(( A/N: I liiiive! Thank you for your patience, as it took me the longest to finish this bad-boy than I've taken on a chapter since I started. But if it makes up for it, this ones a little longer than average (-woohoo! winkwink-). I've been writing oddly out of order, so updates on this stretch will probably be sporadic. Stick with me, enjoy, and if you do, please review! Thank you so much for reading! ))


Both climbed from their respective sides of the Impala, the faint melody of string instruments wafting in greeting as the men approached a large set of double mahogany doors. Soft, dim light barely penetrated the chiffon red curtains draped across the tall windows along the building's front, and the path to the entrance was lit by short ground lights.

Castiel followed as Dean reached for the handle, pulling the door open and stepping aside to allow room for the other to pass. Castiel paused, and at Dean's gesture, entered first. In the foyer, a second door separated them from the dining room inside and Castiel didn't hesitate to pull it open, stepping aside and gesturing in imitation for Dean to enter. Dean stopped, brow furrowing at Castiel before a voice from inside called to them.

"Good evening, gentlemen," the host addressed them with a politeness that betrayed a slight odd quirk of his brow as he observed Dean hesitating in the doorway. Drawing his eyes from Castiel, Dean shoved a hand in his pocket and stepped forward, pursing his lips in a smile to the host.

"Hey," Dean greeted informally, receiving another subtle raise of the brow.

"Two for dinner this evening?"

"You betchya."

The host gave a slow blink, regarding the both of them with aloof observation as he gathered menus and turned in toward the dining room.

"Right this way."

Dean took the lead behind the host with Castiel trailing behind as they were shown to a candlelit table nestled in a corner of the dining room. Dean claimed the chair facing the wall where a giant, ornately bordered mirror hung grandly between two sconces. Castiel settled between them across from Dean as the host deposited menus into their hands.

Once the host had left, Dean muttered into the crook of his menu, "I'm surprised you didn't try to pull my chair out."

Castiel blinked at him, holding his menu open, but paying it no mind.

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know, you tell me," Dean peeked over his menu at him, "You're the one pulling out the Swayze moves."

Castiel straightened somewhat, an air of pride in his shoulders. "You like Patrick Swayze."

Dean sighed, suppressing a smirk. Castiel's induction into the world of pop-culture was minuscule, but oddly specific and clearly of Dean's impact. "Yeah, I do. That's not the point."

"What is the point?" Castiel inquired with a tilt of his chin. He thought the point had been a compliment.

"The flower, the door, the— the—" Dean shrugged, setting his menu down. "I don't know where you got the idea you had to—" he huffed, not finding the words, "You don't have to do all that."

Castiel watched Dean's thumb tap against the metal-plated corner of the leather-encased menu.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" he asked.

"What?"

"My wooing you."

The tapping stopped as Dean snickered, "Is that what you call it?"

"Yes."

"Where did—…Nevermind." Dean sighed again, unable to hide the smirk tugging at his lip as he looked away. "No, it's fine. But not necessary. I don't expect you to be Don Juan, here, Cas. Just be yourself."

Castiel considered this. Percy had suggested something similar, though the concept of 'being oneself' seemed redundant and perplexing.

"Your own dorky, awkward self," Dean added under his breath.

Castiel blinked, his shoulders sinking into their usual slack.

"I thought for a moment you were complimenting me."

"Well, that's about as close as I get."

Dean pretended not to see Castiel's subtle smile as he lifted the menu in front of his face.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

Dean glanced up at the approach of a waiter whose stark white tie stood out against the crisp black shirt and slacks he wore, white cloth draped uniformly over his wrist. He continued, standing straight at the side of the table, "I hope the evening has treated you well thus far. Is there a special occasion that you've chosen to dine with us tonight?"

Dean blinked up at him, sharing a glance with Castiel.

"Not rea—"

"We are on a date," Castiel piped up, his assurance covering Dean's ambivalence. Dean's lips pursed as he flicked his glance between him and the server.

"Excellent," was his only comment, the waiter's expression never faltering. "Tonight, our bottled wine features a Cabernet Sauvignon of the Loire Valley that pairs perfectly with the—"

"Sounds good," Dean interjected. "We'll take it."

The waiter hesitated, mouth poised to continue. He decidedly closed it with a curt nod. "Very good, sir."

At his exit, the boys looked across the table at one another briefly, before Dean's eyes wandered around the room.

"Swanky place, huh?" His thumb resumed tapping lightly against the edge of the white tablecloth.

