A/N: This was written for a commentfic prompt meme over at LJ, themed after TFLN submissions. The prompt was: (727) It was the classiest, most strategic and inspired vomiting I've ever witnessed. Like a blind mans first sunrise. A priests first prayer. Or a virgins first orgasm. This fic isn't as gross as that might suggest, though, I promise.
There isn't really a plot, but I'd say this is a canon-divergent, (post?) season-5 AU where everything is wonderful and Cas is now human. Also: established Dean/Cas relationship. So, be wary of general season 5 spoilers, to be safe, and if you're not into slash, this isn't for you. Rated T for language and drunkenness and ridiculousness. It gets crackier as it goes along, btw. I actually wasn't sure what to rate this as, so if you disagree with the rating: do let me know. Note this was pretty roughly (very quickly, between 1 AM and 6 AM the other night/morning/whatever) written, but concrit's still welcome. Any feedback is welcome, honestly.
AN EYE FOR THESE THINGS
Frankly, the whole plan for later tonight is unnecessary. "I have been inebriated before, Dean."
"Yeah," Dean is drumming his fingertips against the steering wheel, one after the other, "no, Cas. Getting wasted is a human thing. And something that only counts when you're actually human. Totally different ball-game, when it's recreational. Let's say it's just part of being in the club." Dean's face falls a bit after he says it, then he makes a cough-like sound with some mumbled gibberish.
"What?" He had expected "normal" hearing to be relatively quiet, had thought a smaller range would mean he would hear less. While the latter is certainly true, it doesn't always quite feel 100% like it, in that it's merely an indecipherable cacophony around them – road spray splashing against the sides of the Impala (to Dean's probable disdain), the throaty rumble of the engine echoing beneath his shoes, a horn blaring up ahead someplace. Not knowing the sources (as he had before) doesn't make them any less present, but all the more distracting as he tries to make sense of it all without the fall-back of grace. If Dean would speak clearly, it'd be one less thing of it all.
"Nothing," Dean says. He slaps on a grin and reaches over to thump his hand on Castiel's shoulder good-naturedly. "It'll be a good time. Hey, we might even bump shoulders with some movie stars, and something-or-others."
Castiel isn't stupid. He knows when Dean's preferred deflection methods, but there are only so many lost causes he can pursue in this human lifetime he's found himself looking down. Castiel leans further back in the passenger seat. Taking a vessel had, initially, felt like fitting the sun in a mountain-sized box. There's no such sense of restriction now, but he's still not entirely sure if he feels freer or lesser. "It's been a long week," and they have been driving all day. He thinks of Bobby Singer's porch, the starry skies over the salvage yard, and Dean rambling about things that have all and none of the relevance in the world to them, with an arm slung lazily around Castiel's neck. Why can't they just have a repeat of the other night?
"Exactly! Perfect way to unwind." Castiel would agree if they were still on the same page. Instead, he watches the streets blur on by.
"What can I get'cha, sugar?" The warmth of the bartender's tone doesn't reach her icy eyes, which are framed by copious amounts of jet-black makeup, of which flares out in what is likely meant to be an attractive fashion. It's, as with everything else as a mortal, distracting. The dark mascara coated along her eyelashes only seems to weigh them down, emphasize that they aren't quite natural, contrasting far too starkly against pale skin and fair hair.
"I am not certain." Her eyes narrow, a vaguely threatening gesture that only earns a blink.
Dean cuts in. "He'll have a couple of…" Castiel looks up (which is useless) as the music suddenly changes, the pulsating beat eclipsed by a torrent of beeps and a synthesized voice. It is – mesmerizing.
Dean bumps his shoulder to draw back his attention.
"This is going to be awesome," Dean assures him, with a flash of face-splitting grin.
"If you say so." He isn't entirely convinced that potentially blowing out his newly minted eardrums is an awe-inspiring prospect. Regardless, the multicolored lights overhead reflect handsomely across Dean's face, sweeping and fantastic as they overpower his natural skin-tone in the dark of the nightclub.
"I know so. I have an eye for these things, Cas. Spidey sense. Even though the music sucks." Castiel frowns.
A moment later, he catches a vaguely skeptical, "Good luck, bud," in the wake of the bartender's departure, after several glasses are slid their way.
"Warm-ups," Dean says. He whips out a torn piece of paper – no, the back of a receipt. "Was watchin' a rerun of… this one show, yesterday," he casts a paranoid look around with a brief pause before continuing, "and jotted down an 'X' every time this one character was checked out by this other character. That's how many shots we drink."
Castiel inspects the receipt after tugging it from Dean's hand – not that Dean fought; he relinquished it without question. "What of the slashes?"
