Whatever Castiel was thinking was lost to the demon. Normally, he prided himself on being able to read the angel better than most anyone else in the Port, but Crowley was so ill that he was lucky he was sitting up straight. Even so, he had a hand on Castiel's shoulder -- both to keep the angel from getting up again and to steady himself. Whether or not there was more emphasis on the latter piece of reasoning was never to be discovered.

"Isn't what," Crowley muttered, casting a glance to his dog.

They needed water. Basic sustenance. Vitamins, minerals. Things their hosts obviously couldn't make on their own at the moment.

And the dog abruptly vanished to get them just that.