war room.

And then you heard it—a soft, muffled cry, barely a whimper.

Your heart jumped. You set your mug down and moved quickly down the hall, your socks quiet against the cold floor. You pushed open the door to the small room you and Dean had hurriedly turned into a nursery—barely big enough for a crib, a rocking chair, and a small dresser.

Inside, the tiny form in the crib stirred, his little hands reaching up, his face scrunched in that perfect, almost comical way babies did when they were about to cry.

“Hey, sweetheart…” you whispered, leaning over the crib, your voice immediately softening. The second Jack’s golden eyes met yours, he let out another cry, tiny fingers reaching for you.

It still didn’t feel real sometimes. That Jack — your Jack — had chosen this. With his help, everything had settle down, and he had chosen to experience life as he actually was: a baby. The powerful, world-shaking Nephilim who could have torn apart reality itself was now this tiny, vulnerable little boy.

Dean had been skeptical at first. Scared, really. You’d seen it in his eyes. The fear of screwing this up. The fear of losing Jack again. But the second Jack had blinked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes — the way his little fingers had curled around Dean’s thumb — you’d seen the shift in Dean’s expression. That wall of fear cracking just enough to let something else shine through.

A yawn sounded from the doorway, and you glanced up to see Dean leaning against the frame, his hair a mess, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Good morning," he said, rubbing his eyes. He crossed the room, kneeling beside you. His rough hand gently cupped Jack’s head, his thumb brushing over the baby’s soft curls. The baby kept wailing. The both of you winced.

“Maybe he’s hungry?” you suggested, already moving toward the fridge where you’d stocked up on bottles of formula.

“Or maybe he’s wet?” Dean offered, looking like the suggestion might physically hurt him. “I can—”

“I’ll get the bottle. You check the diaper,” you decided, trying to keep your voice calm. But your hands were shaking as you fumbled with the formula, the sound of Jack’s cries a constant, aching pressure.

Behind you, Dean muttered something under his breath—something about always getting the hard jobs—but you could hear the concern in his voice.

Then there was a soft, relieved sigh. “Okay, yep, definitely wet. Hey, Jack, buddy, you really went for it, huh?”

You couldn’t help but smile, even as you shook the bottle, testing the temperature on your wrist. When you turned back, Dean was expertly managing a diaper change, his face a mix of discomfort and determination that would’ve been funny in any other situation. But the moment he finished, he carefully bundled Jack up, his movements gentle but sure.