Chapter Text
Dean doesn’t believe in soulmates or twin flames or whatever other bullshit terms people use to describe the person they’re committed to. He’s also not so sold on marriage (it works for some people, but ‘legal’ doesn’t always translate to ‘what we have is good’). That doesn’t mean he has anything against partnering up for life. In fact, he’s very much for it to the point where he’s done it himself. For the better part of three years, he’s woken up with the same woman every morning and fallen asleep next to her every night. Doing that for the rest of his life suits him just fine.
There’s nothing special about today. It’s a Tuesday. He and Sabre both have work, her at the museum, him at the garage. That means the alarm is set for five thirty. When it goes off, it only takes him thirty seconds or so to fully awaken. He listens, trying to determine if his son has woken up and is now wandering loose in the house. Nothing. That means he has a few minutes to spend with his girl.
“Morning, Sabre.” The light is low, so he can’t see much, but he knows what’s in front of him. Sabre has a mess of light brown curls that reaches to her shoulder. Why a mess? Because when she’s sleeping, it turns into more of a bird’s nest than hair (a fact he pointed out the first time they slept together in the literal sense; the response was a ‘fuck you’ and her reminding him that his hair goes in three different directions after sleeping).
“Good morning.” Huh. She sounds remarkably awake. A little too awake, considering that she’s not a morning person and these are the first words she’s spoken today. Time to investigate.
“You alright?” As he asks it, he scoots closer. No, he doesn’t feel heat radiating off her, so it’s not a fever. Maybe she just didn’t sleep well?
“Fine. Just-”
The doorknob rattling cuts Sabre off. “Mama! Dada! Up!”
When Sabre chuckles, Dean’s worry is put on pause. Well, that sounded normal. Still, just to be sure…
“I’ve got him.”
Even in the dark, he can feel her frowning at him. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” Heedless of his morning breath, he leans over to brush their lips together. It’s not much of a kiss (not with a toddler on the other side of the door), but it still makes him feel a little warmer despite the early spring chill of the house (okay, so maybe the whole ‘electricity’ and ‘heat’ in another person’s kiss isn’t total bullshit).
Sure enough, Caleb is by their bedroom door, little forehead scrunched up in clear distaste for his parents not immediately catering to his whims when Dean reaches him. That melts away into a smile, showing off his teeth. Dean’s proud to say that, while Caleb looks like Sabre, most of his expressions are all him.
“Hey, little man.” Dean leans down and picks up his son… who feels a little soggy, now that he thinks about it. “Let’s get you changed. Sound good?”
“Yeah.” Caleb wraps his little arms around Dean’s neck and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his cheek. He’s an affectionate kid. At least with people he knows. It makes Dean wonder what the next one will be like.
One diaper change, a fresh change of clothes, and adventure in hand washing later, Caleb’s ready to tackle the day ahead. So, they head into the kitchen to start breakfast.
“What do you think Mama would like this morning?” As Dean asks, he opens the cabinets, examining the contents. They could do pancakes since they’ve got time. Or even waffles. Maybe-
“Pie.” It’s said solemnly, making it impossible not to laugh.
Clearing his throat, Dean manages to get out, “You know, your idea is solid, but I don’t think she’d be too crazy about the amount of sugar in it, so I’m going to go with pancakes.” It’s between comical and heartbreaking, how disappointed Caleb looks. “Do you want to help me mix?” There we go. He’s grinning, clapping his hands. Much better.
The mixing goes okay, if a little messy, but Dean’s had plenty of kitchen adventures with Caleb at this point, so he’s prepared. Then it’s on to pouring the batter and actually using the stove. It’s precarious, but he’s got a handle on it. That is, until he’s on pancakes numbers six and seven, and his phone rings. He looks away just long enough to check his contact. Huh.
“Hey, Sam.”
“Hey, Dean.” Sam sounds about as awake as a bear coming out of hibernation.
