On a free night, with nothing to do, and a need for something fun—you go out drinking.

Blinding lights and bumping music that shook the dance floor. You lost count after the third shot. Dizzy and with the final shred of rationale you left, you had called a cab.

You feel as if you blacked out completely on the ride home, the last night a blur. You only now came to the very next morning in bed. Hair mussed, eyes heavy, vaguely nauseous. You seem to very faintly recall a stern scolding for being inebriated while alone at such an establishment from Castiel.

It’s all fuzzy now.

Tired, and with a pounding headache, you sluggishly roll out of bed and walk out to get coffee, pain meds, or an anvil to the head. Whatever works.

You enter the kitchen and see Castiel sitting at the counter—waiting for you. Except he has numerous lipstick kiss marks along his face and neck. His face is set in stone. Not at all emotive (which is to be expected from the unreadable angel).

Before you can begin to ask about who could have possibly been so enthusiastic, not even taking into account the most obvious of answers, he provides a helpful explanation.

“You were very…excited to see me. When you got home last night.”