"Oh, hey," Sam shut the door behind himself, a paper bag rustling in his hand. "You're upright."

Dean turned away from the suddenly empty space in front of him, fixing his expression to neutral. The edge of his lips still tingled from the press of Castiel against them.

"You hungry? I brought Chinese."

"Nah, I'm good." Dean threw a thumb over his shoulder toward the bed, where only a few crumbling bites remained in a nearly empty tin. "I had dinner."

The brother raised a brow, blowing air out his nose. He noticed an odd stiffness in Dean's demeanor when he had come in to find him standing in the middle of the room, but didn't ask. He said with a hint of sarcasm, "Well, if nothing else, I knew you'd come back for the pie."

"Yeah…About that," Dean crossed to the tiny motel closet, grabbed a shirt, and mumbled into it as he pulled it over his head, "Sorry to have worried you."

"Hey, no problem," Sam said lightly as he settled in at the table, pulling out some wooden chopsticks and popping them apart. "I got your message, so I knew you weren't dead."

He had heard the squeals and the thumping beat nearly drowning out the cryptic words recorded on his voicemail, but mentioned neither of these things. Sam eyed his brother. "Do I even want to know?"

Dean flopped onto his designated motel bed, throwing his arm over his face to cover his eyes in the crook of his arm.

"Nope."

"'Kay."

The only sound for several moments was the slurping of noodles from one side of the room. Sam noticed the chair he sat in was devoid of a certain coat that had been previously draped over the back when last he left, but he didn't say anything about it.

The movement of Dean's arm falling from his face drew a glance from Sam, who surmised from his previous condition the elder brother was in pretty bad shape. But the weight of his body on the bed didn't hold the lethargy and sluggishness Sam had come to know meant his brother was hungover, and the stare of Dean's eyes towards the ceiling held a certain agitation unusual for him the day after a successful hunt.

"How you feeling?" was all Sam asked.

"Like a ray of sunshine."

"You seem…better."

"Yeah, I bounce back," Dean shifted on the bed, placing the tin of pie on the table next to a mostly full bottle of whiskey. Sam noticed it, but said nothing. Dean cleared his throat and asked absent-mindedly, "Anything interesting at the library?"

"Books. Newspapers." Sam shrugged, attention seemingly on the pile of soy-laden noodles before him.

"Come across anything? Anything interesting?"

Dean's voice was far-off, as if distracted. Sam shook his head.

"Nothing unusual. No cases yet."

"Hm."

Dean's head leaned back against the headboard, eyes closed.

Sam asked with a mouthful, "You wanting to hit the road, or…?"

Dean was silent a moment, seeming to weigh this decision with extensive deliberation.

"Guess we could do another night," he concluded finally. "Might as well, right?"

Sam nodded, chasing the food into his mouth with the chopsticks. "Sounds good to me."

In the quiet, Dean reached to the remote, mashing a button and bringing the black box to life. Sam turned over his shoulder, staring at the television in surprise.

"Oh, it works?" he asked.

Dean hesitated only a second.

"Why wouldn't it?"

"I thought it was—I couldn't get it to—" Sam frowned, shaking his head. He gave a 'huh' alongside a shrug, turning back to his food. The rapid flipping of channels was the only sound for several minutes, filling the room with a succession of half-finished sentences and interrupted sound effects. Sam slurped out of a straw, noticing Dean's eyes weren't even on the TV.

"Any plans tonight, then?" Sam asked casually. "Or just gonna chill in the room?"

Dean was silent a long moment, which drew a curious glance from the younger brother. He meant it as an idle question, not expecting it to hold so much consideration.

Finally, Dean answered in a guarded fashion, "I might go out later."

Sam smirked.

"Gonna come back covered in glitter?"

"Shut up."

Sam pointed the chopsticks at him.

"Hey, when I find you in that condition, I'm entitled to make fun of you."

"Alright, fair," Dean rolled his eyes and grumbled, "But you only get one more—get it out of your system—then I'm beating your ass."

"Deal."

Dean reclined against the headboard, continuing his blasé flipping through channels, the images barely registering to him. His eyes glazed over some baseball game between two teams he didn't care about, and after a few moments Dean swung his feet to the floor, moving to the bathroom.

With a start and a flush across his cheeks, Dean spotted a personal item left on the shower shelf, forgotten in the progression of events. He threw the tube in his bag, shaking his head at himself as he swiped his discarded clothes from where they laid in a sloppy pile on the floor. His shirt and underwear he crumpled under his arm, but the jeans he shook out and began to fold, pausing as a corner of a flat, white object poked out from one of the pockets. Dean pulled it out slowly, eyes scanning each of the pictures from the photo booth in turn as they were revealed from the denim.

The jeans hung loose over his arm, draped absent-mindedly as he stared down at that last photograph, his lip curving up without his notice.

"Heading out?" Sam asked as Dean crossed behind him to the motel room door.

"Just…something in the car," he mumbled, distracted.

"Don't get caught in a paint trap."

"Alright, you're done," Dean gave a noncommittal swipe at his brother's head as he pulled open the door.

