2645/(Un)Invited

(Un)Invited
Date of Scene:	28 September 2017
Location:	The Winchester Apartment - Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis:	A bloodied Dean returns late and calls for the help of Castiel. Fred attempts to help, too, with mixed results.
Cast of Characters:	Dean Winchester, Castiel, Winifred Burkle

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Dean Winchester has posed:
It's crack o'clock in the morning. No one should be awake in the Winchester residence. The apartment is dark. The streets are weirdly quiet. Everything has settled down for a (relatively?) quiet night in Hell's Kitchen.

The door to the apartment flings open and Dean stomps (rather loudly) into his apartment. Jo is likely asleep. Sam and Fred are likely asleep.

This doesn't change the fact that Dean drips blood across the threshold before collapsing into the armchair. He literally trips over it, crashing against the floor while the gash across his head pools blood on the floor. "Dammit," he murmurs. Dizzily he looks towards the bathroom. He should try to retrieve the first aid kit. "Fuuu--" he can't even finish the swear as he collapses against the floor again. His eyes lid and he shakes his head. "Uh..." he doesn't know how this works. "Cas..." He frowns. "Now I lay me down to," he presses a hand to his head, it's wet with blood. His eyes roll, "...sleep... Castiel, can you get your feathered ass down here?" And then for good measure he adds, "Please?" because that makes up for the rest.

Castiel has posed:
It's all interminable waits with the angel. Though, this time, for once, his response time is quick. Almost as if he were waiting for this. Or perhaps he's just nearby.. It's all releative, one supposes.

His entry is a silence. No flutter of wings. No whoosh of sound. Nothing worthy of bad television special effects. Just one moment not there; the next: present.

"You.."

The angel gets no further. The gash on Dean's forehead, the trail of blood and the now pooling puddle where the man lies - all of it stop Castiel in his tracks. All snark and acidity cast aside as he moves closer to his charge, kneeling beside him, hand outstretched to touch Dean's forehead. Brows a craggy furrow of concern as his touch begins to do its thing, healing the man's wound.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
It's not unusual for Winifred Burkle to sleep at the Winchester Apartment these days. For quite a few weeks she was there exclusively, getting over the Hydra spell and then the possessing of her parents. After that it was a crapshoot as to whether she was there or at the Hyperion.

Tonight? She's at the Winchester Apartment. Fred is a light sleeper - she had to be in Pylea and she's never shaken the habit. The slamming door and the crash to the floor is more than enough to wake her. Grabbing a shirt - it happens to be one of Sam's larger flannels - and pulling on a pair of pants, she all but stumbles into the living room as he calls for someone she's never heard the name of.

What she sees is a man in a trench coat standing over a bloodied Dean. He has a hand on his forehead. After the events of South Dakota, her mind jumps to certain conclusions. Grabbing the nearest thing she can find - with the Winchesters it is no surprise that it is a beer bottle - she immediately chucks it right at Castiel's head. "You! You get away from him!" It might not be the best aim, but she grabs another as she rushes forward to try and get him away from the Elder Winchester.

Her mother will almost certainly cross herself to know that her daughter is tossing beer bottles at an Angel of the Lord, but Fred only worries this is another demon come to harass them. "Go back to the snake-oil salesman you call a boss! I don't know if he actually sells snake oil, but I wouldn't be surprised!"

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean actually groans when Castiel says anything. Mostly because the world spins and moves and he's struggling to maintain his consciousness. He inherently knows that Crowley will resurrect him but he's not keen. Not remotely. Dying hasn't been pleasant.

His own face scrunches as the angel leans over him to touch his forehead, but then Fred is freaking out. And beer bottles are being thrown.

"Geeeeez, Fred," he croaks. But it's not easy to react or stop the pain and throbbing with the blood still pooling around him. This was a bad idea. Maybe he should've called sooner. But he didn't want to bleed on the upholstery.

Castiel has posed:
In the grand scheme of weaponry, beer bottles are not in the top ten. Not even the top twenty. Unless you break one off at the neck, in which case, they're probably good for position nine. However, Winifred isn't so lucky, or isn't trying that hard. If he //were// a demon, he'd be laughing now. Instead, the man scowls, his gravelly voice lifted to snap at the girl.

"You are not helping matters."

