Dean opens his mouth to speak -- because someone's got to -- but his throat's too dry, too tight.

Call it nervous tension.

Call it guilt.

Call it sheer gut-stopping terror.

At least half of 'em wouldn't be wrong.

He swallows, hard, looking at Sam, looking at Anna, then looking away again.

He's definitely not looking at their angel overlords.

"I don't know what you want me to say. Ain't like an explanation's gonna change anything, anyhow."