Cas, as it turns out, has a soft spot for tequila. Carthage flashes through Dean's mind, Cas and the Harvelles playing drinking games in the next room the night before one of the worst days of Dean's life. There was a lot of giggling from Jo, and Ellen sounding snide, and the first time Dean popped his head in, the bottle was halfway gone.
By some stroke of luck, they find tequila in the next town over when they're looting around. Some canned food (soup, peaches, and tuna), a couple of liter bottles of orange soda, and a bottle of Cuervo. "Awesome," Dean says, and Cas agrees.
They hole themselves up in a bed & breakfast on the main street, taking a room on the second floor with the most number of convenient escapes, salting the doors and windows, spraying devil's traps, taking the necessary precautions. Then, surrounded by the yellowing paper and the cobwebs and dust, they have a party, of sorts.
The first shot is for Sam. Dean lets Cas call the second shot, and Cas says this next shot is for you, and Dean accuses him of being unimaginative. This next shot is for Jo, this next one is for Ellen, and then it becomes a recitation of the dead: this next shot is for Dad, this one's for Mom, this one's for Pamela, this one's for Andy, and Adam, this one's for his grandparents, and yes, even Anna gets a shot, because in the end she was just trying to save the world like the rest of them.
"Okay stop," Dean slurs. "If we drink to everyone who's dead, we're gonna get alcohol poisoning," and my heart's gonna break and I'll wanna crawl into a hole and never come out again.
"We'll drink to the living," Cas decides, sprawled out on the bed.
"No, that's just as depressing."
"What will we drink to?"
"Where did you go, Cas," Dean asks, "when you were looking for your dad?"
There's no answer for a while. Could be that Cas is drunk, but could be that Cas doesn't want to talk about it. After all, Dean doesn't like to talk about his dad much either, so he's about to change the subject when Cas says:
"Everywhere," in a small crackly voice, and Dean isn't sure that he's exaggerating.
"Tell me."
Cas pauses for too long again and Dean sighs and is about to talk about guns again or whatever, some safe topic, when Cas says, "Once, in Montpellier, I thought I found Him."
"Yeah? Montpelier, Vermont?"
"Montpellier, France."
"Oh. I was gonna say, we ganked a werewolf there once."
"Your amulet burned and I thought finally..." Cas murmurs, and continues talking, loosened by alcohol. How he cut across the square, practically shoving tourists out of the way, excited and hopeful, how the amulet burned into his skin leaving a scar where his grace would be, "and I thought about all the things I'd say, all the things I wanted to apologize for and everything I wanted to know," but when he got there, when he reached the cafe and touched the shoulder of the man seated under the awning and said "Father?" it was not his Father at all.
"Who was it?" Dean asks.
"It was Vishnu. He invited me to sit with him and He bought me madeleines. He did not know where my Father was."
"What was Vishnu doing in France?"
"Eating a crepe."
"...Oh," Dean says. Of course. Why not.
Dean is sitting up on his bed, but he feels himself becoming more horizontal with every swallow of tequila, lulled by Cas's voice wafting over from the next bed, the gentle rise and fall of it, speaking to him about the sticky heat of Islamabad and the crisp cold of Boston, the dense jungles of Sulawesi and the vastness of the Mongolian plains: all these places created by the will of his Father, a hundred glittering watches in the desert, and nary a watchmaker in sight.
eventually I'll get to the croats and vampires, I swear
By some stroke of luck, they find tequila in the next town over when they're looting around. Some canned food (soup, peaches, and tuna), a couple of liter bottles of orange soda, and a bottle of Cuervo. "Awesome," Dean says, and Cas agrees.
They hole themselves up in a bed & breakfast on the main street, taking a room on the second floor with the most number of convenient escapes, salting the doors and windows, spraying devil's traps, taking the necessary precautions. Then, surrounded by the yellowing paper and the cobwebs and dust, they have a party, of sorts.
The first shot is for Sam. Dean lets Cas call the second shot, and Cas says this next shot is for you, and Dean accuses him of being unimaginative. This next shot is for Jo, this next one is for Ellen, and then it becomes a recitation of the dead: this next shot is for Dad, this one's for Mom, this one's for Pamela, this one's for Andy, and Adam, this one's for his grandparents, and yes, even Anna gets a shot, because in the end she was just trying to save the world like the rest of them.
"Okay stop," Dean slurs. "If we drink to everyone who's dead, we're gonna get alcohol poisoning," and my heart's gonna break and I'll wanna crawl into a hole and never come out again.
"We'll drink to the living," Cas decides, sprawled out on the bed.
"No, that's just as depressing."
"What will we drink to?"
"Where did you go, Cas," Dean asks, "when you were looking for your dad?"
There's no answer for a while. Could be that Cas is drunk, but could be that Cas doesn't want to talk about it. After all, Dean doesn't like to talk about his dad much either, so he's about to change the subject when Cas says:
"Everywhere," in a small crackly voice, and Dean isn't sure that he's exaggerating.
"Tell me."
Cas pauses for too long again and Dean sighs and is about to talk about guns again or whatever, some safe topic, when Cas says, "Once, in Montpellier, I thought I found Him."
"Yeah? Montpelier, Vermont?"
"Montpellier, France."
"Oh. I was gonna say, we ganked a werewolf there once."
"Your amulet burned and I thought finally..." Cas murmurs, and continues talking, loosened by alcohol. How he cut across the square, practically shoving tourists out of the way, excited and hopeful, how the amulet burned into his skin leaving a scar where his grace would be, "and I thought about all the things I'd say, all the things I wanted to apologize for and everything I wanted to know," but when he got there, when he reached the cafe and touched the shoulder of the man seated under the awning and said "Father?" it was not his Father at all.
"Who was it?" Dean asks.
"It was Vishnu. He invited me to sit with him and He bought me madeleines. He did not know where my Father was."
"What was Vishnu doing in France?"
"Eating a crepe."
"...Oh," Dean says. Of course. Why not.
Dean is sitting up on his bed, but he feels himself becoming more horizontal with every swallow of tequila, lulled by Cas's voice wafting over from the next bed, the gentle rise and fall of it, speaking to him about the sticky heat of Islamabad and the crisp cold of Boston, the dense jungles of Sulawesi and the vastness of the Mongolian plains: all these places created by the will of his Father, a hundred glittering watches in the desert, and nary a watchmaker in sight.