"Hey, why'd you clean slate me, anyway?"

Castiel scowls. "I don't understand."

Dean swivels in front of the mirror, indicating his torso. "My scars; they're gone. I had a big scar here, and on this shoulder - I got shot a couple months before my eighteenth birthday. Hoo, boy - that was a big one."

"We restored your body," Castiel replies. "You didn't need those marks."

"Nah, man." Dean pulls on his t-shirt, smirks over his shoulder at Castiel. "Other soldiers get medals, is all I'm saying."

Castiel (who hasn't had a body long, who has never dealt with scars) almost understands.