His charge, however, still has the bulk of his attention. And much as he appreciates that Dean is certainly more honest and talkative when in the state of inebriation, mostly comatose isn't helpful. Which is the only thing that prompts the angel to deal with that matter as well, his laying on of hands clearing the toxins of the alcohol from Dean's system, and in an act of supreme (and unwarranted) mercy, deals with what should be a doozy of a hangover as well.

All of which leave the angel vulnerable to Winifred's safeguarding of the Winchester apartment.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
No one seems to be of the information divulging type at the moment. And so, Fred continues to believe that Castiel is an intruder in the Winchester's abode. The bottle smashes against the wall instead of against the man keeping a hold on Dean. Luckily, as she wasn't exactly sure that it would work, she's continues to stride forward.

"//Helping//?" Who the hell is this guy? What she wouldn't give for one of her sleepytime bombs right now. That would take a bit more rummaging and it doesn't look like they have that kind of time.

"Since when do //demons// help." With her momentum, she attempts to shove the trench coated man off of Dean.

Dean's own croak of her name is met with a sigh and a bit of a look. Is he drunk? He looks like he's drunk. Drunk and bleeding. What in the world did he get himself into? She doesn't have salt or holy water at the moment, but she'll make do with what she has.

"Get out or I'll exorcise you."

Dean Winchester has posed:
Clarity begins to enter Dean's mind as his eyes find focus again and the bleeding seems to cease. "Fred, he's not," but coming back from injury still has a dizzying effect and he doesn't quite catch p to himself. With a heavy sigh, he slowly draws himself to a sit. "This is Cas," he finally introduces with a faint roll of his eyes. There's an assumption that follows--that Fred knows who Cas is. Or at least WHAT Cas is. This is... not likely the case.

Castiel has posed:
There isn't an iota of budge from the angel. Seemingly unphased by the avenging Winifred.

"Demons do not help," Castiel rumbles softly, his attention still on Dean, clearing the last of the man's problems away. Making certain all is well. The comment is typical, the angel failing to grasp that a more helpful answer would have been that he was not a demon. However, there is little of lasting harm she can do to him, so for the moment, the woman is ignored. She is safe. Dean is.. a danger to himself.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
"Yeah, that I've got a tattoo of to prove," Fred tells Castiel even as she attempts to dislodge him from Dean. It's an annoyingly futile effort and the physicist looks to Dean. Neither are explaining themselves properly and no one has told her that a being such as Castiel has appeared in the mix. And so, she starts to try and exorcism him. Something already doesn't feel quite right. This demon hasn't tossed her against a wall or taunted her other than by being frustratingly obtuse.

It's only a few lines through the incantation that she realizes that it has absolutely no effect on the man in front of her. Usually by now demons would be fighting, attempting to get away. Is he not a demon? What is he? Wary and upset, she takes the beer bottle that she had taken up and brandishes it - not yet bringing it down against him just yet.

"What'n the hell is a Cas? What the hell is going on, Dean?"

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Cas is Cas," Dean murmurs wearily with a roll of his eyes. Undoubtedly, thanks to the sudden appearance of the angel and the angelic efforts, he's feeling better. He shoots Castiel a flicker of a smile while he peels himself off the floor to tread back to the kitchen. To go to the fridge and get a bottle of beer.

"Anyone want a cold one?" he looks between them as his eyebrows furrow. "Cas is an angel. I... needed a hand. So I called him." He shrugs and reaches into he fridge to extract a bottle of beer for himself. The bottle opens with a fizzing sound. "Didn't feel like dying today." He takes a long swing of his beer.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel remains in his hunker beside Dean. Winifred's incantion tumbling from his lips in a gloriously smooth rendition of latin, lent force by the small matter of his angelic nature behind it. It's like listening to a choir in a perfectly acoustically appointed church.

When Dean finishes the introduction proper and gets up, the angel rises to his feet, assuming his most usual stance. Feet shoulder width apart. Shoulders back. Head at *just* a titch of an angle. Hands shoved deep in trench coat pockets. "Dean," he warns when the other heads straight for another beer.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
There's a startled expression as Castiel not only rebuffs but recites the same incantation in that otherworldly manner. It only grows as Dean says that he's an angel. Fred's eyes move quickly between the two people in this apartment as if processing an incredible fact. She's an incredibly smart woman, but this is not what she was expecting. Somehow, she understood demons. That made sense to her. Angels, though? That's something else entirely.

