[ Castiel has processed his grief. He's held Sam accountable as he'd promised; he's scattered Dean's ashes, prayed for Dean's return and asked for forgiveness. He should be filled with calmness, dignity, and faith in God. Instead, he's filled with a roiling, ocean-like emptiness. He sees its reflection in the tea cupped between his hands. It aches, in ripples. ]

He was killed... by a man named Anakin Skywalker. His body was burned on a pyre by his brother, Sam, as is their custom, in the, uh... In the world we come from.

[ Castiel's voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. Belatedly, he remembers that it does. This body isn't his, this world isn't his, but Dean— Dean was. And Dean's gone. Worried he might break it apart, shaken into atoms, Castiel sets the cup of tea gently onto an empty space on the wooden plank that serves as Bolin's desk. Very, very reluctantly, he straightens as much as the room will allow and meets Bolin's eyes. ]

I'm sorry.