A narrow rivulet of sweat works is way down Dean's back, and he swallows as he looks up into the face of his interrogator.
"Answer the question, Dean."
Dean hesitates, his mind running through a dozen different snarky responses, and eventually chooses to deflect with a classic,
"Hell no."
Behind him, out of his sight, he hears Sam make a quiet noise. Dammit, Sammy, why do you have to be here? I didn't want you to get involved in this, he thinks to himself. Then he hears Sam's voice, quiet and plaintive —
"Please, Dean, just answer. It won't hurt. It'll give him what he wants."
"Since when do we give into that, Sammy?" Dean snaps in response, and Sam groans. Suddenly the perpetrator is on him, and Dean leans back in his chair as far as he can to get away from the intensity of those ferocious blue eyes.
"I'm going to ask you one more time, Dean Winchester," he hisses,
"Does. It. Spark. Joy." He holds up the offending beer cooler.
"What the hell. No, Cas, it does not spark fucking joy." Cas' eyes light up instantly, and he teleports away, triumphant. Dean leans forward in his chair again, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and rolling the tension out of his shoulders.
"See, Dean, that wasn't so hard," Sam chimes in. Dean turns around and glares what he hopes are daggers.
"Fuck you, Sam. Fuck you, and Cas, and Netflix, and this Marie Kondo chick."
