Castiel appreciated this. More the time with Dean than the drinking, though the drinking was helping. He was sort of starting to feel it. He could already tell that he didn't have anything like his old tolerance. It was likely that he could beat Dean, but he wouldn't have bet on it. The reality of his comparative helplessness was what had him down. His inability to be of any help, to protect Dean the way he needed to
( ... )
Dean was tipsy enough that the fact that Castiel was in his personal space didn't even register. However, the insult in that attempted reassurance did. It honestly took him by surprise; the ribbing was not the sort of thing that he would have expected from the angel, and it just made him even more determined to see this through. It had started out as a teasing joke, but, now Dean was determined to either drink Cass under the table, or drink until the tender cut them off, one of the two.
"I'm fine. I can't even feel it."
Which wasn't really true at all, but, the bluster was good for his ego, at least. He turned to the tender and ordered them another round of shots, before he turned, facing Castiel so that they were almost nose to nose. He could feel the tension, but the concept of personal space just wasn't clicking. It would have with almost anyone else, but he trusted Cass enough to where it just wasn't threatening.
"You should get rid of that whole trenchcoat look. It makes you look skeevy. Like a flasher or somethingHe
( ... )
Castiel was pretty sure Dean was lying. He knew Dean well enough and had seen him drunk enough to know that he had to be starting to feel it by now. Castiel didn't blink, didn't move from where he was, just stared Dean down, eyes trained on his. For a moment he thought about kissing him, but he didn't now, just like he didn't in any of those other moments where he considered it, where there was opportunity, where Dean's mouth looked so positively inviting that it made him nearly forget all the reasons it was a bad idea.
He was jarred from his thoughts by Dean's biting remark, and he looked down at himself, seeing his trenchcoat in a new light suddenly. Skeevy sounded bad. He wasn't familiar with the slang, but he had the sense that this was definitely something he didn't want to look like. He knew what a flasher was, however. If he'd been looking up at Dean just then, rather than looking down, he most definitely would have been near-pouting.
"I like the trenchcoat," he said, pulling at the lapel forlornly.
"Yeah, well. It'd be fine if you took it off once in a while. Only creeps walk around in a trenchcoat all the time."
Dean declared as he stepped back a little and knocked back another shot as they were poured for the two men. He was intending to be mostly playful and only just a little mean, but, Dean seemed to have missed the fact that his criticism of Cass' trenchcoat seemed to genuinely bother the former-angel. He raised an eyebrow and looked from Castiel to the shot glass.
"You can tap out whenever you feel the need to."
He jibbed back at the other man, a twitch of his lips as he was already beckoning for another set of shots. He went to take a step and had to pause. He blinked and turned, casually as he could manage leaning his back against the bar. The floor had started wobbling in a rather unbecoming fashion.
Castiel turned his attention to the shot glass in front of him. Dean thought he was a creep. Or at least that he looked like one dressed the way he was. He felt suddenly self-conscious in the trenchcoat, but he wasn't about to take it off right now and fall prey to more harassment about his clothes in front of all these humans
( ... )
As Cass collided with him, Dean giggled as well. He didn't usually get giggly drunk, but, Cass had pushed him. He'd even lost count of how many they'd had. Well outside of his usual eight-to-ten range, he was sure. The former-angel hanging onto him, Dean ended up with an arm against his back, helping support him -- this was only marginally effective considering that they were both stumbling.
"This is... this is all your fault anyway!" Dean proclaimed, the accusation devolving into a bout of laughter. "If you had just admitted you were drunker than you thunk you were, we wouldn't have gotten thrown out
( ... )
"What?" Cass asked, way more loudly than was strictly necessary. "You started this. Challenging me to drinking under a table." He was kind of trailing off and was making it known that he clearly didn't understand that phrase, either.
And then they were kind of dancing and Castiel's hands closed in Dean's suit jacket, the back and the side, both places he was holding on to, and he couldn't control the laughing.
But then the laughing stopped abruptly. They were heading the right way, and an awkward silence fell over them. Castiel was suddenly intensely aware of the placement of his hands, that he was touching Dean and how much more he wanted to do than just touching. They were approaching the Impala, and the thought occurred to him that they shouldn't drive. But then that thought was gone again, and he curled a tight fist of suit jacket and pulled himself up close, crowding against Dean's side.
