Dean's anger is cold. It's burning too, and his silence his sharp, thick and buzzing, filled with those words he's not spitting at your face, those shaking hands he promised himself to never lay on you. His eyes are burning holes in your head, he's sat across you on the couch, eyes almost seeming darker as they glare at you, one hand holding up his head, arms crossed. He's following every movement you're making, like a predator ready to pouch on his pray. Better be careful.