Chapter Text
There are things that Dean can't do, no matter how much he wants to.
Wrap Mom in his arms and hold her tight and keep her there, safe and sound, and never let her go.
Smack Cas upside the head for having such dumb ideas, then hug him and tell him never to do it again.
Punch Crowley for lying again, yell at him for being so stupidly careless with his life, tell him to get his act together.
Dean can't do any of those things. And the list goes on.
He can't get Sam to quit bringing up theories about how Mom survived and there must be a way to get her back.
He can't stop feeling like shit for wanting Sam to give up hope before he does something crazy like re-opening the rift and wreaking havoc on Earth.
He can't find a way to off the Devil's kid, so now he has to watch Jack mope around the bunker, looking confused and vaguely guilty.
He can't just fold and say, "Okay, Sammy, if you say he's good, I trust you." Not when the memory of what happened the last time he had a bad feeling about something is still fresh on his mind, when he knows so many things might've been different if he'd just stood his ground about the Brits instead of capitulating to Sam's pressure.
He can't stop agonizing over whether this attitude is going to save the world or damn it.
He can't help but wonder if the world is even worth saving, if it's worth the sacrifices made to keep it turning.
He can't stop asking himself how much more is he going to have to give before they fight is finally over, or before he stops caring at all. Whichever comes first.
The one thing he can do is snatch Sam's cell phone and track the number Lucifer called them from to a hotel in Williamsburg, Oklahoma. He can contact the hotel reception, ask if a tiny Scottish redhead checked in recently. He can call the local coroner's office, introduce himself as FBI Agent Young, and tell him to leave the body alone.
He can get into the Impala and head out east.
He can wrap Rowena's charred remains in white cloth, lay them on the Impala's backseat and drive until he finds a good resting place for Crowley's mother, for the lying, deceiving witch who always fought tooth and nail and never gave up, for the woman who died alone.
"Goodbye, Rowena," he says, staring into the flames.
It's early morning by the time the fire dies down. In the rays of the rising sun, the Impala doesn't gleam, covered in dust and dirt.
She needs a thorough clean-up.
That is something Dean can do.