Sam dodged easily it with a smirk.

The black trunk flew up, and habitually a tall wooden pole tucked under the hood to prop it open. Dean blinked into the empty space at the back of the car, where a removable lid concealed the vast array of weapons, salt, and tools beneath it, undetectable to anyone who didn't know to look for it.

Hidden from the closed blinds of the motel room window behind the lifted cover, Dean scanned the parking lot. Finding it empty, he took a breath, staring into the open trunk.

"Oh, Castiel," he drawled out the words in a revered sermon, "I pray to thee to make thy angel presence known."

Dean glanced over one shoulder, then the other. He pursed his lips.

"Cas," he dropped the affected voice, speaking low with a slight exasperation. "Wouldya just come down here a sec? I want to talk."

He waited expectantly, casting another look over the empty parking lot. Dean sighed, pulled the wedge of wood from beneath the trunk's cover and dropped it closed, revealing Castiel standing at the front of the car, watching him.

Dean blinked, and then motioned him over hurriedly. Castiel scrunched his brow, then joined Dean at the rear of the car as he reopened the trunk, putting a barrier between them and the motel room window, obscuring them from anyone who might peer out of it.

Castiel said nothing, and instead simply looked at Dean Winchester. The full attention Castiel gave to him made something inside Dean squirm, blue eyes boring into him as if to unveil all the secrets of his soul.

It was clearly his move.

"So…" Dean dragged the word out, rocking back and forth on his feet. Castiel waited. "About that date…"

Castiel's expression shifted ever so slightly, his eyes becoming minutely wider. Dean looked at him and, receiving no feedback, threw his hands out, fingers splayed in a shrug before clapping against his thighs. "Screw it, yeah. Let's do it."

The corner of Castiel's mouth lifted, and Dean shoved his hands into his pockets.

"When?" was all Castiel said.

"When?" Dean ignored a churn in his stomach. "How about tonight? We're sticking around and—Well, you got anything crazy going on upstairs?"

Castiel tipped his head to the side, raising one ear to the sky as if listening. He was quiet a moment before looking back at Dean.

"No pressing matters. We seem to be experiencing a reprieve from major activity."

"Alright then, it's settled."

The two looked at each other, and Castiel caught a flicker of thought behind Dean's eye.

"Are…" Castiel peered into Dean's face, searching uncertainly, "Are you sure?"

"Hey, don't get all demure on me all of a sudden." Dean's countenance shifted as he crossed his arms and leaned solidly against the taillight of the Impala. "If that's what it takes to prove to you I'm serious, then hell, get ready. 'Cause I'm gonna wine and dine the shit out of you."

This Castiel allowed to bring a smile to his lips, and Dean's eyes shifted away as that churn turned flutter.

"So what, seven? I can meet you at, uh…" Dean's mouth quirked to the side in thought. "How about that bar we met at last night? The first one." Dean smiled. "The less sticky one."

Castiel nodded. "I can transport us to—"

"No, no, no," Dean silenced him with a wave of his hand. "I'm in charge here. And we're doing it the old-fashioned way. I'm picking you up."

Castiel acquiesced with a nod, sensing that Dean taking charge was a good sign. "You are the top."

"I'm—the what?"

"The top," Castiel said absolutely.

"I don't even—" Dean's brows drew together and he peeked around the open trunk toward the motel room. "I gotta get back in there. So…seven?"

Castiel nodded once.

"Alright, then. Gives you time to get dolled up," Dean smirked. He straightened from against the car and looked at his foot as it kicked across the asphalt. His eyes shifted to Castiel from beneath his brow. "See you then."

That subtle smile played at the corner of Castiel's lips, which Dean's eyes drifted to. He considered a moment, and pursed his own, beginning to lean in. Before his shoulders moved forward even an inch, Castiel was gone.

Dean blinked, rolling his eyes at himself and his knotted stomach, and threw closed the lid of the trunk.

Sam straightened and closed the door to the mini-fridge, turning as Dean came back into the room. They met eyes a brief moment, a question seeming to seethe behind Sam's analytical expression. Dean diverted to the bed, flopping onto his back and immediately set back to channel-flipping. Sam noticed Dean had returned empty-handed, and was about to inquire, when a chime emanated from his pocket and interrupted his thought.

He pulled out his phone, his brow furrowing deeply as he stared at the message.

"What the…"

Dean noticed the look on his brother's face and sat up, vigilant.

"What is it?"

Sam's eyebrows raised and he pursed his lips as he blinked into the small screen, reading aloud, "Hey Dean's brother! Got this number from Carter. Tell that slut and his otter the next time they're in town to come hit us up! -P."

Sam's face turned from the screen to his brother, contorted in confusion. Dean's stare bore into the TV screen, lips pursed as he shook his head in certain ignorance.

"What the hell is this, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, leaning back against the headboard, one arm propped behind his head.

"No idea," he lied.

"Alright," Sam smirked and muttered under his breath, "Slut."

"Shut up."

Sam noticed the acute attention his brother suddenly gave to the changing channels and the deep scarlet ravaging his face, but said nothing.