Sam sighed, sinking back into the creaking old headboard for what felt like the hundredth time that night. His broad shoulders slumped as he exhaled, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like a second quilt. He tipped his head back, letting it thump gently against the wood, eyelids fluttering in protest as he forced them to stay open. God, he was so tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary, the kind of tired that made his entire body feel heavy — but one glance at you, curled up beside him, made every ounce of it worth it.

You looked just as worn out as he felt — hair mussed, eyes half-closed, your body slouched into his side for warmth and comfort. Sam’s heart ached at the sight. You’d both spent the last hour pacing the creaky old floorboards of your bedroom, whispering lullabies and soft reassurances to your stubborn little girl down the hall. She was too big for the crib now — you’d both known that for weeks — but the transition to her own bed was proving to be more of a hunt than half the monsters Sam had ever faced.

She was clingy — daddy’s girl through and through — and though every tearful “Daddy, stay?” tugged at his heart like barbed wire, Sam wouldn’t trade it for the world. He’d take a thousand nights of bleary eyes and half-finished cups of coffee if it meant that little heartbeat down the hall was safe and sound and knew how loved she was.

He let out another sigh when his gaze slid to the red numbers of the old digital clock on the nightstand — 2:14 AM. He huffed out a tired laugh through his nose, then turned to you, his eyes soft despite the dark circles under them. He shifted closer, warm and solid as he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you gently into the shelter of his side.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and tenderness, the word rumbling low in his chest as he dipped his head to brush his lips to your hairline. “Try to sleep, sweetheart. Please.”

You mumbled something — a half-formed protest — but Sam only tucked you in tighter, his big hand splayed protectively over your hip, thumb brushing circles into your skin. Another yawn escaped him before he spoke again, his words muffled in your hair.

“If she gets up again, I’ll take her back. I promise.” His breath was warm against your temple, his words soft but firm — that familiar Winchester determination shining through even now. “You’re running on fumes. One of us needs to get some sleep, and it should be you.”

He paused, squeezing you just a little closer. Even half-awake, you could feel the unspoken part of him — that bone-deep gratitude for this quiet domestic battle, so different from all the horrors he’d faced. The monsters he hunted now were nightmares, teething pains, and a little girl’s fear of the dark. And he’d fight those battles forever if it meant nights like this — wrapped up in the warmth of you and the soft promise of family.

He pressed another kiss to your temple, then let his eyes drift closed at last. “Go on, baby. I’ve got her. I’ve got you.”