1. Dead Soldier

Dean turned the glass over, picked up the next shot.

There was no way he could match shot for year—he'd end up with alcohol poisoning. It was a noble goal, though.

…for values of "noble" that included Armageddon, a ruined Sam, dead angels and Castiel. Or all of it, really: demons, Bobby, the Impala, Kansas, Hell.

It was Friday night and the noise of the busy bar blurred into a wall of sound, voices indistinct and anonymous, suiting Dean's mood. Except, of course, for the one voice he could not ignore.

"Dean."

Dean tipped the next glass over once it was down.

"You will make yourself sick."

The words, if they were that, vibrated down through Dean's bones. He was never sure if there was actual sound when Castiel spoke—he heard the angel even when his lips never parted.

That bothered him.

Monster.

"Dean."

"What?" Dean snared at the trench coated creature sitting across from him. At least, that was what his father would say: unnatural.

"You need your rest; you need to stay strong."

Orders, as always. Demands, instructions, betrayal. As always.

Dean downed the next shot, far beyond feeling the burn. Sometimes, he wanted to burn Castiel, brand him the way he was scarred, just to prove he was there.

"You should stop." Hands placed flat on the table, settled as if Castiel had no idea what to with hands.

"You, you...you fucker, do you even know what today is?"

Castiel considered it as a serious question. "Friday."

Dean shook his head slowly. "No."

"Then I do not understand."

"It's my father's birthday."

Castiel narrowed his eyes, considering. "And that is important?"

Dean paused long enough to slam the next shot. "No."

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