Dean sat at the kitchen table, swirling his beer bottle in his hand, his brow furrowed. The ultrasound photo was laid flat in front of him, but his focus seemed far away.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him. "You good?"

He looked up, the corners of his mouth pulling into a wry smile. "Yeah, just… a lot to take in, you know? Kid on the way, life still a damn mess. Just feels weird."

You nodded, not moving closer. "I get it. It's a lot."

Dean scoffed, shaking his head. "It's not even that. It's the whole idea. I’m gonna be a dad. A father. Doesn’t exactly scream 'Dean Winchester.'"

"Well," you said, stepping into the room, "you're still breathing, which is more than most could say about you at your age. And you know how to handle pressure."

He stared at the photo again. "Handling pressure and handling a kid… doesn’t seem like the same thing."

You shrugged. "No, but you're resourceful. Figure it out."

Dean chuckled darkly, running a hand through his hair. "Right. 'Figure it out.' No big deal."

You watched him for a moment, then said, "You don't have to be perfect. Just don't screw it up too bad."

Dean smirked, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Well, hell. If that’s the standard, I think I’m good."

You raised an eyebrow. "That’s the best I’ve got."

Dean tipped the bottle to his lips, a faint grin crossing his face. "Guess I’ll have to work with that."