There, that was what he needed to feel something other than his own pain, a little kick to make his guilt shift away from Sam’s dead and it’s my fault to the redheaded angel who was moving across the room when he turned to look at her. It wasn’t her fault he was hurting, it wasn’t her fault Sam was dead. Her apology hadn’t been meant to belittle his pain, and he knew that - logically, he did, at least.
“Anna,” he started and trailed off, scrubbing a hand across his face and trying again, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he gestured vaguely with one hand, eyes dropping away from her, landing on the floor, “I just...” He didn’t have any words, not right now. He didn’t understand why he was even trying, why he was doing anything anymore, but he knew it would be far worse if she left, because then he’d be alone in this strange place with just his thoughts and some stupid crystal.
And then she was off and talking about food and clothes and chores, responsibilities, and he felt dizzy from trying to keep up, a little sick at the mere idea of eating anything right now... a little panic at the realization that they seriously expected him to stay here, to live here, for this to be where he belonged. Not that he belonged anywhere else, either - he never had - but this? Now? Without Sam, with Sam dead, he didn’t think he could handle this.
He said nothing, just sat down on one of the chairs in the room and nodded a little, tried not to come out with anything stupid, anything to piss her off or hurt her feelings or anything, ‘cause he’d already done enough of that for one day.