[ For years, Cas craved that except sensation: the press of heat from another living body, any body. Being an angel with a vastly different kind of anatomy from a human, he shouldn't feel that way anymore. But he does, with Dean. Dean has always been the exception. Dean leans more against him, and it sends a pleasant little flush of heat through Castiel, incredibly. He presses his nose to Dean's hair and lets his right hand trail lower, brushing over the stubble of Dean's cheek and jaw and quietly marveling at the slow, steady pulse proving that Dean is wonderfully, incredibly alive. ]

I see.

[ ...Despite Sam's best efforts, apparently. But this turn of conversation isn't supposed to be about Sam, goddamn it. So Cas doesn't let himself dwell. ]

Well, you asked before how much it took. I drank about two and a half bottles of what they consider their strongest grain alcohol, in shots.