[Richie wouldn't know what a father's supposed to be like if one kicked him in the nuts; his own wasn't much of one from what he can remember, and the stuff he can't...he's mostly sure that's a good thing. Too much shouting and red. All of what Castiel's projecting, or what he's reading, anyway, is foreign, like trying to understand another language, and he instinctively doesn't trust it anyway.]

But he could've stopped it. He didn't have to be in there.

[Emptiness filled, familiar emotions creeping back like invasive vines, clamoring over the alien to fill the spaces between, fan his own reticence, and if he'd taken the time to stop and think he might have recognized that he was being played, but why would you question what's there ordinarily? Jim's forgotten by now anyway, obscured by the angel, he's got no reason to assume it's anything other than himself at work. The wrongness is back with the negatives to feed from, and it coats it all, oily, greasy, soaking in the indignation and fanning the flames. It's a conspiracy, intention, the man was out to get him, to cause this, and fists clench again. He's lost his pen, there's nothing to jab with, nothing to gain silence from, but he'll step forward anyway, try to move around Castiel to get to the hated man behind him.]

He's trying to get me into trouble, can't you see it? Why're you being fucking Mister Magoo? I get you're a screw, doesn't mean you gotta be an ass about it.