Castiel, in retrospect, doesn't mind change. He's had years to adapt to it, to adjust to the idea that things were never going to be the same as he remembered them, and that Zelien's landscape continuously altered around them meant little in the scheme of things. It's another camp, another stop on the endless road of possibilities. He wouldn't necessarily call it hope; it only is what it is. He's also learned not to expect much, and that, surprisingly, helps with the transition.

Now, wandering the empty hallways of the academic building, it gives him time to consider the events of the last several days. Returning, slinging the implications that he had, discovering others accidentally-- It leaves him a loss for words that are normally so easy to find. Slowly, methodically, he works his way through each room and back out again. It's standing in one in particular that he pauses, body immediately rigid with the words he hears from behind.

He'd thought, just for a moment, he'd sensed something out of the ordinary. But that's really a bad joke on his part. His expression thins considerably, turning to look at the angel. His brother.

"Nothing you can help me find." He's also not going to waste time with pleasant small talk. "What do you want?"

If his motives are confusing, he wants them to remain that way. He's there, mostly, to kill time and frustration, and since it serves a purpose beyond that, it suits him to be here. It suits Michael to also be there apparently, and though his attitude has weathered considerably, changed from what it had been once, Castiel isn't going to play nice. What the angel says-- He owes him nothing for that particular favor. It's difficult to admire in someone else what he's suspected he's always hated in himself.

There's the slightest frown at that, looking at him head-on.

"Was it really a kindness?" He wants to laugh at that. Michael and humor, really? "Or something you found yourself incapable of doing?"

Because, like it or not, there have been some power shifts in Zelien. He's seen pieces of it in his other self, in others he's taken to watching. If Michael had been incapable of taking Dean, then it really wasn't a choice he had spared him from. Castiel allows the silence to settle a moment or two before proceeding; he doesn't want to talk about the angel's reasons for not taking his friend when he'd had the chance.

"What are you really doing here, Michael?" He's even being polite this time.

He's learned plenty in his time on earth, just another grunt in the service of someone he'd trusted enough to take orders from. That specific camaraderie isn't here though, not between him and Michael. It never had been, and it's strange to be listening to this after all those years of solitary. Confined to his vessel's flesh with only the devil to remotely understand his plight and frustration isn't something he prefers to acknowledge in the presence of a brother he'd rather continue ignoring.

Castiel blinks once, twice. His mouth curls into a soft sneer.

"I haven't forgotten," he breathes, fingers shoving themselves into the pockets of his jeans to help keep them to himself. "There are some things you always remember."

Especially with his mind being so oddly proficient at keeping things nicely ordered. Even if he's medicated or high, it still works far too well. Better than. But Castiel doesn't want to talk about what he has or hasn't forgotten, what he chooses to neglect in favor of better outcomes. It seems Michael has made his presence known quite easily now, his reason for practically cornering him blatant, and there's something of a bitter snort at the question.

"Did I ever imply differently?" Dean's goal had been his goal for so long, it's difficult to say. "I already tried once. Because he was powerless then didn't mean I'd have enjoyed facing his wrath at a much later point in time." There's a pause, leaning forward just a bit as if rocking slowly back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Something is changing here - with all of us."

Perhaps it's him. Maybe it's the energy of this city and the way it functions. Their war, however finite it truly is, is postponed. If Castiel goes back, he's dead. If Dean goes back, he's dead too. Even if death isn't permanent here, it doesn't mean he wants to spend every waking second defending that reason.

"Or have you failed to notice that too?"