By the time they were cleared to leave the hospital, the entire family had crossed into that strange post-birth state where nobody had slept properly, everybody had too many feelings, and even simple tasks had somehow become military operations.

Sam was tired clear through to the bone.

Not weak.

Not fragile.

Just deeply, honestly tired in the way only labor could make a body. He sat propped against the pillows in the discharge room with the baby tucked against his chest, hair braided back loosely by Mara’s practical hands, hospital blanket still over his legs, and that same dazed, radiant look he’d been wearing in flashes since the moment she was born.

Dean had not improved.

If anything, fatherhood had pushed him into a fresh and alarming tier of vigilance.

He had checked the discharge papers twice.

The car seat four times.

The route to the estate six times.

The weather once every fifteen minutes as if clouds might personally disrespect the baby’s first ride home.

“You’re pacing holes in the floor,” Sam told him softly.

Dean stopped only because Sam’s voice still had that post-labor softness in it that could stop weather when it wanted to.

“I’m not pacing,” Dean said.

Sam Ross, standing by the window with coffee and one eyebrow raised, said, “You are absolutely pacing.”

Dean John, who had somehow turned “private discharge coordination” into an event requiring four phone calls, two signatures, and what looked suspiciously like a hospital board member waiting outside to personally wish them well, glanced over and added, “Poorly.”

Dean glared at both of them. “I’m making sure everything’s ready.”

“Everything has been ready for three hours,” Mara said, fastening the baby’s blanket more snugly with one efficient hand.

“That doesn’t mean it stayed ready.”

Sam laughed weakly and looked down at the little face tucked under the edge of the blanket.

The baby blinked up at him with all the grave offense of someone who had already decided the world was too bright, too loud, and insufficiently arranged around her needs.

Vlyluna, sitting on the arm of the chair nearest the bed despite repeated requests not to perch on hospital furniture like a decorative threat, leaned in with bright-eyed delight.

“She hates discharge energy.”

“She is two days old,” Dean said.

“And already correct,” Vlyluna replied.