Dean doesn’t know what’s more disturbing; that Castiel – the angel with a stick up his ahem – wants to try weed or that Dean has seen the future Castiel indulge in more drugs than any one man ever should.
Castiel says he caught teenagers in the parking lot of the motel consuming something ‘grown from the earth’ – good way to describe a drug, by the way – but Dean has a feeling the angel just happened upon some rebellious teens getting buzzed on TV while Dean was out buying lunch.
Once again, which is the worst evil; an angel watching Degrassi or getting stoned? Dean can’t tell anymore. How has his life become an afterschool special?
Castiel stares at Dean, and how his frown deepens. Slowly, the wheels of decision come to a halt in Dean’s head.
“Fine,” Dean grits out, “but I’m finding the dealer for us. I don’t want you having ten million chemicals you don’t need, dude.”
“The effects will not last more than a day, and the damage that is meant to be permanent will have dissolved when my vessel replenishes itself,” Castiel explains dryly.
“Fine, whatever,” Dean snaps. He dials the number of…someone he knows. Everyone’s been a little experimental with drugs as a teen; Dean just prefers the taste of booze. “You better not get hooked on this crap.”
Castiel inhales deeply, too much for a first-timer, so Dean snatches the joint away. He looks elsewhere when Castiel protests by scowling at him, still holding in the breath.
“Blow it out, Cas,” Dean orders. He takes a puff of his own, holding it between two fingers, chest filling with toxic, delicious fumes.
Castiel grunts, but blows out what he had sucked in – right in Dean’s face. Conscious decision or not?
Dean thinks it is.
Castiel’s never been less like an angel than he is now; sprawled out, legs spread wide, trench coat off one shoulder, eyes slightly reddened, and a dopey expression on his face. Dean laughs at the ridiculous image the angel makes, head tipping back against the sofa.
Castiel leans over to take the joint from Dean’s fingers, but Dean moves it away easily. It seems to have dulled Castiel’s superb, angelic reflexes. Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, arm still outstretched, his body pressing to Dean’s side. Dean moves it further away. Castiel frowns, wiggling his fingers to grab it now, his coat falling in a heap to the floor.
“Cas.” Dean laughs, holding it above his head. “You’re so high right now, and you don’t even realize.”
“I am seated on the sofa with you, Dean,” Castiel deadpans. “I am not physically above you.”
Dean keeps laughing, holding his stomach. Castiel frowns, and gives up trying to snatch the joint away.
“Oh man,” Dean wheezes. “That was the funniest thing in ages.”
Castiel pretends to look off to the side, and reaches for the joint again, trying to catch Dean off-guard. Dean lets Castiel take it from him, though. Castiel deserves a reward for making Dean’s sides hurt from laughter.
Castiel takes another long drag, and Dean steals it again, taking a few, small tokes. (Combined, they equal a greater intake than Castiel’s single one.) It’s all about tricking the amateurs. Also, Dean may still have the image of that 2014 version of Castiel at the back of his mind. It’s nagging at him, urging him to keep Castiel safe and predictable.
How fucked up is it that even this epic buzz can’t keep that fear out?
Castiel tries to steal the joint back, but his arm falls like jelly onto Dean’s lap instead. Dean shoots him a glare, but Castiel just announces, “I feel odd.”
Giving him a once over, Dean confirms, “You’re totally high, Cas.”
“I am not—” Castiel begins to chuckle softly, and that is just about the freakiest thing Dean’s heard in a year.
Castiel continues, giggling now, his hand dragging across Dean’s lap to cover his mouth. And nope, that’s definitely freakier. His fit of laughter goes on, his face contorted with it, and Dean feels something swelling in his chest.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Dean is laughing, too. The joint is still between his fingers, but it’s almost completely burnt out by the time he can stop shaking, crying, smacking Castiel’s shoulder and rolling on the floor – literally rolling, no wonder those internet geeks use that – so he passes it to the angel willingly.
“You can have the rest, man.” Dean wipes his eyes, his face red and sweaty in places. “I can’t deal with another one of those attacks.”
Castiel beams, pulling it into his lungs with his crazy vacuum suction power, and it disappears out of sight when he’s done.
“Where did it—” An unlit one appears on the table in front of them. “You got another one?!” And so freakin’ fast, too.
“It is a thank-you for sharing this experience with me,” Castiel explains. “I will not consume any of it. It is for you alone.”
Dean is still on the floor, rubbing his side as he notices how content and relaxed the angel is. He’s calmer, satisfied. Maybe it wasn’t so bad letting Castiel try this out after all. “Thanks, Cas.” For not turning into that other guy.
The sound of a motor crunching through bones booms out of Castiel’s stomach. Dean would laugh if his stomach didn’t growl almost as angrily right after.
Dean stands, rolls his shoulders, and picks up Castiel’s coat on the floor. “Wanna get some burgers?”
Castiel reaches out, but his arm falls limp onto his lap. It seems to have hit him harder than they both expected. “Can we have it delivered to us instead?” He smiles awkwardly, hopeful.
“I’ll go get us some, Cas.” Dean snorts, shaking his head. “Stay here and watch some TV. I’ll be back in a bit.”
It’s exactly what he expected to find. Okay, not exactly.
Dean returns to the motel with their warm, fresh burgers, and Castiel is passed out on the couch. His face is pressed into the sofa cushion, his coat over his body like a blanket. He doesn’t even stir when Dean puts the fast food in front of him.
A Sesame Street re-run is playing quietly in the background. Elmo shares the word of the day: friendship.
That seems like a pretty impressive sign from God, even to Dean who’s a skeptic at heart. Castiel’s going to be just fine. And if he wakes up later still wanting to break rules and be a bad-angel, Dean will just have to show him the wonders of the porn channel instead. Sam’s not due back for a few more hours; two not-related dudes watching porn is significantly less bad.
“Dean.” Castiel’s brow furrows, his fingers squeezing around his glass of rum. “Why does that man like to penetrate the woman with his fist? She seems to dislike it.”
Dean thinks it better not to encourage him, so he doesn’t answer. He shifts in his seat when Castiel makes a humming sound.
A few minutes later, Castiel has another question. “Dean. That woman is having trouble breathing. Why is she not removing his erection from her mouth?”
That shouldn’t be answered by anyone who wants to keep half their dignity. Aware of Dean not wanting to answer, Castiel stays silent.
Dean coughs, pretends to clear his throat, and crosses his legs to hide – you know.
Castiel looks down at his own pants. Dean notices; pretends he doesn’t. He knocks back his shot. Castiel looks over at Dean, eyes wide and guilty. Dean sighs, and uncrosses his legs to show that they’re in the same predicament. The guilt doesn’t leave Castiel’s face.
It’s okay , Dean wants to say. It’s normal to get turned on during these movies. But thinking it and saying it are two very different actions. Instead, Dean pats Castiel on the back, and Castiel – who did not expect physical contact – lets out a shuddering, shaky breath. The guilt looks worse than before now.
And then the dots connect in Dean’s head. It took a while, yeah, but he gets it.
“C’mere, Cas. Let me teach you about something we just saw.”
If anyone’s going to take another first from Cas, it’s going to be the right(eous) man.