Rila: So...yeah. FEELS. I HAS THEM.
Disclaimer: I WISH I OWNED SPN. POOR CAS.
Word Count: 312
Of all the places he'd thought to find him, this bar wasn't even on the list. But there he was, knocking back shots nearly faster than the bartender could fill them. He was drawing attention to himself if only for the fact that he wasn't dead yet — and it was clear by the way he didn't stop that he didn't care.
Glasses clinked amongst the low chatter, jukebox playing some run-down rendition of a typical "heart-break" song. He might have found the humor in it any other time, but not now. He took a seat next to him, staring at the counter in silence for a few minutes before he spoke. "Cas—"
"No, Dean." His tone was a hard, flat refusal of anything Dean had planned to say. The shot glass clinked on the counter. Two fingers tapped the bar.
"I think you've had enough, pal." The bartender eyed him, wiping down a glass. Cas stared, but the bartender didn't bat an eye.
"I decide when—"
"Cas, let it go. There are plenty more—"
"I'm staying here." The statement, all cold steel and determination, seemed to be directed at the bartender as well. The bartender eyed him again, no doubt seeing him for what he was — a scrawy, unshaven man — and sighed, refilling the glass.
"Your funeral," he grunted and turned around.
"I'll have what he's having," Dean spoke and with another sigh, the bartender slid a glass to him. Dean downed it without another thought — the whiskey burned down his throat, and he savored it. Lowering the glass, he tapped the surface and looked up, meeting blue eyes. "If you won't leave, I figure you could use a drinking buddy."
