"Yeah?" asks Dean, throwing an arm over his eyes, but something in Castiel's tone pricks at him, and he levers himself up. "What's wrong?" he asks, trepidation creeping around the concern in his expression. Castiel is only sitting on the blanket across from him, but already Dean's muscles are bunching, to run, to fight, to subdue, and he swallows. Maybe it's nothing. It's been nothing for weeks now.

"Cas?"