Dean had grown up with his father’s gun in his right hand, Sammy’s hand in his left, and the weight of the world behind him. The thrill of the hunt was encoded in his genes. Domesticity? He would laugh in your face and then throw up at the thought.

Dean tried to hold on to those precious wild moments for as long as he could, but life seemed content to drag him away, kicking and screaming, nails scraping the floor. He had a mortgage now. There were two car seats in the back of his Impala (the least blasphemous thing that Baby had ever seen back there). Hunting as a married couple didn’t change much, but then you and Sam bugged him for a family, and the gradual changes started happening so quickly that they scared him. Which amused Sammy to no end. Bastard.

Dean felt the last vestiges of his proud warrior life crumble to dust the day you handed him those two tiny, squirming, sweet-smelling bundles of joy. Twins. A boy and a girl. He’ll never admit to the tears he shed like a waterfall The bittersweet moment he had dreaded suddenly became the happiest day of his life.

“…Look at them,” he coos as all of you sit gathered around the fireplace like some supernatural take on a manger scene. You and Dean are wrapped in an enormous tartan blanket, both of you holding a twin. “Beautiful. I’m so proud of you,” he whispers.