Cougar lets Jake lash out without giving away anything on his face. He shuts down so no expression shows because it's not fair to Jake for him to look wounded or upset or anything. Jake's not wrong. He could have told him at any point, but he couldn't because he didn't know how to be that person. Without the letters, Cougar had slipped into a strange half-state where he couldn't really function apart from the doll factory and going home with Jensen.

He hadn't even written a single letter that whole time.

"I like hearing about her," Cougar finally speaks. It's not an accusation that Jake talks about her, only the reminder that it's why he'd figured it out. "And no, no words. I didn't have them. Not good with words," he admits, knowing that Jake's reaction is completely valid. "But now, now I want you to have the truth." Even if it's done nothing but drive a wedge between them, separating them further.

He bends to pick up the letter, blank expression masking the way he feels his chest ache like a heart attack of grief. He folds it, neatly, and pockets it away before he rises to his feet. "You could have still confided in me," is all he says, on his way out. "I was still Cougar, still your best friend." Because Cougar might be bad with words, but Jake isn't -- he never has been.