"My leg is itchy," Dean whines.
"Suck it up," Castiel replies, the same way he does every time Dean complains about it.
"I just wanna get my cast off," Dean says. "Is that too much to ask?"
"You're literally doing it tomorrow," Castiel says. "You just gave to suffer for 24 hours — not even. You'll survive."
"But I wanna scratch me leg," Dean whines.
"Well, good luck with that," Castiel says. "Go cut your cast off with a pair of kitchen scissors. See how that works for you."
Dean perks up at that idea. "Thanks, Cas! You're the best!" He reaches over for his crutches, and Castiel has to stop him before he can leave.
"Don't do it," Castiel says quickly. "You're gonna break the scissors."
"I'm not using scissors," Dean says. "I'm gonna use my chainsaw!"
"Dean! No!" Castiel says immediately. "You're gonna cut your leg off!"
"At least it won't be itchy," Dean says.
Castiel sighs and shakes his head at the boy. "I'm marrying an idiot."
"Yes, but I'm an awesome idiot, so it's okay," Dean says.
"Keep telling yourself that," Castiel says. "So, what happens once you get the cast off?"
Dean shrugs. "Physical therapy, probably."
"When do you find out of you can still play football?" Castiel asks.
"Well, tomorrow, I think I'll find out if there's even a possibility of it," Dean says. "But I won't get the official all clear until, like, November."
"They're really gonna make you wait until November?" Castiel says in disbelief. "That's horrible!"
"It's only six more months," Dean says. "Which, now that I say it out loud, does sound like a really long time. Well, fuck my life."
"It'll be worth it when you're back on the field, though," Castiel says.
"But that's so far away," Dean whines.
"You'll survive," Castiel says. "Ooh, you know what else happens tomorrow?"
"The Billboard awards?" Dean nods. "Saw it on Twitter."
"Wait, that's tomorrow?" Castiel asks.
"Was that not what you were thinking of?" Dean asks.
"No, I was gonna say Jack's birthday," Castiel says.
"Oh, hey, tomorrow's Jack's birthday!" Dean says as if he's just now remembering it, before adding, "I had no idea when that was until right now."
Castiel chuckles. "I figured."
"So how old is he now?" Dean asks.
"Well, now now he's 16," Castiel says. "He'll be 17 tomorrow."
Dean scoffs. "I wish I was half as successful as him when I was 17."
"I was twice as successful as him when I was 17, so I can't relate," Castiel says, then adds, "Actually, no, I still wish I was half as successful as him. Would have been way more peaceful."
"You're just owning that 'successful' thing right now," Dean says, amused.
"If there was a way I could unown it, I definitely would," Castiel says. "But Jack's probably got it pretty good. He's big enough that he can do fun things, but doesn't get stalked by paparazzi nonstop."
"Oh, speaking of cool things that Jack is doing," Dean says, "I think I heard that he's performing at the show tomorrow."
"What's he nominated for?" Castiel asks.
"Something for your song," Dean says. "I didn't pay a whole lot of attention."
"Wait, he's nominated for 'Remember'?" Castiel asks. "It's been months since that came out. Is that still popular?"
Dean shrugs. "Beats me. I don't listen to the pop radio any more than you do."
"Can I see your phone?" Castiel asks.
"Sure?" Dean says uncertainly. He unlocks it and hands it over.
Castiel opens up Twitter, and, as always, he has to read the tweet from Lucifer that tops Dean's feed.
"I just tripped over a banana peel and I feel like I'm in a cartoon halp me."
Castiel can't help but smile at that. He's such a dork.
He searches up his go to account when he wants to know how well his songs are doing — @CastielCharts. He scrolls through the top tweets, reading off the chart placements for "Remember."
"2 on Billboard top 100, 1 on billboard pop songs, 3 on HAC radio, 2 on AC radio, 2 on mediabase radio —" Castiel scoffs. "Jack really did that."
"It's literally your song," Dean says. "You wrote it, you sang in it. How did Jack do that?"
"Jack made it a real pop song instead of a ballad type thing," Castiel says. "The way I wrote it, it never would have made it on the top 100 at all." He hands Dean his phone back. "Jack might win that award tomorrow."
"It's about damn time," Dean says. "He gets snubbed of these awards way too much. I mean, he wins a lot, but he misses a lot too, and that's not fair."
"That's how it works," Castiel says. "You can't win 'em all."
"Tell that to your awards room,"
Dean says.
"If I had won every award I had been nominated for, I could build a shelf of them all around your house and I still doubt that they'd all fit in one layer," Castiel says.
"Can we do that?" Dean asks. "I know you don't have every award you've been nominated for, but if you spread them out, I bet it would work."
"Do you have any idea how hard it would be to move all my awards?" Castiel asks. "That's never gonna happen."
"Can we compromise and every time you win a new award, you bring it here?" Dean asks.
"I don't think I'll be winning any more awards," Castiel says. "Anything for 'Remember' gets sent straight to Jack I'm only putting out one more album, and if I don't go to awards shows, I might get nominated for things to keep my fans happy, but that's about it."
"Dammit, I want a bunch of awards," Dean says. "I think we should just take a box of awards every time we go to your house in New York and bring them here."
"Are we going to my house in New York any time soon?" Castiel asks.
"That's an excellent question," Dean says. "Probably not — unless you want to get your own clothes instead of wearing mine all the time."
Castiel hugs Dean's flannel closer to himself. "But I like wearing your clothes."
Dean smiles slightly at that. "I like you wearing my clothes, too."