Bad Ideas Galore.

He's flirting back. 

The son of a bitch is actually flirting back.

Jo has no idea, of course. Cas doesn't flirt like people, he flirts like Cas. Big, peacocking gestures and insistent, sincere verbalizations. Acknowledgments that he may have grown up devoid of social graces and interest in people's daily lives, but you, you yourself, are getting to him.

Dean heard his seemingly astonished, "I think I'm starting to feel something." five minutes ago and he's still reeling. Cas is every alcoholic white dude smashed into one guy, Russian, German, all kinds of English and Scottish and all the white -ishes. Whiskey like gasoline, stuff Dad wouldn't even touch, hadn't even given Cas a stutter as he swallowed a double.

There's no way the piss water Jo gave him, six shots in a row or not, would faze him. He's flirting back.

(If it were anybody but Cas, Dean would think it's the unusually tight jeans Jo wore tonight. But it's Cas, so he's just flummoxed.)

Sam sits down across from Dean and turns around to see what he's staring at so intently, before Dean can look away and give Sam his usual "What, 'dya fall in?" routine to recover himself.

"Wow. Talk about a bad idea." And Dean stops thinking about Cas to talk about Cas, naturally. Ain't that how it's always been?

"What? Cas and Jo?" The last time Sam said that sentence like that was a warning to Dean when he declared with thirteen-year-old bravado that he was going over to Cas's house to woo his eighteen-year-old sister. Dean told Sam about the part where Anna kissed him back indulgently and gave him a kind smile (cos she did); now twenty-two, he's still never told him about the part where she slipped ice down his pants the next time she saw him and made him promise he'd never kiss a girl without asking again. Sam would never shut up about it if he knew.

"Yeah. Cas and anybody, really, but definitely Jo." Sam sounds about as confused and put out as Dean does. Interesting. He'd wanted Jo a little when they were both eleven but Jo had always had her eyes fixed on the elder Winchester, so he'd gladly done with friends instead; has that finally resurfaced now Jo has become infamous for turning Dean down once every couple years?

----

It takes almost a metric ton of booze to get Dean as wasted as he is right now, usually. Dean should ask Ellen what was in that last thing he kept ordering to save himself some cash.

"You sly dog," he murmurs with a smirk, leaning on Cas on their way back to the apartment they share. As he suspected, Cas is completely unfazed by all the stuff Jo gave him, holding Dean up with a mostly exasperated expression (fonder than anybody else's exasperated look, take that Jo).

The look goes more exasperated (and less fond, but it's never totally gone). "Dean, I've told you before, you make even more incomprehensible references when you're this gone."

Dean scoffs. That was an Uncle Jesse-ism, Cas always gets those (and if he were anybody else, Dean would be pretty damn convinced the starry-eyed way Cas watches that show indicates a hard-on for leather jackets and great hair). "Like hell you don't 'get that ref-rence', dog."

Cas shoves Dean away for a moment, just enough for him to almost fall over and realize abruptly how much he needs Cas with him right then (always but definitely then), before grabbing him again with a huff. "If this is your way of refashioning Sam's old nickname, and for me, I'm going to drop you on Miss Miller's doorstep first chance I get."

Dean clutches Cas's coat a little desperately, shot through with more fear than he should be able to feel this many sheets to the wind at that thought. Miss Miller's got six cats and a wildly inappropriate crush on Dean's little brother; she spends all the time she gets with him pumping him for information while he tries not to sneeze. It would be cruel and unusual punishment to leave him there.

Cas would do it too. Dean still remembers the time he tracked mud all over the rug Mr. Missionary Milton brought up from South America for his second youngest and woke up with his eyebrows shaved. Cruel and unusual is Cas's area, really. (Dean's more for the classics, which is why Cas pissed himself the next time he slept over, hand buried in a bowl of water.)

"Nah, nah, I'll be good, whatever, just didn't know y'were into blondes, dude," Dean says, and he's finally gotten it out, finally dealt with it, after he cut off Sam's conversation starter at the knees and refused to mention Cas for the rest of the night. The therapist Mom made him promise to see will be thrilled that Dean is 'communicating his feelings to people he loves'.

Castiel, this is all Castiel, none of Dean's pal Cas, stares at him blankly. Not annoyed anymore, but just blank, which is never good. 

Dean babbles, trying to make up for whatever he just did, "She's fuckin' hot though, so uh. Not like she's not a great choice for you to finally…y'know, go for it."

"She?" No, fuck, that hadn't worked. And Dean would backtrack but Cas's face is turning a funny color. It reminds Dean distantly of last year, watching Cas's face when Meg Masters pressed him against a wall and went at him. He pornoed all over her in front of Playboy Cousin Gabe, but his face was…whatever color this is, as he subtly wiped his mouth later. 