"Under THE table, Cass. The table. It's because, you know, falling down drunk... And when you're falling down..."
Dean's explanation devolved into another spat of giggles, and he just sort of let it die. He was clearly in no condition to be offering explanations about anything to anyone, let alone to a former-angel who still didn't grasp some very basic human concepts and terminology. And so instead, Dean just settled for blithely stumbling their way into the parking lot and toward the Impala. He briefly considered that going back to the room in the condition they were might end with a very irate Sammy. But, no. He was in no condition to drive anywhere.
He might injure his baby, and that was a far worse risk than a ticked off younger brother
( ... )
Cass didn't respond, because they'd discussed the table before. Castiel didn't know which table, and no matter how much Dean tried to explain it, Castiel couldn't understand the phrase
( ... )
It was so much more than what Dean has hoped for, that he forgot how to breathe at first. Dean had figured that if he was lucky, Cass wouldn't respond, and give him one of those I'm-confused-headtilts, and he'd be left with attempts at a very awkward conversation. A conversation about why he'd done that, that Dean, in a momentary fit of cowardice, might well have blamed on the alcohol. At worse, he'd thought that Castiel might hit him. It wasn't too very long ago at all that Cass had dragged him broken and bleeding back from that alleyway after his plan to give in to Michael
( ... )
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"I'm fine. I can't even feel it."
Which wasn't really true at all, but, the bluster was good for his ego, at least. He turned to the tender and ordered them another round of shots, before he turned, facing Castiel so that they were almost nose to nose. He could feel the tension, but the concept of personal space just wasn't clicking. It would have with almost anyone else, but he trusted Cass enough to where it just wasn't threatening.
"You should get rid of that whole trenchcoat look. It makes you look skeevy. Like a flasher or somethingHe ( ... )
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He was jarred from his thoughts by Dean's biting remark, and he looked down at himself, seeing his trenchcoat in a new light suddenly. Skeevy sounded bad. He wasn't familiar with the slang, but he had the sense that this was definitely something he didn't want to look like. He knew what a flasher was, however. If he'd been looking up at Dean just then, rather than looking down, he most definitely would have been near-pouting.
"I like the trenchcoat," he said, pulling at the lapel forlornly.
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Dean declared as he stepped back a little and knocked back another shot as they were poured for the two men. He was intending to be mostly playful and only just a little mean, but, Dean seemed to have missed the fact that his criticism of Cass' trenchcoat seemed to genuinely bother the former-angel. He raised an eyebrow and looked from Castiel to the shot glass.
"You can tap out whenever you feel the need to."
He jibbed back at the other man, a twitch of his lips as he was already beckoning for another set of shots. He went to take a step and had to pause. He blinked and turned, casually as he could manage leaning his back against the bar. The floor had started wobbling in a rather unbecoming fashion.
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"This is... this is all your fault anyway!" Dean proclaimed, the accusation devolving into a bout of laughter. "If you had just admitted you were drunker than you thunk you were, we wouldn't have gotten thrown out ( ... )
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And then they were kind of dancing and Castiel's hands closed in Dean's suit jacket, the back and the side, both places he was holding on to, and he couldn't control the laughing.
But then the laughing stopped abruptly. They were heading the right way, and an awkward silence fell over them. Castiel was suddenly intensely aware of the placement of his hands, that he was touching Dean and how much more he wanted to do than just touching. They were approaching the Impala, and the thought occurred to him that they shouldn't drive. But then that thought was gone again, and he curled a tight fist of suit jacket and pulled himself up close, crowding against Dean's side.
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Dean's explanation devolved into another spat of giggles, and he just sort of let it die. He was clearly in no condition to be offering explanations about anything to anyone, let alone to a former-angel who still didn't grasp some very basic human concepts and terminology. And so instead, Dean just settled for blithely stumbling their way into the parking lot and toward the Impala. He briefly considered that going back to the room in the condition they were might end with a very irate Sammy. But, no. He was in no condition to drive anywhere.
He might injure his baby, and that was a far worse risk than a ticked off younger brother ( ... )
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