Dean wearily lies down on the pullout couch in the motel, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands, trying to comprehend what just happened. On the ride back to the motel, he and Bobby didn't say a word to one another. There were so many questions in both of their minds, but no way to express them.
God commanded it. The words of the angel, or whatever he is, ring in his head. 'What exactly does this thing want me to do?' Dean wonders as he kicks off his boots. 'And why me?' That's the biggest question; the question that he'd like to ask God Himself, if He actually exists.
"What a load of crap," Dean says to himself as he turns over and tosses Bobby's books full of runes and symbols onto the floor. 'All the people who care about me are either dead or hunters, which means they're gonna die sooner rather than later,' Dean muses. 'And this… thing, this… angel... he wants me to do work for God?' At this, Dean sits up and looks around the room, sighing and pulling his knees up to his chest, resting his elbows on them and putting his head in his hands.
"Who the hell am I to do work for God?" Dean asks to the empty room, only now realizing that Sam still isn't back yet from his burger run. He debates calling him, but decides that he needs as much time to think as he can get right now. Still mulling over his worthiness to do God's work on earth, Dean gets up and grabs a beer from the fridge. He takes a long swig and leans against the desk, hanging his head and picturing the scene in the barn – the walls and floor covered in devil's traps and who knows what else, arsenal at the ready, and in strolls this nerdy little guy, busting lights as he goes, not even blinking at the buckshot and salt rounds tearing through his chest.
And then he has the audacity to say to Dean's face, after all that's happened to him and his family, "Good things do happen." Well where the hell was God when Mom was on the ceiling, or when Dad made that deal with the yellow-eyed demon in exchange for the safety of his sons? "Where were you then, you bastard?!" Dean shouts, slamming his beer on the desk and hitting the wall with his fist. Panting and flushed, Dean regains his composure somewhat and goes back to sit on the sofa bed.
You don't think you deserve to be saved? The childlike way the angel had asked that question, boring into Dean with those huge blue eyes was almost too much. Dean always knew that his place in this world was to be a martyr; his father always ingrained in him that he was to protect Sam at all costs. The fact that the ultimate price would be Dean's life went unspoken between father and son, but they both knew what John meant. Dean's happiness and salvation always came second to the needs of his family, especially Sam, and no way is some holy tax accountant going to change that just because he claims God has work for him.
Dean downs the rest of his beer in one gulp, and as he tosses the beer aside and lays back down on the sofa bed, a little part of him remembers the feeling he had when he locked eyes with that angel. The compassion in those beautiful blue eyes gave Dean a small glimmer of hope for the future, that maybe having an angel around won't be so bad. God knows they could all use some protection from demons and all the other things that are chasing them. Dean chuckles to himself at his accidental reference to God in the familiar phrase. Turning over and closing his eyes, Dean softly whispers, "Thank you," and finally drifts off to sleep.
