Loading the last few dishes from dinner in the dishwasher, you sighed heavily and shut the dishwasher lid before turning to lean against the counter. Today was exhausting. Baby Girl had been fussy all day, and in turn, you had been anxious and snappy all day. She didn't have a temperature, but her being uncomfortable made you uncomfortable, and when you got uncomfortable, you tended to lose your cool a bit. And poor Dean had gotten home from work only to be greeted with a crying baby and a pissy girlfriend. He had tried being nice and suggesting what you could do to help alleviate the fussiness and in response, you had snapped that you were her mother and you knew what to do. Dinner had been tense, and in order to give yourself time to chill, you had asked Dean to feed the baby while you cleaned up from dinner. He had complied, clearly unhappy with you, but too kind to say anything about it at the moment.
Letting your eyes fall shut for a moment, you heaved a soft sigh, the pressure of guilt heavy on your chest. You shouldn't have snapped at Dean, you knew that. He hadn't done anything wrong and he was just trying to be helpful. But you also knew that you were tired and anxious and sad for no apparent reason other than the fact that you were, and his helpfulness had come across as him judging you for not being able to comfort your child. Add on the fact that as soon as you had placed her in his arms, she had stopped crying to make the day even worse. You had been so furious you had stomped off to the kitchen in tears, refusing to accept Dean's arm around your waist. Now, after the baby was quiet and you had eaten dinner, you felt terrible. You should apologize.
You pushed away from the counter and rounded the corner of the kitchen, stopping in the doorway of the living room, a hand over your mouth to suppress your giggle. Dean, with Baby Girl draped across his chest, was asleep, his arms wrapped protectively around your daughter's tiny body. The bottle you had sent with him was sitting on the side table, only half empty. Clearly she wasn't feeling well if she didn't eat everything. But the concern for your daughter was lowered as you watched her sleep on your boyfriend's chest. Leave it to Dean to show up out of nowhere and fix the problem. That's what he did with you anyway. One day he showed up out of nowhere and the next thing you knew, he had moved in and was painting the nursery for you so you wouldn't have to worry about paint fumes and the baby.
Crossing the room in a few steps, you leaned down to pick up the baby, waking Dean up in the process. Confusion etched across his face, he sat up and rubbed his eyes, yawning widely while you readjusted the baby who quickly fell back asleep, her dark lashes splayed across her pale cheeks, her fist curled against your chest. Leaning your cheek to her forehead, you frowned. Definitely a little too warm to be considered normal.
"She was sleepy, so we laid back to rest and I guess I fell asleep."
"Adorable, really," you admitted softly. Then hesitantly added, "I'm sorry. For being so snappy earlier. I know you were just trying to help. I've just had a really bad day and I was at my wit's end and then you came in telling me things to try that I've been trying all day, so I just gave her to you and she immediately stopped crying and I felt like a failure as a mom." By the end of your confession, you were in tears again.
"Oh baby," Dean said softly, reaching over to brush your hair out of your eyes. "I know. You don't have to apologize to me. I'm not mad at you. You're a great mom; you've just had a hard day. Why don't you pass her to me, I'll put her to bed, and then we can hang out. Catch a game or one of those weird chick flicks on Lifeline you like."
"Lifetime," you corrected, laughing through your tears. You kissed your baby gently before passing her to Dean and adding, "We need to listen for her getting fussy tonight. I think she's getting sick."
"Whatever you say, Momma Bear."
"I'm not a bear!"
"Oh really? Do I need to repeat what you said to me the moment I walked in? It was very bear-like."
"Oh please! Remember what we just talked about? Hard day?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, Momma Bear. I'll be right back. It's time for Baby Bear to settle down for the night."
Laughing, you rolled your eyes and reached for the remote, flicking on the television. There had to be something good on tonight. Tuesday was normally a good night for television, right? It was fall, so there had to be some season premieres starting back up. Scanning through the television guide, looking for anything particularly interesting, you heard a sound from the kitchen and immediately muted the TV, listening closely. You thought for a second it sounded like the back door knob rattling. It had a weird latch and most of the time if you were trying to open it; you had to rattle it a little bit to unlatch. Straining for the sound, you heard it again. It was definitely the back door. Frowning, you placed the remote on the coffee table and started towards the kitchen. It wasn't Sam's night. Sam Night was Friday. Castiel Night was Thursday, but he normally just let himself in, no locks needed. Something about wings. And ever since you and Dean had been together, about a year now, they had been very consistent with their schedules. So who else could it be? Your sister? Occasionally she stopped by unannounced.
