Cas's eager stare burns through Dean's head, the corners of his lips curl up softly, just a bit on the side of mischievous. And the reason's right there, all four of them, in his hands. Two pairs of what looks like a hybrid of old leather boots and murder weapons.

He holds one pair out to Dean as if he expects him to so much as put a finger on the dust-coated nightmare.

"I'd like to try this before the ice melts," he announces.

"Go ahead." Dean shrugs. "What do I got to do with it?"

It's pointless, he knows. He's screwed. He's been screwed from the moment he decided it's a perfect day to clean up room 297. He should have checked what's in it before sending Cas in. But how could he have guessed there'd be a whole inventory of ice skates—of all things—in there?

"I'd like us to go together," Cas answers, solemnly.

Something about his choice of words makes Dean pause, how the offer sounds a little too much like asking Dean out on a— No, that's definitely not that. It's just one of those human things Cas wants to try out. Besides, a date on ice? How is that either romantic or fun?

"Thanks, I'll pass," Dean blurts, turning away not to watch Cas's smile fall.

Cas sighs, but it's not exactly a disappointed sigh, rather an annoyed one.

"Why not?" he asks, not moving an inch behind Dean's back.

Dean keeps his eyes on the broom as he makes slow sweeps along the wall before answering. "I– I just don't feel like it."

"Okay," Cas says in an audio equivalent of a shrug. "Then I'll go by myself."

"Have fun," Dean mutters, more to himself than to Cas, whose steps shuffle away, muffled by fifteen layers of dust on the floor. "Wait," he swings around, dragging the broom with him, "uh, where do you wanna do it? On a lake or something?"

He's ready with the entire lecture. On how the ice might be too thin, yes, even if it's this cold. On how it might break and Cas will fall into freezing water, get trapped under the ice and die. On how Dean won't even find his purple, frozen body until spring, not for the lack of trying—though that one he won't admit.

But Cas is just looking at Dean like he's an idiot.

"On the ice rink, in town," he explains, putting Dean's designated pair of skates back on a shelf.

"The rink?" Dean's eyebrows snap together then relax just as fast. "Oh, the– the rink, the, oh yeah," he mumbles.

He might have been very deliberately overlooking the broad pool of ice—always crowded, filled with people swerving on it in circles like a whirlpool—for the last two months.

"Yes, that rink," Cas confirms, slumping down on a freaking germ factory of a chair.

He spends the next minute making noises as his fingers slip on dust. At last, he's got both skates tied securely on his feet.

"You could clean them first," Dean grumbles as soon as the sad little show is over.

"Good idea."

Dean shakes his head. "Take them off," he barks, snatching 'his' skates from the shelf, not failing to accentuate his displeasure at the idea of skating. "They need sharpening before you can go anywhere in them."

Cas shoots him a smirk. "I thought you didn't–"

"Shut up," Dean cuts him off. "But we're going after they close."

Cas carries his skates by the laces, wrapped around his fingers, hanging loosely at his side. There's enough space for them in Dean's bag, but Cas, apparently, likes the thrill of two razor sharp blades swinging back and forth around his calves. At least he didn't throw the laces over his neck, the blades pointing at his heart. Dean's got enough of that particular view for a lifetime.

It's nearing ten when they approach the empty rink. The white pool of ice is only lit by the full moon. Poetically perfect. Can't get that romantic in the electric light. Not that romantic's what either of them aimed for. Why would they? They're only here so Cas can learn to skate, after all.

Cas wraps his palm around the edge of the fence. "Isn't this trespassing?"

Dean shrugs. "Only if we get caught."

"Let's not get caught, then," Cas agrees.

He sits down on a bench and proceeds to take off his shoes. He exchanges them for his, now clean and shiny, black ice skates. Consumed with the task, he doesn't look up at Dean until he's done tying up the laces.

"You have to put them on to skate," he reminds Dean, pointing to the free space beside him.

Dean grumbles a profanity to himself and moves to take a spot on the bench. He changes his shoes with hesitation. He takes his time while Cas hovers over him impatiently.

"You can go ahead and start without me," Dean says, bent down, not moving his eyes up. "Unless you need me to hold your hand out there." He can barely hold up his sarcasm to the end of the sentence.

Cas doesn't move. "The entrance is closed, we'll have to jump over."

