Dean grunts as consciousness drags him to the surface, his body creaking in protest as he starts to move, he must of slept funny. He's vaguely aware that he's sitting, scrubbing his hand down over his face and he yawns. His hand falls into what was unmistakeningly a lap, his eyes shooting open, head snapping to the side, "Sonofa-" his neck cricking from the sudden movement, his brow crinkled in confusion as he takes in the angel sitting next to him, who is most definitely glaring at him...sort of...there's a little wet patch on Cas' shoulder.
"You drooled on my coat," said in the usual monotonous rumble.
Dean's eyebrows shoot up at that. He's actually pissed...and not cause of the tequila. "Dude it's just a coat. A little spit isn't going to hurt it."
"It's the source of my power," and Castiel says it with the same seriousness and intensity he would deliver a warning.
Dean's hung over enough that, that makes a lot of sense, "I knew it!" until it doesn't, and the bastard is actually smirking, "Wait...are you screwing with me?"
"No. Did you want to make intercourse with me?"
"Love," Dean says, as if it's self explanatory, but of course Castiel is giving him the blank stare, "It's make love."
"Love cannot be manufactured."
Dean just fixes him with a look, folding his arms across his chest, "We gonna have a philosophy lesson or are you gonna fuck me?"
