Going drinking with his little brother was pretty awesome. Dean felt like they were finally starting to get along again for the first time in a long time. Even though these outings usually ended with one of them, Dean more than Sam, getting the shit kicked out of them, it was worth it.

About an hour later, the conversation swiveled from odd childhood memories ("remember how you fell out of that tree after that Black Dog chased you up there?" "Yeah, and I also remember the time you got poison ivy after a stakeout in the woods.") to angels ("dude, they're such dicks." "I know, man.").

"He thinks you're, like, holy, or somethin'," Sam said, leaning heavily on the bar.

"Who?" Dean asked, tipping back his beer for another gulp.

"Cas. He stares at you all the time, like, you're glowing or have three arms or somethin'," Sam replied, gesturing in Dean's face with one hand, leaning up so close that Dean could smell his nacho-beernut-alcohol-breath.

"I think you've had enough," Dean said, moving to take his brother's half-full bottle. Sam grabbed his arm in a firm but wobbly grip.

"I think he wants to do you, man," Sam said, tilting dangerously towards Dean.

"Who says 'he wants to do you'? That was lame, Sammy," Dean said, knowing better than to listen to Sam's drunken theories. According to him banshees had the hots for golfers and the Ghostfacers' webcast was somewhat funny after you got past the migraine inducing amateurism.

" Shu'p. I bet the only reason he hasn't already tied you to a bed is because premarital sex is a sin," Sam said, leaning back into his chair.

Dean had to shake off that mental image before he could respond.

"And the whole gay sex thing," Dean said, trying to shake that idea right out of Sam's head.

"N'uh," Sam replied, "it says gay sex is bad right next to where it says women can't wear pants, and look'it Anna."

"You are such a drama queen drunk," Dean said. Sam tried to cuff him in the back of the head, but overbalanced and landed on the floor. Dean laughed so hard he spit beer.


After admitting that they probably should have stopped drinking around the time Sam started falling off of shit, Dean left the bar supporting a semi-comatose six-foot-four deadweight.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean muttered, holding Sam's arm around his shoulder, "pretty fuckin' heavy for a lightweight." Sam mumbled something in response that might have been "shu'p, m'tired." Dean shook his head disapprovingly as he sidled up to the car, walking oddly to keep Sam's bulk away from the back door. Maneuvering like he had a large, and rather uncooperative, growth protruding from his right hip, he opened the back door and carefully plopped Sam down in the back seat, tucking him in slowly to prevent marring the upholstery.

Sam out of the way, Dean walked around to the driver's side door, his knees wobbling with the sudden change in body mass. He may have been the slightest bit drunk…

And, unless he was a lot drunker than he thought, Castiel had not been sitting in the driver's seat when he'd put Sam in the back. Freaking angel powers.

"Cas," Dean said, the 's' coming out as a 'z' , making him sound sloshed. More sloshed.

"Dean," Castiel replied, and Dean felt a giggle rising up in his throat at the seriousness in the angel's voice. He suppressed it, but probably didn't quite hide his smirk.

"So…" Dean said, "why're you here?"

"If you drive in this condition, you will kill yourself," Castiel said, throwing Dean for a loop. Normally when the angel showed up it was all 'doom and gloom, the world's going to end' not 'friends don't let friends drive drunk.' Dean snorted. Castiel looked at him disapprovingly--or, as disapprovingly as he could without actually moving his facial muscles. It was all in the eyes.

Still, Dean complied, even though it was his car, and walked around to the passenger's side door, settling into Sammy's usual seat.

"D'you drive?" Dean asked. He got his answer when the engine turned itself on, the keys still being in Dean's back pocket, and Castiel easily put it in drive. "They got driver's ed up in heaven?"

"I have been watching you," Castiel said, eyes fixed firmly on the road as he pulled out of the parking lot. Dean, ever the chatty drunk, decided that the car was too quiet and said the first thing that popped into his head.

"Sam says you want to fuck me." Okay, that probably wasn't a good one. Castiel turned his head slowly around, eyes slightly widened and forehead creased. He probably would've had a similar look if Dean had suddenly grown a second head.

"That would be a sin," Castiel said. Not 'of course not', just that it would be a sin.

"We could get married," Dean said helpfully. Cas' incredulous look went from two headed Dean to three headed scaly Dean. "No, really, we could go to Vegas," Dean said, leaning into Castiel, who was driving quite well for someone not looking at the road. "They marry people all the time. Sam could be my best man, Uriel could be your-- you're the girl, by the way-- maid of honor, only not in a dress, 'cause that'd be scary-"

"Dean," Castiel said sharply. The 'shut the fuck up' was more implied than stated. He turned his head back to the road, and Dean reluctantly followed suit.

"I have a ring…" Dean said, fumbling it off of his right hand, not looking at Cas. He held it out to the angel between the tips of his left forefinger and thumb. His hand was shaking from the alcohol, and absolutely nothing else.

He felt Castiel's fingers brush his as the angel took the ring. Neither of them looked at each other as Cas slipped it onto his finger.

"You may now kiss the bride!" Sam yelled from the back seat, startling them both. A horn honked as the car swerved.

"How long have you been awake?" Dean said, spinning around to face Sam.

"Long enough to know that Uriel's gonna be the maid of honor," Sam said, grinning drunkenly. Dean could only hope that he wouldn't remember this in the morning.