"Cas?" Sam looked rout the window and whispered his name, hoping that he would answer his prayers for once. He was so tired of Dean and Cas' 'profound bond', bullshit. Why couldn't he just come when he was needed, instead of trying to impress Dean by entering the situation where he was needed fashionably late. He was sick of it.
"Sam?"
He turns, and is greeted by the familiar trench-coated angel.
"Cas, I..." He falters. "I didn't expect you to come."
"What made you think I wouldn't answer your prayer?" He asks in his casual way.
"You don't usually... Unless Dean spouts some crap... Well you have no idea how glad I am to see your feathery ass down here."
Sam goes to stand up and hug him, but then thinks better of it, pretending he was just shifting his posture from sitting on the hard, wooden window seat for so long.
"Is Dean here?" Castiel asks. Sam is riled.
Everything is about Dean. Everything! He's the one who can save the world, kill some sons of bitches, and get the girl, all in one fell swoop, while little Sammy-wammy is stuck behind, trying to clean up all the shit from his past, trying to immerse himself in guilt in the hopes that he will find a way to stop being such a disgustingly repulsive human being. I'm not even human now, He thinks. He is still technically human, but if you don't feel human, how can you say you are?
"Upstairs, why don't you just look for him yourself?"
"I'd rather not dig into his privacy so much.I feel that I owe it to him after all that he's been through." There we go again with goddamn Saint Dean.
"Whatever, see you." He stands up, stretching out his stiff muscles, walking over to the table and grabbing his jacket and wallet, slipping Dean's keys into his pocket. He hears a sigh, and the ruffle of wings behind him, and he is alone in the room.
The bar is hot, and the whiskey burns like fire down his hoarse throat. Dulling pain with pain, how ironic.
A girl is looking at him from across the bar. She's surprisingly pretty, he thinks.
Dark hair, bright eyes. He looks her over and sees she's not wearing the bar's regular girl's clothing of a short skirt and revealing shirt, but blue jeans and a t-shirt that says 'keep calm and carry on'. He likes her, but maybe she wasn't looking at him. Sam looks behind him and can't see anyone but a few old bald guys cackling away at something. He makes a bold move and asks the bar tender over.
"Could you send a whiskey to the girl over there?" He points to her. "Neat." He adds, before the barman asks. He receives a nod of understanding and the man goes to the cabinet and pulls out a bottle, checking the label. Hey, Sam thinks, he's getting her the good stuff. A smile crosses his face for a second.
Most men wouldn't dare send neat whiskey to a girl in a bar, but Sam did. Because Sam saw the tattoo.