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Summary
“Who the hell is Dean Winchester?”
Castiel forces a passive shrug, trying to play it off for what it isn’t. He tries to tell himself that Dean isn’t sitting in the shitty hotel room, probably a mess by now, worried sick about him. He tells himself that Dean isn’t counting the bullets in Castiel’s gun and seeing if he croaked or was captured. Hopefully, he’ll think he’s dead and not come after a still hot trail, but Castiel knows better.
So he spits some blood onto the detective’s shiny shoes and forces a grin. “He’s my best girl.”
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