Dean had quietly handed him a drink, patting him on the back and mumbling something about "Might wanna find yourself a motel for the night with that one," feeling a bit furious when Cas mumbled, "Why would I want that?" cos "always ask before you kiss somebody" for a reason, apparently. (He doesn't hit women, but he'd been fucking tempted; this was Cas, after all.)

"Yeah. Uh. Joanna Beth, kinda incestuous flirt, remember? You had all the moves, tonight. She'd go for it, man." And all of a sudden Castiel's expression--yep, back to Castiel, fuck fuck fuck--is like a storm. The kind of look that usually makes Dean pull a blanket or a book over his lap, but nobody needs to know that shit, and he's too drunk to worry about it right now.

"Don't talk about Jo like that, Dean. Interested or not, I respect her too much to hear this." So he's defensive. Dean's good at this though; getting under Cas's skin is a honed skill of his.

"I love her, right, yeah, she's respet--awesome, but that don't keep her from tossing herself all over you. Like a salad." Dean laughs at his words, leaning more heavily on Cas, but then suddenly he's on the sidewalk on his ass and Castiel is glaring. No more Cas tonight. Dean fucked up.

"She was being friendly, Dean. We're friends, and frankly we deserve each other, which is more than I can say for you right now."

Oh, that's it, Castiel has done it, fuck him now. Dean doesn't need no help knowing what he's not worth, all right.

"I hope you'll be real happy together having lots of tight-assed kids, then." Dean says softly, trying for anger and falling flat, and pushes himself up; he wavers and Castiel doesn't move to help him. He'll walk his own ass home and lock Castiel out, he can deal with the cat lady next door, or maybe call Jo herself. Cas and Jo, a nauseatingly cute couple. They'll be great.

They'll be fine without him. Because even if Dean's not sure when his bemusement turned into betrayal, he kinda never wants to talk to them again. Fuck, he's so drunk. Sam's probably having a Dean-induced stress migraine across town, totally unaware of why.

"Dean," Castiel says, deathly soft, following Dean's clumsy steps with his usual purposeful, careless gait. Dean tries to walk faster and nearly trips face first into the sidewalk. Cas saves him again. Cas is always saving him; as a tiny eight year old throwing himself at ten year old Al Hellson to protect six-year-old Dean; as a gangly fourteen year old who came out of the fog of losing his father just long enough to shatter his cousin's kneecaps with a baseball bat (and get suspended for it) when he punched Dean; as a stocky, intense nineteen year old who found Dean post-funeral with eight pills and a bottle of Jack down his throat and curbed his own phobia to force Dean to vomit; just…always. Dean's never deserved it but he does it anyway. Maybe all that heroism'll impress Jo.

"Dean." Cas isn't taking no for an answer. He spins Dean around fast with a hand on his shoulder, too fast, but no matter how sick with disappointment he feels, he can't bring himself to let the bile go, can't do that to Cas. He swallows.

"Yeah?" Casual, it'll work, Cas'll take it as disrespect and leave and Dean'll be able to go home (and maybe start packing, he thinks glumly). Where did all this even come from, he wonders, but Dean's never had all that much defense against his own insecurities, especially not drunk. 

"I'm not interested in Jo, Dean." He says it quietly, but firmly, as though Dean really needs to believe it. He doesn't, not at first, but Cas is a shitty fucking liar, so if his face says it's truth, it's truth.

"Whatever, Cas. Not like it makes any difference," he tries, but Cas doesn't let him keep walking. He halts him with that hand on his shoulder, tilts his head at him, that famous Cas squint making its appearance. Is he pissed or is he just curious? The squint is weird this time.

"Doesn't it? You're angry, Dean, so it must mean something to you." And that's the fucking crux of it, right. That it does. It does mean something to him, but Dean doesn't wanna talk about it, and he's not gonna.

Someone should've relayed that message to his mouth before it says, "Just be weird 's all, Cas. You and Jo. You and…I dunno, whoever. Anyone. Meg or Daphne or Chastity or Balt-Bath--that dude at the frat thing a while ago."

Cas, it's Cas again, thank God, lets Dean lean on him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, sighing thoughtfully, staring at Dean out of the sides of his eyes.

"I don't want any of them either, Dean, but if I did, you'd have to step aside, you know that." Cas looks hesitant, like he's not sure of what he's saying. Dean's not sure of it either; he's never been without Cas, not since they were kids, and letting anybody else have him, letting anybody else be Dean's kind of close, kind of hurts to think about. It's not just Jo, it's any person with that potential.

He'd do it, 'course he would, for Cas, but he wouldn't like it. He doesn't like it now and it hasn't even happened yet. 

"I know," he grunts, not looking at Cas. Their apartment building's across the street and they're almost there and if he can just stall long enough, he can claim blackout and never talk about this again.