"Those are when it was iffy. She might have been looking at Doc–the guy, but it's tricky business. She thought she was sneaky, really great actress, but I was still able to call them back when it first aired. They hooked up later, too. Got an eye for these things, Cas." Dean winks.
Castiel is hopeful that he's actually not missing a reference of some sort, and actually knows what Dean is talking about. "Were you watching–"
"Don't worry! It evened out in total, so they count as halves of an 'X.' Just add 'em together. You ready?"
There are some things that are as they had been the last time he'd drank copiously, technicality of being only partly human notwithstanding. Castiel thinks; Castiel speaks. The distinction isn't entirely clear. He asks as he wonders: "Are we here because you feel obligated?"
"What?" Dean scrunches his face up in confusion, cants his head, frowns. "What? We're here 'cause it's fun."
Castiel's propped-up head sinks further down against his palm. Over the course of about a second (or an hour; he's not good at discerning time now that it's so limited), his elbow ultimately gives out. With a clunk, he ends up with his cheek flat against the glass counter of the bar. He doesn't exactly take note of this development, however. He also doesn't notice that Dean is suddenly sideways, either, mostly because Dean's tilted head means that it looks straight from this angle. "You are…" Castiel is going to say something to the effect of "always taking care of someone," except he gets distracted by how oddly Dean's neck is connected. There is something wrong with this picture. "Is something wrong?" Yes, Castiel thinks, but he's not entirely sure what.
"What?"
"You don't look right."
"Gee, thanks, Casanova."
Alarmed, and sitting back up unsteadily, "Have I insulted you?"
Dean shrugs, then rests the edge of a shot glass against his bottom lip for a second. Envy twists Castiel's gut. "Not like it was a compliment. But whatever."
Castiel leans forward to get up close, then presses his mouth to Dean's jawline. "Pardon me," he murmurs. Dean relents with a kiss, so that they share the remnants of each other's last glass. It makes for a pleasant tingle at the tip of Castiel's tongue.
In the background, a stranger has paused, her eyes wide and mouth hanging open, staring at them shamelessly. "Ohmigod," Castiel thinks he might hear a breathless voice even over the din, "that's hot." It's annoying, that such irrelevance can pierce this, and he should whisk Dean away without spared thought. He would, if he could.
When another voice chimes in, Castiel pulls back and levels a glare at the spectator, while Dean laughs and laughs.
The ground beneath him pitches and rolls with the same ordered chaos of waves in the ocean. Each crest pulls him so far back that the empty glass in his hand looks miles upon miles away, before he's thrown forward again with the force of the next, against something warm and sturdy so that all he can breathe is Dean, Dean, Dean. He'd like to stay there – oh, he would – but he sways again and knocks his elbow against the edge of the counter. Dimly aware of a close-by chuckle, he feels a hand pat him atop his head.
"Cas," Dean murmurs lowly, leaning in close. His green eyes are hard to distinguish when all twelve of them are blending in with one other. "Cas, I think – you have'd enough."
"The X's, Dean." Intent, Castiel looks around blindly for the receipt. "We haven't gotten all of the X's."
"I thought we did?"
"Noo," Castiel shakes his head so fast that he's 99% sure he's got his wings back – which is not fair. He made his choice, and he'll pull the damned things off himself if he has– "Where are the X's?"
"Dunno," Dean says.
"And what about the slashes?"
Dean's voice sharpens, on the defensive, "I 'n't know!"
"You've lost it? You have lost the paper! We have been working, Dean. We have been working to–"
"Jesus, Cas, it's justa freakin' drinkin' game–"
"It can't all be for nothing! We must locate it!" He slaps his arms against the counter a few times, trying to figure out how to coordinate them again – why are they so rebellious?
Dean grabs him by the wrist, laughing – laughing! Castiel knows now the reason for the expression of one "seeing red."
Everything in sight vibrates with the echoes of his fury – or is he the one bristling with anger? "This isn't funny! We have been here–"
"Cas–"
"There was a very simple goal set, Dean, and that was to clear the X's of which you collected, and we have been–" Dean plucks the crumpled paper from out from Castiel's fist. "Oh."
Dean tosses it in Castiel's face, then proceeds to collapse in on himself in fits of what can only be described as giggles. Time slows down as betrayal zings through Castiel: how could Dean forsake this document? He grapples against the air uselessly, then finally grabs ahold of the receipt before it can fall away forever. Though he sags with relief, and the world is well and truly spinning around and 'round and 'round, Castiel decides to pin Dean with wrathful eyes. Or, well, one of the Deans. The one that's not quite as blurry as the others, that is.