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, you froze, every inch of your body filling with ice. It was him. Over a year ago, a month before you met Dean, he walked out with promises of never coming back. And yet here he was. Tall, much taller than you, with dark hair and dark eyes (currently bloodshot from the amount of alcohol consumed). Immediately the feeling that you were going to pass out, or puke, filled your body. Your mouth tasted metallic, a sure sign puking was on the cusp. The look on his face right now was pure joy at finding you in the kitchen. As he let out a sigh of relief and took a step towards you, you took a step back, too terrified to scream or cry or look for a weapon or do anything but stand there, mute, watching his every move. It was like a bad horror movie. Next you were probably going to run up the stairs instead of out the front door like any normal person should when being chased by a madman in their own house.
He was the worst decision of your life. He had been abusive and manipulative. He was mean beyond measure and so cold. Many nights you spent doubting your every move, every word, and every thought. He would snap about dinner not being ready when he was ready for it, an innocent offhand comment, the way you looked at him, especially if it was anything less than 'respectful'. He had hit you twice in your six month relationship. The first time the back of his hand had flown so quickly across your face that you hadn't had time to react. His ring had caught the corner of your mouth, tearing and bruising so badly that you had considered going to the hospital, only choosing not to when you realized that someone would ask what happened, and you didn't know what to tell them.
The second time had been much more horrific. With each passing day, your relationship with him had become more and more strained to the point where he was rarely coming home and you were in constant fear every moment he was. One night, he had promised to be home at six, requesting a rather elaborate meal. You had left work early to ensure it was done when he got home, and although you had every piece of the meal ready, the table set, he hadn't shown up till nearly ten, drunk off his ass, angry because he had been laid off. By then, you had already eaten and packed the rest of the food into containers and put it in the fridge, made your way upstairs, and had curled up in bed. You hadn't been feeling all that great and all you wanted was a good night's sleep. However, when he walked in he was furious. You weren't at the table and dinner wasn't ready. When you tried to explain that it had been ready at six and you'd be more than happy to reheat it for him and sit down at the table with him while he ate, he flew into a rage.
Much later that evening, when he was asleep, you dragged your bloody body to the car and to the emergency room, where you had met your sister, who cried harder than you did at the number of stitches you got. Your eyes had been so swollen you couldn't see out of them, and you had to beg your sister to take pictures of you for the police report and your personal records so you would never go back to him again. It had taken three tries before she could stop shaking enough to take the pictures without them coming out blurry. After the police report and the restraining order, you had changed your locks and made a promise to always watch for warning signs after that. Never again would you be in an abusive relationship. A month later you found out you were pregnant. You had made a decision not to tell him that you were pregnant, and after much discussion with your sister and your parents, decided to keep the baby any way. A month after that, you met Dean Winchester. And two months after that, just as your baby belly was starting to appear, you ran into him at the grocery store in the produce while Dean was scoping out pie. He had known you were pregnant, and he had disappeared and you hadn't told Dean you had even seen him.
And now, after a year and two months, he was back.
"I thought you were here. The kitchen light was on and your car was in the driveway. I figured the back door would be unlocked, since that's what you've always done. I drove by earlier to see if you were here and you were walking around with our baby. I went and got a drink or two and then came back by. God, I've missed you. You look great. I should never have left in the first place. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I just let you walk away. I was just stressed you know?"
As he took another step toward you, you took a step to the side, trying to get as close to the stairs as possible. No, not to run up them and insure death but so that you could call for Dean or wave him away when he appeared at the top of the steps or gesture for him to take the baby and run or…something.
"Did you name her Gabrielle like we talked about? I've been wondering. I mean, I knew you wouldn't abort her. You've always been too much of a coward to make any decisions for yourself. Can I see my baby?"
Flicking your eyes to the top of the stairs you saw Dean's puzzled expression and shook your head fractionally, turning quickly to catch the eyes of your ex. "No. Because she's not your daughter. She's mine." It was the most defiant thing you had ever said to him, and you could see the shock register first, followed quickly by anger. So he hadn't changed at all. Good to know.
"Excuse me? You're stupider than I thought. Women don't make babies on their own," he spouted loudly, his hands on his hips, spittle flying across the kitchen. "Unless…" he hesitated then sneered, "You whore."
Out of the corner of your eye, you watched Dean creep down the stairs silently, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. You knew his hands were itching for the gun that was resting on the top of the refrigerator. The joint agreement when he moved in was that he would keep the gun, but keep it up and away from the baby, even if she couldn't walk yet. Just habit to keep guns away from kids. However, it was for this exact reason that you wanted Dean to keep the gun in the first place, and now he couldn't get to it without being incredibly obvious, which meant that it was basically pointless having it. Fan-fucking-tastic.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he spouted loudly, taking a rather aggressive step towards you that made your heart jump into overdrive, pumping so furiously you began wondering if it was a heart attack or not. "Did you fucking have a kid with someone else? I mean, I saw the kid you were carrying and she's close to the same age that our baby should have been, but it would be so like you to kill ours and have one with someone else. You always did do stupid shit like that."
