“I heard a song about you today,” he says.
“Yeah?” Dean looked up from under the hood of the Impala and wiped sweat from his forehead. The kid was eight now and no bigger than when he was six. He kicked his feet against the head light as he sat on the edge of the car and Dean asked, “Which one?”
“It wasn’t on the radio,” the boy teold him. “Balthy was singing it.”
Dean sighed. Not this again. He thought the kid was done dreaming up the angels, thought he’d left that back in Cheyenne after ‘Gabriel’ made him run across the street and almost get hit by a semi. Cas said he was fine, Gabriel just wanted to save the dog caught in the ditch, he wouldn’t have been hurt. But Cas didn’t know the things Dean did and Dean had made him swear not to listen to the angels again. Ever.
And for six months he hadn’t. Until now.