"Okay, okay – okay," Dean wipes at the corners of his eyes then holds out an imperious hand. "Lemme see."
Castiel looks at him, does nothing.
"C'mon."
"What if… I cannot trust you?"
"I came up with it!"
"But you have no follow-through."
"Ouch, asshole," Dean scowls. "I have plenty of follow-through."
Castiel's head is swimming, but he must persevere. "I am assuming command of this task."
"Okay."
"You will not have this paper." There's turbulence somewhere in his stomach, which he ignores.
"Okay. Tell me how many X's we got."
Castiel stares at him blankly.
"How many, King of Tolerance? Progress report, c'mon."
Castiel's eyes widen. "I believe I am going to vomit." He steers his head to look over toward the crowd, bounces his gaze off the tops of heads for the doors to the restrooms, plots the most efficient course, and then off he goes at a brisk walk.
Dean flings the bathroom stall door open just after Castiel makes a feeble attempt to slam it shut behind him – for which Castiel should be annoyed. And would be, if he were thinking about much of anything other than how the color of the toilet bowl is well and truly disturbing – he doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to imagine… he is glad he doesn't have heavenly knowledge at his fingertips. He doesn't need to know who else has been here, specifically, doesn't need to know their life stories and what led up to their visit to this porcelain symbol of things most foul.
Grimly, Castiel thinks of demons mid-exorcism. Burning them out of existence had always seemed like the most satisfying option – and it remains, to him, the most correct – but now he has a newfound appreciation for the banishment to Hell. He knows, now, how it is to be purged. Castiel must be worthy of this body, because he is still here.
There is a clarity to be found away from the music and the drinks, beneath the fluorescent light and between thin "walls." His skin has never felt more his own, the breath escaping his lungs in ragged pants is raw, visceral – the weight of humanity is suddenly omnipresent and so overwhelming that he cannot even begin to formulate a proper reaction, or a single, sensible thought. "Fuck," he says, instead, and it feels marvelously appropriate. His skin is on fire, burning up against the damp chill of the bathroom. He chances a look over his shoulder after flushing the toilet, and he can't even get suitably ashamed for his own condition – he will let Dean judge him. Castiel's eyes are baleful, daring.
"Wow." Dean's eyes are huge, mostly bright with wonder but also lit with manic glee. This expression throws Castiel for a loop. "You're like an armadillo! They put their pregnancy, or whatever, on hold until they can deal with it! That's talent, Cas! That's amazing! Viva la evolution, baby! Your dad's given you a hell of a gift, man."
Bile still burns at Castiel's tongue. "I am not bearing children. You say… too many words."
"Color me shocked, Mr. Snippy." Dean shakes his head, apparently too awestruck to draw proper snark in his tone, "I mean, I think I've just seen… dude, I got to tell Sam. Ri'now!"
"I would rather you not." His throat feels as gravelly as his voice, and he coughs pitifully when Dean claps him on the back. "Not. Helping." Dean doesn't pay him any further attention.
The frantic beeping of Dean trying to figure out his cellphone is most unwelcome, and Castiel entertains the fantasy of seeing the object go up in flames – except, that would burn Dean, too. He'd felt far away from the music before, but now he can hear it thumping against the walls, along with the repeating tone of Dean's phone, "C'mon, Sam, pick up!"
"What time. Is it." Castiel's limbs are like solid lead.
"Dunno." Dean shrugs. "Son of a bitch!" Sam's chipper voice mail message is faintly audible, before Dean silences it with an indignant click, hanging up and opting to do something else – click, click, clack, boop, Castiel vows a suitably violent end to the worthless device. "I'll jus' text 'im." Dean is mouthing the words to whatever he's typing, but Castiel's eyes wander around.
"We," Castiel says, "we should," he nods, once, then leans back precariously in a rush of dizziness. "Dean."
"Hang on, man, I think I pick-pocketed a poet's muse tonight. This is profound shit, I'm sending."
Castiel hauls himself up on shaky legs, sighs, "Dean," then topples over against him.
Dean grunts, but manages to stay standing, while keeping his hands very tight around his phone. "Hey, I'm not hugging you in the bathroom of a nightclub. I mean, I'm not hugging at all – I don't do that." Castiel begs to differ, but the both of them are distracted by some snickering over at the urinals. Dean swears under his breath. "Let's go."
Castiel mumbles an agreement of some sort into Dean's shoulder.
Dean frowns. "Uh, no, Cas, I've never been to China."
Come to think of it, Castiel wouldn't mind a visit. Still, he frowns in confusion. "What?"
"What?"
