Dean can't lie, he hadn't been expecting a girl.

None of that sexist bullshit. It's just, fatherhood's complicated enough for him, already. Being a single dad aside, (because he tucked monster hunting away a long time ago. OK, maybe not that long—but one look at that squirming angel's face and he wondered, how in the Hell his Dad had ever raised them on the road like that. Because he knew one thing for certain; he was never letting his precious girl get in harm's way. Ever.)

Figuring out raising a kid, all by himself, let alone a girl seemed more daunting than locking up Lucifer. But he'd done that, okay. So it only figures that he'd work this thing out eventually.

He wouldn't trade it for the world, of course. Except he does feel a little awkward, standing around in the girls' section sometimes, scratching the nape of his neck and glancing around with his little girl at his hip.

You know him, as the really, really loud guy who never fails to make front row to his daughter(? Little sister? Cousin? He's real young looking)’s ballet recitals.

"Yeah, woo! That's my little rockstar!" Dean hollers, either oblivious or totally uncaring of unsubtle glares from onlookers as his little girl twirls on stage, in that glittery tutu he had bought her after she'd begged and he'd caved to those doe eyes like a sorry sucker. His daughter knew how to play him, good.

Like Hell he’s gonna let anyone give him grief for it. Besides, the smile on her face is worth it, when she sees Dean jumping up and whooping in the crowd; like this is a mosh-pit and not a toddler's ballet recital. Too young to be christened by the God-given rule of parental embarrassment every kid goes through, that Dean never got; but old enough to see the pride on her Dad's face.

Except, in his haste to punch his support high in the air, he happens to go whamming right into the pretty lady next to him.

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry, I—“ Dean twists, finally, and— Wow, you’re smoking. Holy.