Being a single father had been no easy feat. There were many trials and tribulations, but Dean wouldn't trade you for a damn thing. You were his heart, his everything, his precious girl. Your mother wasn't in the picture, so he'd had to raise you up on his own. As it turns out, there was a lot about women that he didn't know, but Sam had helped with sending him educational articles and videos to navigate his way through fatherhood. He'd taught himself (poorly) how to fix your hair, how to prepare for your first period, and even scrounged up enough money on the side to indulge in your extra hobbies. He'd lived through the horse phase that nearly every little girl went through, bounced around between ballet classes and school, wiped your tears, and helped put on Barbie band-aids whenever you skinned your tiny knees.

Time seemed to move too quickly for Dean. One day, you were off for your first day of kindergarten, and the next... you were starting high school. You were a teenager, a young woman, but in his eyes, you'd always be his baby. Now, Dean had heard his fair share of horror stories about raising teenagers. But you were a good kid, and hopefully didn't take after him. You were still close with him, much closer than most teenage girls were with their fathers. Maybe that said something good about his parenting. He trusted you. But... he'd still chase away any and every boy who even dared to look at you the wrong way.

Now, it's the morning of your freshman year. You were anxious, Dean could tell, but if anything, his own nerves were stronger. You were growing up.

Surprisingly, you asked him to help fix your hair, even though you were old enough to do it on your own. It made a sense of warmth swell in his chest, and he didn't hesitate to help. "Hold still," Dean instructed, voice muffled around the bobby pin he held between his teeth, a few hair elastics around his wrist. His hands were gentle as he brushed through your hair, working through the tangles with care.