FIC: "To Be a Winchester" by shadow_artemis - PG - (2/14)
Title: To Be a Winchester: Hard Liquor (2/14)
Author: shadow_artemis
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Castiel (slight hints of pre-Destiel)
Rating: PG for language
Summary: It had all started out so simply: “If you’re gonna be apart of this family, you’re gonna have to start acting like a Winchester.” Now Dean wasn't so sure.
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me. I'm just a college bum. I owe more than I own.
Notes: Takes place early in season 5, but after the first chapter. Eventually, these all aren't going to be in chronological order. Prepare yourself.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
“It doesn’t smell appealing at all,” Castiel said, holding his glass under his nose as he all but cringed. Dean chuckled, tossing back his own shot before replying.
“You aren’t supposed to smell it, man. Just drink it.”
While the hunter poured himself another, the angel continued to eye the small glass with distrust. It looked innocent enough, but in his few experiences with alcohol, almost all of which had been directly caused by Dean Winchester, he had come to know that it wasn’t something for the unprepared. It made his thoughts fuzzy, he couldn’t control the volume of his words and everything seemed funnier, despite most likely not being any more amusing. While he couldn’t say that he’d enjoyed the experience at first, he’d gotten used to it, at least with beer.
He was just barely accustomed to the drink as it was; only in recent weeks had he even lost his complete disinterest in it. Dean said it was his growing humanity, although he still couldn’t discern a biological necessity for the inebriating drink. He could admit that he saw the appeal of losing one’s inhibitions for a while, with all the simultaneous distractions and dilemmas that human emotions created. Not feeling all of that at once was a relief, even if that was completely foreign to him on more levels than most men would ever comprehend.
Beer, he could live with. It didn’t alter his senses too much.
Liquor, though, was a whole new level, at least as Dean had explained it; Castiel wasn’t quite sure he was ready for it.
The hunter caught sight his apprehension and smirked.
“Dude, quit psyching yourself out and drink it. I promise it’ll get easier after the first one,” he said, doing his best to sound reassuring. Castiel glanced to his friend, who put back another shot of whatever liquor he’d purchased-whiskey, if he remembered correctly-and nodded for the angel to do the same. Warily, he raised the small glass to his lips and sipped; instantly, his mouth was burning. He coughed and sputtered, placing the glass back on the table as his eyes began to water. Across from him, Dean just chuckled.
“How long have you been watching me drink, man?” the hunter asked, but Cas didn’t respond, still trying to rid himself of the burning sensation in his mouth even as a warmth slowly spread down his throat. “You don’t sip a shot, you throw it back all at once. You are beyond amateur at this. Here, try again.” He leaned over and topped off the shot glass, nudging it toward his friend after he did so. Cas didn’t immediately take it, suddenly rethinking all of this. Why did he need to drink liquor? Beer served him fine; did it really matter if Dean said liquor was better at getting the desired effect?
Dean saw his renewed hesitation and raised his eyebrows.
“Drink it, Cas. I told you, it gets better after the first one, as long as you don’t sip it like a little girl.” There was no reasoning in the elder Winchester’s voice now; it was all but a command. Castiel frowned, but took the glass anyway. Dean nodded and said, “Good, now just drink all of it at once. Don’t even taste it until it’s all gone.” To demonstrate, the hunter drank his entire shot in one quick motion, slamming the empty glass down with vindication. His eyes met Castiel’s once again, eyebrows raised. “Your turn.”
Though he had a slew of reservations telling him this was a bad idea, Castiel mimicked Dean, not pausing to taste the alcohol until his glass was empty. Only then did the strange taste flare up in his mouth, but this round wasn’t quite as bad as the first; he even managed to not sputter or cough. The warmth spread down his throat and into his entire chest, a bizarre sensation he had never quite experienced, but didn’t wholly dislike.
Dean kept a close eye on him the entire time, smiling as the angel handled his second round way better.
“That’s more like it,” he said, leaning across the table to refill the shot glass. Castiel looked to the other man, astounded by the idea of taking another drink so soon, but was met with nothing.
