“Chrysler was a great Jaeger,” Dean smiles as he remembers the way it had looked; a pale blue that would have looked pathetic on any other machine but suited Chrysler Angel perfectly.

“It was privately funded by a business man from New York,” Cas smiles as well. “He was fond of the Chrysler building, said he made his first fortune there.”

“Why the Chrysler Angel, though?” Dean asks. “Is it your full name being an angel’s?”

Cas shakes his head. “No. The executive was called Gabriel, like the archangel. He thought it was hilarious that I was one of the pilots though.  He had an abysmal sense of humor.”

After the billowing clouds of sand start to settle, the massacre in front of them becomes clear. Dean is gaping at it. The kaiju—now little more than an exploded carcass—is lying heavily on top of White Picket, both forms immovable, eerily still.

“Dad,” he says, and John is gasping as well.

Dean feels tears coming down his face but he’s not sure if they’re his own or if they are supposed to belong to his father. All he can think is, not again, please, let them be fine—familiar enough for both of them.