For Maggie.
Dance Floor
Prologue.
Distractedly, his gaze roamed elsewhere. His partner was a perfectly lovely woman, and matched his steps with the ease and confidence that only the perfectly lovely could muster. For all her confidence, however, and all her loveliness, she was not Grace.
He wondered what had kept Grace away tonight. The dance had only begun a short time ago, and there were hours left in the evening, hours left for her to appear. Even so, he could not keep his worried gaze from roaming elsewhere. At the end of the set, he returned the woman to her seat, absently noting and dismissing the wistful gaze she sent after him.
He was moving back to his seat as the DJ called for a waltz, and a lovingly mournful song slipped from the speakers. He stopped dead when her saw her, dressed in a filmy white skirt and gentle heels, her bright hair gleaming like flame in the strobing lights.
Castiel's heart leapt into his throat when his Grace took his hand and led him back to the dance floor.
…
Beginning.
His fingers twined loosely with hers as he guided her into a turn around himself. He knew, of course, every dance perfectly. He was, after all, an angel. For all that, though, he didn't feel any of passion the other dancers displayed-either for the dance itself, nor for his partner.
He still didn't know what had brought him into the hall. He'd been passing by the barn-shaped building, and heard the music. He'd been intrigued, and entered.
Castiel had watched for a time, observing the dancers and their etiquette. The men offered the ladies their hands, and didn't push if turned down. When bestowed a dance, they returned the lady to her seat after, and thanked her politely. She then demurred, and thanked them in turn.
He watched as they moved, almost ritualistically, in the dances. Some danced passionately, and some, with a reserve that belied the intimacy of the dance.
He'd been content to watch, until his gaze had been caught by a young woman on the floor.
She was red-headed, and dressed in a simple, loose-fitting skirt that spun out when she made the turns, a quiet blouse, and strappy heels. She made each step with ease and confidence, her lithe body complimenting her partner's enticingly.
Naught of this was what caught Castiel's attention.
Not her clothes, nor the flaming hair or the long legs glimpsed from under her spinning skirt, nor the perfection of each move.
None of this.
What had caught him was the pure joy in her face and demeanor.
She obviously loved to dance, and she seemed to be right where she belonged in the world.
Castiel could count on one hand the times in all his years that he'd been that happy, the kind of happy the woman was showing the entire universe.
Suddenly, he'd wanted it. He wanted to feel that pure, unadulterated joy the way she was. And so, when the music rose for the next dance, he'd walked up to the nearest woman, and extended his hand in offer.
That had been awhile ago, now, and he didn't understand why he couldn't touch that feeling inside him. The emptiness that was only marginally relieved when he was with his friends, with Dean, and Sam.
He liked the dances, the waltz and the rhumba and the foxtrot, and he like watching the people he was moving amongst. But he couldn't help but feel a little indifference about it all.
Regretfully, he spun his lady one last time, returned her to her friends, and turned to leave the dance hall.
He almost tripped over the woman with all the joy, the one he'd been watching.
"You're lost." She observed.
"I am." Castiel agreed, ever truthful. He was lost in this sea of humanity, and didn't know where to look, much less to go.
"I am too," she told him. "But dancing is a good way to find your way." She offered her hand to him. "I'm Grace." She said. "And you should dance with me."
Grace. Was there a more perfectly ironic partner for a fallen angel?
He grasped her hand, and led her to the floor.