Castiel clanks back into the tent, and Sam immediately doubles over, laughing.
“Jesus, Cas, you’re uh –“ He blinks, grinning, and looks at Charlie, who’s standing at the angel’s side. “You’re more into this than I thought you’d be.”
Castiel, in full plate armour, a foam sword sheathed at his hip, shrugs – the movement makes anoise, a clank of metal on metal. “I’m at a tactical advantage.” He says simply, and Sam snorts again in reply, shaking his head and grinning.
“Guess you’re right. You look cool, Cas.” Dean, throughout this exchange, has said nothing. Sam elbows him. “You ready to head out?” he jerks his head at the entrance to the tent, where LARPers are milling back and forth, and Dean nods quickly, shouldering his broadsword and blinking, hard.
“What? Sure.” He gets a couple of odd looks from Charlie and Sam – a faintly knowing one from Castiel, the dick – and then he shoves past them and out through the flap of the tent door, onto the battlefield.
Long story short; they come, they see they conquer. How can they not, with Castiel, master tactician-turned-knight at Her Highness’ side, his eyes firmly set on victory, sword tight in his hand?
Dean runs a little awkwardly, a little uncomfortably, behind him, sword raised, eyes on Castiel as he (fake) cuts his way through the (fake) massacre.
The Shadow Orcs don’t stand a chance.
In the aftermath, their foes picking themselves up from the field, Castiel stands tall and proud in the centre of it all, surveying their victory. Dean grabs his arm, and tugs him behind one of the tents before he can say otherwise.
“Dean-“ Castiel mumbles into his mouth between kisses, pleased by the assault but difficult, as always, “These clothes don’t exactly… unzip.”
Dean pulls back, hands on the cool metal at Castiel’s sides, and eyes the plate metal over his groin. “Can you unscrew that without undoing the whole thing?”
Castiel glances down between them, shrugs, and nods. “Probably.” He concedes, too calm when Dean himself is flushed and breathing heavy, and his dick has been hard for the last hour.
Dean looks at him pointedly. “Then leave the rest of it on.”
Dean couldn’t move. But he could get to his pocket. He pulled out his lighter and illuminated the coffin.
“You idiot,” Charlie said to the computer, “you’re eating up the oxygen.”
She sniffled when Dean and Bobby hugged hello, dabbed her eyes when Sam and Dean reunited, and called “Crissy” being Ruby a good fifteen pages in advance of it actually happening. But Charlie was stumped as to how Dean got out of hell. That is, until she got her first clue.