The angel's laser focused on improving his execution of this human tradition. Once he's taken a task on, he's stubbornly committed to seeing it through, and he's always had a petulant streak that's indignantly unsatisfied when bad at something. Regardless of how thoroughly Dean Winchester may point out he's out of his depth (maybe even because of it).
He listens to Obi-wan explain, holding his eyes, except when he fumbles and casts a grouchy frown down at his feet, like they've personally offended him. Though his dance partner's light-hearted chuckling does lift some of his severity, a hint of a smile curving at the corner of Castiel's lips. There's an honest and uncomplicated joy to the man that's infectious, difficult to deny. It softens the anxiety to do it right, and relaxes Cas into taking guidance by the rhythm, and his companion, allowing the grasp on control to loosen. This isn't Sam, Dean or Jo, acutely aware of his distant and recent history and woes. He isn't saving lives or thwarting evil here, he's just stepping about in metered patterns, enjoying the warmth and reassurance of human contact. It's fun.
And then the tone shifts, and Obi-wan slips behind him somewhere, Cas tracking his position through the hand on his hip, the radiating heat from the Jedi's chest flush to Castiel's back. This is... different. Synapses spark up and fire along old neural pathways, be it pheromones or a hypersensitive, nearly atrophied base human instinct reacting to the stimuli of intimate contact with another body. The whisper at his ear, brush of Obi-wan's lips, and warm air danced across his neck triggers sensitive nerve endings, that tingling, electric pulse creeping back again. Castiel did not wake up this day prepared to be sensually spooned mid-tango in the middle of a swanky festival, with Jedi Master Obi-wan Kenobi's voice deep and rich at ear, vibrating against his back, while whispering clandestine diplomatic strategy. Perhaps George Lucas was just unskilled in writing subtly, gracefully, probably unintentionally alluring men, but he doesn't remember this in the films. He won't be thrown by it, and continues on, trusting Obi-wan's instruction.
"I see. It's a clever tactic, hiding your affairs in plain sight with others distracted. I've noticed the, um. Amorosity." Amory? Amorousness? Human languages are silly, but there are already several other dancing couples clearly needing to be bonked and sent to horny jail in the crowd. They somehow gracefully stroll through, without nudging or bumping another soul, however distracted they are by hormones and an intoxicated lack of inhibition. He leans when told to, curious but trusting. When Cas feels an invisible force at his shoulders and chest, easing him down, helping a knee to bend just so, the other to stretch, and gently lifting him back into the Jedi's embrace, he has a distinct suspicion Obi-wan's responsible for their unfettered path.
"Thank you." Perhaps the intimacy and sensation are simply part of the practice, something meant to go along, enrich, and motivate the dance. As he grows more sure of the steps, Cas decides to loosen his grip on policing his vessel. Let it do what it will, he can't control it much at this point anyway. After a while, he's observed some more complicated moves from other dancers, and decides to be a bit more involved. As they finish one sequence, Cas lifts their hands to twirl Obi-wan under his arm, the hand on his shoulder guiding him through, before pulling him back in, solidly flushed to his chest, with voice hushed between them. "What delicate matters do you propose we discuss with this dance?"
no subject
He listens to Obi-wan explain, holding his eyes, except when he fumbles and casts a grouchy frown down at his feet, like they've personally offended him. Though his dance partner's light-hearted chuckling does lift some of his severity, a hint of a smile curving at the corner of Castiel's lips. There's an honest and uncomplicated joy to the man that's infectious, difficult to deny. It softens the anxiety to do it right, and relaxes Cas into taking guidance by the rhythm, and his companion, allowing the grasp on control to loosen. This isn't Sam, Dean or Jo, acutely aware of his distant and recent history and woes. He isn't saving lives or thwarting evil here, he's just stepping about in metered patterns, enjoying the warmth and reassurance of human contact. It's fun.
And then the tone shifts, and Obi-wan slips behind him somewhere, Cas tracking his position through the hand on his hip, the radiating heat from the Jedi's chest flush to Castiel's back. This is... different. Synapses spark up and fire along old neural pathways, be it pheromones or a hypersensitive, nearly atrophied base human instinct reacting to the stimuli of intimate contact with another body. The whisper at his ear, brush of Obi-wan's lips, and warm air danced across his neck triggers sensitive nerve endings, that tingling, electric pulse creeping back again. Castiel did not wake up this day prepared to be sensually spooned mid-tango in the middle of a swanky festival, with Jedi Master Obi-wan Kenobi's voice deep and rich at ear, vibrating against his back, while whispering clandestine diplomatic strategy. Perhaps George Lucas was just unskilled in writing subtly, gracefully, probably unintentionally alluring men, but he doesn't remember this in the films. He won't be thrown by it, and continues on, trusting Obi-wan's instruction.
"I see. It's a clever tactic, hiding your affairs in plain sight with others distracted. I've noticed the, um. Amorosity." Amory? Amorousness? Human languages are silly, but there are already several other dancing couples clearly needing to be bonked and sent to horny jail in the crowd. They somehow gracefully stroll through, without nudging or bumping another soul, however distracted they are by hormones and an intoxicated lack of inhibition. He leans when told to, curious but trusting. When Cas feels an invisible force at his shoulders and chest, easing him down, helping a knee to bend just so, the other to stretch, and gently lifting him back into the Jedi's embrace, he has a distinct suspicion Obi-wan's responsible for their unfettered path.
"Thank you." Perhaps the intimacy and sensation are simply part of the practice, something meant to go along, enrich, and motivate the dance. As he grows more sure of the steps, Cas decides to loosen his grip on policing his vessel. Let it do what it will, he can't control it much at this point anyway. After a while, he's observed some more complicated moves from other dancers, and decides to be a bit more involved. As they finish one sequence, Cas lifts their hands to twirl Obi-wan under his arm, the hand on his shoulder guiding him through, before pulling him back in, solidly flushed to his chest, with voice hushed between them. "What delicate matters do you propose we discuss with this dance?"