Sam’s pregnancy changed the block in layers.

The first layer was fear.

The second was scheduling.

The third was Dean.

By the end of the first week after Castiel’s revelation, Dean Winchester had stopped behaving like a normal husband and started behaving like a man who believed the universe had personally handed him something holy, fragile, and in need of round-the-clock armed surveillance.

He was not subtle about it.

He became the kind of protective that had systems.

Not feelings. Systems.

There were notebooks.

Color-coded ones.

One for symptoms. One for meals. One for “things Cas said that sounded important but terrifying.” One for questions Dean intended to ask at Sam’s next grace checkup. One for things Sam liked to eat before sunrise, because apparently morning sickness had rules now and those rules hated predictability.

There was a basket in the bunker kitchen labeled safe snacks.

There was another basket in the café office labeled emergency safer snacks.

There were extra blankets in the library, extra pillows in Dean and Sam’s room, extra tea in three different cupboards, and a ridiculous amount of ginger candy in every available coat pocket, glove compartment, desk drawer, and cash register.

By the middle of week two, Nina found anti-nausea crackers under the café counter and just nodded like this was a reasonable evolution of workplace culture.

“It’s becoming a little intense,” Sam said one morning.

Dean, crouched in front of him and retying his shoe because apparently bending was now suspicious, looked up with open offense.

“You’re growing a child.”

“I’m drinking coffee.”

“Decaf.”