At the blatant reference to Sam and his freaky psychic whatever, Dean took and enthusiastic gulp from the bottle. God, it tasted like ass, but that was the farthest thing from his mind for the moment. In fact, the fact that it would probably be unpleasantly forcing its way back out of his esophagus in under an hour was nowhere near the same realm as his heavy thoughts for the time being, as painful as it promised to be when that time came. Instead, he was trying to pretend there was any way he could come to accept the idea of Sam using that shit.
Luckily, at the mention of the Colt and the name of the demon holding it, he didn't have to. In fact, Dean perked straight the fuck up at that, screwing the cap of the bottle back on. Sure, it didn't work on Lucifer, but if it worked on his little bitch, there was no need for it to. There was a light at the end of the tunnel -- a possibility. Something that Dean could hope for that would mean him putting an end to the Apocalypse he'd set in motion before it even started.
"Well, it beats the hell outta lettin' Sam keep on like he's been doing. You think the knife'll work on Crowley?" It hadn't even occurred to him to try and pry that gun from his evil hands in a legitimate way. No, better to kill the bastard, grab it and go. Dean liked having a plan. Even if they needed to get outta this mess first, he liked knowing there was something that would work, even though he could guess that the knife wouldn't do jack where Lilith was concerned now that he'd seen how well it worked on Alastair.
"It might," Castiel said, deep in thought. "But Crowley is very powerful, and very..." he gropes for a word "...cunning. Killing him won't be easy, but you do have one advantage: he may be the one demon who isn't looking forward to the apocalypse. If the direct approach fails, you may be able to negotiate for the Colt, though I doubt it will be as easy as it was when you approached him in my own timeline. Right now, he has a great deal more to lose."
He didn't expect that Dean would take well to the notion of a demon being out to help, no matter what Castiel told him. But at the very least, he could give Dean what information he had.
...The room was somewhat fuzzy. That was odd.
"I think I'm starting to become... inebriated," he said, after another moment's thought. "Last time, it took significantly more alcohol than this. Of course, last time, I still had enough Grace to make things like eating and sleeping unnecessary. I don't like sleeping," he continued, somewhat peevishly. "I don't understand how you humans can do this. You're unconscious for hours at a time. And while you're unconscious you hallucinate. And drool. And this is normal for you."
Yes, Castiel was definitely starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.
That same unsettling discomfort washed over him at Castiel's words as he'd felt when the angel had snapped in anger -- the overall rejection that he felt of the reality that this was Castiel. This was the same angel he'd known and come to accept as the hard-ass, uptight son of a bitch that followed orders and, Dean aside, really couldn't give much of a damn what happened to humans on the individual level. The one who didn't understand his references to obscure mullet rock and John Wayne movies.
And now he was seated beside him talking about what happened when you slept and sounding a lot like the ramblings of a buzzed frat boy. His stomach turned over as he realized that Castiel's rambling was all centered around one of the three things it never should have been. Outside of, well, getting hammered and eating, sleeping was the one thing an angel was never gonna be caught dead doing.
Yet somewhere along the way, Cas had done it, and now he was well on his way to drunk talking about it. Dean kept the cringe inward and pulled himself off is barstool, slapping a hand on Castiel's shoulder as he pocketed the bottle again.
"Yeah, well, I saw some cabins out back, maybe we can find you a pillow to drool on so you'll start makin' sense again when you sleep off the damn hangover this place put everybody in." And then he'd hopefully no longer feel it necessary to enumerate the extent of his lacking Grace to Dean who felt the sharp stabs of guilt in his gut with each word. He knew Castiel didn't mean to accuse him, but, well. Dean took all the responsibility on himself, anyway. Indirectly or not, he'd caused it, and now he was the one who got to be disturbed by the consequences.
"Pillows are... nice," Castiel agreed. "I think I may have damaged my head shortly after I came here." He ran his fingers through his hair, his brow furrowing slightly as he encountered the first of two rather pronounced lumps.
"Yes," he concluded. "A pillow would be very good, if one could be found."
Dean was unhappy, and he was unsure of how to remedy it. But then, Dean was often unhappy. Perhaps Castiel himself made Dean unhappy. He was the one who asked Dean for things no one should ever have the right to ask for, things anyone else would refuse to do, if they were even capable of them. And yet Dean did those things, every time. Dean bore up under impossible burdens, and then punished himself for not doing more.
And now Castiel was wrong. Too human. Dean... had needed someone to be strong for him, he remembered. Dean had needed someone to be sure of what was right, but now he was here, with something that barely qualified as an angel.
"Yeah, well," the fact that it wasn't healing was making Dean's stomach curl up in knots and want to eject itself from his body as forcefully as possible, but he was taking it in stride. For Castiel's sake, if nothing else. "You can sleep that off, too." Except, wasn't there some thing about how you weren't supposed to sleep after a concussion? Eh. Whatever. He'd be all right, Dean decided, giving it a shrug and heading for the door of the pub to hold it open for Castiel.
