If his time in Crowley's possession had taught him anything it was that there was always something to fear. Seemingly passive and perhaps a little mad meant nothing. He would avoid Castiel as much as he could. He couldn't look at him without remembering the sharp feeling of his brother readying his blade against him...
"Samandriel," he whispered, "it's alright. Most of those above me have forgotten me. The you... The you of my world," because there was no better way to phrase it for the time being as he relaxed slowly once more against those comforting sounds, putting his wings back where they could stretch and be healed properly and not rip open any work that Hakkon and Duma had done. "There are not many among the host who nurture properly, who care about anything beyond an angel's ability to wield their blade instead of sitting over what we were meant to in the first place." Fighting. Too much fighting. Samandriel would not turn his Imagination in that direction. He would not be a weapon.
"Different worlds or not, I would know your Grace anywhere."