I wrote this late April of last year, never posted it, but I like it better now. It's set after 6x17 "My Heart Will Go On", the Titanic un-sinking incident for those who don't recall. Re-reading made me realize how much I miss Balthazar. :( Castiel is such a confusing and complicated character...

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"Alcohol doesn't console, it doesn't fill up anyone's psychological gaps, all it replaces is the lack of God. It doesn't comfort man. On the contrary, it encourages him in his folly, it transports him to the supreme regions where he is master of his own destiny. "
-Marguerite Duras

There were "good intentions" and there was reality, becoming more and more separate as time sped onwards. Never was an angel who'd had "intentions" of any sort. One simply did or did not. Succeeded or failed. It was distressing. He'd lived thousands of years and 99.99987% of his life had been filled with being told to do something, going to do it, and accomplishing. In the blink of an eye he'd been introduced to the concept of "gray" in place of his previous world of "black and white". There was "failure" and "discontentment" to deal with, and now the combination of "family" and "enemy" was making itself painfully, tragically apparent.
These "finger quotes", at least, were useful. And places that sold liquor and which also closed after midnight, leaving the premises free for any angels dealing with their "humanity" and "coping" with civil war. He had found a nicer place than the last, this one called BevMo!, and he'd decided to try only the spirits he hadn't tasted before in order to "expand his horizons". Then he'd discovered absinthe, and through this odd state of tranquil hallucination and lucidity all of his problems "sharpened" with lurid "clarity".

"Cassie, sweet Cassie." The whoosh of feathers hadn't been missed, just ignored, as Balthazar swooped in. "Enough with the air quotes. You look like you're trying to invent some bastard form of Morse Code. You do realize you're only supposed to use them when you're speaking out loud?" His brother took the bottle from weak hands. "Mansinthe? Did you just pick this up for the dismal looking man on the label?" He looked down at Castiel with questions in his eyes. The leader of their army sat with his back against the cooler door, at least sixty bottles (mostly green) surrounding him. His clothing was rumpled and one arm curled protectively over his stomach. He'd probably been hurt again, Balthazar guessed. Castiel ignored his comment.
"I was working." Castiel insisted, averting his eyes still. Balthazar wouldn't have guessed his brother's voice could be any more deep and gravel-y, but it was amazing what being drunk could do to one's vessel. "We are at a "cease fire"", his index and middle fingers bounced in the familiar pattern "and I was "patrolling" our "perimeter"."
"Our perimeter? Only two miles from the Winchester's current location?"
"A coincidence."
"I don't know how you get away with lying so dismally. It's painfully obvious."
Castiel ignored him again. "There was a rouge angel of Raphael's. The skirmish was brief." He lifted his hand from his torso. There was blood running down his side and a bright light shone from beneath the tear in his shirt. "I was injured, so I chose to come here and... "recuperate"."
Balthazar blinked, trying to comprehend why a previously well-disciplined angel such as Castiel would chose to run off, much more seriously injured than he previously guessed, to a liquor store, and finish off the entire stock of absinthe. He didn't even check in to heaven to heal? He was becoming reckless. And that was dangerous.
"Another trait you've no doubt acquired from those darling Winchester girls. If I didn't know any better I'd say you're becoming more and more attached to those two, especially the younger one. Oh wait, I don'tknow any better." He fixed Castiel with a demeaning stare.

Cas winced, the blood once again oozing from his newest battle wound. He thought back to Rachel, corrupted by Raphael's scheming tongue, and knew he couldn't beat Balthazar if it came down to a fight. He didn't have the strength, but he also didn't have the willpower. Castiel took a deep breath, trying to find the words. "I have been killing my brothers and sisters for the last several months, and will be for the foreseeable future. I have been stabbed with an angelic blade by my own brother, and it grows more difficult to heal with every injury." He paused, closing his eyes tightly and pulling his arm tighter over the wound, though the pain he felt wasn't one hundred percent physical. "Our plans continue to fail and we have no way to collect enough souls. The Winchesters continue to put themselves in danger and preoccupy our time. I am surprised you do not feel even the slightest bit of what I do currently..."

Balthazar shrugged and, to Castiel's relief, sat down lazily next to him in about as much concedence one could receive from Balthazar. "I write sins, not tragedies. Well, maybe a little of both. It's good to keep a variety going." He emptied the bottle that Castiel had been drinking, what looked like the last of absinthe in the store. He grimaced slightly. "You're supposed to put sugar in this, you know. Helps with the taste."
Castiel looked down at the bottles as if they'd been lying to him the whole evening. His eyes had stopped seeing colors normal for a human and the hues were flying off into the distance, being replaced by several new ones he hadn't seen before. He felt very clear about it, the haziness in his mind coming from the wound rather than the alcohol. He held out his hand and another bottle appeared in it, accompanied by a bag of pure cane sugar. Balthazar sighed, summoning another bottle for himself and taking a few guzzles. They spent a time in silence, Balthazar thinking of possible ways to fix this and Castiel wondering what words he could use in finger quotes to describe the lethal gash in his stomach.

"Well," Balthazar said finally, sounding considerably less strict and brash with a bottle and a half of hard alcohol in him, "we should probably get you back home. There's still a war going on, though you probably didn't notice in your current inebriated state."
Castiel's eyes had closed and he leaned heavily against the cooler. Balthazar was met with silence. He got up grudgingly and reached down, giving Cas's face a slap. "Wake up Castiel, I don't want to be dragging your arse back all by my self. You're heavier then you look." He bent over, grabbing his brother's collar. "Come on Slappy."

