The date night proposal had become a routine thing for Phil and Claire Foster, and ever since their one disaster date that was the supposedly-exciting-and-compulsive-act-of-stealing-another-couple's-dinner-reservation-and-as-a-result-of-mistaken-identity-being-then-chased-by-mobsters-who-were-out-to-kill-them, they decided that it didn't matter where they went, all that mattered was that they had each other. And something with high calories and/or is generally inappropriate for an evening meal.

Tonight, they chose Jamba Juice in Times Square. They sat at the counters near the entrance, because it enabled the rare occasion where they would sit next to one another in a restaurant (they defy anyone to argue that it isn't one) seeing as how those seats guaranteed an immediate view out the window. Ordinarily, it would be awkward for people to stand outside this very window, with an audience of Jamba Juice consumers sitting right there, staring out the window, unavoidably at them.

However, their presence didn't seem to faze (or was unnoticed by) another couple, standing right there outside this very window the Fosters were looking out of. A man in a tan trench coat and a young woman with so many distinguishable aspects about her appearance that one could not simply identify her by one attribute, were engaged in a heated conversation that wasn't quite yet an argument.

"Claire, hun, look at these two," Phil said, nodding towards them.

"What am I looking at?"

"No I mean, what's their story?"

It was a favorite pastime of theirs to point out other couples and determine the nature of their relationship. It would often lead to the both of them playing the roles of these couples, and creating voices for them. Basically, mocking them.

"Oh, okay." Claire studied the stern albeit handsome man, and then the young lady with hair as red as Mr Incredible's suit. They appeared to be doing their best not to let their conversation fall into a squabble, even though they were indeed disagreeing on something.

"Okay, let's see, uh... Wall Street guy goes on a date with one of Santa's elves - you know, like from Macy's –"

"Uh huh."

"– he only asked her out because he gets off from the whole look –"

"Sure, sure."

"– aaand he wants to take her home to have sex but she insists that her shift is starting soon."

"Good one. Okay." The trench coat man stared intently at the young woman, and appeared to be speaking in a very firm yet placid manner. Phil cleared his throat, and in a deep, husky voice he assumed the man had, he said, "Christmas Carol, I have been busting my ass on Wall Street all week - can't a guy get a little somethin' on the side with the holiday spirit?"

As Claire stifled a giggle, the young woman then appeared to be protesting very animatedly.

"Dammit Bud," Claire said in a high, Southern accent, "why'd you have to ask me out on a Saturday night? I'd have loved to come to your apartment and –" The young woman then pointed to the back of her head. "– have you stare at the back of my head all night long."

Phil nearly lost it right there and then. The trench coat man then appeared to be trying for a compromise, with insistent eyes.

"Please Christmas Carol," Phil cried, "let me fill your stocking!"

The Fosters snorted with immature laughter into their smoothies, but immediately shushed when they saw that they had garnered the attention of the couple outside.

"Oh crap, look away, be cool, be cool." Claire proceeded to stuff her face with the rest of her sourdough pretzel, while Phil found great interest in the ceiling tiles.

Outside, Castiel's inquisitive gaze at the couple by the window lingered longer than Audrey's, realizing belatedly that they were talking about them, and thus wondering what had caused their eruption of laughter. His attention was pulled back to her when she spoke.

"I'm fine, Castiel," she insisted for the millionth time, ambling away from the window with him following. "It's sweet that you care, but really, I don't need to go home just yet."

"If not for your injury –"

"Which doesn't hurt!"

"– then on account of the late hour."

She scoffed in disbelief, but not with malice. "You want me to go home because you think it's past my bedtime?"

"Well it is midnight," he observed as though this was obvious.

"All the best things happen at midnight!"

"All the best things stop being the best at midnight," he flatly corrected.

Her features colored with contemplation for a beat. "Oh yeah..."

"Go home," he repeated with a determined nod.

"No!" she shouted babyishly, underlining her refusal with a childish jump.

It was that jump that almost deemed fatal once more when her feet slipped on the slippery concrete upon impact, but Castiel was prepared for it this time. She fell back into his waiting arm, her head just inches from the ground, and to any passersby, it looked as if he was dipping her in a dance. They stayed like that for a while, until he softly spoke.

"You are most definitely going home."