Dean slipped out from behind you, his right hand extended in front of his body as if to ward off your ex, his left hand brushing your shoulder gently as he passed in front of you. Every move was careful, calculated. They were the moves of a hunter. If you weren't so terrified, you'd be incredibly attracted right now. Green eyes narrowed, defensive stature, protective instinct. But alas, you were melting in a pool of your own sweat, about to die of a heart attack. Panic, anxiety, and something you couldn't describe filled your veins. So the desire to bang Dean Winchester wasn't at the top of your list at the moment.
"Easy, man. Why don't you take a few steps back and then tell me what you're doing in our house?" Dean started softly, his eyes flicking to the top of the fridge and back in a millisecond. You knew he was gauging how much time it would take to get to the fridge and back, armed, and whether or not it would leave you open to attack. To someone who didn't know Dean, or his hunting past, they would never know that he was making a plan of attack. But you knew Dean and you knew that he never walked into a questionable situation without having each movement completely planned out.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me. I don't owe you any sort of explanation, but you? You're in my house, with my girlfriend, and my kid. If anyone owes anyone else anything it's you. And you're lucky. I'll let you speak before I kill you," your ex spouted, his eyes flashing dangerously, the vein in his forehead bulging. Panic raced through your veins. You knew that Dean was more than qualified to take care of you, but that didn't stop the memories of being yelled at and abused for rendering you absolutely useless.
And then before you could really grasp what was happening, Dean's fist was connecting with your ex's face, and your ex was crumpling in a ball on the tile floor and then Dean was on top of him, his fist connecting repeatedly with your ex's face over and over and over, the sound of skin on skin, the blood blooming across your ex's face, Dean's knuckles splitting with the force of the hits. And still, you were frozen. Dean yelled over his shoulder at you and it took a moment to realize what he was saying. "Call the police!"
Diving across the kitchen for the phone, you dialed as quickly as possible with shaking fingers, leaning back against the counter, trying to get as far away from the fight as you possibly could without taking your eyes off of Dean. Your kind, caring, gentle Dean. The Dean that just minutes ago had brushed his fingertips across your daughter's face with such care that she hadn't even woken from her slumber. And now he was an animal. Furious and deadly. And your ex was curled in the fetal position, blood across your floor as you explained the emergency situation, your address, and agreed to stay on the line with the dispatcher while a unit arrived. Dean gestured for you to toss him one of the zip ties you used for camping to him. You did so, and as he zip tied your ex's hands, he leaned close, pulling his face close to his to sneer.
"You listen to me. You lost her. I found her. She's done with you. She's with me. And as far as I'm concerned, that baby girl is mine too." The looking Dean's face as he spoke was pure disgust. "Don't ever, for a second, think that I'm going to walk out. I am not you. And if you ever, and I do mean ever, walk in this house again, I know about 45 ways to kill you and make it look like an accident."
Sirens wailed outside your house and as you confirmed with dispatch that the units had arrived, you hung up the phone and ran to the front door to let them in, directing them to the kitchen where Dean was sitting casually beside your zip tied, bloodied, ex, inspecting his knuckles. You stood in the far corner of the kitchen, your arms wrapped around yourself. You were quite literally trying to hold yourself together. You answered the officer's questions: Yes, you knew the man on the floor. Yes, you had a restraining order. Yes, the other man was your boyfriend. Yes, you were okay. No, you didn't need to see a doctor, and no, Dean was fine. After nearly half an hour of questioning and note taking, the officers carted your ex out to the waiting ambulance and you turned to the cabinet next to the sink to find the first aid kit for Dean's hands.
As the house fell back into silence, and the baby monitor on the counter confirmed that your daughter hadn't woken up through the ordeal, you found yourself struggling not to cry. Pulling the first aid kit out of the cabinet, your hands shook so badly you dropped the first aid kit, and as you knelt to gather the band aids and gauze and antibacterial wipes, you began to cry. Dean knelt beside you, reaching over to steady your hands.
"Hey, hey, hey, come here," he said softly, pulling you into his lap.
You sobbed against his chest, ignoring the fact that you really should be fixing up his hands instead of sobbing like a toddler. The night had been so overwhelming, so many emotions, so much fear, you couldn't handle it. In fact, there was no chance you were getting out of bed tomorrow unless you absolutely had to. You had yelled at your boyfriend, apologized, walked into your kitchen to find your ex, been threatened, again, your boyfriend had been threatened, then your docile boyfriend had attacked, and it was over almost as quickly as it had begun.
"Wanna talk about it?" he said softly, his hand brushing gently over your hair.
You shook your head at first, certain you wouldn't be able to say anything at all. And then there it was, on the tip of your lips. "I-I thought I was going to l-lose you and h-her."
"Oh, baby," he whispered, his arms tightening around your waist. "There was no chance of that. None at all. I was a hunter, remember? And I love you. I'm not going anywhere."
As you melted into Dean's arms, his lips on yours, you finally tapped into what the emotion was that you had been unable to identify earlier in the evening. It was safety. With Dean, you were safe.