Re: The Bar Dean & Castiel
Dean stayed close to Castiel out of habit. Being a slave was kind of like bodyguarding. He had to stay close, and watch whatever the client (Castiel) was doing that was going to fuck him over somehow. Like now, when Castiel had announced they were going to some bar-slash-club-slash-den-of-iniquity (and what the hell was a den of iniquity anyway?)
They ended up at the bar, which was good, because Dean was definitely drinking if Castiel was buying. He ordered two beers, because it'd been a long time since he'd had any alcohol other than moonshine from the camps, and handed one to the angel with a wry smile.
"Bottoms up," he said, clinking his glass against the angel's before taking a long drink. The black leather collar bobbed at his throat, not uncomfortable, but definitely noticeable, and Dean resisted the urge to tug on it. He also resisted the urge to tug at his clothing, which, while perfectly ordinary, definitely fit closer to his body than he was used to wearing. But then again, the only clothing they got at the camps was what they could scavenge or steal. The jeans and long-sleeved shirt he was wearing were brand new.