“Let me guess: Cora’s not letting you get your beauty sleep.”
“Fuck you.” It’s rapidly followed by, “And, I just swore in front of the seven week old. Shit. No! I mean-”
“Calm down.” Dean flips the pancakes. “She’s not forming memories yet and she’s too young to talk.” Although he remembers it taking a hell of a lot of effort to curb the swearing around Caleb. It’s not as if he believes that quote ‘bad words’ are really bad, but people look at you funny when your kid has a potty mouth, so he had to do something. “Any reason why you’re calling, or do you just miss me that much?”
“Dean, how did you get through growth spurts with Caleb? She’s awake for two hours at a time, and sleeps for maybe forty-five minutes between then. And she always wants to eat, so Luce is up every time she’s up.”
Dean thinks about saying ‘Barely. That’s how,’ but thinks better of it. That wouldn’t be helpful even if it’s the truth. “This might not work for Lucy since she’s nursing, but I popped caffeine pills. That and drank a lot of coffee.” The response is a yawn.
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah.” Dean adds the pancakes to the plate and starts pouring more batter. “Take over the dirty work. Your girlfriend’s an all hours buffet right now. That’s hard enough. You can handle diaper duty. Trust me, your relationship will thank you for it later.”
“Makes sense,” Sam slurs. His words are punctuated by a wet, snuffling cry. “Gotta go. She’s up again.”
They say goodbye just in time for Sabre to step into the kitchen. She’s fresh out of the shower, hair still wet and airdrying. She rarely bothers with makeup, so if he really wanted to, he could count every freckle smattered across her nose and cheeks. There are dark circles under her eyes… hold up. Sabre doesn’t get dark circles under her eyes. Not since she got out of hunting and started getting a solid eight hours a night and eating real food instead of whatever she could grab fast and cheap. That lends credence to his ‘didn’t sleep well’ theory from earlier. The only question is what kept her up.
“Hey, sweet boy.” Sabre kneels and… is he imagining things, or did she just grimace a little? He doesn’t have a chance to examine it further, because she picks Caleb up, pressing kisses to each of his chubby cheeks. “Were you helping Dada with breakfast?”
Caleb giggles. “Yes! Pancakes!”
“They’re about ready now.” Dean switches off the burner and adds the final few pancakes to the plate. “Sam called, by the way.”
Sabre smirks. “Let me guess. Cora’s handing his A-double-S to him.”
“Yahtzee.” What Dean leaves out is that he’s wondering how they’re going to handle it when they have another one. They’ll make it. People have had multiple kids for billions of years. His dad did it all alone… he shakes his head to clear it. He tries not to think about John because it inevitably makes him angry. He knows his dad was doing his best, but now that he has Caleb and Sam has Cora, he realizes just how fucked up what John put them through was. He’d never recover if something happened to Sabre, but Caleb doesn’t deserve the fear and instability that life on the road with his father consumed by the need for revenge would provide. Shouldn’t he and Sam have come before anything else for John? Nope. He needs to get off this line of thought. It’s not helping anyone.
Breakfast is messy. He knew it would be. Caleb manages to get the syrup when he’s not looking and pours a good amount of it on himself before Sabre can stop him. She gets him cleaned up at the kitchen sink, then says something about a fresh change of clothes. Dean watches her leave. She’s moving a little slower than usual, slightly hunched over. He feels like he should know what this is about, but he can’t quite put together the puzzle.
He gets dressed, and by the time he’s finished up and has brushed his teeth, it’s time to drop Caleb off at daycare. He kisses Sabre goodbye. Or at least, he would if she wasn’t leaning against the wall, eyes closed. She perks up when he comes closer, but from the look on her face, he can tell she knows she’s been caught.
“What’s going on, Sabe?” She opens her mouth, and he can just tell what she’s about to say. “And don’t tell me your fine. We both know I’m not buying it.”
