[There's the faintest flinch, a twitch of split-second uncertainty, before he allows Dean's hand to settle on a shoulder that melts some of tension. He looks over at Dean at the answer and his expression hardens.]

That wasn't your fault. You were being tortured, Dean.

If anyone needs the blame for the apocalypse, you're looking at him.

[He looks to the lake, gnawing again on his lip. The blood he tastes isn't so sickly sweet as Ruby's, doesn't quench any thirst. He isn't sure how to tell Dean what a freak he turned into; that Dad was right about him, that they were all right about him. Kubrick, Gordon, the angels, the demons...]

... You just wanted the pain to stop; you'd have never have blamed someone else in your shoes. Bobby didn't, and I didn't. None of us did.