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Summary
Cas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Dean Winchester was perched on the trunk of an old Continental, hands cuffed behind his back, but bright-eyed and relaxed, looking for all the world like he was sat in his favorite booth at Benny's diner.
Dean had been a low-grade troublemaker since his adolescence, turning up at the station with stolen bread and an unrepentant grin, or bloody knuckles and a scowl. But Lawrence was a small town, and anyone who'd ever dealt with John Winchester in the drunk tank had a few ounces of sympathy for the kid.