Sabre sighs. “Fine.” She looks down at Caleb, who’s happily playing with a turtle shape sorter Lucy and Sam gave him for his first birthday. “I’m having some cramps right now, and they’re being a real B-I-T-C-H.”
It takes a second for the words to register. Or at least, for their meaning to. Cramps. That means… “Is it happening?” She got the implant out six weeks ago, so it would be about the right time for her period to start back up.
“Maybe. TBD.”
“Well, keep me updated.” He leans in to kiss her, only to realize she’s smiling. “What?”
“It’s just weird. Discussing cycles and kids instead of monsters.”
She’s right. This is about as far from ‘what’s trying to kill us this time’ as you can get. It’s a change he’s embracing with everything in him.
This time, the kiss is successful, and he feels lighter as he heads to the garage. Time to get on with his day.
The garage Dean works at is a three-man operation. There’s Bud, the guy who has the most experience. He’s in his fifties. Heavyset with iron gray hair and a mustache that makes him look like a walrus. He likes to talk more than he likes to work, and he loves to work. Then there’s Chris. He’s young enough to be Dean’s kid (which is a weird thought; almost as weird as realizing he’s thirty-nine). About as big around as a string bean with blond hair that’s already thinning. He doesn’t say too much unless he’s really got something bugging him, and he’s the engine whisperer. They’re both good guys, the kind you can have a beer with after work (well, not legally since Chris is only nineteen, but it’s the principle of the thing).
When Dean shows up, Chris is already under an engine, but Bud is around, sorting through his toolbox. He greets Dean with a wave and a wide grin. That’s kind of odd. Sure, Bud’s a happy camper, but this is dialed up to eleven.
He doesn’t get too much more of a chance to wonder because Bud chooses that moment to come over to him and dig his phone out of the pocket of his coveralls. “You remember my daughter Marla, right?”
Nope. Her name sounds familiar, but he couldn’t tell you which one she is. Bud has six kids, and he’s damn proud of all of them. “Sure.”
“Well, she had her baby last night.” Bud scrolls through his phone, pulling up a picture of a clearly exhausted woman with jet black hair and a squishy infant. “A little boy. Isaac.”
“Nice.” The kid looks like he could cook a little longer, but- “I think he looks like his grandpa.”
Bud’s grin grows even brighter. “Yeah. Around the chin. And the ears.”
“What number is this?” It comes from under the Volvo Chris is working on. Guess he decided to join the conversation after all.
“Eight.” Bud slips his phone back into his pocket. “First boy, though. All seven of the others are girls. Let me tell you, it’s a whole different ball game.”
“I figured. My brother has a girl.” And it brings up a possibility Dean hadn’t considered before. What if kid number two for him is a girl? He meant what he told Sabre when Caleb was on the way. Boy or girl, he doesn’t care. Gender roles mean nothing. But he is mildly curious as to what a girl would be like.
“What about you?” Bud leans back against the mustang he’s working on (that is, when he’s not exercising his jaw). “You and your woman going for round two?”
Dean nods and grabs the dipstick. “Yeah. That’s the plan.” Possibly starting sometime in the next few weeks. But that’s too much information. Better to get on with the job than to sit around gossiping like a bunch of old ladies.
It’s a typical day at work. Bud continues to talk throughout his repairs. Dean adds a word here or there (that is, when it’s not so loud that conversation is impossible). Chris… well, as far as Dean can tell, he listens to every word while staying dead silent. The clock on the wall eventually reads five, which means it’s time to close up shop for the day. Just in time too, because the engine Dean was working on is now purring instead of coughing. He changes clothes, washes up (since Caleb caught the flu a little over a year ago, he’s been more cautious), and says goodbye to the guys. Then it’s time to head home.
On his way out the door, he pulls up Sabre’s contact, asking his usual question of if she needs him to pick anything up on the way back. She’s the one to handle dropping Caleb off and picking him up, so it just makes sense for Dean to do the supply runs. His phone vibrates, flashing one word: ‘Tampons.’ Well, that answers that.