"Angel," she repeats. "Like, angel angel. Not Angel from the Hyperion." The bottle remains raised at Castiel. She's not quite off her guard just yet, instead it has increased. "As in, Biblical angel? Gabriel, Michael, Raphael?"

She squints at Castiel. "No, sorry, you don't have enough eyes. Or wings. You're supposed to be a body of eyes and wings and wheels. If I were a shepherd on a hill I wouldn't be afraid right now. You look like you're a guy from the street that's gonna tell me about the end of the world."

Much like Castiel, though, she gives him a bit of a look. "Dean," she almost echoes the angel's own warning with concern of her own.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Is that a yes, Cas?" Dean pretends to be obtuse as he grabs another bottle of beer which he tosses towards the angel. "Never say I don't share," his lips curve up on one side. "Fred?" she never said whether she wanted a beer and he's not about to leave anyone out if they don't want to be.

"Yeaaaah. As in an angel. But they're dicks. So. Don't think of him as anything beyond Cas. It makes it easier to, you know, cope." There's little question that something is off. "Full name Castiel. Sam said his name means God's shield. Or something. Claims to be our guardian." His eyebrows lift, "Not particularly good at it, but pulled a win here. So," that's a plus.

Castiel has posed:
Winifred's disbelief seems at thing Castiel is comfortable with. Or used to. the woman is given a brief glance before his attention turns back to Dean. "Paul was an ass," he remarks blandly. There's a long pause of thought before he adds, "So is Michael."

The moment could almost be missed, though, as Castiel narrows his gaze down upon Dean, his eyebrows a thick line of displeasure across his brow. "You have had enough." There's the small matter of being handed a beer, though, Castiel's hand reaching automatically for the bottle, and the angel being left in a state of confusion as to how to proceed next as the vessel's inclinations and the angel's immediate nature war. "What happened?"

In the war over what to do about the beer, there is no immediate clear winnner, the bottle held at an awkward angle to Castiel's body, the rest of him stiff and still as always.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
"Wait, we're all okay with angels?" Fred gives Dean a particular look at this. Of course Castiel is okay with being an angel, that's what he says he is. "Dean, //what is going on?//"

To Castiel, she blinks a few times. "You're saying you knew Paul. Paul the Apostle. Saint Paul who wrote most of the New Testament. And he was an ass."

There is so much to process here, to discuss, to ask questions about and Dean seems so blasé and ready to pass out beers. For now, she can't explain it, but the empty bottle is put down and she reaches out for one that is actually filled with beer. The Winchesters will make an alcoholic out of her.

"Guardian..." the Winchesters have a guardian? There is too much going on and Fred has never really been good at words. Usually, it is because she says too much of them at once and they all become a jumble. At time like this, though? It is that she cannot handle all the implications and needs straight answers. Point blank, she looks to Castiel. "What are you doing here?"

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean's eyebrows lift at the assertion. "Dunno about that, Cas. Pretty sure I'm ready for more," thanks to Castiel's trick, "Feeling alive and hearty and ready to party," he lifts the bottle in the air in a /cheers/ motion. The question as to what happened meets another lift of Dean's eyebrows. For a second it looks like he might answer, but Fred's questions work well as a means to distract and refocus on other important things.

The thought of being okay with angels actually prompts a squint and vague frown. "Angels are dicks. We're not okay with them, they're--" he shudders. He remembers Zachariah. He remembers what happened so many years ago. "...dicks. Honestly. Real genuine dicks." His eyes flit towards Cas. "Cas seems okay though. So far."

It's then that Dean seems to notice the pool of his blood on the floor. "Huh," he mutters while he grasps several towels from the kitchen to mop of the blood pools on the floor. He gets on his knees and begins to absorb the red fluid from the floor.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's brows remain that displeased line. "I would not have been so kind had I known," he rumbles at Dean who has now fully resumed his alcoholic binge. when he's declared 'okay' 'so far' there's a low rumble of sound from the angel. "Damned with faint praise."

He allows a drift of attention to Winifred as Dean stoops to clean the mess left from his wound. "Paul was an ass," he reiterates, voice confident. Sure. He doesn't immediately answer her question, though, standing there, watching her. Or it appears he's watching her. He does have an unruly habit of deep silence before his utterances. "I chose to come," is his answer. Cryptic, as always, and perhaps not unexpected from Dean's point of view. Winifred, however, has just met the man.

