( He's asked her a few questions, is the thing — mostly because he's good at deflecting, and the longer he keeps people talking about themselves, the less he has to share back. A quick recap of the last few he asked her play back in his mind, and he figures maybe she means the most recent: choosing who he is, whether he's a knife or a guardian.

The greater question of who he is, and what he stands for.

He scrubs a hand over his face, and turns his eyes distantly toward the Knife Chess board pinned to the far wall. )

I think... I think for a long time, people kept trying to make me a knife, and for a long time I believed them, but... I got to find out, recently. I got the chance to make that choice for myself, and... that's not me. I'm not a knife.

( Dean Winchester, the ultimate killer; no. God didn't get to decide that for him, and Castiel's words still ring through his mind; everything you've ever done, you've done for love.

He turns his eyes back to her, his lips pull up wryly, and he settles on: )

I'm a brother.