Chapter Text
"…and that, Castiel, is why I don’t simply listen to music anymore. I feel it—in my pancreas." Michael jabs a finger at where Cas still stands in the doorway, punctuating the end of his story—the point of which Cas didn’t even catch in the first place—and settles back into the couch with a look of accomplishment.
Cas blinks slowly at him, then turns his gaze on the massive blanket fort in the corner of the room that appeared somewhere along the line. “Gabriel,” he says, “did you get Michael drunk while I was out?”
Gabriel’s mussed dark blonde head pokes out of the fort, a strand of Ramen still dangling from between his lips. He sucks the noodle into his mouth, then replies, “Actually, this one was Balthi’s fault, and I’m quite frankly offended by your accusation. You know what they say about assumptions, Cas. They make an ass out of u and me.” He points his fork at Cas scoldingly.
Cas doesn’t deign to respond, instead turning his attention to the form sprawled face-down on his bed. “Balthazar,” he starts slowly, “what did you do to Michael?”
"He showed me the light, Castiel,” supplies Michael solemnly from the couch, a statement which he apparently finds something very amusing, because then he’s dissolving into a fit of honest-to-god giggles.
Balthazar’s words are muffled by the duvet, which he doesn’t seem bothered to move his face out of. “I didn’t do anything, Cassie. No one forced Mikey to drink all the vodka in my flask. Quite rude of him to do that, if you ask me. He didn’t even ask. I obviously had that flask for a reason, you know.”
"The reason being that Balthi’s drama professor’s back on about Titanic again,” adds Gabriel helpfully from somewhere inside the mountain of blankets and duvets, and Balthazar moans dejectedly.
"Leonardo’s hair looked horrendous in that movie,” says Balthazar, sounding even more mournful than before.
Cas decides it’s not worth the energy to point out that Balthazar’s semi-perm is arguably worse than whatever hairstyle of Leonardo DiCaprio’s is upsetting him.
He finally steps into the room and goes over to Michael, kneeling before him. “I want you to try going to sleep now so you can sober up, all right?” he tells the dark-haired man.
Michael takes Cas’ face in his hands and looks at him seriously. “All right.”
"Michael, why are you holding my face?" asks Cas after a few moments of the two staring at each other with Michael making no move to let go of his face.
"Because, Castiel, I appreciate you. And I want you to know that. I appreciate you, Castiel." Michael leans forward and kisses Cas’ forehead for emphasis, then strokes Castiel’s jaw with the back of his hand. "But I don’t appreciate your stubble. You should shave."
Cas reassures him, “I’ll shave as soon as you are in bed. Come on, I’ll help you get over there.” He slips his arms beneath Michael’s and pulls him to his feet. Michael leans heavily against Cas, not exactly taking any independent steps but not objecting either as Castiel drags him over to the bed and gets him under the covers. (This requires scooting Balthazar aside—though Castiel does admit that his “accidentally” shoving Balthazar right off the bed might not be as accidental as he makes out.)
He’s just set a bucket beside the bed in case Michael turns out to be bad at holding his liquor when there’s a quiet creaking sound, like the wheezing of a dying animal in its final minutes, and a grand crash.
Cas doesn’t turn around.
"Gabriel," he says.
Gabriel’s reply comes a few seconds later. “Uh… Yeah, Cas, buddy?”
"What was that noise?"
"Um, funny story there. Turns out, stacking a coffee table on top of chairs to make way for more chairs so your blanket fort is extra tall can sometimes result in the bottom chairs breaking, which in turn breaks the coffee table and the top chairs and several glasses as well. Maybe the TV inside the fort too. I can’t tell yet. Who’da thought, huh? Heh…"
As Gabriel donkeys out an awkward laugh, Castiel decides that he very desperately needs a drink, and soon.