Dean Winchester. Still saved in your contacts, still with that dumb little car emoji next to his name, when late-night drives and shared motel rooms and stolen kisses between hunts felt like something that could maybe last.

But it didn’t. Because Dean decided to “protect” you from himself. Said he was doing you a favor. Said you deserved better than what he could give. You told yourself you understood. But life kept moving, and about a month after he’d left, so did your stomach. Queasy mornings, weird cravings, a missed period, then two pink lines and a punch of reality so hard you had to sit down. At first, you told yourself you’d tell him. But then days passed. Weeks. Months. Excuses piled up. And now here you are, baby in the bassinet, impossibly small and perfect and you’re staring at your phone like it might explode.

One ring. Two. Three. “Yeah?” His voice is rough, like he wasn’t expecting a call.

“Hey Dean,” you say, and your voice is calm, calmer than you feel.

“Hey…” You can almost hear him trying to figure out what this is. Why now? “Everything alright?”

You inhale slowly. “I need to tell you something.”

That gets his attention. “Okay. Shoot.”

You glance at the baby, cheeks round and peaceful in sleep. “I, um… this isn’t easy to say. I should’ve told you sooner. A lot sooner.”

“Alright…” he says cautiously. “What is it?”

You close your eyes. “Dean… you’re a father.” Silence. “I found out after you left,” you go on, because you have to fill the space, “and I kept telling myself I’d call. I didn’t want to spring this on you, I just-I don’t know, I kept waiting for the right time, and then she was here and I couldn’t wait anymore.”

“She?” His voice is barely a whisper.

“Yeah. A girl. She’s healthy. Beautiful.” You pause, heart pounding. “She’s yours.” The line goes quiet again. For a second you think maybe he hung up, but then you hear it. The exhale. The shaky breath.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “I-I don’t even know what to say.”