His shoulders tighten when he spots the gun. Leviathan don't need guns. Stands to reason to assume that you're not a Leviathan. Angels don't need guns, either. He watches you put the gun away, then slowly follows your example and tucks his own back into the waistband of his jeans. He doesn't sit down, though you seem to want him to. He does take a step forward, though, moving out of the shadows enough into the light so his features are visible.

"You died, Cas. Six months ago." He frowns, pauses. "You didn't manage to get rid of the Leviathan, and they took over. Do you remember that?"

You don't seem like you do. You don't seem like—you. Not the you he used to know, anyway. He shifts, looks around the hide-out you've built for yourself. There's a heating unit and a hotplate. And framed photographs. Of him, Sam, and Bobby. His eyes linger on Bobby's face, half-obscured by the shadows, baseball cap drawn into his eyes and his arms crossed. It's like he can hear Bobby's voice, gruff and affectionate, like it sounded in the hospital. Idjits. He lowers his eyes, then glances over to meet yours again. "You're human."

He needs to know who you are. What you remember. He needs to know if you remember what you did. He's not going to sit down next to you.