"We came to help you," Sam said. "Castiel, you're not yourself. You've been influenced, controlled."
"Controlled?" Castiel cut him off. "Did you listen to Crowley's demon lies again? Did he say I was being influenced by some... Leviathan? What a ridiculous excuse."
But as he said it, his right hand unconsciously moved to his chest. The gesture was quick, almost instinctive, as though his heart had suddenly twinged.
Dean caught it.
"If it's a lie, why are you trembling?" Dean stepped forward. "Why does a strange light sometimes appear in your eyes? Why aren't you using angelic power when you kill people, but... We checked those murder and disappearance scenes, Castiel. The figure matched you."
Castiel's expression froze.
His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out.
For a moment, Dean saw the fear deep in his eyes—the struggle of I know something is wrong, but I can't admit it.
But it lasted only a moment.
The next second, Castiel's gaze turned cold again.
"You should go back." His voice became flat once more. "For old times' sake, I won't hurt you. But don't interfere with my work again. This world needs to be cleansed, purified. Someone needs to do those dirty but necessary things. And that person is me."
Dean didn't back down.
He took another step forward. He was now only eight meters from Castiel.
"What work? Killing priests, politicians, people you think are guilty? Castiel, do you know that one of the people you killed was a single mother? She stole to buy asthma medicine for her daughter. Another was a veteran. He drank because of PTSD. He beat his wife because the explosions from the battlefield were still ringing in his head."
"They were guilty," Castiel said, each word like