When he apologized, Dean hesitated, fixing him with an intense look. The apology was about as frustrating as it was disappointing and reassuring all at once. Castiel knew where Dean was now, better than anyone, probably, after that heart-to-heart they'd had in the hospital, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. There wasn't anything anyone could do about it. He was defeated. But, Cas drawing attention back to that when he was trying to dismiss it made his jaw tense in a way that said he understood, but he sure as hell didn't want to keep going back to it.
"Yeah, I'm sure there's a lotto people feelin' sorry after what happened. I'm workin' on it, all right?" It did a good enough job of not addressing the situation while still expressing his understanding, as far as Dean was concerned. "Now, quit apologizing, you're givin' me the heebie jeebies with all this chick flick crap, let's just find a place to bunk, all right?"
Luckily, at the mention of the Colt and the name of the demon holding it, he didn't have to. In fact, Dean perked straight the fuck up at that, screwing the cap of the bottle back on. Sure, it didn't work on Lucifer, but if it worked on his little bitch, there was no need for it to. There was a light at the end of the tunnel -- a possibility. Something that Dean could hope for that would mean him putting an end to the Apocalypse he'd set in motion before it even started.
"Well, it beats the hell outta lettin' Sam keep on like he's been doing. You think the knife'll work on Crowley?" It hadn't even occurred to him to try and pry that gun from his evil hands in a legitimate way. No, better to kill the bastard, grab it and go. Dean liked having a plan. Even if they needed to get outta this mess first, he liked knowing there was something that would work, even though he could guess that the knife wouldn't do jack where Lilith was concerned now that he'd seen how well it worked on Alastair.
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He didn't expect that Dean would take well to the notion of a demon being out to help, no matter what Castiel told him. But at the very least, he could give Dean what information he had.
...The room was somewhat fuzzy. That was odd.
"I think I'm starting to become... inebriated," he said, after another moment's thought. "Last time, it took significantly more alcohol than this. Of course, last time, I still had enough Grace to make things like eating and sleeping unnecessary. I don't like sleeping," he continued, somewhat peevishly. "I don't understand how you humans can do this. You're unconscious for hours at a time. And while you're unconscious you hallucinate. And drool. And this is normal for you."
Yes, Castiel was definitely starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.
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And now he was seated beside him talking about what happened when you slept and sounding a lot like the ramblings of a buzzed frat boy. His stomach turned over as he realized that Castiel's rambling was all centered around one of the three things it never should have been. Outside of, well, getting hammered and eating, sleeping was the one thing an angel was never gonna be caught dead doing.
Yet somewhere along the way, Cas had done it, and now he was well on his way to drunk talking about it. Dean kept the cringe inward and pulled himself off is barstool, slapping a hand on Castiel's shoulder as he pocketed the bottle again.
"Yeah, well, I saw some cabins out back, maybe we can find you a pillow to drool on so you'll start makin' sense again when you sleep off the damn hangover this place put everybody in." And then he'd hopefully no longer feel it necessary to enumerate the extent of his lacking Grace to Dean who felt the sharp stabs of guilt in his gut with each word. He knew Castiel didn't mean to accuse him, but, well. Dean took all the responsibility on himself, anyway. Indirectly or not, he'd caused it, and now he was the one who got to be disturbed by the consequences.
And boy, was he ever disturbed.
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"Yes," he concluded. "A pillow would be very good, if one could be found."
Dean was unhappy, and he was unsure of how to remedy it. But then, Dean was often unhappy. Perhaps Castiel himself made Dean unhappy. He was the one who asked Dean for things no one should ever have the right to ask for, things anyone else would refuse to do, if they were even capable of them. And yet Dean did those things, every time. Dean bore up under impossible burdens, and then punished himself for not doing more.
And now Castiel was wrong. Too human. Dean... had needed someone to be strong for him, he remembered. Dean had needed someone to be sure of what was right, but now he was here, with something that barely qualified as an angel.
"...I'm sorry."
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When he apologized, Dean hesitated, fixing him with an intense look. The apology was about as frustrating as it was disappointing and reassuring all at once. Castiel knew where Dean was now, better than anyone, probably, after that heart-to-heart they'd had in the hospital, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. There wasn't anything anyone could do about it. He was defeated. But, Cas drawing attention back to that when he was trying to dismiss it made his jaw tense in a way that said he understood, but he sure as hell didn't want to keep going back to it.
"Yeah, I'm sure there's a lotto people feelin' sorry after what happened. I'm workin' on it, all right?" It did a good enough job of not addressing the situation while still expressing his understanding, as far as Dean was concerned. "Now, quit apologizing, you're givin' me the heebie jeebies with all this chick flick crap, let's just find a place to bunk, all right?"
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