disclaimer: not mine.


Gavotte

Aziraphale is teaching Castiel how to dance. It doesn't look like any kind of dance Dean has ever seen before. What it does look is completely fucking ridiculous.

"The gavotte," Crowley says, like he can tell what Dean is thinking, "leave him alone for half a century and he does something like this."

Castiel is staring straight ahead with the singleminded intensity he usually reserves for smiting and God-hunting. He moves in time with the music, feet hitting the floor with an almost terrifying accuracy. His arms reach out in front of him like he's an extra in a bad zombie flick, but as far as Dean can tell, that's an actual part of it.

Dean Winchester, Dean thinks, as Aziraphale somehow manages to step on Castiel's foot, despite never actually being within range of it, this is your life.

He tries to remember how the hell they got here, but last night is lost in a drunken haze.

"What the hell happened last night?" he asks, with the vague, nagging feeling that he won't like the answer. Crowley snorts.

"Da - blessed if I know," he says. They watch Aziraphale apologise profusely for nearly knocking over the gramophone.

"Angels," Crowley says. It comes out almost fond.