Dean’s goodbye is brisk, almost an order. “Keep an eye on ‘em, Cas. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

You look up from your notes. “Dean, I’m fine. Don’t need a babysitter.”

He smirks. “Never said you did.” Then he’s gone, Sam trailing behind, a quick “call if you need anything.” Before the bunker door shuts with a low and final thud. Silence fills the space. You stretch, rub the tension from your neck, and cross to the record player in the corner. The needle drops with a soft thump and a hiss of static, followed by… some tinny old tune you barely recognize. Nothing special, but it’s something to break the quiet. You go back to the table, spreading out the case files. Cas is across from you, posture perfect, his eyes moving slowly over the same page he’s been staring at for five minutes. An hour slips by in the muted scratch of your pen, the occasional flip of a page. You’re deep in your notes when the record shifts. A few gentle guitar strums.

I don’t want to set the world on fire…

You freeze for half a second before the smile creeps in unbidden. From across the table, Cas notices instantly. “Why are you smiling?”

You glance up, the memory already blooming warm in your chest. “This song… reminds me of my parents. They used to slow dance in the kitchen when they thought no one was watching. My mom would hum along, and my dad, well he’d sing it to her like it was the only thing that mattered. It always looked like they were in a different world. One where nothing could touch them.”

Cas watches you quietly, like he’s measuring the weight of your words. Then he stands, stepping toward you, trench coat swaying faintly. “Will you dance with me?”

You blink at him. “Cas-”

“It’s what they did,” he says simply. “If it brought you happiness then… perhaps it will now… I’d like to understand this more.” Your pulse stutters as you take his offered hand. His fingers curl gently around yours, his other hand settling at your back with careful pressure, as if uncertain how much is too much. The two of you sway, the song folding around you in its warm, crackling embrace. Cas’s steps are deliberate, slightly awkward, but his focus never wavers from you. “You think of them often,” he says quietly, almost as an observation.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s one of the few memories that’s… untouched. No hunts. No danger. Just love. Simple.”

He nods, gaze searching yours. “I think I understand. It isn’t about the music, it’s about who you’re holding while it plays.”

Your chest tightens. “Exactly.”

“I haven’t had that,” he says after a pause, his voice low, hesitant. “Not like you describe.”