Sure, that's exactly what Dean needed, jumping on the fucking ice like he's some freaking figure skater or what not. He ties up the skates in silence, makes sure they're tight and secure before getting up and stepping to the fence on wobbly legs.

"Do you need help?"

"No," he barks. He's not even on the ice yet, for fuck's sake. He just needs to get a proper grip on this walking-on-blades thing. He's pretty sure that's not a survival skill humankind has embroidered in its genes. "After you."

The fence is solid, so it doesn't take Cas more than two seconds to get to the other side. His skates make a dull sound hitting the ice. He lets go of the fence as he gets the feel of the ice underneath his feet. He doesn't move farther than a step away, waiting for Dean to follow.

Dean regards the barrier separating him from the disaster one last time. "Let's get it over with."

Cas's eyes won't leave him be for one second as he throws his legs over the fence with all of his usual grace and freezes halfway down. From there, he lets himself down slowly, blades hovering over the ice before they finally reach it. He pushes his heels all the way back to the fence and stands up straight, never loosening his grip.

"Okay," he mutters like he's got it, though he doesn't got it.

"Okay," Cas replies and turns in a semi-fluid motion.

He pushes himself with one foot, sliding a few yards away from Dean. Just for the feel of the ice under his skates, of the new motions. From where Dean's standing, he looks nearly like a pro, his ass sways rhythmically from to side. He only gets a little wobbly at the end of his trek as he tries to stop and turn back. Even though he seemed at risk there for a moment, he successfully finishes his maneuver and turns to Dean.

"This is easier than I thought it'd be." From the distance, in the dim moonlight, Dean can't see his face, he still bets on a triumphant smirk to be what's adorning it. "Are you just going to stand there?"

"Yup, I'm, uh— I'm warming up!" Dean calls to him, ripping one hand off the fence and raising it overhead. "You should warm up too, you know?"

He makes a few more weird, pseudo-gymnastic movements with his hands before Cas reaches his side.

"You can't skate?" His question sounds more like a statement.

"Of course I can!" Dean blurts out with zero confidence and a lot of defiance. "I just—" he swallows—"I just never had an occasion to skate, okay?"

"Oh." Cas huffs, way too cheery.

"Whatchu grinning about?" Dean barks, curling his fists at his sides, legs stiff like two metal poles trying to drill themselves safely into the ice. "What's so fucking funny?"

Cas takes his sweet time, savoring the moment. With one foot he pushes himself off and halts right next to Dean, so close his warm breath brushes Dean's cheek when he speaks.

"I didn't try to mock you, Dean, it's just—" he licks his melon chapstick off his bottom lip and casts his eyes to where the tips of their skates came near, almost touching. "All these things I've tried since I fell… I never thought I'd witness you doing something for the first time."

Dean blinks at him, slowly. "Dude, you literally got me crawling out of the grave for the first time. That not enough?"

Cas nods, amused. His woolen glove trails down along the sleeve of Dean's jacket as his eyes check for a reaction.

"I meant the mundane things." His long fingers curl around Dean's right wrist. Dean doesn't like where this is going, but he doesn't protest. "The human things."

As Cas's blade clanks against the ice, Dean knows there's nothing he can do but hope he'll still be capable of sitting on his ass in the nearest future. He lets Cas take the lead.

To Dean's relief, Cas turns him ninety degrees, keeps the fence within the reach of Dean's hand. No jumping into deep waters, thank fuck.

"You know this—" he cuts off as the first pull throws him off-balance, but he straightens up easily. He focuses on keeping his blades parallel as they carry him smoothly forward. "This isn't anywhere near tasting pecan pie for the first time. This isn't human, this goes against basic survival instincts."

He goes on and on, tugged by Cas, whose grip never loosens, his free hand shooting up to hover over the fence, then falling back to his side. And Cas? He's freaking beaming at him, in an utter disregard of Dean's, very sensible, concerns.

"Stop that," Dean blurts, finishing his monolog. They've barely traveled a few yards and his muscles are already pretty tired from tensing up.

"Stop what?"

"Grinning."

To that, Cas, the asshole that he is, grins even wider. "I think it'll be easier if you start co-operating," he offers. "And bend your knees."

"Oh really? Thanks, couch!" he snarks. He steers his blades towards the fence, holds onto its edge, forcing Cas to stop. Cas's hand lets go of his. "Since when are you such a natural born skater anyway?"

