Author's Note: I'm a LITTLE afraid that this is a bit OOC for Dean, that I made him way too mushy, but I feel like I have a good handle on him and his feelings on things, and I CAN'T believe that, when faced with this situation, he wouldn't be an absolute WRECK. Dean is so effortlessly cool when it comes to stuff he knows (hunting, girls, being dead sexy), but, as we've all seen, when he's thrown into a situation that he isn't prepared for, he turns into a complete flustered nerd. So… he gets mushy in this and, dammit, I'm not changing it.

I LOVED writing this. I know it's technically against SPN rules to write something like this (i.e. happy), which is why I think everyone will hate it, but them's the brakes, isn't it? That being said, I will happily accept constructive criticism and NORMAL, HUMANE conversations about whether you think Dean WOULD indeed act like this or not, but if you're just going to flame me, don't bother reading it. You won't like it anyway.

Oh, and yes- I totally got the idea for writing this when we found out that Baby Ackles is going to be a girl. SQUEE.

Here we go!

If he didn't know better, Dean would've thought that angels were messing around with time again. The world had crashed to a sudden halt, throwing him completely off-kilter as he stood stock still. His heart had become lodged somewhere near his tonsils and he tried to swallow it back down, but he had lost the motor skills necessary to move the muscles that corresponded with that action. Instead, the fingertips of his right hand twitched. His vision was blurry and the room spun sickeningly. The funny thing was that, for the first time in a VERY long time, Dean had not touched a drop of alcohol that day.

He realized that he had no idea if his legs were attached to his body any longer. He couldn't feel them, but couldn't bring himself to look down at them either because he thought he might pitch completely forward and end up sprawled on the floor like an asshole. There was also the fact that he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight in front of him if his life depended on it. And Dean had done a lot of things because his life depended on it.

"Go," a voice in the back of his mind urged."Move."

The voice sounded irritatingly like Cas.

I'm trying, you dick, he thought, annoyed. Leave it to the angel to offer the least helpful advice at a moment like this.

A female voice came floating through his muddled perception. He didn't recognize it, and it sounded like it was coming out of an old, broken record player. He saw a dark blur in his periphery, and the voice seemed to be coming from it. The tone quirked upwards at the end, so he took it to be a question. But it wasn't important. He couldn't find it in himself to answer. He continued to stare straight ahead, his mouth slightly open, unable to move or think straight.

Then, like a lightning bolt straight to his senses, another voice cut clear through the fog in his brain.

"He's fine. Just give him a minute."

It was like someone had turned a key in his ignition. He blinked for the first time in awhile, then swallowed. The feeling returned to his legs, and his vision and thoughts started to sharpen.

He'd know that voice anywhere. Against his every desire, against every fiber in that being, he had gotten to know that voice as well as he knew the purr of the engine of his car. With both, he knew when something was wrong, when things were being pushed to their limit, when all was smooth and well and wonderful. But there was more. He had heard that voice laugh, scream, cry, shout, moan, and whisper. He had heard it say things that no other voice had ever said to him. The voice amazed and astounded and infuriated him in ways that he couldn't comprehend.

And then, there was a new sound.

The sound made his heart stop completely for a moment. It made his eyes water and his chest constrict. It sent a flood of memories to his mind, of his mother and the house in Lawrence and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and his father and Legos and Bobby and baseball and carrying Sammy in his arms in their old yard as they watched their house burn. And then fear, ice cold and paralyzing, crept under his skin and took ahold of his entire being. The memories turned to dark thoughts of hell and torture and violence, all by his hand. He saw his loved ones fall and die, all at his doing. He saw his drinking and anger and hatred and mistaks. His legs fought to run, to flee. His heart pounded frantically against his ribcage. Run. Run. Run.

"Dean."

It was that voice again. And somehow, as always, it cut through the panic, doubt, and fear. He looked, finally, into familiar, tired, brown eyes that were flooded with emotion and understanding. A smile.

"C'mere, tough guy."

She was teasing him. He felt more like a scared little boy than a battle-worn hunter. But at the same time, he felt a strange sensation growing in him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he had a feeling that if a demon happened to come in the room at that moment, he could probably gank the thing like he was swatting a fly. He felt strong, powerful. Yet…

He felt his legs carrying him forward towards the small, white bed. The incredible, new sound was closer, and he still felt fear and doubt pulling at him. His heart was still pounding away, and he felt emotion bubbling in his veins. But he stopped at the plastic railings on the bed, swallowed, and looked down.

His breath caught in his throat as he stared into two tiny green eyes that perfectly mirrored his own. The world beyond those two little eyes disappeared completely, and he forgot about everything he thought he knew best in the world. He forgot about demons, about heaven and hell, about death and destruction, about apocalypses and monsters and spirits and cheeseburgers and pies and motels and graveyards. He forgot his fear, his doubt, his past, his present— hell, he couldn't even remember his name. All that mattered were those two green eyes. His green eyes.

Then that familiar, warm voice spoke again.

"Here. She wants her daddy."

His eyed widened to the size of dinner plates as his arms were suddenly filled with a small, flailing body that was, miraculously, not crying. Meanwhile, that one word echoed in his head like church bells.

Daddy.

Daddy.

He cradled her, his daughter, carefully in his arms, panicking and protecting and freaking the hell out and wanting to laugh with joy, all at the same time. He watched her arms wave around and listened to her cooing and gurgling noises, committing them to memory. He felt a tear slide down his cheek and he glanced up at the brown eyes that were watching him with tears in them, as well.

"Shut up," he said, gruffly but not unkindly, and his voice sounded about ten years younger.

His daughter suddenly squealed loudly as a teardrop dripped off of his nose and splattered on the top of her head. He let out a watery laugh.

And suddenly it hit him like a ton of bricks; he knew what the powerful, strong, new feeling was that was rising in his chest. It was hope. It blazed through him to the point where he thought he would be overwhelmed by it. Then, he heard that voice-that-might-be-Cas in the back of his mind again, sounding thoroughly amused.

"Well, there it is, Dean Winchester. That, my friend, is your reason to live."

Dean smiled.