Between the blood oozing down the back of his throat and the unusually strong foot pressing into his solar plexus, Cas is having some trouble breathing. He glances around, looking for something, anything he can use, but their silverware is on the table and the only thing he has nearby is a napkin and their bill. Castiel coughs and spits out more blood, gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes shut as he claws futilely at the waitress's ankle. Not now. Not when Dean needs him, he can't be useless now-!

The waitress seems unaffected by their panic, however, and just raises a brow at Dean as if to ask 'really?' "Shut your pretty mouth and I won't put my foot through his ribcage. I said I wanted to talk to you, and talking is what we're going to do. Understand?"