Dean hasn’t been too good since The Explosion that razed a warehouse to the ground, wiped out an acre of trees in the immediate vicinity and successfully killed god.

He drinks a lot. More than before. Drying to dissolve the throbbing, bitter irony that they didn’t even need to do anything to stop Cas - he self-destructed. The bastard was doing their dirty work for them, right up until the end. They always knew he had the potential to go nuclear. And even though his external facade was one of tranquillity and calm control, inside he was being pulled apart by undiluted power. There was only so long he could hold it together.

The world’s been quiet since The Explosion blasted noise from the sky and left their ears ringing. Word’s out that the Winchesters killed god, after all. Turns out a reputation like that is a damn sight more effective than any sigil, but like good boy scouts they keep some up anyway.

Only then there’s a tiny dude in a trenchcoat standing in Bobby’s front room, and Dean thinks whoever invented sigils was a dick.

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