"Take off your jacket," Castiel instructs.

Dean obeys soundlessly and without protest, although he seems to be regretful. Castiel notes the color of his shirt beneath the brown leather jacket, besides the red of the blood. Green, a green shirt. It reminds Castiel of grass. He can't remember the feel of dew, the smell of mold.

The feeling of life.

Dean suddenly winces and groans, holding a hand to his head and hissing out an exhale between his teeth. "God damn it…what the hell is wrong with me…?" he muttered, bringing another hand up to his head.

Castiel's concerned again.