Cas cocks his head to the side as he leans against the fence. "Your wording would suggest that since my birth, which I did not—" he cuts off at the sight of Dean rolling his eyes. "I don't know. It's all about the right movements and the balance of the body. You just have to—"

"I know what I have to do, Cas. I watch hockey, alright?"

Cas nods and pushes his black hat deeper on his forehead. The rim nearly touches his eyebrows now and makes him look really dumb and cute in that… Cas sort of way.

"I'm here," Cas murmurs and moves to clear the passage for Dean.

Dean rubs his palms together, bends his knees, as instructed, finds his center of gravity. Eyes fixed on the ice, lips pressed tight, he holds the posture like he's waiting for the ready-set-go.

Here goes nothing.

He pushes himself off with one foot and doesn't fall. As he slides forward, he puts the foot down and shifts his weight to it, just to push back with the other.

Cas doesn't leave his side. "Not bad," he teases like he's learned from the best.

Dean chuckles, stealing a glance at Cas's smiling mouth. "Got a good teacher," he says, shifting his weight again.

He puts too much energy into it this time, or maybe the skate hits the ice at the wrong angle: Dean doesn't have much time to analyze when his left leg is trying to flee to Canada. He hops, tap-dances a little, all in an attempt to remain vertical, but the world starts slipping anyway.

He throws his hands out to find something, anything, that'll hold him. All they find is Cas's palm, a strong grasp, an even stronger yank forward. There's Cas's fist wrapped around the front of Dean's jacket and his breath on Dean's face and for a second Dean thinks they've got it.

The next second, the momentum hauls him over and Dean topples forward, Cas's hand still pulling him in, his body receding as their skates collide. As they stumble, all Dean sees are Cas's eyes, but all he can think of is how to avoid smashing his nose.

The landing is as tremulous as Dean had imagined, even though Cas's body broke the worst of his fall. Except for Dean's knees and the heels of his palms, which now pulsate dully.

"Cas?" he shouts right into Cas's ear before he can manage to raise himself up. "Cas, you okay?"

In an answer, a long, pained growl comes out of Cas's mouth. His eyes are wide open and dark in the dim moonlight. They fix on Dean's face as it hovers above his. His breath is heavy as if he's just run half a marathon.

"Dean?" Cas grunts and the word leaves his mouth in a cloud of hot air, white against the cold—his lips, puffy and dark, hang parted mere inches beneath Dean's.

Dean licks his own lip and darts his eyes back to Cas's eyes. "Yeah?" he whispers softly, not to disturb the moment.

"Get off me."

Dean springs away like he's been burned. "Right, sorry, Cas."

He rolls onto the ice, right beside Cas and helps him sit up, slowly and with a lot of moaning from the poor guy.

"Did you hit your head?" Dean asks, concerned, slipping his fingers under Cas's hat.

In a fall like this, headbutting a floor of ice could be as lethal as anything. But there's no blood, no fast-growing bump or a tenderness that'd make Cas flinch at Dean's touch.

"No," Cas ensures him, shifting to the side, slowly, letting Dean's fingers follow. "Just my ass."

Dean sighs, relieved. He tugs his fingers down Cas's nape, brushing the hot skin over the scarf. "Alright—" he breaks the touch and fixes Cas's hat, pulls it down low the way Cas likes it—"you'll live, then."

"I suppose."

Dean takes his time with getting up, back on the sharp edges of his skates. He outstretches his hand to Cas, pulls him up without slipping. A few small steps and they're safely holding onto the fence again.

"This went well." Dean nudges Cas, as the guy massages his aching butt. "So, wanna head back now?"

Cas shakes his head. "I don't tend to give up just because I fell."

Pursing his lips, Dean hums a bit of a dumbfounded approval. The deepness of the words doesn't escape him, even with all the butt-rubbing accompanying them.

"I just need a minute."

Dean's knees need a minute, too. Or two, maybe. He bends them and straightens in turns until the throbbing eases. It should be fine. He's knees have been through things much worse than a little skating accident.

"How about that, huh?" Dean murmurs. Cas's eyes snap up to him, eyebrows knitted together. "You've just been blessed with an involvement in my first kerfuffle on the ice."

Cas chuckles, turning his whole body towards Dean. "So there are more of those firsts?" he asks with an unfamiliar smirk stretched out on his lips.