Castiel looked around through draped beads and velvet curtains that gave each table its own sense of privacy, hushed murmurs and faint tinkling of glass and silverware wafting through the room. The dim light of each table flickered with short candle on the white table cloths, imparting a much softer ambiance than the stark glare of fluorescent lights—the typical atmosphere of the burger joints he often accompanied the boys in if ever he was present while they ate.

"It's nice," Castiel agreed, sensing in the silence Dean was waiting for a reply.

"Nice," Dean huffed. "The tablecloths have a higher thread-count than my sheets."

Castiel looked down, caressing the edge of the tablecloth between his thumb and forefinger. It did feel soft.

"Perhaps you can take it back to the room with you, if it would be more comfortable to lay on."

Dean laughed, not too loudly, but at a volume above the consensus of the room, drawing a few curious glances.

"That's some homeless-guy level thinking right there," he chuckled, and at the subtle pained shadow cast over Castiel's look, Dean immediately shifted, clearing his throat. Having chosen to side with humanity, Castiel had torn himself from the good graces of heaven and was, in a sense, without a home. Dean spoke hastily without thinking to cover his blunder, "I mean, hell, maybe we could just climb on the table and enjoy it from—uh—"

Castiel's expression shifted in an instant, and with the widening of his eyes Dean caught the implication of his own words, cutting himself off. He flushed red and looked away. Castiel leaned in slightly, speaking in a low voice.

"I don't feel that would be acceptable here."

"N-no, I didn't mean—I was just—joking." Dean stammered quiet, the rhythmic tapping against the table becoming audible in the void. Castiel observed the twitch of his thumb for a moment, before regarding Dean with a newfound interest.

"You're nervous."

"What? Me? Pff," Dean blew air out his lips in an undignified burst, leaning back. Under Castiel's unwavering gaze, he faltered. "Well, I mean, I might be a little out of place, is all. Fine dining's not usually my scene, you know?"

"We can go somewhere else if you want, Dean."

"And miss out on all this …atmosphere? No way. You wanted the whole shebang, and this is as fancy as it gets."

Castiel tipped his head at him, speaking with calm assurance.

"I never required fancy, Dean. Just time with you. It doesn't matter where we are."

Dean stopped short, his cocky act dissolving in an instant as he stared at Castiel.

"Just be yourself," Castiel mimicked Dean's earlier request with a small smile, which the other man returned, visibly relaxing in his chair.

Their attention drew upward as the waiter returned, placing two stemmed glasses on the table. His manner was poised and well-practiced as he presented the label to Dean, who took a moment to realize he was requesting approval, and nodded. The server swiftly extracted the cork from the bottle and poured a small amount in Dean's glass, who blinked at it for a moment. At the waiter's gesture, Dean realized he was supposed to taste it. He cleared his throat, taking the delicate stem of the bulbed glass in his calloused hands, giving two crude swirls before tipping it back. There wasn't much, but out of habit he swallowed the whole taste in one.

"S'good," he mumbled with a tight smirk, resting his elbow on the table and putting his chin into the crook of his thumb and forefinger as he watched the waiter first pour into Castiel's glass, and then his own.

"Are there any hors d'oeuvre we would like to begin with this evening?" inquired the waiter once the appropriate amount of wine was deposited into each glass.

Without ceremony, Dean tipped open the leather binding of his menu on the table, flicking his glance over the page before letting it fall shut again.

"Shrimp cocktail sounds good."

"Excellent choice," the server remarked without inflection. "And for dinner?"

"We'll decide on that in a bit. I figured we'd take it slow." He winked at Castiel. "Why not, right?"

"Of course," the waiter agreed, setting the bottle of wine on the table and taking his leave.

"Guy's a little stiff, huh?" Dean turned his head to follow the waiter's departure, a smirk sneaking onto his face. "What d'you think crawled up his butt?"

"You think he's infected with a parasite?" Castiel's brow furrowed seriously. "I didn't detect any—"

"Just an expression," Dean interrupted, taking his glass and watching the swirl of the wine thoughtfully. Talking with Castiel was like joking with a brick wall—if a brick wall could manage to misunderstand nearly everything being said. But his confusion over language amused Dean rather than irritated him, and in the casual setting of the fine dining atmosphere, Dean felt oddly relaxed sitting across the table from an angel that watched him with that characteristic attentiveness.

