The moon rises like a sigh over the horizon line, world turning and tilting all over the place. Or perhaps that’s the alcohol, Castiel isn’t quite sure yet. He’s not quite drunk, not yet. What he is is warm and loose. Even now he’s still able to think clearly, to calculate and plan. Dean is in the kitchen. They’re alone. That counter is very, very sturdy.
His steps aren’t as straight as he’d like and something under the inebriation is telling him there’s a joke in that some place. Dean looks at him with a raised brow and an amused huff.
“You’re a lightweight since you lost your wings, Cas. This is just sad.” His voice. Fuck his voice.
Magnus feels well when he wakes. There’s a deep soreness in his body, but it’s not an all-together awful feeling, similar to the results of the yoga classes he occasionally takes with Isabelle. He can sense the remnants of Clorophia’s magic; she does good work. Magnus will have to get her something to show his gratitude.
The Warlock sits up and notices the chair by his bedside. A battered copy of Beowulf rests on the seat.
Like a moth drawn to a flame, Magnus slides from the bed.