Dean said no. Charlie was crazy and Dean didn't believe in all that crap. So he said no.
That was about eight (or nine?) shots of tequila ago. Then he figured, what the hell? What's the harm in humoring Charlie for a few minutes? After all, she did bring a massive meat-lovers pizza and a birthday pie.
So here he is now, full and sated, clutching the nearly-empty bottle of Patrón to his chest as his best friend flips through a huge, leather-bound book.
“Where did you even get that thing?” Dean asks, watching Charlie's brow furrowing in concentration.
“Gilda found it in an old Wicca store.”
“Right,” Dean says dubiously. An old Wicca store. Where you find ancient tomes on summoning thousands-of-years-old sex gods. Or so it says.
“Crush these,” his friend tells him, handing him a little mortar full of “magical” crap and a pestle. Dean takes another swig of alcohol because Jesus Christ, he's in fucking potions class at Hogwarts right now.
“Yes, Professor Snape,” Dean teases, earning him a flick on the nose that he falls over backwards trying to dodge. Righting himself, he gets to work, fumbling drunkenly a few times and almost dropping the bowl while Charlie sighs in exasperation.
“This is so dumb,” he tells her, handing her the bowl of herbs that may as well be oregano for all he knows.
“No, what's dumb is how long it's been since you've gotten laid.”
So Dean hasn't been feeling up to mindless hookups these past few months. And yeah, he's been lonely, but not lonely enough to merit a voodoo séance over.
“Come on, Mr. Grumpy Gills. You can't tell me you don't want a piece of that.” Charlie shoves the book in his face and Dean has to lean back in order to make out what she's trying to show him.
His vision is swimming but he can tell that the guy in the picture is hot. For a fictional “god of passion.”
“Whatever,” Dean grumbles.
“Okay, we're ready,” Charlie says, sprinkling whatever he crushed all over his coffee table.
“Hey! You're so cleaning that up.”
“Read this,” she tells him, pointedly ignoring his remark about the mess, and hands him the book.
Dean squints at the cursive letters. “You read it.” He's not even sure he could pronounce these words sober. “It's all Greek to me.”
“One, it's Latin,” Charlie corrects. “And two, I'm not the one binding myself to a sex god for a month. As hunky as he is, you know I don't swing that way.”
Dean glares at the words, grabbing his Patrón.
He seriously reconsiders his choice of friends.
“Come on, Dean, just do this for me. Remember that time you got a virus on Sam's laptop from watching Tribble porn and I had to debug it?”
Yep, new friends it is.
Dean stumbles over the words, his tongue clumsy and heavy in his mouth, and he has to repeat himself several times. He loses count at around seven.
He finally gets it right, he thinks, but nothing happens for the first few seconds. About to start over, or throw the book out the window, he begins the first words again. And then a breeze picks up. In the middle of his living room. All of the windows are closed.
“Hold on to your butts,” she supplies unhelpfully.
There's a massive crack! and a flash of light, as if lightening was struck right in front of them. Through the spots in his eyes he can make out a figure standing a few feet away. The tequila falls from his hand.
The figure is a man, the man from the picture in the book. Castee-something or other. In his house. Out of nowhere.
“What. The. Fuck.”