Everyone always talks about the Drift. Always, always, always. How cool the technology is. How amazing. What a feat it is, to be Drift-compatible. How great that this is what saved humanity.
It’s what they don’t tell you, though.
The Drift with the Kaiju was full of wrongness – shakeable, ultimately, but wrongness like the time he found Mega Bloks mixed in with Legos at the doctors office and had to spend 20 minutes sorting them all out.
It was an event. Horrifying, rattling, scarring, fuck, but it was an event. Turn the page and it’s in the past. It happened and then it was gone and he had to move on to other, more pressing shit.
The Drift with Hermann was—
sam takes initiative because it’s his turn to teach some pop culture
Well, the person who normally works with newly-deceased Donald Westerly on his Thursday night bartending shifts is working — surprise surprise — tomorrow on Thursday, so that means Dean is now needlessly dressed in a suit and at a bar with Cas, waiting on Sam’s news from the morgue, while tonight’s bartender is making bedroom eyes at Cas.
“Definitely a wraith, though,” he mutters under his breath to Cas, taking a sip of whiskey. “An entry wound like that?”
“A kitsune would have produced a similar mark,” Cas reminds him snidely, and knocks back the entirety of his (seventh) drink in one go. Dean cringes.
Benny watches as Dean pulls the knife out of the werewolf’s slumped, broken body; Dean sticks it back into its makeshift holster without bothering to clean it more than a quick flick to get most of the gunk off. He’d bet money that Dean used to meticulously keep it clean whenever he’d first landed his ass here.
“How long you been lookin’ for this fella?” he asks, because he’s been with Dean for maybe three weeks, and Dean sure as hell knows what he’s doing.
“Ground control to Major Tom?”
He’s jolted out of zoning out by Dean’s fingers snapping under his nose and no, he wasn’t staring, he just happened to zone out in the general vicinity of an attractive person.
“Are you coming or not?”
Cas checks back in and okay – he’s got a 20-ounce double dirty chai latte in one hand (Dean had snickered when he’d ordered it) and his other hand is on the Impala’s doorhandle, okay, they’re headed back to Dean’s place for celebratory food-slash-alcohol-slash-video-games after their (admittedly brutal) 8am astro final. And maybe some sleep. Sleep sounds great. He’s hitting his lack-of-sleep limit. Chandrasekhar limit? Sleep-Schwarzschild radii. Germanic word-final devoicing. Shit. Sleep is probably a thing he needs right now.
there’s no place left to go but up
road trips and idjits
in which cas is a nervous wreck, but dean knows he’s gonna do fine