He's an acquired taste, Castiel.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Ready for more. Fred is not at all sure what exactly Castiel just did, but there is still blood everywhere and Dean seems fine. The bewildered brunette takes a beer, pops the top and takes a long swig. She's not really much of a beer drinker - or a drinker at all, really. Still, she drinks a good few swallows. The occasion seems to call for it. "Lemme get this straight." Fred is nothing if not a stickler for facts. They help when nothing else makes sense. "There are angels and they're dicks. St. Paul was an ass. This man is an angel named Castiel and is okay so far." She needs more alcohol for all of this. There's a very confused expression on her face. "I think my Sunday school teachers would have had a field day with this."

As Castiel watches her, Fred can't help but notice it. She's generally observant with people watching her - apparent or otherwise. His cryptic words are met with a furrowed brow. "Sure, okay. I chose to walk out of the room to see what happened out here, but why did you come?"

Dean Winchester has posed:
"And here I thought that was high praise," Dean counters to Castiel with a crooked curl of his lips. He takes another swig of his beer and casts a glance towards the one in Castiel's grasp. "Not in the mood Cas? No problem, toss it back, I'll return it to the fridge." Dean's nose wrinkles at that. He's his own acquired taste.

The blood has been mopped up, and Dean treads to the garbage, towels in hand. He tosses the remnants of whatever happened into the garbage can, tugs the strings of the bag, and tightly ties it, sealing it. With the bag in hand, Dean opens the window and tosses the bag out into the dumpster outside.

He takes another swig of his beer. He's just taken out the trash; time for reward. Green eyes look between the pair. With another smirk, he settles at the kitchen table and extracts The Colt from its holster. He opens the weapon to check each of its parts. He's not going to test it. With five bullets and five bullets only, he's not going to waste one just to test it.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's eyebrows refuse to unknit themselves, even for the woman. His regard seems ready to settle firmly upon her for the moment as she, again, presses for an answer. "Beer bottles?" The question is marked with gravelley disdain. "Who taught you?"

The vessel seems to have won out, as, in a gesture that he doesn't seem entirely aware of, the angel tucks the bottle under the sleeve opposite the hand holding it, and with the protection of the cloth beneath, gives an opening twist. The cap is given a casual flick towards the trashbin, missing Dean by mere inches in a motion that may or may not have been deliberate. Though, to date, Cas has taken no actions that would suggest he'd do such a thing.

"Never." The single word is ennunciated for the woman, to give it its full weight and meaning. "Stop an incantation mid-stream. You would do well to remember." His words are a dismissive scold that is followed up by a swig of the beer he holds. A long moment of silence before the body remembers the requisite followup, a singular, "Ah.." as the angel wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then gives Winifred a smile that only reaches his eyes, the blue of them gentled past the scolding he's just given. "You worry about him."

For the moment Dean is utterly ignored by the man.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Dean getting an angel to drink is something Fred can't help but find strange and possibly distasteful. That might get more of her attention if Dean hadn't brought the Colt onto the table and start to check it. "Why did you have a revolver with you? What happened?" The blood, the drunkenness, it starts to solidify into something a little less like a bar fight and something more serious.

Castiel's undivided attention is met with a few blinks. "I have a holy water molotov cocktail in the other room." For this moment she feels the need to defend her honor against the thought that she cannot defend herself. "I taught myself." Of course, others helped, but that seems the truth of it.

If she thought it strange that Dean was goading an angel to drink, it's even stranger to see one pop a beer bottle so easily as Cas does. What is this evening, even?

"I stopped because it didn't have an effect," she counters, as if trying to defend her thesis against a professor. The sudden observation that she worries is met with a few blinks. "Dean? Of course." She gestures to the blood that's on the floor, the beer bottles, generally everything. How could she not? There are things to worry about. Plus, she knows how much Dean means to Sam and through that has her own sets of worries.

Castiel has posed:
When Winifred says she has a holy water molotov in the next room, Cas's brows knnit closer together. When she says she taught herself, he just looks pained. "Always finish," he snaps. "They bring friends." The implication being if it doesn't work on one, it very may well on the things she hasn't noticed yet.