"God damn it, Cas," Dean complains as they negotiate with the hallway to the hotel room. They keep tripping over each other's feet, because two drunk people supporting each other as they walk sounds far better on paper than in practice. They have walked into no less than five walls, clipped countless corners, and narrowly avoided tumbling up a set of stairs – all just on the brief walk from the nightclub to the hotel. "Think you could stop babbling for five freaking seconds?"
"I am, I am distracting." He hears his voice even after thinks he has stopped talking.
"Try annoying. I'm pretty sure that 50-year-old we walked by just now thinks you were propositioning her, man, not cool. Also, stop going on about lupus."
"Distracting me. Cannot… I'm tired, Dean." Castiel blames Dean for this, for everything, and if he were allowed to shut his eyes everything would be well in the world – he's sure of it. And yet, even with so much at stake, Dean keeps snapping his fingers and poking Castiel's nose to keep him from nodding off mid-step. "Stop that," Castiel orders with no small amount of gravitas.
"I am not dragging you a single step, man, stay up and pull your weight."
"Call Michael."
"What?"
"Or anyone. You are… vessel… so you can teleport us, you can teleport – the room."
"The door is right there."
"Leave me, Dean," Castiel's stride falters, slowing them both to a near-standstill. "S'tired…"
Dean spins around, grabs Castiel by the shoulders, and flings him at the door with herculean effort and astonishing speed.
"Oof," Castiel stumbles to the ground after covering so much of it so much more quickly than expected, then looks up plaintively. "Why did you–"
"I'm not carrying you." Dean staggers forward the way Castiel hadn't been able to make it, at Castiel, to the door, and fumbles with the lock. Dean sighs. "Trust me, Cas, now is not the time for Chinese food."
"Why do you keep mentioning China?"
"Why do you keep mentioning China?"
Castiel growls, "I am not." When Dean gets the door open, Castiel's heart leaps to his throat. "It's beautiful." He'll never make it.
"Come on," Dean waits, leaning against the doorframe.
With painful slowness, Castiel begins to crawl along on his belly.
"Are you fucking kidding me." It's not even a question.
Castiel stops, arms trembling, and lets his face fall flat against the carpet.
"Oh, for crying out–"
"You are a liar, Dean Winchester," Castiel declares as Dean goes against his word and drags him the rest of the way into the room.
For that, Dean drops him a foot away from the bed. Petulantly, Castiel holds out his arm, about five inches off the ground, so when Dean comes back from shutting the door he trips and does an impressive face-plant.
Ignoring the accompanying blue streak of swears, Castiel grabs a fistful of Dean's jeans to yank himself forward ("What the hell, Cas? You tryin' topants me?") so that he lies alongside him.
Dean huffs, but can't seem to be bothered to get up. Out of the blue, Dean chuckles. Castiel squints in the darkness, not quite curious but not asleep, yet. "Goddamn, Cas, that was glorious."
Castiel makes some kind of sound that's meant to be questioning, though it's more of a bland grunt more than anything else, he thinks.
"I'm telling you: evolution. Miracle. Something."
Castiel would make some kind of retort, but then he blinks, and he doesn't remember to open his eyes again.
"Rise and shine, ladies!" Light bursts across every available inch, scalding and overwhelming and – "why are you guys on the floor?"
"Go away, Sam!" Dean buries his face in the crook of Castiel's elbow.
"Yes," Castiel agrees, blinking blearily before squeezing his eyes shut.
"You do realize it's four? Practically evening, you two cuddle-bugs." Sam daintily steps over their sprawled-out bodies, sits down on the foot of the bed.
Dean grumbles something indecipherable, but no doubt uncomplimentary.
"I heard that," Sam says, and Castiel wonders, idly, if he did, if his own ears are permanently damaged from the music at the nightclub. They were nice while they lasted. "And, uh, Dean? What was up with that text you sent me? Did you seriously compare Cas's puke to an orgasm?"
"What?"
Castiel cracks one eye open, baffled into mild alertness. "I don't see any relevance whatsoever between the two." He has experience in both matters; he can make this judgment soundly.
"Hey, Dean's the one who–"
"Was not."
"Uh, I have it in my inbox."
Their voices scrape along the inside of Castiel's skull. Is this really necessary? Castiel would like to sleep now, again. Dean waves a hand in the air, "Liar. Go away. I'm tired."
"I agree with D–" Castiel jolts up, back suddenly ramrod-straight. "Excuse me." In what may very well only be one overall motion, Castiel rises and strides over to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a muted click.
"Tell me, that that's not fuckin' magic, Sam – I dare you."
"Whatever you say."