My Sweet Baboo, displaying far more patience with the stumpy little bow-legged moron than I would at this point, grits his teeth and swears he knows what he's doing. "I'm not gonna logic you, okay?" Dean retorts. "I'm saying don't -- just 'cause. I'm asking you not to. That's it." "I don't understand," Castiel growls. I don't either, and I still don't after Dean chooses this opportunity to launch himself into an endless speech regarding familial bonds and the nature of friendship that has absolutely nothing to do with anything, which he then ends with, "You gotta trust me, man." "Or what?" Castiel wisely challenges. "Or I'll have to do what I have to do to stop you," Dean menaces. "You can't," Castiel points out. "I've taken some pretty big fish," Dean boasts, and My Sweet Baboo is finally D-U-N done! with this asinine conversation. He flutters out, leaving Dean gawping at the air, and the screen flares white one last time to escort us back to...

...that snow-covered park from the top of the hour, and it's now clear Castiel's been narrating this entire episode from Autistic Heaven. I have to admit, that snow's a nice touch -- you know, to indicate that Something's Not Quite Right Upstairs At The Moment -- but I'm wondering if it was intentional, or if they just lucked into a late spring storm for these scenes that somehow didn't kill the flowers that had already bloomed. "So, that's everything," Castiel says, adding, "I believe it's what you would call a tragedy, from the human perspective, but maybe the human perspective is limited. I don't know." The shot cuts to a gorgeous low-angle of Castiel sitting on his bench, framed by those mossy trees with hyacinths blooming in the snow at his feet as he prays, "That's why I'm asking you, Father, one last time: Am I doing the right thing? Am I on the right path?" "You have to tell me," he insists. "You have to give me a sign," he pleads, "because if you don't, I'm gonna do...whatever I must." My Sweet Baboo lifts his eyes to the sky expectantly, but his only answer is silence.