The gun is heavy in his hand as he watches your face, waits for your eyes to open. Eventually they do. They're blue, an unlikely bright color in a tired face, sunken cheeks and chapped lips. It makes Dean's breath catch in his throat, and he flicks the gun safety on, lowers the weapon.

Would he like to stay the night. He has no answer to that, so he says nothing, just stares at you a few more moments. Nothing about this is right. Cas shouldn't be squatting in the ruins of Bobby's house, shouldn't be huddled under a comforter to hide from the sharp February cold. Shouldn't be alive. He wets his lips.

"If you're a Leviathan, I should warn you. I'll make a tough meal." That theory isn't completely nonsensical. After all, Leviathan take on the appearance of people they eat. In your case, it was more the other way around, but the principle remains the same. He grips the gun a bit harder. "What are you doing here?"