[ He pulls up a stool to perch on while Dean fetches more liquor. He gives it a sniff when it comes to him—plenty strong—and there's an ease that settles in the air. He loves his people. He does. What he's built up in Cadens, they're important to him. The home he's worked to put together for them, flower stalls and bookshelves and a fucking pet gryphon in its own cozy bed. But all of that's new. A large piece of him lives here, maybe always will: in places that smell of old ale, musty wood, that look as if they've seen a few battles of their own. In half-arsed drinking games for the sake of it, because it's better than sinking into the shit that follows them.

He's left that behind—his brothers where he could simply be without needing to explain himself. Who know because they've been precisely where he has before. Whether he's aware of it or not—and if he is, he sure as fuck isn't dwelling on it deeply—some part of him has started to seek out those edges of familiarity in others.

The blade turns in his hand. ] He recognized me in a tavern, cornered me. Followed me after I told him to fuck off. We were captured by some elves together and then he wrote a song.

[ Long story short, in other words. The point of the knife buries itself in white, with a single half-spin.

Normally, he'd return the same about Castiel. Given the circumstances, he asks instead, ] That's your car outside?