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The scientist is gesturing at the window where one of the whales is just a few feet away through the glass, and Dean grins. He’s always loved zoos and aquariums; water creatures move in three dimensions, just like he does these days in the Impala.
He turns to his first officer, standing beside him. “Cas, check out–" He stops. Where is Castiel?
The woman is still talking, describing the songs of the whales and twentieth century science, but Dean’s not paying attention any more. Where the hell is Cas? He turns one way, then the other, scanning the crowd for the familiar head of dark hair, for now brushed oddly so his pointed ears don't show. He's not in the tour group, or looking at the exhibits--
And then he sees him.
The whale has turned slightly, its bulk no longer filling the entire window, and Dean sees a pair of bare feet kicking slowly. As the whale turns further, they extend up to calves and muscled thighs and Dean knows those damn legs anywhere.
Cas is in the fucking tank.
What the hell.
Dean has no idea what to do.
Cas has his hands on the whale’s temple and jaw, and suddenly Dean knows what the Vulcan is trying. Now he just has to hope Dr. Taylor doesn’t turn–
"–Maybe he’s singing to that man there," says a woman in the front, pointing into the tank.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"What the hell?" She springs forward and runs towards the tank. Dean’s got no choice but to follow.
Cas is just pulling his robe back on as they reach him, and Dean tries not to be distracted by the miles of tanned flesh that’re briefly bared in the California sunshine.
"All right, who are you and what were you doing in there?!" The doctor is pissed. Dean gets it.
Cas glances from Dean to Dr. Taylor, a bland expression on his face. “Attempting to communicate."
"Communicate what?! You have no right to be here!"
"You heard the lady!" Dean interjects, trying to keep Dr. Taylor on his side, if not Cas’s.
"Captain, if we were to assume these whales were here to do with what we please, we would be as guilty as those who caused their extinction." Castiel is earnest, and Dean knows what he’s trying to say, but he suddenly decides that this really, really isn’t the time for a conversation on ethics. They’ll have other opportunities to get the whales, and he senses this conversation isn’t going anywhere good anyway. He grabs Castiel by the arm and pulls him towards the exit, the scientist sputtering behind them.
As soon as they’re around the corner, Cas stops. “Dean, Gracie would be willing to join us in our time. We need to–mumph!”
Dean doesn’t care that it’s 1995 or that they’re in the middle of the sidewalk in fucking San Francisco. Cas is damp and bedraggled and nearly naked under that robe, and there’s something about him that’s just so damn adorable Dean can’t resist it. He kisses him firmly, pulling him back into an alcove and running one hand along his back and brushing over his ass while the other interlaces with Cas’s in a Vulcan gesture of affection.
The damn timeline can wait. Right now, he's gonna enjoy the hell out of the twentieth century.