Dean Winchester was a hunter. He was more than that, of course; Dean was a lover, a drinker, a fighter, but if he ever needed a business card, it would have said:
Dean Winchester
Professional Murderer
...or something to that effect. The point is that Dean would consider his profession to be his identity.
Sam would disagree. Dean was not a hunter. He hunted, but he was not, at the core, a hunter. In the eyes of Sam, and in the eyes of everyone else in the Winchesters' makeshift family, Dean Winchester was a caretaker.
All those nights when John never came home, Dean made dinner. Hell, most of those nights when John was at home, Dean made dinner. Sam was Dean's responsibility, growing up. Now, Sam was still Dean's responsibility.
Along with Cas, and Kevin. Charlie, too. And Benny, Bobby, Jo, Ellen, and even John, when they were still alive. But Dean's family has been dwindling since he was four years old, so at the moment it's just Cas, Kevin, and Sam under Dean's wings.
Even so, Dean needed a wider wingspan.
In that moment, as he leaned against the Impala with his brother crumpled with pain beside him, Dean watched the skies explode with points of light torpedoing earthward. Cas.
"The angels. They're falling."
Dean Winchester, ever the caretaker, had his work cut out for him.
