"We could have used you," Castiel said bluntly. After living for thousands upon thousands of years, the last five years had absolutely crushed him. He was worn down by war and by the guilt of mistakes, his vessel even looked like it had aged. His wings were gone, his stolen grace didn't fit. He hardly looked an angel anymore.
"This is ... a shortened version of what happened," he admitted after a moment. "I don't think things in Heaven are perfect, but for now there's a system in place. It may fall apart at any second. Without Michael and Raphael, with angels choosing sides, none of us had any idea what to do without orders and structure."
He frowned slightly. "I'm sorry." It sounded like a personal apology rather than condolences in general. Castiel had been responsible for so much of this. He'd started the war. He'd killed Raphael. He'd unleashed the leviathans. He'd trusted Metatron. Everything that had gone wrong with Heaven and the angels could be directly tied to him.