video

[kickingand]

[ Dean is making this brief for a variety of reasons. But he sadly doesn't care enough to make this anything but video - audio and text just seem like far too much effort, and so Dean can be seen boozing it up with a half empty bottle of whiskey he received from the gods.

Someone's been drunk a lot lately.

Big fuckin' deal. ]

So, I kind of happen to have an angel buddy who's in need of a lay. Anyone want to lend a hand?

Comments

action

[kickingand]

[ Dean froze upon contact, distracted wholly by the arm around his waist, staring down at it as if it was doing by far more than just keeping him from walking forward. If anything, Dean was by far more distanced by that than Cas' words, his expression, his anything, just staring at the precarious gesture as if he could make it mean more than what it already did. It didn't help matters that he could have walked around, could have pried Cas' hand away, could have done anything to navigate himself from the situation because he just could have, but he stayed put like he'd been rooted to the spot, just staring.

Just listening.

And no, the words did not help.

Cas managed to speak and Dean refused to look up. He acted as if he was being punished, head hung, gaze cast down low, still staring at Cas' arm as if it might reach up and smack him to further impress upon the point his words were trying to make. That it wasn't Dean's business who Cas fucked - it wasn't - and that it wasn't Dean's business to find him someone to fuck - it wasn't. Dean knew that, in some regard, but he also felt a taut responsibility to distance himself in every way imaginable. If he could put someone else in his place perhaps it wouldn't hurt as much, if he could fill that gap with the idea of another body, then maybe that body wouldn't be his own. He didn't know, but he wanted to shove someone into Cas' arms that wasn't the shadow of himself and he wanted it to make sense. He wanted to give Cas someone so he didn't have to give himself into the idea of potential failure, of loss and demise, and he blinked hard, trying to forget, trying not to feel. ]

I got it.

[ Dean lifted a hand to try to quash any more words, fingers spread as if he could capture the wisps of words in invisible webbing. He could feel his heart crashing, could feel a steady ache that he couldn't parse, and he still managed to clear his throat and try to look neutral. Try to look like he wasn't dying somewhere dank on the inside. ]

I'll keep my hands out of it.

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[strangelic]

Okay. Okay, thank you.

[ His hand stayed in place for just a moment, fingers curled in, and then Castiel turned his body away, opening up like the turning door in a stadium to give Dean room to step past him. He felt like he'd lost something, in some way, as Dean stepped away, but retreating was the best option all things considered, having the space of a wall and a door between them was wise, even if it wouldn't last for long.

Castiel would wait until he heard Dean's breathing settle into sleep, and then he'd be back in there, in the corner, watching him sleep through until morning. It was a bad habit that was even harder to break now he knew why he was doing it. ]

Goodnight. [ He called after him, before retreating to the couch, making out like that was where he planned to stay. ]

action

[kickingand]

Yeah.

[ Dean didn't offer more than that because he couldn't, because the words wouldn't come. They hurt too much, ached somewhere strange and misplaced and Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, nervous and unsure. He felt lost, like he'd done something not only wrong but idiotic, as if he couldn't find where he was meant to be in any of his decisions. Had he just been drunk, stupid, unsure, trying too hard? That was it, wasn't it? That he wanted something for Cas that he couldn't have himself - he was trying to help a friend. He was trying to help.

Cas moved away and so Dean moved in tandem, walked away and felt the feet stretch between them, the pull and tug of their existence constantly caught between what was supposed to be and what wasn't and Dean refused to glance over his shoulder as he made his way to his bedroom and tripped the door halfway shut behind him. It felt wrong to close it entirely, felt strange to cut Cas off, and so he didn't, instead simply toppling into bed, stuffing a pillow beneath his cheek and turning his face away from everything he could deign to see. He hid from it all, hid from himself, and refused to come unwound even now. Instead he bound himself tighter, strained muscles and squeezed his eyes shut tight and refused to see anything in the darkness of it, refused to see what he told himself wasn't there.

And eventually he fell asleep. It took awhile but it always did, pent up on energy and nerves and his own failures streaking across his mind until there was none of him left, until that was all of him that was there to begin with. ]