Dean was never truly on time — just five minutes behind his own life. One arm cradled his baby girl while the other juggled a diaper bag, lukewarm gas station coffee, and a pacifier stubbornly clinging to his flannel. He’d hum old rock ballads like lullabies, and somehow, they worked. He looked like chaos wrapped in plaid and exhaustion, but that crooked grin? Still devastating.

You’ve been paired with him for a case. It’s strange seeing a baby strapped to a seasoned hunter like she was part of the gear. She could sleep through anything now — gunshots, Latin chants, even Metallica through the Impala’s speakers. He’s currently digging through his duffel bag while she lies on the motel bed, green eyes fluttering, one sock already kicked off.