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Dean looks at Jack, and he sees Cas in him, and he thinks: I can't fuck up the way Dad did. So he asks Sam for some advice.
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Dean thinks about Dad. Thinks about the way he’d drive, always running from something, the way he’d put Dean in the passenger seat, look at him sidelong while Dean fucked around with his knife, his unloaded gun. The way he’d put on Bob Seger to cover Dean’s muteness. “I know what I looked like as a kid,” Dean says quietly. Sam flinches. He doesn’t remember it like Dean does. Dean knows full well what people saw when they looked at him, when they looked at his mouth and his eyes and the shape of his nose. They saw the same thing when he grew into his cheekbones, too. “I’m amazed he could stand to be in the same room as me,” Dean adds, half-laughing.
“Jesus, Dean.”
“How’d—” Dean swallows. “How did he do it.”
“You did it,” Sam says. “Dad didn’t really do it at all. You’re the one who raised me, not him.”