Dean's too stunned by the quick succession of events to do more than gape at the money, that ridiculous accent Stiles is affecting falling on deaf ears as he stands there trying to gather himself. Reality is filtering in slowly, too dreamlike to hang onto for long moments, for Dean's not used to good things being thrown his way. When he'd been tossed back with the Croats, reality swam up ugly and bloodstained, and when he'd been in the ash, the hooks pierced through his body had driven reality home.

Rumrumming in some kind of New York pasted together from a collection of Dean's idle fantasies is another mindfuck entirely, and Dean starts looking for the downside.

It doesn't take him long to find it. "We're in New York," he says, mouth hanging open around the obvious. In New York, not Darrow, and where the fuck is Cas? Turning, Dean looks to the only person with a chance of sniffing him out, if Castiel is even here at all. "Derek, can you smell him?"