Dean takes a long sip of whiskey. Then he takes another until his glass is empty and his throat is warm. Still, this whole fucking mess they've created themselves doesn't feel any better.

He comes over to where Cas is standing, turned away, at safe distance. Dean doesn't touch him, he just grabs the bottle from the table. He takes Cas's glass too.

"I really wish we had just skipped that part," Cas says, voice full of that stupid, self-loathing regret. "Not that it would have made it disappear."

Dean pours the amber liquid into both glasses and corks the bottle. He puts it away, deep into the cupboard. He doesn't need a hangover tomorrow on top of all this. He doesn't need a clouded mind right now, either.

"You're damn right it wouldn't," he barks.

He walks back to the angel, both glasses in his palms. He reaches around Cas to hand him his. It takes Cas a moment to accept it like he did not deserve it. Friggin' idiot.

Dean pulls back the chair, a little too violently. "So why don't we sit the fuck down and move on?"

"Move on?" Cas echoes, turning to Dean, at last.

"Yeah." Dean rolls his eyes. "Dude, that was, uh, fi– six? Oh fuck this," he mumbles. This whole thing makes some things more complicated than they already were. He decides for the safest option, "It was a fuckton of time ago! Let bygones be bygones, Cas. It's not like the rest of us are saints."

Cas considers it for a moment. "Bygones, okay, I like that," he capitulates and, finally, takes the seat.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief as he plops down on the chair next to him. "I don't know what got your panties in a twist like that, man," he says, pulling the laptop closer. "I sure wouldn't be with you if I hadn't forgiven you a long time ago."

Cas gives out a sigh, or maybe it's an echo of a sob. But when Dean turns to him, there's nothing but a hint of a smirk on his face.

"I'm wearing boxers, Dean," Cas clarifies, not failing to make him chuckle.

Dean shoots him a playful, lopsided smile of his own. "Right now you might be…" he drifts off, leaving just enough of a blank for Cas's imagination to fill in.

Cas raises an eyebrow. "You say it like I'm the one here who–"

"You okay there, boys?" a voice interrupts him—at the last moment, thank God—and Mary marches into the kitchen with a slightly concerned look on her face.

Dean hangs his head down to hide the hot blush crept all the way up to his hairline. He didn't need his mom to almost hear he likes wearing panties to bed. Sometimes, that is. She probably made the connection anyway. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap.

"Yes," Cas answers, simply, and Dean elbows him to continue. He doesn't feel like facing his mom right now, let alone talk to her.

Cas, of course, takes the nudge for the opposite and presses his lips into a thin line.

"I thought I heard some raised voices, so I thought I'd make sure–"

"We were just talking, mom," Dean assures her, hoping she'll get a hint and leave them to it, but no dice.

She tips her head to the side. "And what was that about two years—" she lifts her fingers to mark the airquotes, whoever she learned that from—"pulling a Houdini?"

Now Cas gets back his voice, "We're not sure how, yet, but it seems that we've lost two years."

"It's just a little error in calculations," Dean rushes to explain. "Nothing to worry about, probably."

Mary glances from Dean to Cas and back to Dean, with an expression suggesting she might break out the thermometer and blankets any second. But in the end, she just shrugs.

"Well, can't help you with that, I'm afraid. I've lost thirty-three years, apparently. Or gained?" she adds, knitting her eyebrows.

"That'd be thirty-five," Cas corrects.

Mary gives out a long, frustrated sigh, but doesn't comment. She reaches to the fridge and pulls out a slice of leftover pizza, starts eating it cold.

"Back to the case," Dean decides, turning to the screen. "I'm not getting any younger here. Let's see if anyone else noticed two thousand ten doubled."

He starts typing Cas leans in close, his hand wrapped casually around Dean's middle. Mary watches them from the other end of the kitchen.

Dean's fingers freeze over the keyboard mid-sentence.

"Hold up!" he gasps upon the realization. "Does that mean I'm freakin' thirty-nine, now?"

Whoah, no, that's definitely not cool, because that also means that in a few months–

"Almost forty, yes," Cas provides. Very fucking unhelpful.

"Oh, forty, sure!" Dean snaps. "Because four months and six days are nothing at all, who cares about that?!"

"Dean, I said 'almost'," Cas say, impatiently, which doesn't help much.

But before Dean can get too deep, wallowing in the horrifying discovery, Mary chimes in.

"Wait, my son will be forty, soon?" She sounds nearly as horrified as Dean, which is quite a relief. He doesn't get to relish it for long when her next words reach his ears. "Oh my, I could be a grandma now. At my age? This is… depressing."

Dean's eyes grow wide. "Oh God, mom!" he yelps, pleadingly.

He is not heard at all over Cas's voice, though, as the guy– well, he's trying to be helpful, probably, but fails miserably.

"I'm sorry, Mary, I don't believe now would be the best time for us to start a family."

Wow, seriously, Cas? "The what now–?"

"Yeah, I suppose not–" Mary agrees.

"Excuse me?" Dean tries louder, a little freaked out by now. "What is happening here right now?"

Mary's right behind them then, her hand lands reassuringly on Cas's shoulder. "Don't worry, Castiel, like I said, I'm way too young to be a grandma."

"Oh my God." Dean hides his face in his palms. Where are the hellhounds when he needs them to drag him underground? "Are you two done?"

"Dean, your mom was just–"

"Not a word!" Dean warns and resumes typing, suddenly getting a huge boost of motivation to get to the bottom of this idiotic mystery. "Two thousand ten, we stop the Apocalypse. A whole year later, Sam comes back. It's still two thousand ten. There's gotta be something here about it."

For a while, there's no sound other than the patter of the keys and clicking of the touchpad as Dean tries all the possible search phrases and opening every single result. He doesn't stop until long after his mom leaves with a brief "Keep me updated."

"I'm assuming I shouldn't have–"

"You're assuming right," Dean cuts in, his tone soft with the tiniest hint of amused. "It was so fucking uncomfortable, you've no idea."

"I didn't think–"

"Yeah," Dean mutters, pushing the laptop away, ostensively and rubbing his eyes. "There's zip, squat, nada. How could no one notice the whole extra year?"

Though, it's not like they were so quick to the discovery.

Cas starts rubbing circles into Dean's lower back. "We'll figure this out, somehow."

"Sure. Who's next in the line?" Dean asks, feeling he might regret his question. "Rowena? God, Himself? Charlie's ghost?"

He shakes his head, resigned and reaches to the laptop to shut it. His hand yanks back. The device's screen flashes white, then black. Then it turns into a freakin' stroboscope. The screeching comes back, too, louder and more frantic than before. The laptop's having a full-blown rave right there.

"The fuck?" Dean blurts, backing away in his chair, straight into Cas's arms, just in case the thing blows up in their faces.

And then it all stops, as suddenly as it started. Screeching dead, screen black.

"Okay, that was weird," Dean sums up.

Broken laptop is exactly what they needed at the moment. He's gonna need more of that whiskey, after all. He barely gets off the chair, though, Cas stops him.

"Uh, Dean?"

Dean glances back at Cas and follows his eyes to the black screen. Only the screen is no longer all black. On the left side of it, a blue cursor blinks a few times. Dean bites his lips, palm on Cas's shoulder. They wait, holding their breaths.

And then blue letters pop up on the screen, one by one.

"Shall we play a game?"