cained | 👻🎈🤡🥧

( the sudden warmth in the room isn't just from the alcohol; it emanates from bev tucked against him and dean can't help the hint of a smile that tugs at his lips. as simple a gesture as it is, it speaks volumes louder than any words that pass between them. dean has never been very good at expressing his feelings out loud, was taught from a young age that what he felt was secondary to keeping sam safe, so the fact that he's allowed her into his space like this — the fact that he's comfortable with her this close — just goes to show how much trust they've built together. he doesn't know how to say thank you for listening or you know i wouldn't do that to you, but he lets her hold him, and that's almost enough.

he's only half paying attention to the records as he flips through them, his focus more on bev's arms around his waist, her chest pressed against his back, the steady beat of his heart, the faded scent of her perfume. he feels content for a moment, would be happy to stand here flipping through old records all night just to keep her close. (not that they haven't been spending the nights together like this, curled up in each other's arms.)

she points out glenn miller and he pulls the record out to consider it. not exactly his style but — )

What? ( he half laughs, the question catching him off guard. ) Maybe when I was sixteen getting ready for some dumb school prom — ( that he never ended up going to, thanks dad. ) — but, uh, not ... recently. Ain't exactly a skill they teach in hunting school.

[ She'd be content to stand like this all night too, even if the pair of them have been virtually inseparable since she turned up without warning at the bunker. Over two months apart with no word after parting in New York on such a high note — God, she'd been cruising on the memories of that visit all through the holidays — on top of Dean's stint in prison means taking every chance to be close to each other and savouring it. Sometimes it's as simple as their ankles brushing under the kitchen table over morning coffee; other times it's as overt as now, joined at the hip and then some.

Dean mentions prom and she has to laugh, too. Maybe it is all a little high school. But they've been starved of intimacy for so long, she thinks they're excused. Without eyes on them, Sam and Castiel nowhere in sight, they're allowed to let some walls down and let the softness come out into the open. That's what she's feeling now, anyway, especially in the wake of something so sad and heavy. She's glad to hear some lightness creep back into his voice and she's keen on encouraging that. ]

Well, put that on, and maybe I'll show you a few moves.

[ Her wedding was never really about her, although she'd tried to convince herself of otherwise at the time. She did think she was happy, then; had dismissed the sinking dread in her stomach as normal bridal jitters. But she'd liked learning to dance for the reception and had thought, naively at the time, that she and Tom could do it again sometime. They never did (surprise, surprise), but as Bev looks up at Dean, she finds herself glad that she has no old memories to overshadow the creation of this one.

This one's all theirs. ]

Come on, humour me a little, [ she smiles, patting his stomach twice as she straightens up behind him, decisive. ] We can be rusty together. It'll be fun.

( truthfully, dean always thought he'd be a good dancer if he wanted to be, and maybe he could have been if things had been different, if he'd grown up normal, but it's just never been in the cards for him. the most dancing he's ever done is the drunk texas two-step in some backwoods honkytonk. so maybe this is just as much for her as it is for him, in a way. a chance to pretend like his life isn't all monsters and death and trauma; a chance to convince himself he deserves moments like these knowing his life is all monsters and death and trauma. it can be both, can't it? isn't that the moral of this story? he doesn't have to choose anymore.

and, hell, he might just have a few moves of his own, if given the chance. )

Okay, Ginger Rogers. ( sarcastic, but painfully fond. ) Ain't no Fred Astaire, but what the hell.

( he pulls the record out of the sleeve, slotting it on the turntable, carefully dropping the needle. the sound crackles a little as the needle finds the grooves, but after a few seconds the melodic brass of moonlight serenade hums over the library speakers. he can't imagine the men of letters were ever dancing to these records, but it does evoke that feeling from every nostalgic old hollywood drama, and he can't deny how romantic it is. he can't help but smile to himself, taking hold of one of her hands to press a quick kiss to the back of her hand before he turns to face her, extending his hand palm up, bowing a nod, eyebrows raised expectantly. )

Shall we, Ms. Marsh?

[ It's a request she might feel ridiculous about making any other time, but that's the wonderful thing about what they have — even if this is new, their friendship isn't, and they've indulged in silly things together before. After years of living for other people's expectations, it's a relief to enjoy something simply for the sake of it: mugging for the camera in front of iconic street corners, diving into an indulgent platter of Belgian waffles, a big Broadway show or a nighttime stroll after. So what if it's cheesy? They've earned cheesy. No one's too old for that.

Her forehead drops against his shoulder as she laughs, delighted when he agrees. Mental note: Turner Classic Movies the next time they flip on the TV. ]

You're right, you aren't. [ Dramatic pause. Then: ] You're so much cuter than Astaire.

[ Well, Fred Astaire is technically cute but Dean Winchester is dashing. The proof of it is in how he kisses her hand against the swell of crackling music, turning to face her with all the smoothness of those old Hollywood stars. Swap out the flannel for a sleek set of tails against the Art Deco backdrop of the bunker, and it's a scene right off the RKO Pictures lot.

She's actually blushing when he offers his hand even as another laugh bubbles free — is he wooing her with her own damn idea or is she a little warm from the whiskey? (It's both.) She tries to school her beaming expression into something a little more dignified, but it doesn't last long, her eyes bright with amusement as she takes his hand. ]

We shall, Mr Winchester. [ The facade cracks in seconds, giggling as she steps into the circle of his arms. Maybe it starts out as a traditional dance hold; Bev doesn't lead so much as gently guide them into an easy sway, following the beat of the band. He's too tall for them to be dancing cheek to cheek a la Rogers and Astaire, but she rests hers against his shoulder and it's close enough. It's nice.

After a few moments, she speaks again, voice soft. ] You okay?

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