"This can't be like you and Sam, Dean," Cas says quietly, ten feet from the door maybe, and Dean exhales heavily, cos as much as he shares with Cas, nobody talks about 'Dean and Sam' with Dean, ever, and he doesn't wanna start.

It's not like Sam, anyway. Dean wants to be with Sam all the time, wants Sam to be here with him more than the summer, wants to protect him and make sure he's not eating college slop while Mom's home making Dean a pie every Sunday, wants to slip him some cash he earned at Bobby's garage on the weekends so he's never hard up. Dean just wants Cas. It's undefined and unlabeled and undeniably strong, how he wants Cas, but it's there underlining every interaction they ever have, making Dean shove Cas to arm's length and then beg him not to go on retreats with the clubs that're lucky enough to get him cos he hasn't even beaten Cas at Mortal Kombat yet.

Dean is pretty sure Sam's never really gonna leave him, not forever; it's one of the only things he's sure of when it comes to relationships, but Cas isn't like that. Cas is gonna find a Jo or a Bath-face someday, someone who keeps up with him, and ditch Dean in the gutter like the grease monkey he is. He's terrified of it and resigned to it and so it'll never be like Sam.

"It's not," he says, gritting his teeth as Cas drags him up the stairs to the second floor with their place and Miss Miller's. It's been a few minutes and he can feel Cas's frustration in how he presses Dean against the wall near their door as he gets the key, with one hand, like the fucking badass he is. He thought it was him but no, he can see Cas's fingers shaking a bit as he vibrates with impatience and anxiety to get this resolved, just as much as Dean is vibrating with how much he wants to get the fuck away.

"You threw this same fit about Ruby, Dean." Cas reminds him (unpleasantly, what a dick move that is, bringing that up), tugging Dean by the sleeve into their apartment and pushing him toward the couch. He's not wrong, but Dean's not up for this.

"Jo ain't Ruby, Cas. Ruby's a raging bitch and she's lucky I gave her her pants before I kicked her out of Sam's room. Serve her right, getting him hooked on that shit. Dunno why he didn't just go after Jess like he was gonna."

Cas rolls his eyes as he sits on the coffee table untying his boots. "You're proving my point here, Dean. If Jo 'ain't Ruby' then where are your objections?" Kicking off the clunky, shiny disasters he wears nearly always, he gives Dean his full attention.

Dean chokes. "I don't…who cares, cos you're not even with her, Cas. You said. Right?" Cas nods, slowly, never looking away from Dean's face, even when he slides onto his knees to go for Dean's boots. Dean isn't going to think about how close he is, but he doesn't want to talk about this, so maybe he should… misdirect with it.

"Both of us in one night, eh, Cas…anova." It's not his finest, but hey, he's still speaking in complete sentences, so he figures it's forgivable. Cas's eyes are gonna get stuck like that though, all that rolling, and he smacks Dean's heels hard with the insides of his boots as he tugs them off, as though in admonishment. (Cas is almost Mom-like in his gentle but unrelenting punishments, sometimes; it's creepy.)

"Don't be crass, Dean, it's none of you." 

Dean looks mournfully down at their boots in a small, mismatched pile (his are brown and dirty and Cas's look like someone spit-shined them ten minutes ago; fuck, he's drunk if he's having thoughts about shoes). "Yeah, none of me."

Cas pauses in sliding his tan trenchcoat over his shoulders so that it's half-on, half-off. Dean wants to laugh but instead he just stares, cos Cas's gunmetal blue eyes have always been like glue and he can't look away. They're so intense, and Cas is so intent on him. He looks at him like he's shiny and new, all the fucking time, and Dean keeps proving him wrong but that never stops.

Cas is studying him carefully now, finally pushing his coat off. "Why would you say something like that?"

Dean shakes his head and half shrugs, probably looking like the drunk ass he is. "No reason. Just talking shit, like usual."

Cas is squinting again, and no, he's not pissed this time, just curious. Just really curious, getting up off his knees and leaving the coat on the coffee table as he gets gracefully onto the couch next to Dean. His head is tilting again, damn him, and Dean is nervous.

"I don't think so, Dean. There's something else." Damn him. Cas knows him too well.

"I'm just fucked up t'night, man, don't worry about it. I'm gonna go to bed." Dean shoves himself up, not all that sturdily, off the couch, and heads toward his bedroom. He can hear Cas's deep sigh behind him, but Cas is used to Dean being a fortress when he wants. He'll get over it this time like he has all the others.

Dropping into bed with the door closed, he can hear Cas get up, too, and the little bit of tinkering he does before he goes to his own bed. Cas is a little louder than he'd usually be, audibly upset in the way Cas wouldn't want to show if he knew Dean could hear, and Dean feels guilty for the few bleary minutes before he falls asleep.