Dean smiled into the dark rouge of his wine, then raised his eyes to Castiel's along with his glass. Familiar with this idiosyncrasy of Dean's, Castiel obediently took his own, and they clinked the edge of their glasses together with a delicate tink!, drinking simultaneously in a comfortable silence that settled around both of them as the candlelight flicked over their features. The wine on Castiel's tongue didn't burn the way whiskey did, instead imparting a deep, fruity flavor that felt dry in his mouth once he swallowed. He clicked his tongue twice, tasting all the delicate ways grapes aged into this complex liquid. Humans had been enjoying wine for centuries, and Castiel marveled that this was his first time to try it. Dean watched him take another experimental taste, knowing when Castiel went back for seconds on anything, he must have liked it. He smiled again, drinking a little more of his own as he looked around the room appreciatively.

"There was one time, when Sam and me were kids," Dean paused to chuckle into his wine glass, taking a sip, "It wasn't nearly as nice as this—but any meal not eaten in the Impala was considered a treat, really—Dad took us to some sit-in joint. Italian, I think. Sam was real little—he had this imaginary friend—that small, you know?" Castiel didn't, but he was focused on the way Dean's eyes went far off, past the red wine he swirled absent-mindedly as he spoke. "And we went in this place, and Sam begged to have his 'invisible friend' to have his own seat and stuff. My dad didn't humor him at all about it—told him straight up that it wasn't real—but the girl waiting on us—she was real pretty, too—well, she must've had the hots for Dad or somethin', 'cause she let little Sammy pull up an extra chair and all that." Dean grinned fondly, lost in the memory now as he took a drink of wine. "And Sam wanted his 'friend' to have some food too, y'know? So she took the kid's crayons and a piece of paper, and drew him out a little spaghetti and meatballs, and put it on a plate in front of the empty chair. Meanwhile, Dad's rolling his eyes and tellin' him to behave, not to bother her, y'know? But she didn't mind. She was real sweet on him. And Sam was just as happy as can be about the whole thing. It just made his day."

Dean chuckled out loud now, setting the wine on the table, his gaze still steady on it.

"And that always kinda stuck out to me, y'know? What she did for Sam. I think that's part of why—" he paused, glancing up at Castiel before dropping his eyes back to the deep red liquid in his glass. "…I uh, tend to be… a little friendly. With service folk." He flicked his eyes up and away again, briefly. "The girls, I mean."

Castiel watched him closely, noticing the heavy weight with which he delivered the point to his story. The slight squint to his eyes widened in understanding, and he studied Dean's face as he inquired carefully, "Are you apologizing for your flirtatious behavior with the barmaid? …Before my arrival?"

Dean held his gaze a moment before jutting his jaw to the side, his head dipping down between his shoulders slightly. He mumbled, "Something like that…"

Castiel's expression softened into something resembling a smile. He nodded his forgiveness.

"I know it's your nature to flirt, Dean."

"Yeah, well," Dean took his wine in hand, raising a sardonic brow into it with his smirk, "I guess your double cock-block meant it just wasn't in the cards for her."

As Dean tipped his wine back, Castiel's face screwed up at the phrase.

"It was never my intention to…cock-block you."

Dean snickered, "I know, you were just—" he paused, expression turning contemplative. He looked at Castiel with a fresh attention, curiosity piquing in the squint of his eyes. "Say, Cas… Why did you show up in the first place?"

Castiel's expression opened, and immediately after he dropped his gaze to the table, unsuccessfully hiding a reluctance to answer. Dean's stare into his face mandated him to.

"I…felt you," He admitted after a moment. His glance flicked to Dean, and then away with an almost shy demeanor, "Call for me."

Dean felt his own neck heat up at the suggestion. He blinked.

"I'm, uh…sure I didn't." he muttered, a hint of uncertainty to it as he watched Castiel with a cautious eye.

"It doesn't have to be an actual prayer," Castiel explained gently, sensing Dean's discomfort. "I can detect a yearning… a desire, almost as palpable as an actual call. It's…subtler, but still detectable to me."

"Ah," was all Dean said. Castiel noticed he didn't deny it.

Both simultaneously decided to taste their own wine, sharing a silence punctuated by a gulp mirrored in both their throats.

Castiel was first to break the quiet.

"Was there a reason you were…" he chose his words carefully, "…thinking of me?"

"You might have crossed my mind, but…" Dean trailed off, leaning back from the table with nonchalance as his eyes drifted away. Truthfully, the idea of Castiel being able to detect his thoughts of him sent his mind racing to...what else he might be capable of sensing. Dean stayed quiet, willing the rouge threatening his cheeks away, then shook his head as if meaning to clear it. He leaned forward into the table and met Castiel's eye with a decided shift in countenance. "Look, I don't have to be three sheets to the wind to want your company, alright?"

