A year later. It was a year later, and everything had gone to hell. Who knew an angel could mess so much up? But of course, it wasn't the angel's fault, it was Castiel's fault- but he wasn't really one to make himself feel worse than he already did. Well, yes he was, but he wasn't going to admit it to anyone. Although, people pretty much knew already.
Castiel was currently perched on the arm of a couch, head in his hands, thinking. The Michael Sword. Was that him? The words kept ringing in his ears. No. No, he had to stay here. Keep Sam safe. It was the bloody apocalypse and if he wasn't himself, then who would be there for his brother? No, he couldn't do it. He shouldn't have to. And he hoped he'd never have to.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and in a moment he was halfway across the couch, back tingling from the soft touch, but mind reeling from the shock. "Dean, you can't just do that!" he snapped, blushing. Could angels read minds? He was scared, but that wasn't something everyone needed to know. Fuck his father for making him grow up thinking it was a weakness.
The angel in question just stared back, an apathetic look on his face. "You're anxious," he noted, glancing at Castiel's sweaty palms and ruffled hair. He frowned slightly, but almost as if it were a law- which Cas supposed it was- he went back to looking as if he rather didn't give a toss. What didn't stop was the flicking of his eyes from Cas's face to his hands to his heaving chest, still startled from the sudden appearance.
"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," Cas grumbled, sitting up and pretending to dust himself off. "You scared the Hell outta me." But even as he spoke, a grin spread across his face. Angels were dicks, but at least they made good company.
"Apologies," Dean mumbled and glanced down toward his feet. "Do you need to talk?"