"You are not my family." He says, and every word is pushed out behind gritted teeth. "And I'm pretty sure you strongly agreed with that after you called me and Sam and Bobby your pets," he practically spits the word. The urge to beat up on the ex-angel rises in him again, but he quashes it down. No real reason in leaving him bloody in a motel hallway, after all, as good as it might feel.

"And speaking of my family," he says, suddenly, thoughts surging through him. "Real bang-up job you did with Sammy, back there. Now he's got Satan as his imaginary friend and half the time he doesn't even know if I'm real or not. Maybe that's where that twisting in your gut is coming from. Pretty sure family doesn't do that to one another. Family listens to each other. Family asks for help, when the alternative is working with Crowley."

He pauses, trying to get over that feeling of stitches on an old wound ripped open and salt rubbed into it. Then, he works his jaw, looking at the door behind him, down the hall, and at the man formerly known as his friend. "We done here? You can talk to Sam, if you want. Knowing him, he might actually forgive you for totally wrecking his brain."