The calm in the chill out room was warm and milky. Delicate ribbons of smoke wafted below the ceiling, tinted blue and green by the soft light of diodes embedded in black plaster. Roar of the music filling the adjacent hall permeated the walls and floor with low, murmuring vibration, but it was quiet enough to talk. Some of the men and women that were lounged on black recliners whispered, purred into each others' ears, skimmed greedy hands over the sweaty skin of their lovers. Others just popped in for a while to catch a breath before returning to the dance floor.

Nobody paid attention to a dark-haired man leaning over a skinny college student; even if someone did, he or she would think that breathing weed fumes into someone's mouth was sexy and probably try it with his or her own date.

A few minutes later, when the college student started to flounder around, wheezing and fighting for breath, those who saw it assumed that it was an effect of drug overdose or allergy.

The dark-haired man was nowhere to be found.

xXx

"What happened to him?"

Sam gave Castiel a stern look, demanding answers. All he could think of was that he was having a deja vu. He'd seen the scene before. Dean leaning heavily on Cas's small frame. His head sagging limply. His shoes draggled and half-untied. A dark trail of blood tainting his chin. Castiel's hair tousled, his tie loosened and his shirt mussy.

This time, however, the angel just sighed and proceeded to haul unconscious Dean into the room. Then he unhooked the man's arm from his shoulders and rested Dean on Bobby's battered coach. The angel was much more gentle than the last time he appeared in Singer's house with Dean like that, though less tender than he could be for his friend. Sam sensed that Castiel was mildly angry with the hunter. Luckily, he wasn't beat-the-soul-out-of-him-pissed; more like who-do-I-have-to-deal-with-pissed.

"I warned him not to drink with Europeans," the angel explained crisply as soon as he made sure Dean was safely tucked in. The hunter lay curled up, snoring boisterously and clinging to Cas's hand with an expression of pure delight on his face. The Seraph made few listless efforts to free the arm, but finally he gave up and sat down on the floor next to the coach.

"Europeans? What do you mean?"

Castiel pursed his lips.

"Dean insisted that I take him to Ireland to a real Irish pub, with soccer supporters, Guinness on tap and a live transmission of a soccer league match..." he trailed off, having noticed the Winchester rising his brow in disbelief mixed with reproof.

"I hope you didn't use the s-word in front of these..." Sam mimicked Cas's deep, husky voice "soccer supporters."

"Pardon?" the angel tilted his head, but after an instant, there was a spark of understanding "Oh, yes. I am afraid we did. Apparently they prefer to call this sport football and it is a matter of great importance to them. That's why Dean is..." he run his finger from the corner of his mouth down to his chin "Don't worry," he added, "I healed him. I simply decided there was no point removing the blood while he is still so bedraggled."

"If you healed him, why is he unconscious?" The younger Winchester's amusement was still somewhat beclouded by concern for his brother.

"Because..." The Seraph explained in a magisterial tone, perhaps bristling at Sam's noticeable mistrust. The man couldn't really tell. Recognizing the thin line between a normally austere Castiel and an abnormally austere Castiel required experience that he lacked, "He was unaware that in Europe it is customary to drink alcoholic beverages with ethanol content much higher than here. I find it... pleasurable," he added with a microscopic, smug half-smile, "but Dean's metabolism is not accustomed to 70%, thrice distilled whiskey."

It wasn't until then that Sam realized that the angel was slightly tipsy. He sighed and rolled up his eyes, trying to imagine the amount of alcohol required to affect Castiel. As far as he remembered, it took two fifths of Jim Beam to get him to feel anything and a whole liquor store to leave him hammered.

"Can't you just un-blast him?" he inquired doubtfully, rising one eyebrow and pointing at his brother with a limp hand.

"I could, but I believe it is reasonable to let him sleep. It's evening here, but in Dublin it was 4 AM."

Sam yawned. Perhaps Cas was right. Moreover, they certainly did deserve a couple of days off after the confrontation with Lady Midday that had nearly killed all three of them. Still, from the moment the hunter caught the track of a case, there was this itch that needed to be scratched.

"The thing is that there may be a case. I'm quite sure it's something for us. I'd really like Dean to take a look."

Castiel gingerly worked his arm out of Dean's vice-like grip. It was greeted with a disgruntled murmur, but the man did not wake up.

"May I?" the angel asked with a small gesture toward the laptop. He scanned the notes, ignoring Sam's admonitory look.

"Are you going to... erm... Work with us now? Don't you have some business in Heaven?"

Cas shot him a quizzical glance. Once again, Sam had this zany impression that it was on the alarming side of the angel's perpetual solemnity.

"Don't get me wrong," Sam added hastily, "You're always welcome. What I mean is that, well," the hunter cleared his throat. It didn't help. Neither did scratching the back of his neck. He had no idea where he was heading, "Dean gets this family-thing really serious. And he likes you. The fact that you let him get commode-hugging drunk might be a factor..." he made a wry face when Dean started to murmur something that might have been a football chant he had picked up, but might as well have been anything else; there was no hint of a distinct melody in this groan, although Dean seemed pleased with his rendition of whatever-the-hell-it-was. Having finished singing, he smiled even wider in his sleep and clicked his tongue a few times with contentment.

Castiel bristled:

"He is a grown up man. I can't see why..."

"Chill, really." Sam rose his hands in a calming gesture "It was a friendly poke. I know you wouldn't let him get hurt. All I'm saying that it used to be the two of us, you know. Twenty four - seven. If there are any changes ahead..." he lost the thread halfway the sentence, having realized that he had no right to ask this kind of questions. Luckily, the angel did not mind.

"Not that I know of," he replied a bit quieter than usually, then fixed his look on the laptop screen.