A man's true character comes out when he's drunk.
Who: Dean (i_shot_a_dick) and Castiel (to_rebel)
What: Drinking. That's... it, really.
Where: Casa Winchester
When: April 30th, afternoon
Rating: Is there a rating for copious amounts of alcohol? There's gonna be language -- maybe even from both parties this time.
Status: Ongoing.
Sanctimonious son of a bitch.
Bobby's words still rang -- and rang loud and true, unfortunately. He'd actually told Anna that she had to die. A hapless, scared human girl -- and he'd done nothing more than terrify her. Hell, whatever their history was, that was wrong however he looked at it. And Sam... Sam was less an abomination than Castiel himself.
Castiel idly pushed a shot glass back, until it fell into line with the other five glasses set out at the edge of the table. Little shot glass soldiers, awaiting nothing more than to fulfill their given (and sole) purpose. Can't fall out of line; they'll teeter on the table's edge and fall. Hit the floor and be nothing but worthless little pieces, just waiting to cut whoever took it upon themselves to pick up the shattered glass.
He snorted and reached for the half-gone bottle of scotch. This was why he needed to be more drunk: he was comparing himself to a shot glass. Shot glasses were not designed to bring about philosophical discussions of a rebellious angel's nature. They were designed to make drinking copious amounts of alcohol that much easier.
... He should have gone straight for the bottle, damn the shot glasses.
He filled them again, noting that he didn't spill a single drop. That meant he needed to drink more. Lots more. For a long moment, he simply sat at the table and stared at the full glasses. Last time, he'd started at the left and gone down the row to the right. Maybe he'd reverse it for this take.
What: Drinking. That's... it, really.
Where: Casa Winchester
When: April 30th, afternoon
Rating: Is there a rating for copious amounts of alcohol? There's gonna be language -- maybe even from both parties this time.
Status: Ongoing.
Sanctimonious son of a bitch.
Bobby's words still rang -- and rang loud and true, unfortunately. He'd actually told Anna that she had to die. A hapless, scared human girl -- and he'd done nothing more than terrify her. Hell, whatever their history was, that was wrong however he looked at it. And Sam... Sam was less an abomination than Castiel himself.
Castiel idly pushed a shot glass back, until it fell into line with the other five glasses set out at the edge of the table. Little shot glass soldiers, awaiting nothing more than to fulfill their given (and sole) purpose. Can't fall out of line; they'll teeter on the table's edge and fall. Hit the floor and be nothing but worthless little pieces, just waiting to cut whoever took it upon themselves to pick up the shattered glass.
He snorted and reached for the half-gone bottle of scotch. This was why he needed to be more drunk: he was comparing himself to a shot glass. Shot glasses were not designed to bring about philosophical discussions of a rebellious angel's nature. They were designed to make drinking copious amounts of alcohol that much easier.
... He should have gone straight for the bottle, damn the shot glasses.
He filled them again, noting that he didn't spill a single drop. That meant he needed to drink more. Lots more. For a long moment, he simply sat at the table and stared at the full glasses. Last time, he'd started at the left and gone down the row to the right. Maybe he'd reverse it for this take.