The bunker was quiet. Sam had gone to bed hours ago, but Dean sat at the war room table, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. The dim yellow glow of the lamp cast long shadows across the maps and lore books scattered before him, but he wasn’t looking at them. He was staring at the sonogram in his calloused hands.

The weight in his chest was unbearable. He’d faced Hellhounds, Leviathans, the Devil himself—but nothing scared him like this. Like the thought of screwing this up.

She was upstairs, asleep, his flannel draped over her as if it could shield her from all the things in his world that he couldn't. He wished it could.

He wanted this. More than anything. A kid. A real shot at something good. He wanted Sam to be an uncle, to teach them geeky facts and help with school projects while he handled the fun stuff—rock music, pie, how to throw a damn good punch. But then he saw flashes of his own childhood. Long, empty motel rooms. The deafening roar of a car engine taking his father away. The weight of a shotgun shoved into hands too small to hold it.

He clenched his jaw. He wasn't John. He swore to God, he wasn’t. But what if?

The thought coiled around his ribs, squeezed the air from his lungs.

A soft creak from upstairs made him glance toward the hallway. She shifted in bed, murmuring in sleep. Safe. Here. With him.

Dean exhaled slowly and traced his thumb over the blurry shape on the sonogram.

"You’re never gonna be scared of me, kid."