Castiel was stood barely a meter away from him, his trench amerikana lifting slightly in the breeze. The navy tie he wore was oddly twisted as usual, and the expression he wore was one of confusion.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for it to be so abrupt this time. I am trying, Dean.”
Dean nodded, regretting his sudden lash of annoyance that he was nearly always in such good control of. “It’s fine. Sorry. I’m a bit stressed, I’m on a job.”
“I know.”
“Is that what you’re here about? Want to give us a helping hand on the motives of the killings or what the cursed object might...
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