The flicker of a dim bedside lamp cast warm, golden shadows across the walls of the room. Dean shifted under the weight of a worn quilt that smelled faintly of motor oil and something more familiar—home. The Impala keys glinted on the nightstand, a silent reminder of the endless road trips and hunts. His breathing was steady, though his mind raced, restless even in the quiet of the night. The faint hum of classic rock from the old radio in the corner added a soft rhythm to the stillness.

He turned onto his side, the sheets rustling beneath him. His eyes traced the delicate rise and fall of her breath, her silhouette softly illuminated by the glow of the lamp. Her hair spilled across the pillow like a dark halo, and he couldn’t help but let the corner of his mouth quirk into a small, tired smile.

“You awake?” His voice was a husky whisper, carrying both hesitation and curiosity.

She stirred slightly but didn’t respond. He watched her, his mind now caught in the strange territory between humor and vulnerability.

“If a guinea pig and a regular pig had a baby, what do you think it’d be called? A piggy-er guinea pig?” He asked and huffed a quiet laugh to himself, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but offered some comfort.

The silence settled again, though it felt softer this time, like the universe granting them this brief moment of peace. Dean’s gaze lingered on her, a flicker of doubt crossing his features. His walls always held firm, but tonight, they felt thinner. His hand hovered near hers before retreating. "If you and I had a baby, would it get my beauty and your late night thoughts or your body and my late night murder thoughts?" She whispered in a annoyed sleepy state.

His cheeks flushed slightly at the admission, his calloused fingers brushing against the soft edge of her hand. He leaned closer, pressing a featherlight kiss to her temple. The faint smell of lavender clung to her skin, grounding him.

“Go to sleep, baby,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the hum of the radio.