The world was going to hell. Again. The cold burn of alcohol slid down his throat, numbing the fire sitting within his chest. The world was going to hell, and Sam was gone.

Dean dropped the beer bottle onto the bunker table and looked at the empty chair across from him. Sam was gone — taken by that bastard. Anger flashed through his green eyes as he stared at the nothingness, and his fingers tightened around the cold glass of his drink. How had this happened? It was just a routine job in a small Nebraskan town. Get in, get out, local authorities would be none the wiser. They had just gotten back from the graveyard and he had been there.

Dean looked down at the books that lay scattered across the table, their words swimming through his blurred vision. He still had no idea what he was looking for. They had walked into the room, and the man had just been … there. Just standing there in the middle of the room, clothed in black, just … waiting. Dean had barely had time to draw his weapon before the ground disappeared from beneath his feet, and that was it.

Lights out.

"Dammit." Dean ran a hand down his face, the ring on his hand drawing a cool line down his flushed cheek. His eyes burned, and he finished off his drink to keep the tears at bay. He couldn't cry; not now. Sam was out there somewhere.

"Dean?" The low, worried rumble of Castiel's voice had the hunter turning his head away, blinking desperately to try and rid the tears. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Cas." Dean winced as his words hitched, and he cleared his throat as he set his beer down. "Uh, just trying to figure out who this son of a bitch is. What about you?" He finally turned to look the angel in the face, unsurprised to see the concern sparkling in those blue eyes. "Find anything?"

"Nothing." The angel shifted nervously on the stone floor, glancing off towards the far wall as if something had caught his eye, and Dean couldn't help but follow his gaze for a second. There was nothing there, as per usual, and he turned back to the amassing books and notes that scattered the long, wooden table. "What about you?"

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know." Dean gestured vaguely towards a nearby book which depicted the medieval portrait of a monstrous creature, black horns protruding from his head and a forked tongue sneaking out from behind its mouth. "I mean, we don't even know what we're up against, Cas. Hell, all we know for sure is that it comes and goes with a big-ass ball of light, but it sure as hell ain't like any angel we've ever seen."

Castiel approached, and Dean leaned slightly to his left as the angel's arm brushed against his shoulder. Heat flushed through his cheeks, thankfully disguised by the alcohol. The angel barely seemed to notice as he pulled the book nearer. "Who is this?" he prompted, finger tracing over the page.

"Uh, Dymanos." Dean shrugged as he took another drink. "Suppose to be, uh, son of the devil or something like that." He pushed the book out of Cas' hands. "It's a demon, Cas. That's all it means. Some stupid ass mythology about demons." He frowned as the angel tried to pull the book back towards him, and he gave the binding a hard shove, sending it and many others thudding to the ground. "I said it's not important!" he snapped, fire flashing in his eyes.

"Dean. Stop it." Castiel's jaw set into a tight line, pale, pink lips pursed, and Dean felt his eyes focus on them, on the way he caught a glimpse of white teeth when the angel spoke. "Dean. Dean." Exasperation weighed down the angel's voice, rumbling deep within his throat, and Dean tore his eyes away, blinking in surprise as he refocused on Castiel's eyes. How drunk was he? A quick glance across the table answered his question. Very, apparently. He was very, very drunk.

The hunter pulled himself to his feet, not surprised to find that the ground swayed beneath his feet. "I'm going to bed," he announced, picking up his beer. "I just —" He swayed a little too far to the left, and he jerked back to the right in surprise. "I'm done." He took a step forward, and a frown darkened his face when he found his way blocked by a warm, strong arm. He looked over to his right, eyes narrowed as he studied the angel's face. He didn't look happy.

He felt a warm hand against his, the fingertips slightly rough and calloused, and with the grogginess of his mind he couldn't quite place why Castiel's hand was against his.

A sharp pull cleared it all up immediately. The mostly-empty bottle was yanked away and then all contact was gone as Castiel drew away to place the bottle back onto the table. Dean watched it go, unable to help the small, childish pout the tugged on his lips. "Really, Cas?" he scoffed. A witty retort sat on the tip of his tongue, and Dean hesitated, but he couldn't seem to get it out which left him staring at the angel, mouth hanging half-open as he tried to find his voice.

It never came, and eventually Castiel cleared his throat. "Dean. Perhaps you should go to bed." He moved forward, black dress shoes silent on the cold, stone floor.

"Yeah I should — what're you doing?" Dean watched as a hand came to rest on his back, gently but insistently nudging him onwards. "Cas? I — I can find my way back to my own room," he finally got out with a scornful note. It lost its potency, however, when he almost stumbled over the floor. Dammit. In hindsight, perhaps starting with all that whiskey wasn't the best idea. Liquor before beer his ass.

The angel was there to steady him, his strong arms keeping him upright. "Somehow I doubt that," Castiel murmured under his breath, but Dean didn't get around to answering as the seraph led him away.