A small smile spread across Castiel's lips, both barely noticing the approach of a man clad in all black. Dean noted with some subdued pride the amount of times this evening he's managed to alter the angel's normally passive, impenetrable expression into one of satisfaction. It felt as if he were playing a game and winning at it, unbeknownst to himself how. Castiel's attention was now on the ornate glass placed in front of them, six large, pink, shrimp curved and suspended around the edge of the glass, naked save for the tails. A deep red, speckled sauce settled in the bottom of the cone.

"The shrimp cocktail for you gentlemen," the server announced, and then left without another word. Dean leaned forward, taking one of the shrimp with almost-delicacy between his thumb and forefinger, grinning.

"Shrimp cock-tail," he repeated like a kid sharing a dirty phrase on the playground, dangling the shrimp by the thin hard shell at the end. "But I've always wondered, which is the cock, and which is the tail?"

He wiggled it in the air before plunging the pink meat into the red sauce, raising his eyebrows teasingly at Castiel and knowing for certain his immature joke would be lost on him.

Instead of the blank expression that signaled his confusion, Castiel sat up interestedly, a look of sudden raptness drawing his focus to Dean's face.

"Are you referring to top and bottom?"

Dean regarded him with a raised brow, shrimp in mouth as he reached for another.

"What?"

"Because I am open to discussing an alteration to the seemingly established arrangement of our positions."

Dean bit another shrimp in half and swallowed. "What are you talking about?"

"I would like to try to 'top,' sometime."

Dean squinted at him. "You keep bring up this…'top' business, and I don't know what—"

"I'm referring to our intercourse."

The half-eaten shrimp dangled limp over the side of Dean's mouth, which hung open in the silence that followed. Swallowing hard, Dean recovered himself and darted his eyes around, hunching his shoulders as he leaned in and growled low just above a whisper, grasping the half-eaten shrimp tightly in his fingers.

"Remember that thing, where we don't talk about that? Ever. Outside four walls with just us two between them?"

Castiel looked down, absently biting into a shrimp as a diversion to his own dejection. He thought he had understood the implication of Dean's question, and in his surprise and relief that Dean had been the one to bring it up, he realized he might have made a false connection. In the tense silence where Dean avoided his gaze, Castiel didn't taste the nuances of the sauce or the shrimp above the clinical observation of molecules arranged in a particular order. Dean poured himself more wine from the bottle, looking off as he drank a gulp.

"Plus, there's no way I'm a catcher," he muttered after some time. At Castiel's careful glance, he added, "I'm a pitcher, all the way."

Castiel sighed, unsure how the conversation switched to sports so quickly. Dean's face still held the tint of red as the waiter approached once more, standing at a professional distance at the side of the table as he presented the nightly dinner specials with an art of meticulous memorization. Castiel tipped his face toward him as he spoke, listening attentively while Dean fixated his stare onto the table, paying either of them little mind. He was clearly hearing every other word, at best.

The waiter finished his spiel and turned to Dean expectantly, having asked a question that didn't breach his dense contemplation as he stared absently into the table, his brows drawn together.

"Sir?" the waiter inquired softly, jarring Dean from his thoughts.

"Yeah, um, I'll do the steak and he'll have the, uh…second thing you said," Dean's voice returned from the far-away place he spoke from, and he looked up, suddenly attentive as a thought piqued his interest. "And uh, what about dessert, you got good desserts?"

The waiter blinked at him, Dean's clear disregard for the proper pacing of a meal throwing him momentarily. However, he recovered quickly with a cordial reply of, "We have excellent desserts, yes."

"Anything like uh, I dunno," Dean tapped his thumb against the table, pretending to think for a moment, "…like pie?"

The waiter's brows raised almost imperceptibly with his cautious inquiry, "Pie?"

"Dessert," Castiel mused out loud, straightening as if remembering something. Both Dean and the waiter turned their attention to him.

"Yes, sir?"

"I'm supposed to—" Castiel looked hard into Dean's face, attempting to cover his uncertainty with the confidence he was told to have. "—let you know. What you're having for dessert."

"Oh yeah?" Dean asked curiously, clearly roused from his distracted state, "Care to share with the class?"

Castiel's hand raised and hesitated a moment before slipping into the collar of his sweater, venturing to his left breast pocket and retreating with the small, square packet. He set the strawberry-stamped condom package on the table, where the two other men gaped soundlessly at it.

"Y'know, on second thought, we'll just take the check." Dean's mouth drew a tight smirk as he turned his face toward the waiter. "And a cork."