"One three," Dean says, placing a card face down on the table.

"Two fours," Sam says, throwing in two.

"I don't have any fives."

Sam snorts and Dean puts a hand over his face to hide his own laughter. "Cas," he says, "if you don't have the card, you're supposed to put something else down and pretend it's the right number."

Castiel looks confused and Sam can't stop laughing. "If I do not have the right card," Castiel says, uncomprehending, "and I place something different, it's a lie."

"Exactly," Dean says, "that's why it's called bullshit."

"Man," Castiel says innocently, "would be purer if he told the truth more often."

"This is cards, Cas," Dean replies, "It's not life or death."

They try again. Castiel puts down a six, and Dean bullshits a seven. Sam somehow ended up with all four eights, so he drops them onto the table.

Castiel looks at his hand. "Umm..." he starts, blinking, then finishes with "one nine," and pulls out a card, placing it face-down on the table.

It's so easy, it's not even fun, but Dean calls "bullshit," anyway. He's right of course.

"I don't understand how you can suck so much at this," Dean comments, smirking. "Usually you're so good at lying."

"I only conceal what is necessary," Castiel responds, then throws Dean's words back at him, reminding him that it's just cards, not life or death.

Sam's still laughing, and Dean tells him to shut up and go get some more beer. Sam would normally ignore him except that, well, they are out of beer.

As soon as Sam is gone, Dean says "I hate him."

"What?" Castiel asks in disbelief.

"Call bullshit," Dean says. "We're going to practice your lying skills. Because seriously, dude, twelve-year-olds can play this game. I'm fucking embarrassed for you. Ready? I hate Sam."

"Bull... bullshit," Castiel says.

"See?" Dean says, smirking, "Not so hard. Your turn."

"I... don't know," Castiel says.

"Fine," Dean responds, "I'll do it. You—you don't have any doubts."

"Bullshit," Castiel says quietly.

"You don't like killing demonic sonsofbitches."

"Bullshit," Castiel repeats. The word gets easier to say each time.

"You don't find me incredibly attractive," Dean says, taking a sip from the bottle of beer from the six-pack that he's had sitting just out of sight.

"Bullsh—" Castiel trails off. Dean is pleased to finally know that angels do, in fact, blush.

"It's cool," Dean says, "I don't find you incredibly attractive either." Castiel only has a chance to choke out the first syllable of the necessary word before Dean's lips are on his. Dean straddles him, fingers in Castiel's hair and lips on his neck, his cheeks, his ear, his lips. Dean's hips grind against the angel's as he whispers "I don't want you."

And Castiel pulls Dean forward by the collar of his shirt so that his lips are in Dean's ear before he whispers back, "bullshit."

The next night, they try a different card game and, as it turns out, when Castiel isn't forced to directly lie about his cards, and when he isn't trying in vain to retain his self-control as Dean pushes inside him, he really does have an excellent poker face.