It's a bit of a nasty comment, and it shows as much in the way Castiel's expression evens out, his posture even stiffer, a flash of hurt behind his eyes. He's well aware of his family's shortcomings. For years he had simply taken it, allowed himself to be used and walked on, kept himself quiet and docile and tame because it was easy, and it was all he knew. It's difficult to understand what is lacking in your life when you have only been exposed to one sort of perspective.

But now it's an aching sore, and Castiel would like to think that he isn't desperate to be loved and appreciated, but in many ways he is, has gone so long neglected and abused that he feels like a dried flower gasping for sustenance in a pit of sand. But there's little enough to be done for it.

"I have acquaintances," he says, quietly, his voice tight and his mouth a severe line; there's little enough left on his plate, but he pushes it away now nonetheless, his stomach too twisted to keep up his appetite, and Castiel rises from his seat, smoothing down his shirt as if he doesn't know what to do with his hands.

"May I be excused?"