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nperoconelcositoarriba · 2 months ago

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୭ ˚. ᰔ ILYSMIH. ⋆˚࿔

dean winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: after giving birth, you are utterly exhausted but safe in dean’s arms, who’s the proudest, most supportive dad ever. through the haze of sleepless nights and overwhelming love, dean proves he’s got both your and baby’s back.

♯ warnings: mentions of childbirth and exhaustion (no graphic medical details, but some emotional rawness), emotional vulnerability & tearful moments, slow-building parenthood fluff, hints of postpartum struggle, focus on comfort, love, and care.

♯ notes: hi loves!! so please tell me im not the only one that’s borderline obsessed with kali uchis?? ilysmih is my favorite song on her recent album!! anywayzz hope this gives you all the warm fuzzies.

You don’t even remember falling asleep. Just the weight of everything crashing down once the room quieted, the pressure behind your eyes, the way your chest felt like it had been split open and filled with something too big to hold. There were voices. Nurses, footsteps, maybe even soft crying, and then nothing.

Then warmth.

Not the kind that blankets you, but the kind that feels alive. A palm brushing your forehead, calloused but careful. Fingers threading through your messy hair like you were something fragile. That’s what woke you. That, and his voice.

“Hey, mama.”

Dean’s voice wasn’t loud, it was barely there. Like if he spoke too hard, the moment would shatter. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t trying to hide it. He stood at the edge of the bed, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them, eyes locked on the tiny bundle resting on your chest.

He looked at you like he’d been struck. Like he’d seen a ghost and fallen in love with it.

“You— baby, you did it.”

You blinked slow, trying to pull yourself up on your elbows, but your body protested instantly. Everything ached. Your muscles, your head, even your teeth. Dean noticed immediately, rushing to your side and pressing a hand to your shoulder, shaking his head.

“No, don’t— don’t move. I got you. Just rest. Just breathe.”

And then he reached down; gently, reverently, and picked up the baby. Like it was holy. His hands were big around them, careful, sure. His breath caught in his throat the second he had them cradled against his chest.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Oh my god, look at you.”

There was a beat. The kind of silence that means everything. And then he laughed, low and breathless and a little broken. The kind of laugh you let out when you’re looking at something you never thought you’d get to hold.

“You made this,” he whispered, glancing at you like you were the moon. “You made this, sweetheart. Jesus.”

The baby made this tiny, sleepy noise, and Dean’s whole body curled in around them. Like instinct. Like it was the only thing his body knew how to do anymore. He sat on the edge of your bed, eyes wide and heart in his throat, and rocked the baby with a rhythm that was too natural to be learned.

“I didn’t even know it was possible to love something this fast,” he said, voice cracking. “Didn’t know it could hit like this.”

You were so tired. Every blink felt like it might be the last before sleep pulled you under again. But you didn’t want to miss a second. Not this. Not him.

Dean looked over at you, tears sliding down his cheeks like they didn’t even belong to him. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he said. “You’re so fuckin’ brave. I don’t know how I got this lucky, but I swear to God I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you know.”

He leaned over, kissed your temple. His lips stayed there for a while. Breathing you in. Like he needed proof this was real. Like if he let go, he might wake up in the Impala in some cheap motel parking lot, and this would all disappear.

Then he whispered something to the baby. Too quiet to catch. Just soft enough that you knew it was sacred.

When he sat back again, he started humming. Some old rock ballad you couldn’t place through the fog in your brain. He rocked the baby like it was muscle memory, smiling down like he’d just been given the world wrapped in hospital blankets.

“I’m your dad,” he told them, chuckling to himself. “I’m your dad, holy shit.” he looked back at you again, eyes soft, “And you’re their mama. The love of my life. My girl.”

And maybe it was the exhaustion, or the hormones, or the rawness of it all, but you cried. Quietly. Just tears slipping out the sides of your eyes while you laid there, overwhelmed and in love and full of something you couldn’t name.

Dean didn’t panic. Didn’t freak. He just reached for your hand and kissed it like he’d do it a million times more. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured. “We got you. Me and this little bean— we’re on night shift.”

You let your eyes fall shut, finally.

And the last thing you heard before sleep took you under was Dean Winchester singing your baby to sleep with a voice meant for backroads and lullabies.

The next morning feels like a dream dipped in gold. You’re not even sure what time it is. Could be noon, could be 4 AM, but you wake up to the sound of a soft knock, the rustle of flannel, and a baby’s breathy coo. Everything hurts less. Or maybe it still hurts, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Not with the way Dean looks standing by the window, sunlight catching the edge of his jaw, holding your baby like he was made to.

