#cuddlebabies

Maybe they’d actually get this Kelly thing figured out. Dagon was dead, Cas was alive. The grace extraction thing wasn’t a perfect plan, but none of their plans were ever perfect. They always managed anyway. Team Free Will rides again, like he’d said.

What a fucking joke.

Another gust of wind blows across the playground and Dean curls in on himself slightly, keeping his eyes shut. He’s going to have to get up eventually. Get up, drag Sam back to his car and drive home with the Cas-shaped hole in the backseat screaming out for attention in his rear-view mirror.

How was it that they were here again? How did it always happen that no matter how tightly Dean tried to hold on, Cas just slipped away. Or ran away. Because this was the angel tablet and the crypt all over again, or no, this was after Samandriel died and Cas looked at him blankly with bleeding fucking eyes and Dean knew that Cas wasn’t behind the wheel in there.

Satan Jr had whammied Cas’ head just like he had Kelly’s, and once again Dean is left scrambling to save his best friend. His. . . his whatever Cas is.

Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe this was just Cas, once again making the wrong damn choices for the right reasons, never learning a fucking thing no matter how many times it blows up in his face.

He really is a Winchester.

They can’t ever catch a break.

Their lives are flying apart at the seams, out of control with pieces scattered wide and Dean isn’t sure he’s got the strength to gather them all up again.

He hears Sam groaning as he stirs, no doubt coming slowly out of the unnatural heaviness that goes along with a mandatory grace-nap. Still lying on his back, Dean briefly squeezes his eyes shut tighter, allowing the tears building there to slide down his temples and into the hair at his ears before he shifts himself upright, dragging hands down each side of his face before Sam can make note of the lingering wetness.

“Son of a bitch,” Sam grates out, still heaving himself to a sit.

“Yeah,” Dean says. He doesn’t have the energy for anything more. He struggles to his feet and hauls Sam up, a cursory slap on the arm before he starts moving to the car.

“Dean –” Sam starts, but Dean silences him with a wave.

“Not now, man, okay? Let’s just go home. I need a fucking drink.”

Sam looks as though he’s not done trying to Talk This Out, but one look at Dean’s hard mask of a face and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Me too.”

Sam slides into the passenger seat, and Dean’s about to follow suit when something on his side of the bench catches his eye.

His heart seizes up and he can’t breathe, and more tears well up before he has a chance to tamp them down.

Not caring now if Sam sees, he gets behind the wheel, picking up the little piece of plastic and sliding it into the tape deck.

Again it looks like Sam wants to say something, and again he seems to think better of it. Instead he crosses his arms and leans down against his window, although his eyes are open.

Dean stares straight through the front windshield, ignoring the empty backseat and turning the volume dial higher as Ten Years Gone drifts out through Baby’s speakers.