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Summary
Marshall Robert Singer has one hand resting on his hip, the other gripping the discarded practice pole. Castiel thinks he looks tired. That said, with how the kaiju have been crawling with increasing frequency out of the Breach with every passing week and decimating the cities lining the Pacific, no one can blame the man for that.
Castiel knows there aren't enough Jaegers or Jaeger pilots left to defend the coastline against the monsters—but with his history, he's not getting back into harness. He's never joining his mind with anyone else's. Not again.
“Congratulations. You boys done dancing yet?” Singer demands, thumping the butt of the staff on the ground with blunt, percussive force. “We got work to do.”
“Work?” Castiel asks, frowning.
“Congratulations?” Dean finishes.
“Well, yeah.” The Marshall of North America's last battle-center looks back and forth between them, clearly questioning their intelligence. His lip curls just slightly under his beard—no doubt at their blank expressions. “You’re obviously Drift-compatible, ya idjits.”
“What?”
“What?”
(A Pacific Rim AU)