“Dean, I -“
“Dude, shut up and drink,” the Winchester said, cutting him off. “You may not want to admit it, but you like it.” The angel met his eyes, attempting to stare the hunter down like he used to, but he was matched by the green eyes; they seemed to dare him to argue, and he eventually faltered. It must have been the effect of the alcohol, because he was usually much better at these impromptu staring competitions with Dean, though the Winchester would no doubt say it was his growing humanity. Castiel himself really couldn’t choose one option over the other, as both were fairly alien to him.
Dean had a point, though, hard as it was to admit: he did like the alcohol, much more so than he ever imagined he would. That could probably be blamed on his humanity, too. After all, angels had no use for the mind-altering effects of liquor, but humans routinely used it for myriad reasons. Castiel knew Dean drank in an effort to relieve stress and, occasionally, forget the terrors that haunted his short life.
Did he then drink for the same reasons? In the entirety of his existence, he had seen more horrors that few men could ever boast, and yet had felt no emotion toward any of those happenings until he’d met Dean. Now, he could look back on the tragedies of the past with apathy, and yet still feel so dismayed by a single loss in battle. This onslaught of unbidden emotions was just another burden on his shoulders, one he didn’t need when he was fighting the legions of Hell, trying to avert the End of Days and searching desperately for a father that was most likely dead.
Suddenly weighed down by these thoughts, he drank his shot quickly, quietly accepting the whiskey’s burn and warmth. Maybe he had other reasons for drinking, but right now his motivation was the same as Dean’s: leave behind the burden, if only for a while.
Across the small table, Dean grinned at him.
“That’s more like it,” he said, refilling the angel’s glass. “‘Bout time you saddled up.” Not in the mood to question his strange idiom, Castiel instead raised his small glass.
“I believe the phrase is ‘cheers,’” the angel stated, only meeting Dean’s eyes for a second to reaffirm his words. The hunter nodded and clinked his glass with his friend’s, a small smile on his lips.
“Cheers.”
Author: shadow_artemis
Characters/Pairing: Dean, Castiel (slight hints of pre-Destiel)
Rating: PG for language
Summary: It had all started out so simply: “If you’re gonna be apart of this family, you’re gonna have to start acting like a Winchester.” Now Dean wasn't so sure.
Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me. I'm just a college bum. I owe more than I own.
Notes: Takes place early in season 5, but after the first chapter. Eventually, these all aren't going to be in chronological order. Prepare yourself.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14
“It doesn’t smell appealing at all,” Castiel said, holding his glass under his nose as he all but cringed. Dean chuckled, tossing back his own shot before replying.
“You aren’t supposed to smell it, man. Just drink it.”
While the hunter poured himself another, the angel continued to eye the small glass with distrust. It looked innocent enough, but in his few experiences with alcohol, almost all of which had been directly caused by Dean Winchester, he had come to know that it wasn’t something for the unprepared. It made his thoughts fuzzy, he couldn’t control the volume of his words and everything seemed funnier, despite most likely not being any more amusing. While he couldn’t say that he’d enjoyed the experience at first, he’d gotten used to it, at least with beer.
He was just barely accustomed to the drink as it was; only in recent weeks had he even lost his complete disinterest in it. Dean said it was his growing humanity, although he still couldn’t discern a biological necessity for the inebriating drink. He could admit that he saw the appeal of losing one’s inhibitions for a while, with all the simultaneous distractions and dilemmas that human emotions created. Not feeling all of that at once was a relief, even if that was completely foreign to him on more levels than most men would ever comprehend.
Beer, he could live with. It didn’t alter his senses too much.
Liquor, though, was a whole new level, at least as Dean had explained it; Castiel wasn’t quite sure he was ready for it.
The hunter caught sight his apprehension and smirked.
