Cas carried himself differently than the angel that Sam knew. Mortal now, accustomed to living with humans and attempting to pass as one, he had a sort of awkward slouch, a weariness in the way he moved through space. And his hands were in his pockets. He took them out, wiping them against his thighs, and moved to put them in his back pockets instead before deciding against it and just smoothing them over his hips. It was such a Dean thing to do.
"I feel like ... we should talk," he said, grabbing a nearby chair and pulling it over. He turned it around and sat on it backward, watching Sam closely. "Is something wrong, between you and Dean?"