"...but you kept trying to highlight my face because you said I was important"

[onparkbenches]

[When Dean had suggested that he take a break from his search for God for a night, Castiel had agreed- bone-weary and discouraged, he'd decided it might be wise to rest and collect his strength, expected a quiet night of relaxation- he hadn't expected to wind up at Bobby Singer's, sitting on the couch and reaching for yet another shot Dean had lined up for him on the battered and pockmarked coffee table.

He's lost count of how many he's had by this point; he knows only that it's more than he'd had in Carthage, which puts him at just below wasted on the human scale of drunkenness. Not that he's aware of it, no, the only things he's aware of are the slight blur around his vision and the way the ground seems to be tilting under him when he closes his eyes for too long.]

I think. [He pauses.] I think I'm definitely starting to feel something.

[He glances over at Dean, squinting just a bit, and gives him a small smile.]