He’s swaying again. Same slow rhythm. Same whisper-singing under his breath like he’s telling secrets only the two of them get to hear. The baby’s nestled against his chest, all tucked into a blanket that he probably rewrapped five times to get perfect. He looks down at them like he’s memorizing everything; the tiny lashes, the soft fists, the weird little way their nose scrunches when they yawn. And then he sees you.

“Hey, sleepy girl,” he says, voice soft like syrup. “We missed you.”

You blink at him, hazy and warm, and he crosses the room like he can’t stand being that far from you. He leans down and kisses your forehead like it’s instinct, like he’d do it every hour on the hour if you let him. He’s so gentle when he sits beside you, so proud it hurts to look at him.

“She smiled,” he whispers like it’s breaking news. “I mean, probably gas or something, but still. She smiled. And she’s got your nose. Totally. It’s not up for debate.”

Your heart folds in on itself. You let him pass the baby to you, watching the way his hands linger for a second longer than they need to. He doesn’t want to let go. You don’t blame him.

And then, chaos, but the tiniest version of it. A nurse walks in with discharge forms. You’re cleared. You’re going home.

Dean’s whole face lights up like a Christmas tree. “We get to take her with us?” he asks, like she might still belong to the hospital. The nurse laughs. “She’s yours, dad.”

Dad.

That word hits him hard. You see it, the way he swallows it down, the way it echoes in his chest like thunder. He helps you dress, one hand always hovering at your back, as if the world might hurt you if he lets you go for a second.

And when it’s time to buckle the baby into the car seat, he hovers like he’s defusing a bomb. Arms crossed, pacing, muttering to himself. “Too tight? Is it too tight? Is her neck gonna snap? Holy shit, is this thing even safe?”

You have to gently lay a hand on his arm to stop him from spiraling. “Dean. She’s fine. You did good.”

He still insists on sitting in the backseat the whole drive home, one hand on the baby’s chest, the other gripping the side of the car seat like he could shield her from gravity itself. You’re driving— don’t ask how that happened, and he keeps glancing at you through the mirror like you’re some kind of divine miracle.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks every two minutes. “You need water? Food? A blanket? Jesus, I should’ve packed a cooler.”

Home is a safehouse two towns over. A small one. Quiet. Warm wood floors, soft lamps, the faint smell of sage and dust. Dean spent a week prepping it before the due date. Baby clothes folded into drawers, bottles lined up on the counter, a rocking chair in the corner that creaks with love.

He carries the baby in like she’s made of glass. You’re close behind, a little wobbly, but smiling. And the second you walk through the door, Dean exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the hospital.

“We did it,” he says. His voice cracks again. “We fuckin’ did it.”

You collapse on the couch, baby in your arms, body tired and soul full. Dean disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a peanut butter sandwich cut into triangles. “Best I could do,” he shrugs, and sits beside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do exactly this.

You’re both quiet for a while. The baby’s breathing softens. The room is golden with early evening light. Dean reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re my whole world, y’know that?” he murmurs. “Both of you. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”

And then, when the baby makes that tiny little noise again; that sleepy, airy half-laugh that sounds like she’s dreaming something sweet— Dean just loses it. Tears. No warning. Just full-on tears sliding down his cheeks as he laughs softly and presses a kiss to your temple.

“I didn’t know love could feel like this,” he says, voice thick. “I didn’t know I could feel like this. But I’m never going back.”

You nod, eyes full. You’re never going back either.

You look down at your baby— your baby, and you still can’t believe it. That they’re real. That they came from you. That you carried them, made space in your body, let your bones shift and stretch just to bring them here.

And now they’re here. Tiny and perfect and loud in the most beautiful way.

You’re not the same. You know that. You’re not just you anymore. You’re someone’s home now. You’re the arms they’ll fall asleep in. The voice they’ll search for in a crowd. The one who’ll know every cry, every little sigh, every look on their face before they even learn how to talk.

It’s terrifying. And holy. And so gentle it makes your hands shake.

You think about the way Dean looked at you in the hospital. How he still looks at you, like you’re the sun. The way he calls you mama now, like it’s always belonged to you. Like it’s more than just a title, it’s sacred. He doesn’t say it casually. He says it like it’s a promise.

There are moments, especially in the quiet, where you just hold your baby against your chest and cry. Not because you’re sad. But because it’s all too big. Because your love doesn’t have words big enough. Because you’ll never be able to explain it— but you’ll spend your life showing it.

This is what love is. What it’s meant to be. Loud and soft all at once. A song only the three of you know.

You kiss the top of your baby’s head and whisper, “I love you so much it hurts.”

And you mean it.

You’ll always mean it.

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