You both were tired, and this case had done nothing but slap you around and strand you here in the 1950s. Whatever artifact Castiel had zapped you after had done more than ripple time… it had locked you in it. Two days. No clue. No exit. Just the two of you in old coats, too many cigarettes, and a small-town dive bar filled with couples who didn’t know what monsters looked like. You sat across from him in the booth, watching him stare into his drink like it had answers. He hadn’t said much since the coroner shut you down earlier. Just grunts and shrugs and a muttered “Figures” when your leads dried up like the world didn’t want you knowing what happened to the dead girl with her mouth sewn shut. And now? He was just sitting there. Jaw tight. Knuckles white around his glass. Like if he relaxed, something might come pouring out.

Your eyes drifted to the tiny dance floor: a few couples swayed slowly in the glow of the jukebox, moving like they didn’t need words. Like the rest of the world didn’t exist. The song rolling out was soft, the kind of song that made your chest ache for reasons you didn’t want to name.

“There is something on your mind… by the way you look at me…”

The sound of it pulled something sharp and fragile in you loose. You looked back at Dean. His gaze hadn’t moved. He was staring at the floor like it had done something to him. You swallowed.

“Dance with me.” Dean blinked.

His eyes finally met yours, and his brow furrowed slightly. “What?”

You gave a small, uneven smile. “I said… dance with me. Just for the song.”

He stared at you like you’d spoken in another language. Like you’d asked him to bleed on cue. “I don’t dance,” he said, voice low. Automatic. Defensive.

“I’m not asking for a ballroom spin, Dean,” you said, quieter now. “I just… i don’t want to be me for a minute. Not a hunter. Not a problem to solve. I just… I want to feel like I’m somewhere safe for three minutes.”

Dean’s eyes flicked back to the dancers. Then to your hand, resting open on the table. Then back to you. He didn’t speak. But he stood. And held out his hand. Your chest tightened. You slid out of the booth and took it. He led you to the floor, hesitating only once like he was stepping off a cliff. Then he pulled you close: one hand finding your waist, the other wrapping lightly around your fingers. It wasn’t perfect. Dean was stiff at first. Like he was waiting for someone to call it stupid. But you leaned in. Rested your head against his shoulder. And he… melted. Just a little. Just enough to hold you tighter. To let his thumb drift across your back in the slow rhythm of the song.

“If you ever think about me, if I ever cross your mind…”

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. You just swayed in that small corner of borrowed time, where none of this was real, except for the way his arms felt around you. You felt his breath at your temple. Slow. Measured. Like he was afraid to be this close. And then, so quiet you almost missed it: “I don’t do this.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.” The music kept playing, low, beautiful, and cruel.

“But I wanted to,” he said, even quieter.