He watches Stiles with equal parts annoyance, exasperation, and fondness and shakes his head a little before turning back to what is apparently his new business partner. He thanks him and gets them the hell out of there without causing problems, and they're halfway down the hallway when Dean speaks.

"Who, Castiel You think he came with us?" Derek tries to sniff around but all the strong alcohol in the enclosed space burn his nose and make his eyes water. "I can't smell anything but goddamn grain alcohol in here. Let's get outside."

Once they're out on the street in the waning sunlight, Derek takes a few strides away from the bar and takes off his fedora, revealing slicked back, side-parted inky black hair. He inhales deeply and the only hint that he's doing anything other than standing there is a slight flaring of his nostrils. Castiel has a very distinct smell, almost like copy paper and storm clouds, and almost always shrouded in Dean.

He's about to admit defeat when he catches a slight hint of it, eyes going red as his head whips to the side. "Hold on."

He turns a corner and looks around, trying to follow the scent. When he smells blood, his lips flatten into a thin line and he focuses his hearing as best he can as he scans the area. He stops suddenly, putting a hand on Dean's chest. "He's up ahead somewhere, and he isn't alone. Dean, I smell blood. His."