Actually, meeting up in Texas wasn't as bad as Dean had expected. Limited understanding of human social skills notwithstanding, Cas at least seemed reluctant to bring up dream-world blowjobs with Sam around. So, Dean stuck to his brother like glue for an afternoon, as they looked through thirty years' worth of microfiche of suspicious deaths, and a very awkward crisis was averted.

The actual hunt could have gone a little better, though.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded as they high-tailed it down a two-lane highway, Dean bleeding freely onto his baby's passenger seat.

"That, Sammy, was one pissed-off chupacabra," Dean said, checking the rearview. "Drive faster."

"Exactly," Sam said. "One chupacabra. One. Didn't even make it inside the house it was guarding, and here you are, ruining your own upholstery. You want to explain that one to me?"

By this time, Dean was having a truly shitty night. "You were there," he said, curling onto his uninjured side so that he faced away from his annoying, overly perceptive brother.

"Are you keeping pressure on that?" Sam asked, looking over to his brother in the faint yellow glow of a streetlight, and just being able to make out his brother giving him the finger with one blood-stained hand.

"You're right," Sam added after a minute's quiet. "I was there. And I saw you almost get your arm bitten off because you got distracted by the, the moonlight glistening on Cas' cheekbones, or something."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Did he dazzle you?" Sam demanded.

Dean groaned, eyes drifting closed. "You are such a dick."

"I learned from the best."

And so they bitched back and forth all the way to the motel. But Dean stayed conscious and kept pressure on his wounds, and that was the important thing.

In the yellowy light of their motel room, Sam cut his brother out of another plaid shirt, and together they worked their way through most of a fifth of whiskey as Sam patched him up.

Once the worst of the wounds were sewn up, though, Sam felt compelled to ask. "So Dean. Is there, uh. Something you want to talk about?"

"Actually, there is," Dean said, taking another swig directly from the bottle.

Sam looked up from the patch of gauze he was attaching to his brother's bicep with most of a roll of medical tape.

"Did you hear they're remaking Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously?"

Dean ignored him. "No Whedon, no original cast? It's gonna be a disaster. Ow," he added as Sam squeezed his arm a little tighter in order to get his attention.

"You were mauled, Dean. Are you really going to bullshit me on this?"

Dean spent a moment trying to judge how pissed Sam was at him, how much he'd have to atone, and how long it would take to live this down.

Finally, Dean fixed his eyes on the ceiling and said, "…If I say no, are you gonna join PFLAG?"

"Technically, angels are genderless," Sam said, tearing off the end of the tape and fishing in the first aid kit for some butterfly bandages.

"What, have you checked? Don't answer that."

"Look. I'm just saying. It doesn't have to be a big deal. Just do your thing, and next time don't let it get you beat to shit. Deal?"

"I'm sorry, what exactly is 'my thing'?" Dean said.

"You know. Claim to be an astronaut, buy him a drink with a cherry in it, show him your car. I've watched you do it like at least a hundred times."

Dean blinked at him.

"Actually, he's perfect for you," Sam said, taking the bottle out of Dean's hand and pouring himself a glass like he was pouring orange juice. "You finally met someone who won't realize you steal all your pick-up lines from Han Solo."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Huh," said Dean. "In a lifetime of pumping weird shit full of rock salt, I think this is the strangest conversation I've ever had with you. Well done."

"Cheers," Sam said, and finished the rest of his drink in one go.


Naturally, the real insult to injury came later, when Dean had fallen asleep (propped on his side by about five pillows, to avoid rolling over on any fresh injuries).

"Okay, man," he told the Castiel standing in front of him in a classroom he vaguely remembered as being somewhere in Virginia. Or was it West Virginia? "This is all getting a little too Inception for my taste."

Cas just frowned at him. Which, combined with the fact that he was wearing all eighteen layers of his usual outfit, seemed to be a decent indication that this Castiel was the genuine article.

"So, what brings you by my humble subconscious?" Dean asked, taking a seat on the edge of the teacher's desk and picking up a glass paperweight that seemed to contain a dead jellyfish.

"I came as a favor to you," Castiel said, ignoring the way Dean's eyebrows shot up. "I thought this would be the most expedient way to discuss the current situation."

"Okay, shoot," Dean said, beginning to open desk drawers at random. Yeah, this had to be West Virginia. Middle school, maybe? The good old days, when he'd been able to make short jokes at Sam's expense rather than the other way around.

"The other night," Castiel began. "When I observed you in the act of-"

Dean suddenly realized he did not want to hear Castiel complete that sentence.

"Hey, what can I tell you?" he interrupted. "Brains get up to some weird shit when left to their own devices. I mean, when I was eight, I had nightmares about the air conditioner from The Brave Little Toaster every night for an entire summer."

"Dean."

"You'd think it'd be zombies or werewolves or something, but no. I was afraid of home appliances."

"Dean."

"Yes?" Dean said. "Present."

"I'd prefer to resolve this," Castiel said. "I understand that I put you in an awkward position, for which I apologize, but we do have larger problems to contend with."

Dean blinked at him for a minute. "Wait, so, it's back to business as usual? You're not pissed?"

Cas gave him a bemused look. "Dean, in your vast repertoire of character flaws, this is hardly the one I'm most concerned about."

"Well, thanks for that pep talk, coach."

Castiel frowned faintly, but didn't seem to have anything to add.

"Guess I'll be waking up now," Dean said, after a few more seconds of awkward silence. "I'm sure it's been like at least half an hour since I passed out in a bloody heap."

"No. You'll sleep until morning," Castiel said, a simple statement of fact. "Dreamlessly."

"Hey-" Dean began, but Castiel was gone, and the classroom was already fading to black. "Good talk," he muttered to no one in particular, and true to Castiel's word, fell into a peaceful slumber.