For @amylane67 as part of @cloudyjenn's Twitfic Exchange (Round Three).

It, uh, turned out slightly less humorous than planned? But not too angsty, I think. I hope you enjoy anyhow.

--

"You okay, man?" Dean asks, coming out of the men's room at the travel plaza.

Castiel is standing in front of the bank of refrigeration unit doors, looking helplessly at the hundreds of bottles and cans lined up before him. "I'm thirsty," he says.

"Okay," Dean says slowly. "Grab something and I'll pay for it."

"What?" Castiel asks, turning his head to look at Dean. "There is an overwhelming selection."

Dean grimaces a bit. He's not sure Cas has ever had anything to drink beside water and a large sampling of alcoholic beverages. "Um, what do you like?"

Castiel sweeps a longsuffering glance back over the drink selections. "I don't know."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says brusquely, pushing past Cas and popping open the nearest door. "We'll just try some of everything."

He loads Castiel's arms full of bottles and cans of every size and color, and when Cas can't hold any more he starts carrying them himself. The total comes to $36.90, but it's the end of the world and it's not like it's actually <i>his</i> credit card anyway, so it doesn't really bother him.

Afterward Dean hands the plastic bags to Cas and leads him outside to a picnic bench that's shaded from the setting sun. Dean can see Sam across the parking lot, his cell phone pressed to his ear, so he figures they've got some time to kill. After he and Castiel sit, facing each other across the table, Dean rustles into one of the bags and pulls out the first thing he touches. It's orange-flavored Gatorade.

"Here," he says, twisting off the top and handing it over.

Castiel takes a small drink, wrinkles his nose, and replies, "It is adequate."

"Okay, so no-go on that," Dean decides, taking it back. He shuffles through, plucks out an A&W root beer, and offers it.

Castiel nods. "This is pleasant."

It turns out Cas also likes Classic Coke, Dr. Pepper, cream soda, Jolt, cranberry and apple juices, and ginger ale.

He does not like fruit punch, orange soda, Diet Pepsi, or any flavor of Gatorade.

He is undecided on coffee-based drinks. Every now and again he picks up a mocha-flavored Frappuccino and sips at it again, as if he is willing it to taste just slightly different.

"Bobby said to just come back to his place now that we've got Pestilence's ring," Sam says, wandering over. "Uh. What are you guys doing?"

"Educating Cas," Dean replies. "He doesn't like fruit-flavored drinks, so you can have that Wild Cherry Pepsi if you want it."

"Kay," Sam frowns, snagging it. "We gotta get going, y'know."

"Yeah, I know. Just a couple more," Dean says, fishing an energy drink out of a bag. He pops the tab on it, hands it across the table, and waits. Seconds later, he's covered in a sticky mixture of carbonated beverage and Castiel spit.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Cas says, hand covering his mouth, liquid dribbling between his fingers and down his chin. "That was the most awful thing I have ever tasted."

Sam, after a second of shock, starts laughing hysterically.

"<i>Napkins,</i>" Dean growls at him, wiping at his face. "Now, asshole."

After Sam lopes off, Cas shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that."

"It's okay, man," Dean sighs. "They're not for everyone."

He hands Cas the bottle of Coke, and Castiel swills it gratefully.

--

It's two-thirty in the morning when Dean stumbles down to Bobby's living room, intent on getting a glass of water from the kitchen.

Sam's passed out cold on the floor, but the couch where Cas is supposed to be is empty. Dean peeks around the corner, but the bathroom's unoccupied and the kitchen's dark. He gets his glass of water and leans against the counter, thinking.

A quiet <i>"damn"</i> snaps him out of his thoughts, and his fingers close over the pistol he's got tucked into the waistband of his sweatpants. He creeps quiet as a cat to the front door, then cracks it open.

Castiel is sitting on the front porch, knees drawn up to his chest, bare toes curled. He looks small and miserable there in the dark, in Jimmy's boxers and undershirt.

"Was that you?" Dean asks, lowering his pistol.

"I'm finding that I'm rather fond of human profanity," Castiel replies quietly. "It's so multifunctional."

Dean steps out onto the porch and shudders. "Aren't you cold? It can't be higher than fifty out here."

Castiel shifts a little, looks up at him. After a long moment, he says, "Yes. I'm freezing."

"Come inside, dude," Dean says, and the gentleness in his voice kinda surprises him.

"I can't sleep," Cas protests wretchedly, letting his head fall back against the house's siding. "I have been trying. I'm <i>exhausted</i>. I <i>want</i> to sleep. But I feel restless and I do not know why. My legs will not stop twitching."

"Oh jeez, man," Dean winces. "I'm sorry, I bet that's the caffeine."

"What?" Castiel blinks owlishly at him.

"You're not used to it, and I pumped you full of a shit-ton of soda and crap this evening. I bet it's keeping you up."

Castiel stares at him for a long time, then slams a fist down onto the wood of the porch. "I <i>hate</i> this," he hisses. "I <i>hate</i> this. I hate being tired, and I hate being thirsty, and I hate being cold, and I hate being trapped here. This frail, asinine body. I didn't hate anything once, Dean. Now I hate <i>so much.</i>"

Dean pauses, taken aback by this hushed outburst. Then he shakes his head, steps forward, and holds out a hand. Castiel glares at him for a moment, then reluctantly takes it. Dean pulls him to his feet in one smooth motion, then wraps his hands around Cas's biceps. The warmth of Dean's palms on the cold of his own flesh makes Castiel shudder violently.

"It's going to be okay," Dean says. "I promise, it's gonna be okay."

"It's not," Castiel replies flatly.

"No, it is," Dean growls, tightening his grip. "I'm gonna make sure it's okay for you. Or so help me..."

He doesn't finish that sentence. What's there to say, with the apocalypse in t-minus three days? But he means the sentiment, to his utter amazement. He finds he really does.

"...all right," Castiel says finally, slumping a bit against Dean.

So Dean steers him inside, grabs a couple extra army-surplus wool blankets from Bobby's closet, and wraps him up tight. He sits next to Cas on the old swaybacked couch, feeling his shivers, and hoping the silence is comfortable and not just awkward.

Finally, <i>finally</i>, exhaustion outweighs caffeine overdose, and Castiel crashes hard. He leans slackly against Dean's shoulder, and Dean wonders if he drools--if he's gonna get Cas spit on him twice in one day. As he succumbs to sleep himself, Dean wonders what he's gotten himself into, telling a human angel he'd take care of him.

Still, stretching out his legs and trying to get comfortable without jostling Cas, he can't say he really minds the trouble.

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