"Fine," she begrudgingly yielded, gently shoving him away once he pulled her back up. "But you're coming home with me."

His eyes flashed back to her as if she had just propositioned him. Wait a minute... did she?

"What?"

"Walk me home!" she clarified, innocent to what had ran through his mind and thus composing him.

"Can't you travel by those... communal yellow vehicles?" he asked, pointing vaguely at the numerous taxicabs that rolled by, their tires sloshing soundly against the wet road.

Mirth crossed her face and receded very quickly, before she soberly replied, "I'd prefer to use these two long limbs attached to my hips."

"You're mocking me."

"Yeah!" she grinned.

With a defeated sigh, he finally relented. "I will walk you home."

Her eyes and her tone were suddenly cunning. "Okay..." As her stance began to change, her ploy became transparent.

"And you will walk too," he indicated, eying her sharply. Her smile gradually fell into a pout as he specified, "No running, no jumping, no skipping, no rolling, no crawling, no sliding, or anything of comparable meaning."

A sly grin reemerged. "So that means I can still..." Frown. "I can still... but I can... or, or maybe –"

"You're not going to find a loophole," he smirked.

"Well, I was going to say that I'll moonwalk instead," she said tartily, "but then I remembered that I can't moonwalk for the life of me."

Castiel gestured for her to lead the way, wordlessly doing so to deny her the chance to ramble on aimlessly. She made a face at him, to which he almost returned, and proceeded onwards.

For several blocks, they walked in silence. Though, by the Winter Garden Theater, he began to wonder if she was silently fuming at him. It was either that or she was allowing him the leeway to digest the rest of the city on his own. If she hadn't somehow made it such a struggle to concentrate, he would have taken that opportunity. She was like a puzzling piece of art that one would stare at for ages, hoping to fathom its essence.

It wasn't until they were across the road from the Ed Sullivan Theater (underneath it read "LATE SHOW with David Letterman", whatever that meant) and they had passed yet another Jamba Juice joint, when he found that he may not be alone with those sentiments.

"Why are you staring at me?" he asked.

"How did you know?"

"I can see your reflection in the window," he said, pointing to the glass windows they were passing. She smiled bashfully at him through the reflection.

"Strictly speaking, I was staring at your hair."

They finally turned a corner after journeying so many blocks straight ahead.

"I don't understand everyone's fascination with my hair," he mused aloud.

Shrug. "You have a bedhead."

His bemused frown demanded clarification.

"Just-rolled-out-of-bed hair."

"... I'm not understanding –"

"Sex hair!"

"What?"

"Oh forget it!" she yelled. "You don't know much, do you Castiel?"

He bridled at her words. "I know many things."

"It seems to me that you only know facts, not knowledge, per se." Was there a difference? he wondered. His expression seemed to ask just that, and she caught it. "Knowledge encompasses skill and experience too."

"Does one have to experience certain things to truly know something?"

"Yeah! For example, you may know for a fact that a tomato is a fruit, but you would need the knowledge to know that it simply does not belong in a fruit salad. Or you could say..." She scoured the scene around them, eventually settling on a car that was driving by. "You could say that that car is very fast. That could be a fact. How do you know for sure?"

He nodded slowly, beginning to understand. "So you need to experience things for confirmation?"

She frowned at his words. "You make it sound so strategic. Experience and understanding is there for you to to take, but it shouldn't have to be a chore. You should rely on impulse."

"I should be impulsive," he concluded emphatically.

She nodded, a smile growing with approval. "There you go! Try it. See how you feel."

There was a long pause.

"What do I do?"

She had the grace not to laugh, though her lips quirked. "That's the thing, you can't rely on someone else's impulses to dictate what you do."

Free will was essentially impulse, but he had always attributed "free will" to acts of a much larger scale - say, rebelling. But little things, little things that relied on a curious little thing called impulse... he was never one to dwell on minor concerns.

He began to frown at his difficulty. "I'm not used to that sort of ..."

"Independence?"

"In a way," he guiltily acknowledged. Guilty because owed so much to God, and there was an ungrateful undertone to his answer.

Her frown was the longest one yet, and he recognized the significance of it instantly. Her thoughts had gone straight to the million dollar mystery that was his job.