The breath gets caught in Dean's throat as he tries to make a sound, which is for the better, probably. Because really, what was that even supposed to mean? And why do Dean's fingers ache to reach out, grab Cas by his scarf and pull him in just to wipe that sly smirk off his face in the surest way he knows?

Must be something in Dean's startled face that signals Cas off, and he casts his eyes down to the ice underneath their feet. And Dean could swear, even in the blue moonlight, he can see his cheeks burn bright red.

Cas opens his mouth to say something as he begins to turn away, but Dean is faster, he climbs closer, grabs him by the sleeve.

"Oh, there're many more," he says, voice hushed, closer to a purr than he intended. "You've no idea."

It's Cas now that moves his lips soundlessly. His gaze chooses to fix on Dean's lips, rather than his eyes. His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows hard. "Like what?" he asks, at last, the confidence back in his voice.

How long has it been since Dean first wished for this chance? For the world to go still around them like the cold froze the time too. For Cas's face to be this close and this anticipating. With every little green light on, if Dean got it all wrong, Cas will have no right to blame him. If by any chance Dean's lips aren't meant to close the distance, how can he know?

Through the damned glove, Dean can't feel a thing when his fingers reach out to cup Cas's cheek. But it's enough of a warning sign and Cas should spring back, or flinch, cock his head to the side in question.

Cas remains still.

"Like—" Dean trails off to exchange the words for actions. Cas's chin lifts up before Dean can lean in an inch, his eyes finally afenceon Dean's lips and there's nothing but the two dark pools in Dean's vision, drifting closer. Something shifts in the periphery, a movement. "Fuck!"

Cas's eyebrows ride up, for just a second. Dean's face snaps to the left, to the figure, fast approaching down the empty street. It walks toward them, for sure, there's no way the person didn't notice two tall shapes, almost kissing on the closed ice rink.

"Someone's coming," Dean mutters, as Cas turns around to follow his stare.

It's too late to lie down and hide behind the fence, too late to jump over and run for their lives—and dignity—with the skates stuck on their feet. And the person, the man, keeps getting closer until he stops right by the rink, hands on hips.

"Stay here," Dean says. "I'll try to sort this out."

Dean takes a deep breath, too nervous about the trek across the ice to be intimidated by the guy who caught them on trespassing. It's just a few yards along the fence, so he holds onto it for dear life. The embarrassment of it all becomes worth it when the frown on the elderly man's face turns into amusement.

Dean recognizes the man, he's seen him here and there those few months they've lived here. Jones, his name is. Or Johnson, perhaps. Dean's not sure.

"Good evening, sir," he greets the man with his most charming smile. "I can explain this."

The man laces his fingers and leans over the fence. "I'm listening."

"Well, you see, my friend there? He's, uh—" Dean waves towards Cas, who's swinging back and forth in his spot. Plan A, obviously, was to pin it all on Cas. It's as close to the truth as it gets, anyway. But that seems hardly fair, even if the guy isn't here to hear it. "This is quite embarrassing, but I can't skate to save my life and my friend wanted to teach me. But you know how it is—flopping time after time on the eyes of the entire town doesn't really do good for the self-esteem."

The man raises an eyebrow. "And trespassing does?"

"No, we d—" He reaches unzips his jacket to reach for his wallet. "I'll pay whatever the rate is for an hour, we've just come and—"

The old man chortles. "Alright, alright," he says. "Don't worry about it. Every year we've got kids sneakin' in for romantic dates in the moonlight and all that." He waves a hand at Dean, standing surprised with the wallet in his palm. "You two seem a little old but, eh, go have fun."

All Dean's got left to do is thank the man and watch him leave, trying to force down the irritation. If he's being honest, he'd rather get yelled at and chased away, then have that moment, that almost kiss stolen for nothing.

It won't come back, he knows, even as he returns to Cas, slips into his space. He still, hopelessly, asks, "Where were we?"

The shade of a smile on Cas's lips is not the same and it lacks the anticipation, as if Cas too, reproaches the man. And the world is no longer still.

"You were telling me about things you've never done," Cas says so plainly as if he remembered he's not the type to obnoxiously flirt and spill innuendos by accident. He doesn't even look Dean in the eyes.

"Yeah, that, uh—" Dean clears his throat, looking for a way out. Finally, he grins and grabs Cas by his wrist. No use in wasting the rest of the night on holding onto the missed chance. "Well, I've never pulled a salchow," he announces, cheerfully. "You think I can work up to it?"