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( 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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