"Who needs atmosphere—we're bringing the party home!" The engine purred as Dean wheeled down the street, Red's Den fading in the distance of the rearview mirror. Castiel sat in the passenger's seat, opening and closing his hands into fists. He watched the movement, wondering if he was finally feeling the effects of the alcohol—or just wishing he was. He caught Dean's eye watching him from the driver's side.
"You alright there, Kemosabe?"
Castiel stared blankly, then gave a curt nod. "Perfectly fine."
Dean chuckled, turning his attention back to the road. He gripped the wheel loosely, seeming relaxed as he drove.
"Are you alright?" Castiel countered after a moment.
"Perfectly fine," Dean growled, low in his throat, then cast a smirk towards Castiel.
"Is that supposed to be me?"
"Listen, Cas. It takes a lot more than this to worry me behind the wheel." The road took a sharp turn, and Dean navigated it with smooth confidence, as if on cue. "I almost hate to admit it, but I'm damn near a professional drunk driver."
"Are you drunk?" The question was simple, genuine.
"Not yet. Tolerance can be a bitch." He looked pensively down the road, then threw on his blinker. "But I know a way we can fix it."
The Impala slowed to a roll, waiting for what seemed like the only other car on the road to pass before turning left onto another street. A heavily lit building sat at the end of the long stretch of pavement.
"Screw having to share your misery with strangers—they mark up the prices over four times, d'you know that?" Dean thought of his last tab with the addition of Castiel's participation—far more than enough to get any normal human sloshed in that amount of time. Not that the card he handed over had his name on it, per se, but going shot-for-shot to see how far Castiel's superhuman tolerance went was sure to draw unwanted attention after a while. He glanced to the side again—Castiel hardly seemed affected. "Plus—you leave for two seconds and the cute girls act like they weren't throwing themselves at you a minute ago."
Dean scoffed, and Castiel turned his head toward the window, watching the street poles pass by.
The multi-colored lights came into focus as they approached—Logos advertising various types of beer and liquor the little shop offered. A sign flashed and blinked, scrolling its message across a lighted board: "Beer! …. Liquor! … Cheap! …Open Late!"
A man in a trucker hat shuffled out of the store, gripping the neck of a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. The hum of the black car died with the twist of keys, which Dean shoved into his leather jacket pocket.
"Now, on the plus side, you look damn near 35," Dean sized up the store through the windshield. "So the likelihood of them carding you is pretty slim. You don't have any ID on you, do you?"
Dean eyeballed Castiel, who squinted and shook his head. "Of course not."
"Ah, it'll be fine. There's nothing weird about two grown men buying a crapton of booze." Dean exited the car. Castiel followed.
"Is your sole intention of this evening to," Castiel paused, searching for the right words. "…consume copious amounts of alcohol?"
Dean stopped near the front of his car. A small sigh escaped him and he turned, looking Castiel in the face. He smiled with his mouth, but his eyes cast that same shadow across the green of his irises.
"I want to forget, Cas. And when I'm hell bent on getting something done, you better believe I do it. So let's have some fun, or be miserable—either way, let's just do it intoxicated, alright?"
Castiel gave him a long look, then a small nod.
"And you can keep your snarky, judgmental looks to yourself."
"It is not my place to judge."
"Damn straight."
It was a dingy little place, but it had what he needed. Dean scanned the shelves, eyes landing on a familiar bottle. He B-lined to it.
"Ah, good ol' Johnny Labinkski," he said as he held it, then faced the label towards Castiel, "Kentucky bourbon whiskey."
Castiel furrowed his brow, beholding the rows and rows of bottles. His eyes wandered over them, and he had a vague curiosity of how much it would take for him to become impaired. He turned his attention toward the unfamiliar bottle in Dean's hand, then met his eye.
"What's your poison?" Dean asked.
Castiel turned back to the shelves, squinting with the discomfort of being out of his element in every way, saying, "Alcohol does not affect me as it does your human body."
"Of course not, Superman!" Dean chortled, casting a glance at the store clerk to see if he heard the remark. The cashier turned a page of his newspaper with his free hand, the other propping his chin with an obvious posture of boredom. Dean lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, "No shit, Cas. I just figured if there was something you liked better than others…"
"I know next to nothing of the details regarding this particular…intoxicant. Other than the desire of its continual supply motivated your species' ancestors to evolve the concept of farming."
"I'll bet it did." Dean clapped a hand on Castiel's back, "Well, we've cruised this far on the whiskey train, might as well keep it kosher."
He waved his hand across a shelf with an indecisiveness, then dropped down a row with an "aha!" Dean grabbed a bottle by the neck, handing it to the man in the trench-coat. Then another. Then another. He scanned the shelves, resting his sight on another bottle, and added it to Castiel's ever-filling arms.
