Sure, Cas is a nerdy guy in a trench-coat standing, hunched inward, next to the jukebox. He’s holding a beer in both hands and staring down into it like he wishes for all the world he could disappear somewhere in the bottle.
But, he’s also the hottest guy in the room. Wide shoulders. Chiseled jawline. The kind of blue eyes people write songs about.
So Dean puts a quarter in the jukebox. He pretends to be choosy, but he already picked out the ballad he wants before he even suggested this bet.
To Cas, not two minutes ago, “Ten bucks says I can get the hottest guy in the room to dance with me.”
Cas, frowning, said, “Dean.”
The ballad starts. Dean puts one elbow on the top of the jukebox and leans into Cas. “So what’s it going to be?”
Cas looks up at him, stormy eyes the epitome of misery. “I’d rather not take the bet, Dean.”
“Cas.” Dean shakes his head and holds out a hand. “I’m asking you to dance.”
Cas blinks. His shoulders straighten. He glances behind him like someone might have slid between him and the wall.
Dean takes the beer from Cas’s hands and places it on top of the jukebox. Then he reaches for Cas and laces their fingers together.
Cas looks at him, eyes wide, like he can’t quite believe it.
Leaning close, mouth to Cas’s ear, Dean says, “Dance with me.”
Later, with Cas in his arms and the rest of the world a blur beyond that small dance floor, Dean tells Cas, “You owe me ten bucks.”
Cas gently reminds him, “I never actually agreed to the bet.”
Dean still feels like a winner.
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