Dean keeps telling him not to be nervous, but Castiel thinks it’s more a mantra for himself than anything. Neither really care about their nominations tonight, they know their film is solid without the accolades of an increasingly irrelevant academy, and Castiel’s role as one of the producers of one of the year’s best critical successes received validation enough when Dean agreed to star in it. But still, it’s Hollywood. Of course they care, because everyone else does.
“Just remember,” Dean says, as he works Cas’ bow-tie around his neck. “If you don’t win, you’re still the handsomest son of a bitch out there.”
Cas’ eyes flick up from Dean’s fingers to his eyes, then back down to his mouth. “I’m afraid I’d rather have to disagree. If I don’t win it will be because I’ve already been gifted a golden man that stands erect under my fist.”
Dean’s hands still. He licks his lips as Cas’ eyes track it. “I can’t tell if that’s ridiculously hot or some of the sappiest shit you’ve ever said.”
Cas shrugs and feigns indifference. “I’ve been told the Oscars are a good occasion for sentiment,” he drawls. “I might even remember your name for my acceptance speech.”
Dean huffs a laugh and in retribution covers his treacherous mouth with a kiss.