"Aaaand, just for good measure," he said, reaching higher this time to a section labeled 'Scotch', "because everyone deserves a treat."
Dean smiled as he grabbed a bottle labeled Cromdale 24 year. He started to hand it to Castiel, then, noting the four already precariously balanced in his arms, carried it with the bourbon in his other hand towards the register.
"Did you find everything alright," The cashier said without inflection, eyes still half-hooded down at the paper below. Dean placed his two bottles on the counter, then unloaded his companion's arms. The clerk glanced up at the two of them when the fifth bottle hit the counter, and raised his brows at the sixth. "You gents throwing a party?"
Dean's "yes" was eclipsed by Castiel's "no." The true answer the more obvious by the irritated look from one man to the other.
"Uh-huh…" The clerk set to scanning the items, placing them one by one in a bag.
"Just, uh...stocking up for the weekend." Dean flashed a grin as he handed over "his" credit card. It faded to a self-conscious smile with no reply, and he busied himself with roaming his eyes around the store.
"Here you go," the cashier said, returning the plastic card and sliding the brown bags of liquor towards the guys. He shifted a look between the two. His eyes lazily dropped back to the paper with a flat, "Have a good night."
Dean took a bag, careful to hold the bottom so it didn't burst through. Castiel watched him, and followed his lead, taking the other bag. The clerk peeked at the door as the opening-bell rang, then shook his head slightly and resumed his indifferent viewing of his newspaper.
"Judgmental bastard," Dean muttered, propping the bag on a knee while he fumbled for his keys.
"How much of this is intended for me?" Castiel looked down into the bag in his arms, calculating.
"As much as it takes, Cas." Dean placed the paper bag in the backseat, then settled behind the wheel. "And let's hope this is enough. You're not a cheap date."
Castiel climbed in after him, resting his own bag of bottles on his lap. "Is this a date?"
"Definitely not," Dean replied, a little too quickly. He started the car. "I mean, does it strike you that way? Do you even know what a date is?"
"It is an agreed-upon time of meeting someone for companionship purposes including the optional addition of food or drink with the intent of romantic development," Castiel rolled off. He looked at Dean, who was focused on turning out of the liquor store parking lot.
"It is considered a precursor to the human mating ritual," Castiel finished.
The car lurched forward and then halted abruptly with the sound of a horn as a truck swerved to miss the front of the Impala sticking out past the curb. Dean grunted in frustration.
"You have a way of making everything sound so…" Dean pursed his lips, searching for the word.
"Is my understanding inaccurate?"
Dean sighed reluctantly. "Not entirely, but…" He glanced to Castiel, who was staring at him with a bizarre intensity. "The whole 'romance' thing isn't exactly what I'm after, y'know? Just the…"
"Mating part…" Castiel finished under his breath, with realization. A burst of air escaped through Dean's wry smile, a sort-of laugh.
"Well, we failed to pick up any chicks, so that makes that game kind of null, doesn't it?"
Castiel adjusted the liquor on his lap, the rustling bag filling the silence. Finally, he attempted softly, "I was not a very good 'wing man.'"
Dean snorted a laugh. "Yeah, well, it's not all your fault. Come back from the can, and she's done a 180 on you."
Castiel recalled the looks shared between the bartender and Dean, the heat, the teasing play. Somehow, he had interrupted it when he was supposed to help. How? He just had a sense that he had failed, but wasn't particularly upset at the outcome. Relieved, almost…
"I am sorry to say your methods of…" Castiel treaded lightly, "..showing affection, the whole ritual, it confounds me. Romance is—"
"Cas, dammit, no one's talking about romance. Just some good, easy sex. Hot-blooded, natural, sex." Dean practically spat. Castiel submitted to silence for a moment, venturing cautiously with his next words.
"I suppose females are required if… if reproduction is the objective."
Dean sighed, heavy. "No, reproduction isn't the objective. Just a good time. Are you capable of having a good time?"
"You know full well I am."
The car screeched to an abrupt halt. A line of exhaust smoke trailed from the tailpipe in the middle of the abandoned road.
Both men stayed silent a moment in the tension that trapped them into motionlessness. Castiel regretted his words.
"I told you." Dean began, his voice a low growl between clenched teeth. "We don't. talk. about that."
"Dean, I—"
"Ever."
His green eyes turned sharp on the angel, piercing into the deep pools of blue. Castiel clenched his teeth, and was gone.
Dean kept his glare cast to the empty space well after the angel had disappeared. He swallowed, shaking his head slightly to himself, and pressed on the gas.
"Asshole," he muttered under his breath, accelerating around a turn. The glass clinked together in the backseat, rustling the paper bag as they fell together with the sharp momentum of the black car.