He’ll never understand why some guys act so precious about picking up the essentials for their wives and girlfriends. Unless you live under a rock (in which case, he guesses you have bigger things on your mind), you know how the female body works. This is just part of it, and it shouldn’t be treated as gross or humorous. His attitude? He’s just grateful. Grateful that Sabre trusts him with this, and grateful that his body doesn’t work that way, because it sounds about as much fun as being a werewolf’s chew toy. Which is why, on that little detour, he grabs ice cream, chocolate, over the counter pain killers, and wine along with what he’s actually there for.
Sabre is in the kitchen with Caleb when he gets home. Their boy might be just shy of his second birthday, but it’s obvious that the great love of his life is food. Whenever someone’s cooking, he’s right there with them, trying to help. Currently, he’s sitting on the counter, testing the carrots Sabre has cut up for quality control. When he sees Dean, he forgets he slice of carrot he was chewing on and lets out a squeal and a loud, “Dada! I cook!”
“Hey, buddy.” Dean squeezes past a now-smiling Sabre and pulls open the refrigerator door. “I’ll be with you in just a second, okay?”
“Okay!”
It takes longer than a second (actually, between putting everything away and washing hands, it’s more like two minutes), but then he’s able to join his girl and son as they work.
“What is it tonight?” Dean asks, examining the motley assortment of ingredients on the counter.
“Chicken noodle soup.” Sabre indicates the pot on the stove. “Chicken’s almost done boiling.”
“Then why don’t you find somewhere to park it while I finish up in here?” He’s hoping she’ll take the suggestion. She really does look beat. Those dark circles are standing out even more than they did this morning.
“No.” Sabre switches off the burner. “You always add too much pepper.”
Dean starts to protest, but it clicks into place before he can start in on how her tastebuds are just wusses, Caleb doesn’t think it’s too much and he’s not even two. Sabre isn’t one to admit to any sort of need. Especially not emotional. His bet’s on this being less about the soup, and more about her not wanting to be alone. Well, he’ll play along. Spare her some dignity.
“So you’re saying I need supervision?”
The corners of Sabre’s lips twitch up briefly. “I’m saying that you treat spices like a kid in a bakery treats sugar. You’re not sure what they do, but clearly, the answer for how much whatever it is you’re making needs is ‘more.’”
“Ouch!” He looks over at Caleb, who’s now standing beside Sabre, giggling. “You think that’s funny? Mama picking on me?”
“Yes!”
Sabre’s doing her best to keep a straight face, but Dean can tell she’s inches from cracking up. “What can I say? He got his brains from me.”
“Uh-huh.” Dean reaches past her to remove the chicken from the pot. “You know what? Just for that, you can bake your own pie for this Sunday’s cookout.”
Sabre ducks her head, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. Good. That was the entire point. Now, for the grand finale.
As Dean works, he hums. Loudly. He even occasionally sings. There’s no music playing, but the tune is recognizable. Or at least, he and Sabre know what it is. ‘You Shook Me All Night Long’ by AC/DC. Sabre claims it’s “low-hanging fruit that literally everyone can recognize” and “lets dipshits who wouldn’t know Zeppelin from The Who feel like they’re experts on hard rock” (which is hilarious because until he got her into the softer side of the genre with Fleetwood Mac, she listened to top ten pop hits exclusively and now she’s a snob). So, it’s no surprise that she keeps glaring at him, albeit with no heat behind it.
Finally, the meal is ready and they settle in at the table to eat. That takes all of fifteen minutes. Then it’s on to cleaning up the kitchen, giving Caleb a bath, and getting him ready for bed. Dean mostly handles that, partly to give Sabre a break, but also because it gives him a sense of peace, being able to put his son to bed and knowing that this is his life now.