Dean is given a growl, "She's a Hunter?" The question more of an accusation. Much on the lines of /And you let her out alone?/

The angel watches at Dean methodically and meticulously deals with the Colt. "Good to see you didn't waste any." His chin makes the barest movement, an implication of an approving sort of nod. Whatever Dean's failings this evening, he did one thing right.

Another swig of beer is taken, this time without the accompanying 'Ah' of pleasure. And for the moment the question of why he's here has been forgotten or avoided.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Fred's thoughts about The Colt earn her a vague nod. "Nothin'. Just a token Sam recently received." He doesn't offer more than that. Whether it has anything to do with the bleeding on the floor or not seems to be something he's not offering easily. Lazily, he rests his elbow on the table and his chin atop his hand. He takes a long drink of his beer but then Castiel seems to be accusing him of something.

"Dude. Fred," he motions with a thumb towards Winifred, "is Sam's girlfriend. I don't have any influence over that," he attempts to think of a semi-polite phrase, "situation." He seems satisfied with his word choice. It's probably not actually all that satisfactory.

A long breath follows the mention of not wasting bullets and Dean simply holsters the gun again. "No point," he replies. "Got one with Azazel's name. One with Alistair's. And three extra. Would rather save them for something more important."

But Fred worries about him. His eyebrows draw together and he allows his eyes to flit between them. "Don't bother," he gruffly asserts. "It's a waste of your energy. I don't need your worry. Save it for Sam," he points towards his brother's room. "Save it for your parents. Save it for your own damned hide. I'm fine," even if he's supposed to be in hell in a year.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Castiel's observations about her are met with furrowed brows. "I can handle myself." Fred might otherwise get a more detailed explanation as to why exactly she feels like she can handle herself in most circumstances, but she doesn't just yet.

There seems to be more about this gun than she knows and that, undoubtably makes her curious. It's in her nature. Frowning, she is unsure whether she is more unnerved by the angel enjoying the beer or the bullets. However, her attention is pulled by the fact that Sam got it recently and she had no idea about it. "What?"

That is even before she is called a 'situation' that Dean has little influence over. There are implications there that might not have been meant, but certainly reverberate. A hurt expression crosses the brunette's face. Any other questions about the Colt are quelled. Perhaps that is what Dean was wishing, though Fred is not well versed enough in deception to realize that now.

The hurt is laced through her voice as she defends her words. "Worry isn't something finite," she tells Dean, words a bit heated. "And, obviously?" she gestures to the blood on the floor that he just cleaned and then the hand moves to the //literal// angel he needed to call. "It's not a waste of energy. The way you've been acting? Seems pretty necessary." Strangely, she looks to Castiel for backup, despite her words earlier.

Castiel has posed:
Castiel's response is a very simply stated, "He is an idiot."

Dean Winchester has posed:
"Thanks," Dean glances between the pair. He slides away from the table, beer in hand, before adjusting his collar and turning towards the door. "The vote of confidence is overwhelming," his voice takes on that same gruff edge. "From both of you."

He issues them a two fingered salute. But something about what Fred says gives him pause. "Way I've been acting?" His eyebrows draw together and something about the assertion is funny to him. "You don't know me well enough to even make a judgment on that." Another flicker of a smile follows, but it subdues as something becomes clear to him: Fred really has no idea what kind of mess she got herself into by stepping into their lives. And in that moment, even though she probably wouldn't want it, Fred finds his pity, indicated through the very faint softening of his eyes.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Fred has stepped right into it. She doesn't know the well trod arguments of the Winchesters, nor does she know their exact pratfalls. Dean is quite right in saying that she doesn't know them well enough to judge. The statements bring about a bit of a frown, a questioning moment of herself. Coming into an apartment bloodied with a revolver is not the proper way to act, right? Even as a hunter?

Sometimes thoughts and norms blur together for Fred and she wonders if she truly has made a faux pax. No, that doesn't seem right, though. This is strange all about. "Do I need to know you to think coming home bloody with an angel warrants worry?" Even the angel seems to think he's acting weird. And he's an angel!

Much like Dean supposes, she doesn't want pity. However, the softening of his eyes do not exactly read as such to her. Not just yet.

