There's no point in running, not with Castiel's eyes already gone in a rush of blue, so Dean holds his ground, on his feet and body tensed to dodge and spring as necessary.

There's a roiling in his gut, a fear he's learned to manage over the years carefully channeled into his adrenals, pumping a will to get them both through this alive into Dean's veins. He waits for the panic, but it doesn't come, and when Dean catches a glimmer from the corner of his eye, he knows why.

The sword is already in his hand, sheathed, but ready should he choose to wield it.

"Cas," he tries one more time. "Are you with me?"