"It's, um." He squeezes his eyes shut. Cas said something, he remembers. Dimly. "Subatomic. Like, uh, cosmic consequences."

It doesn't really occur to him that that might not be the most comprehensible explanation for why he's apparently suffering from an absolute monster of a flu. He registers a hand taking his pulse a bit after the fact, and he jerks his head in another attempt to clear it.

"Let's just say," he says, his diction more than a little slurred, "Hell does not like it when y'try to close th'door."