“Goodnight, Caleb.” Dean eases up from where he was sitting on the toddler bed, reading a copy of The Runaway Bunny (one of the many books Lucy has sent their way; sometimes it’s nice that his brother has shacked up with a librarian). “Sleep tight.”
Caleb mumbles something, but he’s mostly out. Now that the son is taken care of, time to look in on the mother.
Sabre is on the sofa, absentmindedly flipping through Netflix when Dean joins her, pulling her feet into his lap as he sits. She leans a little closer, but all she asks is, “He go down okay?”
“Yeah. He was tired.” He almost adds, “Kinda like you are,” but decides to keep it to himself.
They sit there, only saying a few words to confirm what they’ll be watching tonight (Deadwood; they’ve seen it a million times before, but it’s a go-to show). It’s comfortable. Or it would be if it wasn’t for Sabre shifting every few minutes, like she can’t find a good position. Alright, enough is enough. He grabs the remote and hits pause.
“Huh?”
Setting the remote on the coffee table, he asks, “How bad is it? Scale of one to ten, one being, ‘Got tossed around by a ghost’ and ten being, ‘My guts are hanging out.’”
“It’s fine.” He doesn’t look away from her, instead staring straight into her brown eyes. Sabre holds out a few seconds before reaching out and gently pushing his face away. “Alright. You win. It’s a two.”
“Do you want a heating pad? Tylenol or something?”
“No.” She shifts yet again. “I’ve had worse.”
He’s aware. He’s also aware that there’s no award given for suffering. But he’s not going to be able to convince her of that, so he goes with what he knows. “The supplies I got. They the right brand?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Although I thought I just asked you to pick up tampons. Not that other stuff.”
He shrugs. “Figured you could use it.”
Sabre narrows her eyes at him. “You thought I could use Pink Moscato?”
Oh. He must’ve grabbed the wrong bottle and didn’t realize it, he was too busy thinking about getting home. He could tell her that, or he could fuck with her. Well, what kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t choose fuckery? “Yeah. It’s a work night and you’re a lightweight, so I figured-”
“Fuck off!”
He snickers. They both know he’s full of shit. She might be skinny as a rail, but Sabre’s nowhere close to a lightweight. Which leads him to another joke. “Hey, at least you won’t have to deal with this for too much longer.” She looks confused, which will only make the punchline better. “Pretty soon, you’ll get a nice, nine-month-long break.”
Sabre gives his shoulder a shove. “Screw you.”
“Hey, if you think it’ll help-”
“God.” She shakes her head. “I hate you.”
“Uh-huh.” He grabs the remote. “Keep telling yourself that.”
The show winds down after another twenty minutes. Normally, they’d stay up, try to catch another, but Sabre’s clearly fading. So, he makes some excuse about a long day at the garage and heads to the bathroom to shower.
By the time he’s through, Sabre is curled up in bed, journaling. He’s never asked to see what she writes, but he has a good idea. It’s about Caleb. Maybe him. After years of keeping a hunter’s journal, the habit has been hard to kick, and it’s not a destructive one, so why let it go?
He climbs into bed next to her and reaches past her to flip off the light. They always assume the same position, at least for a little while. His body curled around hers, an arm around her waist. Tonight, as he settles against her, he hears a quiet exhale followed by, “You know, I don’t really hate you.”
“I know that.”
A few seconds pass, then… “I’m just not good at…”
He nods and presses a kiss against the side of her neck. He knows that too. Neither of them are soft, cuddly people. Maybe it was in their natures once, but after all the years of hunting, they became callused, developed rough edges by necessity. The layers are being peeled back, but that takes time. Some wounds will never completely heal, but he’s learned one thing: it’s not necessarily a bad thing to be broken, so long as you find someone whose jagged edges align with yours. He and Sabre? They fit together like two halves of something that was once whole.
“Don’t worry about that.” He pulls her a little closer. “Just be you, Sabe. That’s enough.”
Dean might not believe in twin flames or soulmates, but he believes in her.