The words that came from between Castiel's lips were quiet and raspy, but that did nothing to prevent them from sending a wave of anger through Balthazar. "Take me to the Winchesters."
Balthazar let him slump back down to the ground. "You have five seconds to amend that statement."
Castiel cracked open his eyes. He stared up at him with hard determination, but Balthazar wasn't Dean, and he didn't cave under pressure.
"So let me get this straight. Instead of reporting back to heaven, debriefing our troops, finding a solution to our soul gathering problem, and fucking healing yourself properly, you're going to run off to those worthless human runts and just hang out?" There was a steely look in his eyes, preparing for the dam ready to break at Cas's next words.

Castiel didn't hesitate; there was nothing else to think about. "Yes."
Quick as lightning Balthazar picked up a bottle and smashed it over Castiel's head. Green alcohol and dark shards of glass flew everywhere, enhancing the brightness of the blood leaking down from Castiel's new scalp wound. For a moment everything was perfectly still. The two brothers stared at each other, their mutual trust easing slowly away. Then Cas was up, and with momentous effort took a hit at the other angel. Fist connected with face and Balthazar was sent flying into the opposite cooler, smashing the plastic and knocking over the entire aisle in a burst of shorting circuits and exploding bottles.
"Balthazar. Stop." Castiel held his hand up before Balthazar could strike back. He wavered, breathing heavy. "Take me to the Winchesters. I ... cannot get there alone, in my current state."
Balthazar stood up from the wreckage covered in a hundred tiny bleeding cuts. Still seeing red, he took a deep breath through clenched teeth, violently brushed broken glass off his blazer. "Is that an order, brother?"
Castiel leaned against the cooler, eyes hazy and heavy-lidded. "Yes," he grated out, his voice strained and impatient. Before he finished the syllable the store was empty, the sound of beating wings lingering only a moment before it was left quiet and completely destroyed.

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Sam yawned. He'd been working on his laptop for almost four hours now and the screen kept shifting in and out of his vision. He glanced up at the ceiling to give his eyes a break and for one terrible moment could not get them to focus on the spackle above, bits of ceiling dancing between blurry and wavery in a painful affect. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, yawning. Vision starting to go: he should probably call it a night. He took another swig of his beer and closed the lid, putting it on the table next to him. He glanced at the clock. 1:17. Not as late as he'd expected. Dean was still out doing whatever and Bobby had passed out over a big book a few hours back, and the house seemed terribly quiet. Eyes still bleary, he let his other senses scan the darkness. Something was up. He hadn't felt so hyper-aware of the stillness since their last hunt. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he instinctively reached down for his gun-

There was a deafening roar as two angels flew in to the room. It was like the air had turned to water and created a violent whirlpool with two bodies revolving wildly as they became solid. They swung around like two eagles fighting mid-air. Sam barely had time to register a familiar trench coat as it flung across the room and hurtled into chair, smashing it to pieces, and the Winchester's nostrils were immediately filled with the tangy scent of alcohol mixed with blood.

Balthazar stood positively radiating anger. His furious eyes met Sam's and he practically spat at him, "Your lover wanted to see you," before turning and storming away in furious angel fashion, sending papers and curtains flying, the very air around him warping from his tirade. Sam looked back at Castiel, who hadn't moved from the floor, just as Bobby burst into the room with a shotgun ready and aimed in his hands.
"What the hell is going on?" He yelled, scanning his living room. He caught sight of the angel on the floor and rushed to him just as Sam did. "Is that Cas?"
Sam turned Castiel over, pushing away pieces of chair. "Cas? What the hell happened?"
Castiel mumbled something inaudible. His eyes were open, at least, though he didn't seem to be really seeing them. The stench of liquor was overpowering, and Castiel's clothing was mottled with odd green stains, but it didn't keep the two seasoned hunters from noticing fresh blood.
"Is it just his vessel bleeding? ...Is that absinthe?" Bobby asked, helping Sam move the layers of trench and shirt away to inspect Castiel's gutted stomach. The wound beneath, though still bleeding slowly, looked normal and non-threatening to an angel. There were a few red streaks running down through his hair, but nothing looked serious. Nothing to worry about.
Sam shook him gently by the collar. "Cas? Come on, talk to us."
Castiel raised his head as best he could and focused very hard on speaking. "Sam. Bobby." He looked at them blankly a moment, then furrowed his brow in confusion. "Dean is not here."
Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes as only he could. "No, probably still trolling bars for women." He'd probably followed one home if the time was any indication. Bobby grunted his agreement.
Castiel looked down again. Sam thought he saw disappointment in his expression, but it could have been pain or fatigue for the condition he was in. Then the angel braced himself and, with some help from Sam and Bobby, lifted himself from the floor. "I will be fine," he said unconvincingly. "I am already healing. Just..." He swayed. Sam held his shoulders tightly and helped him to the couch. Castiel's eyes immediately closed and his voice grew very soft. "Just let me rest. I have been through... much... to get to you."

He was out like a light. Sam and Bobby looked at each other. What could they do? Might as well just let him lay there and sleep it off. It wasn't like they had heaven on speed dial, and Balthazar at the least knew where he was. He'd be gone by morning, attending to things more important.
Bobby tossed a blanket over the angel's body and hoping his couch wouldn't have green stains on it come daylight.

Later that night Cas lay awake, eyes closed but ears open, listening to two brothers softly speaking in the kitchen.
"Think he'll be okay?" Sam asked, voice accompanied by the clink of beer bottles. Dean had come home, a little drunk and not a little disappointed.
The angel could almost hear Dean's shrug. "It's Castiel. He'll be fine. Besides, that he even came means there can't be much going on up there- how bad could he possibly have it?"

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Prompt #6 , Seeking Solace (Though if there was a prompt like "wrong assumptions" or "abused friendship" or "be nice to your angel dammit he does a lot for you" then it would have been my first pick.)