There was something about dreaming of things that weren’t hell that made even being yelled at by an angel for a few hours significantly more restful than he was used to, let him sleep deeper even though he was being lectured and kicked and generally dealing with the angry redheaded angel instead of torturing or being tortured in hell in his mind. It wasn’t the best sleep he’d ever gotten, but it wasn’t the worst, either. When he became aware of his surroundings enough to realize someone was in the apartment - running water, in the other room, probably the kitchen - that knowledge snapped him the rest of the way to alert in seconds and had him on his feet and digging the gun and its clip out from under his pillow, sliding the clip into place as he headed for the door, moving silently by force of habit, something drilled into him for years and years, the automatic defense and the automatic stealth coming into play before the thought ever enters his mind that it might not be something or someone dangerous.
He kept the gun pointed low as he slipped into the kitchen, coming up to the doorway behind the familiar blond figure and letting the gun drop even more, arm hanging loose at his side for a second before he slipped to the side to shove the gun on the counter, toss the towel over top of it with a shifty glance over at Juliet...
...who isn’t looking this way and possibly hasn’t even noticed him yet, because it appears she’s crying.
He’s growing used to that sharp, hot, stifling feeling of guilt, by now. The kind that’s so strong and all-consuming that it almost sends him reeling, sends him running away because he just can’t deal with it right now, except he doesn’t have anywhere to run, and he can’t drink (he’s trying not to think about it, he knows better, he’s already done enough damage with this, he can’t add that to the list of things he’s done to hurt everyone he gives a damn about, not right now) and he stands behind her silently for a long moment, trying to catch that sharp feeling that keeps arcing through his chest and his stomach - catch it and pin it down and stifle it just enough so he can breathe, move, think.
When he does move, it’s the second instinct that he goes with - the first is to get the hell out of Dodge, and the second is to move in behind her, looping an arm around her waits and tipping his head down to rest his chin against her shoulder, murmuring a tentative “I’m sorry,” voice cracked and brittle at the edges, because he knows she’s crying because of what he did, he made her cry - he hurt her, he hurt everyone, exactly what he’d been hoping he wouldn’t do, not ever again.