The only day both the Doctor and Castiel have off in a very long time happens to be Thursday, October twelfth, 1983; it's a particularly uneventful day, with no alien invasions or super geniuses conquering the human race, but it's the only chance they've got, so they take it.
Or, the Doctor takes it. Castiel doesn't really care what day they meet or whatever they happen to be doing, but that they do meet.
Castiel follows the magnetic pull of his ring to a park in San Francisco, and attempts to sit on an acorn-cluttered bench without falling off. He peers around the trees obstructing the view behind him, searching for a flash of light and the comforting vworp that precedes his Doctor's arrival, looking like a lost puppy with too much scruff for a day out and a trench coat too heavy for autumn.
It's strange not to be searching for demons, monsters, and generally villainous life forms, and Castiel wonders if perhaps it shouldn't be, but it's too late to change anything now, and is that a monster or a Doctor whose approach is crunching leaves inexpertly?
Castiel's reaching for his holy water when the Doctor peeks through the foliage and smiles brightly enough to banish any thoughts of killing or fighting; Castiel decides then today belongs to them, and only them.
"Cas! You came!" the Doctor says excitedly, as a form of greeting.
Castiel smiles fondly and responds, "Of course I did. This was predetermined."
"Right, well! I'm just happy to see you." The Doctor extends a hand and Castiel uses it to pull himself up, only half-expecting the Doctor's arms to drag him into a crushing hug. "I missed you, you silly angel."
"We defeated a legion of Daleks together fifteen days ago."
"One day is too long. Fifteen is simply preposterous."
Castiel lets himself relax in the Doctor's grip and barely shivers when the Doctor presses a kiss to his forehead and entangles his fingers in one of his wings. He's always loved this part—being closer to the Doctor than he's been to anyone in a long while, physically or otherwise—but he's not quite used to it yet.
"Doctor?" Castiel isn't eager to part with him, to give up the serenity found in proximity to the Doctor, but he supposes they have all day for that.
"Mm?"
"Didn't we have some plans for today?"
The Doctor nods and reluctantly steps away from Castiel, still close enough to pat his shoulder. "Yes, we have plans. Wonderful plans! See the sights, enjoy the music, maybe talk to a few up-incoming world-famous artists… The TARDIS is with Amy and Rory today, so we'll have to walk, but I suppose it'd take more than the area of San Francisco to wear out your angelic soles, huh?"
Castiel lets the Doctor talk, happy to listen to his voice even if his words don't quite compute, and allows himself to be dragged in random directions through the park until the Doctor reveals he's been in San Francisco before, and knows exactly where they should go first.
They stumble along, the Doctor cheerfully bumping into college kids and spiky-haired punks with jukeboxes, an arm wrapped around Castiel's waist and a never-ending stream of words escaping him, until they halt in front of a movie theatre.
They end up watching a film together—or, the Doctor watches it and ruins all the plot twists for the rest of the audience, and Castiel watches the Doctor. Some information about the film filters in: things about lightsabers and Death Stars, whatever they are, and a rather abusive father redeeming himself via self-sacrifice, but they get lost amongst the light spattering of freckles behind the Doctor's ear and the weight of his arm on Castiel's shoulder.
Castiel manages to not get the reference when the Doctor compares Dean and Sam to the film's protagonists, which he supposes is okay, because the Doctor just flashes him another smile and asks,
"How do you feel about Italian?"
"…Italian?" Castiel blinks, confused. "We are in America, aren't we?"
The Doctor laughs and pats his back, while leading him back onto the rollicking streets crammed with crudely-constructed cars blasting computerized drum beats in a staccato rhythm. "Italian food, Cas. Pizza."
"It's likely not to match the pizza found in Italy—"
The Doctor shuts him up with a swift stroke across his wing. "I know, Cas. Trust me. I'm the Doctor."
Castiel does, not because of his credentials but because he's often had no other choice and suspects this situation to be similar, and leans his head on the Doctor's shoulder as they walk.
What Castiel finds peculiar is the sensation of not having everyone's eyes on him. He's used to walking into an area and either being attacked or stared at in horrified awe. Here, in the middle of San Francisco, he's no one. He's a person on the street, in a trench coat, being cradled by his… whatever the Doctor is, who never shuts up.
It's refreshing.
Cold air blows over his skin, eliciting still-unfamiliar goose bumps, and the door closes behind them with a jingle before Castiel realizes they've arrived at what must be a twentieth-century pizza parlor.
There's flaked chrome everywhere, left over from earlier decades, cheese stains on the space-themed wallpaper, and a strawberry milkshake dripping from the ceiling onto the cracked linoleum, but it's full of humans and kitchen-esque clatter and soft voices crooning sappy lyrics in the background, and the Doctor is absolutely enthralled, so Castiel supposes it's alright.
The Doctor picks a table at random and pushes Castiel into the plastic seat, kissing his ear and murmuring, Isn't this place marvelous, before he sits across from him. The Doctor captures Castiel's right hand with his own, and Castiel resorts to fumbling with the silverware with his left until he remembers they haven't ordered yet.
A few minutes pass where the Doctor tells Castiel about the doctor, not the Doctor-doctor but a real, medical-doctor, he met when he was here last, before a server approaches them. She's got hair that closely resembles River's and wears the uniform liberally, with stickers denoting various bands attached to her lanyard and dirty high-tops instead of pristine sneakers, and there's bright pink bubblegum sticking to the back of her teeth when she asks,
"What d'you want?"
"The Doctor lead us here with the intention of ordering… Italian," Castiel answers, giving her a doubtful look as if to say he didn't think an American parlor in 1983 could accurately replicate food that came from a different country.
She didn't seem to care. "…Yeah?"
The Doctor laughs delightedly and intervenes, saying, "We'll have one pizza, in whatever size you think is the best for sharing, and whatever toppings won't give him a stomach ache. And some water."
She clicks her tongue, scribbles illegibly in the notebook previously hanging from her pocket, leaves, and returns with two glasses of water.
"Thank you."
"Whatever."
She departs again and the Doctor starts analyzing the parlor and comparing it to the ones found on New Earth, the latter of which are surprisingly accurate. He's going on about the shocking resemblance between their server and their robot counterparts when he stops to stare at Castiel.
"Doctor?" Castiel asks, curiosity seeping into his voice. He tilts his head and meets the Doctor's eyes, which are sparking with electricity and are as green as the foliage in the park.
"You've got something on your… Here, let me…" The Doctor leans across the table, arm outstretched, nearly knocking over the glasses with his elbow, and Castiel shifts forward to accommodate him. Castiel tries not to jump when the Doctor's forefinger and thumb reach his face, the digits cold and soft, and closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look into the Doctor's.
It's only when the Doctor pulls away that he realizes he wasn't breathing.
"A-ha!" Castiel opens his eyes; the Doctor grins at him and holds up an eyelash that'd apparently been marring Castiel's cheek. "There's human lore about this, you know. They always get so stuck on the most peculiar things. Anyway, according to this century, you make a wish on a fallen eyelash."
Castiel nods, thinking it ludicrous, but makes up a wish anyway to humor the Doctor. And maybe he really does want something that'd require the silly, optimistic mind of a human to work.
"I wish… for more Thursdays." More days when I can take a break and just look at you for a few hours.
"Cas, you're not supposed to say it aloud," the Doctor chides half-heartedly, a crooked smile crawling across his face.
Me, too.
A/N: Hello again! Long time, no post. I've been on Tumblr recently, so, I promise I haven't been inactive.
This was written to "1979" by Smashing Pumpkins, for the curious.