"Seriously Castiel, they've gotta reinvoke whatever labor laws they have at your work," she quipped cynically. He smiled and wondered if God was listening.

Her eyes burned with curiosity suddenly. "Your job is no-go area in terms of discussion topics, isn't it?"

"It would be wise to disregard it." It was an answer to both Audrey and himself. To say that the suggestion to reveal his identity to her hadn't presented itself lately would be a lie.

"Alright," she retreated lightly, though her eyes remained heavy with an unfed curiosity. "What do you want to talk about?" Her expression lit up delightfully. "This is your chance to be impulsive! C'mon, what's the first thing that comes to mind?"

Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it.

"Angels."

Somewhere in the world, Dean was clapping slowly.

"You're not looking for an argument, are you?"

"No." Pause. "But considering our differing viewpoints on the matter, I presume we would eventually fall into disagreement."

"Well, I say we must agree to disagree."

But he was right!

"Very well," he murmured, his jaw nearly clenching with indignation.

"I don't believe in angels," she stated swiftly. "Surprise, surprise. I'll humor you and ask: do you?"

"Absolutely," he replied a little too quickly. "Angels aren't how you imagine them to be."

This seemed to strike her personally. "And how do you think I imagine them to be, Castiel?"

He recalled a conversation with Sam and Dean about the general human conception of an angel, and how wrong it was.

"With... fluffy wings and playing harps," he said, shuddering internally at the memory.

"Oh, I'm not that skeptical," she banished, waving a hand about. "I believe that angels - if they existed - would have advanced into the modern age as much as we have. I imagine that they would dress like us, talk like us, etcetera, etcetera."

"Then what has convinced you that they don't exist?"

"Because the world is in shambles, and nothing seems to be getting better."

The urge to grab her by the arms and shake some sense into her had never been stronger.

"We overcame the Apoca–" The image of Dean swiping his hand against his throat in a cutting motion flashed before his eyes. "... the catastrophes of 2010, which many believed to be the end of the world." At this, she looked up at him, and his gaze darkened meaningfully. "Something stopped that. Do you think "science" stopped that?"

His allusion to their earliest conversation (which seemed so long ago, he realized wistfully) nearly inspired a smile from her, but the disdain in his words was detected first.

"Yes," she confidently answered, "and luck."

Although his intense gaze did not change, he was sure she could feel him glowing with disbelief.

"So everything about the world is defined by science and luck, in your eyes?"

"In my eyes?" Just when he thought he had offended her, she began to smile wryly. "I'm not the only one who sees it, Castiel."

They lapsed into a silence. While it would seem that the conversation had ended, this silence was merely a lull to Castiel, who decided to abandon that route and opt for another.

"If they were real," he began, his question already tasting sour to him, "what would you say to an angel?"

Pause. "I'd say... I'd ask what happened. Where were you? Why couldn't you prevent all this? Where were you when this or that happened?"

"Angels don't work for humans. They work for God." His tone was very clearly referring to himself, but she failed to detect it.

"Okay, well, memo to God: query, all of the above!"

"You want answers."

"We all want answers," she said with an eloquent gaze, "and we're never going to get them. Either God doesn't care, or he doesn't exist. I choose to believe the latter, because I refuse to believe that my existence is a product of his that he chooses to ignore. I don't want to think of myself as an old Barbie doll that he doesn't care about anymore."

To that extent, he was of the same mind, recalling his learning of God's supposed negligence those couple of years ago.

"I refuse to believe that our Creator is so... neglecting!" she lamented. "To me, belief in God is an expression of powerlessness. No one is ever really independent if they are religious."

"Refusing to believe does not equate to disbelief," he cornered.

"I'm stubborn, okay?"

"God loves you."

"You are the human epitome of a Christian bumper sticker, Castiel."

"God wants you to learn, he wants you to find him."

"So life's a game? He wants to play hide and seek?"

"It's a test of faith."

His brisk responses were evidently beginning to wear her patience thin, and she stopped walking.

"Have you, Castiel, found God?" she interrogated, searching his impervious eyes as though she could extract a straight answer that way. "Or were you simply born and bred to believe that somewhere out there is a higher power, who won't show his face or tend to his creations?"

