The hospital was ready.

That was the lie.

What Dean John had actually achieved in under twenty-three minutes was not readiness. It was surrender. Administrative surrender. Financial surrender. Architectural surrender. By the time the convoy screeched under the emergency overhang, the private maternity entrance had been cleared, three senior nurses had been dragged out of their routines and into a rapidly evolving legend, one obstetrician had been personally informed that “delay” was no longer a concept welcome on the premises, and the hospital board was already halfway through deciding whether Dean John Winchester-Carmira was their best donor or the beginning of the apocalypse.

Sam Ross stepped out of the car first.

Not running.

Not panicking.

Just moving with the hard, terrifying calm of a man who had done this once before and knew exactly how quickly everyone else could make it worse.

“Wheelchair,” he said.

There was already one waiting.

“Good. Mara?”

“Here.”

Mara came around the other side with the actual bags, the medical file, two blankets, and the expression of a woman fully prepared to bite hospital policy in the throat if it got between her and the laboring parent.

Dean, meanwhile, was on Sam before the car had fully stopped.

“Easy—careful—watch your step—do not breathe weird—”

Sam, one hand on his stomach, one hand reaching automatically for Dean’s sleeve through another contraction, laughed and winced at once.

“Dean.”

“I’m here.”

“I can tell.”

“Good.”

“That was not a compliment.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

It mattered to him. Everything did.