Castiel has posed:
Winifred's question of Dean holds the right of it, and for a moment, the angel regards the man at the table with a placidly patient gaze. "He does not believe he deserves better," the angel remarks. It's a rather keen observation, but Castiel has spent time with the man both drunk and sobre now, and listened to a litany of sins. And if there is one thing that the angel does understand, it's guilt. That, and something of what May had said to him has settled and begun to make sense: regardless of the reason, Dean does not take help lightly. All the reasons are not clear, but those two things fit his understanding of matters. The older brother taking upon himself that the younger need not. It smacks of a morality tale of epic proportions.

That, and he'd talked with Crowley at the Crossroads.

His brows have unknit themselves from the dark, disappointed line by the time he considers Winifred again. "You are not prepared," he states with certainty. She threw beer bottles. It was tantamount to tossing rocks into the sea, trying to force the waves back. Whatever she thought she was ready for, the woman was mistaken. And Castiel had a better idea than most of what was likely to come.

Dean Winchester has posed:
"That's a hunter's life," Dean replies to Fred's questions. "I come home bloody a lot. So does Sam. It's occupational hazard." His green eyes follow Fred thoughtfully. "And believe me, I called Cas because it seemed better than the alternative," dying and letting Crowley resurrect him. Again. For no reason.

Dean's eyes roll and he takes another swig of his newfound beer.

"What don't I deserve better than, Cas? Than showing up bloody? Hunter. Life." He exhales a long breath. He looks towards Fred, "And don't let him or Sam fool you." He doesn't deserve much. He knows what happens in his mind. He knows the things that he's done. He knows the decisions he's made. "I'm a survivor. I do what I have to in order to save people. To take care of me and mine. So yeah, I probably deserve far worse." Pointedly he looks between them. "We reap what we sow. And I been sowing some nasty stuff for a good long while." He winks to punctuate the point.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Castiel's observation rings true for Fred. She watches Dean with a bit of a frown on her face. She doesn't know the worse alternatives because Dean has never divulged them. Much of the Winchester's life remains wrapped in a fog of mystery. There are times when she can peel it away, but for the most part it remains shaded.

"I don't think so," she tells Dean very distinctly, but she can't argue more than that. He doesn't seem willing to listen and he doesn't seem likely to take what she says to heart. So, that is all she says in that matter.

Cas' expression is met with a studying - almost annoyed - expression of her own. She is used to taking care of herself and doesn't like to be told she is not prepared for something. "Fine," she tells him in a manner very similar to how Dean told them he was fine. It seems she's picked a few things up from her time with the Winchesters.

Castiel has posed:
Winfred's look of annoyance is totally ignored - if it even registers with the angel. "As you wish."

His attention returns to Dean, the man given a long, searching appraisal. "We," he remarks quietly, "Are not through." That he intends on paying a visit to a certain bossy female of his late acquaintance to discuss matters may play a lot into why the angel is willing to let things go.

Another swig of the beer is downed, with a complaint, "There should be whiskey." Louder, "If we're done?" Since the man is being stupidly stubborn, and the woman.. well.. She's regarded again. And added to the list. The growing list.

She just doesn't know it yet.

Dean Winchester has posed:
/We are not through/. "Are we ever?" Dean asks with a smirk towards Castiel. He looks back at Fred, and even if Castiel isn't done, there are definite markers that something has succeeded here. A vague glance turns to the once-bloodied-now-cleaned spot on the floor where he'd laid. All's well. Or, at least, well enough.

"No one was keeping you here, Cas." Dean is casual about it. Like he'd invited Cas for the game rather than resolution to a fight that should never have been. A fight he needed Sam to know nothing about.

His eyebrows draw together and he finishes the beer, leaving the bottle on a nearby bookshelf before slowly retreating to his room, lifting a hand as a kind of farewell.

Castiel has posed:
That's all the permission Castiel needs. One minute there. The next gone, beer bottle and all. Leaving poor Winifred alone in the livingroom.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
The way that Dean discards his bottles, it's no wonder Fred was able to find an empty beer bottle to toss at Cas. Even if it caused ridicule from the angel she was attempting to bean with it.

There should be whiskey? Angels drink whiskey? The brunette is confused. She opens her mouth to answer Castiel, but in a moment, he is gone.

There are quite a few blinks as she looks about the now empty room. Her own barely touched beer remains in her hand. "O-okay," she says to no one in particular as she drinks it down by herself.