It was agonizing to keep the answers, all the answers to the questions that undoubtedly burned in her mind, suppressed. He wanted nothing more than to set the record straight about everything. As much as he enjoyed her, she was so wrong about so many things. Yet there was still something thwarting his resolve to end the charade: a profound curiosity for her and an endless supply of pennies for her thoughts.

The answers to an infinite number of questions, and a confession, clung to the tip of his tongue. He stared sharply at her, his only method of restraining all this in a dignified way.

It looked as though she had wisened up to his evasion and refused to let it go that easily, but eventually she sighed and her demanding gaze faded.

"Hey," she stroked his arm soothingly, "we can talk about something else if this is distressing you." When his regard softened, she smiled sadly. "I admire your spirit, Castiel. There should be more people around like you. Passionate, but fair. Righteous, but forgiving." For a long moment, she just smiled, but then something behind her eyes clicked in recognition. "If I didn't know any better," she began lowly, somewhat still immersed in her thoughts, "I'd say you were an angel."

Castiel cursed loudly in Enochian in his head, and he felt the stars frown down at him admonishingly. Watch your language! they all seemed to convey at once.

Then began a very interesting change in atmosphere. She blinked once and her aura changed dramatically; it was as if she swept everything off of his desk to hook his attention in a "different" light.

He watched her, almost voyeuristically, when she took a very bold step towards him. Was she genuinely onto him? Or was she just being playful?

"Are you an angel, Castiel?" she whispered, in a tone usually reserved for questions of a more provocative nature. If it weren't for what she was actually asking, his eyes would have closed at the sound of it. When she took another aching step forward, they virtually breathed each other's air. What was that supposed problem with "personal space" the Winchesters were often vocal about? He was beginning to understand. Though, he doubted "problem" was the correct word in this context. Her distance, or extreme lack thereof, wasn't exactly disagreeable.

"Because if you are –" He had never known the rush of having a chill run down his spine until just then, when her smoldering eyes flickered downwards for what he wished was longer than a second. "– I may have to kick your ass and give you the cold shoulder."

Oh. She wasn't onto him. She was flirting!

Well... duh, the stars seemed to say.

Only one answer was expected of him, and considering how close she had become and the way she gazed willfully at him through her eyelashes, she had one action in mind for him when he finally said it.

A kiss, perchance?

And as Dean once told him, if humans really, really wanted something real bad, they lie.

"No."

She grinned brilliantly, seemingly pleased to finally hear that word, and although he lied, when he felt her gloved hand fit perfectly against his jawline and her gaze fell to his lips, he knew God had already forgiven him. As she slid up onto her toes, a stirring emotion too young to identify had him inclining into her, all divine cognition forsaken. Her eyes fluttered close and he began to do the same - it was difficult to concentrate, knowing that the stars were watching as if it were some kind of soap opera - and for a split second, he thought he felt the faintest brush against his lips, though it could have been the warm caress of her vanilla-scented breath –

A nearby horn beeped and they parted like the Red Sea. Several stars died out from intense paroxysms of rage.

A Yankees cap poked out of a cab's window, which had pulled up beside them, and it was then that the angel knew he hated the Yankees with the fire of a thousand suns.

"You folks need a ride?"

"NO," they answered in unison. Castiel's bitterness was as palpable as the bite of the Winter air, while Audrey seemed to have developed a sort of charming post-almost-kiss demureness.

With an acknowledging nod, the cab proceeded onwards, with Castiel scowling at the tail of it the entire way. He turned back to Audrey, who was already five feet away from him and had a fist held to her lips as she curbed her laughter. Even in the darkness, he could tell she was blushing.

"What's so funny?"

She caught his eye and a chuckle immediately escaped her. When it appeared that it was enough to appease her impulse to laugh, she dropped her hand and shook her head.

"Nothing," she said serenely, moving back towards him. It was different now; the sensuality of her demeanor was gone and reappeared was her innocent playfulness. It was affirmed when she looped her arm around his.

Neither said anything, and he understood from her expressive glance that they should continue with their walk as agreed upon. Castiel reluctantly followed in step, feeling dreadfully unsatisfied.

If anyone has seen Date Night, starring Steve Carell and Tina Fey, that opening scene would make a lot more sense. If not, just YouTube "Date Night" and "what's their story"; you won't be disappointed, lolol.

Read and review :)