Cas watched Obi-Wan's blade dance from the crowd, enthralled like the rest of them with the grace and seamless skill. It was a moment of joy and admiration, in the midst of anxiety he's spent stalking this gala for any sign of his missing friend. He'd seen the wonderfully choreographed fights in the films, but it still pales in comparison to the real thing. Everything about knowing Obi-Wan here, he's found, makes the fictions seem flat and one dimensional, the man himself has a much greater depth and spirit to him.

Which is what makes protesting Obi-Wan's urging onto the dance floor so difficult, when he comes to pull Cas up from his little observation perch at the furthest back table, where he could view the whole area.

"No, Obi-wan, thank you, I'm just— I'm really not suited for it."

Angels fight, they fly, they do all kinds of complex coordination with or without physical forms, but dance has never been an element of their culture. Nonetheless, Obi-wan's very difficult to say no to, and Castiel's dragged along into the crowd reluctantly. Someone did managed to squish him into slightly fancier clothes, which Cas immediately covered with a heavy, oversized tan trench coat, but somewhere in the shuffle, the coat's left behind on his sentry chair, Cas watching it mournfully from a distant.

"I hope at least you know what we're doing."