“Dude, quit psyching yourself out and drink it. I promise it’ll get easier after the first one,” he said, doing his best to sound reassuring. Castiel glanced to his friend, who put back another shot of whatever liquor he’d purchased-whiskey, if he remembered correctly-and nodded for the angel to do the same. Warily, he raised the small glass to his lips and sipped; instantly, his mouth was burning. He coughed and sputtered, placing the glass back on the table as his eyes began to water. Across from him, Dean just chuckled.
“How long have you been watching me drink, man?” the hunter asked, but Cas didn’t respond, still trying to rid himself of the burning sensation in his mouth even as a warmth slowly spread down his throat. “You don’t sip a shot, you throw it back all at once. You are beyond amateur at this. Here, try again.” He leaned over and topped off the shot glass, nudging it toward his friend after he did so. Cas didn’t immediately take it, suddenly rethinking all of this. Why did he need to drink liquor? Beer served him fine; did it really matter if Dean said liquor was better at getting the desired effect?
Dean saw his renewed hesitation and raised his eyebrows.
“Drink it, Cas. I told you, it gets better after the first one, as long as you don’t sip it like a little girl.” There was no reasoning in the elder Winchester’s voice now; it was all but a command. Castiel frowned, but took the glass anyway. Dean nodded and said, “Good, now just drink all of it at once. Don’t even taste it until it’s all gone.” To demonstrate, the hunter drank his entire shot in one quick motion, slamming the empty glass down with vindication. His eyes met Castiel’s once again, eyebrows raised. “Your turn.”
Though he had a slew of reservations telling him this was a bad idea, Castiel mimicked Dean, not pausing to taste the alcohol until his glass was empty. Only then did the strange taste flare up in his mouth, but this round wasn’t quite as bad as the first; he even managed to not sputter or cough. The warmth spread down his throat and into his entire chest, a bizarre sensation he had never quite experienced, but didn’t wholly dislike.
Dean kept a close eye on him the entire time, smiling as the angel handled his second round way better.
“That’s more like it,” he said, leaning across the table to refill the shot glass. Castiel looked to the other man, astounded by the idea of taking another drink so soon, but was met with nothing.
“Dean, I -“
“Dude, shut up and drink,” the Winchester said, cutting him off. “You may not want to admit it, but you like it.” The angel met his eyes, attempting to stare the hunter down like he used to, but he was matched by the green eyes; they seemed to dare him to argue, and he eventually faltered. It must have been the effect of the alcohol, because he was usually much better at these impromptu staring competitions with Dean, though the Winchester would no doubt say it was his growing humanity. Castiel himself really couldn’t choose one option over the other, as both were fairly alien to him.
Dean had a point, though, hard as it was to admit: he did like the alcohol, much more so than he ever imagined he would. That could probably be blamed on his humanity, too. After all, angels had no use for the mind-altering effects of liquor, but humans routinely used it for myriad reasons. Castiel knew Dean drank in an effort to relieve stress and, occasionally, forget the terrors that haunted his short life.
Did he then drink for the same reasons? In the entirety of his existence, he had seen more horrors that few men could ever boast, and yet had felt no emotion toward any of those happenings until he’d met Dean. Now, he could look back on the tragedies of the past with apathy, and yet still feel so dismayed by a single loss in battle. This onslaught of unbidden emotions was just another burden on his shoulders, one he didn’t need when he was fighting the legions of Hell, trying to avert the End of Days and searching desperately for a father that was most likely dead.
Suddenly weighed down by these thoughts, he drank his shot quickly, quietly accepting the whiskey’s burn and warmth. Maybe he had other reasons for drinking, but right now his motivation was the same as Dean’s: leave behind the burden, if only for a while.
Across the small table, Dean grinned at him.
“That’s more like it,” he said, refilling the angel’s glass. “‘Bout time you saddled up.” Not in the mood to question his strange idiom, Castiel instead raised his small glass.
“I believe the phrase is ‘cheers,’” the angel stated, only meeting Dean’s eyes for a second to reaffirm his words. The hunter nodded and clinked his glass with his friend’s, a small smile on his lips.
“Cheers.”