Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers own the rights to Supernatural.

God, this is awful. It's hot and sweaty. The music is entirely too electropop. The strobe lights are already starting to give Dean a headache. There's a glaring lack of females in the gyrating mass that is the dance floor.

Why is it that vamp jobs almost always involve clubs or raves or whatever the hell this place likes to call itself? He's almost written this whole escapade off as not even worth the trouble, but honestly, he'd pay good money to see Cas this uncomfortable any day. Give the guy a horde of demons hungry for some holy blood, and he'll smite them without blinking, but stick him in a poorly lit former-warehouse full of guys ogling at his Sinatra blues and he's a nervous wreck.

It's entirely too entertaining to not enjoy.

When it's clear that he might actually manage to wriggle out of his vessel if he doesn't cool it with the fidgeting, Dean leans forward and says/yells in the direction of his ear, "Dude. Chill. They're gays, not golems. They won't bite."

Cas shoots him a skeptic glare.

"Usually. Look, we just gotta get this bartender to spill the deets on this Conners kid, and we'll be cherry. In and out. Just stay close."

Over Cas' other shoulder, Dean sees a Jet Li look-a-like eying the angel like he's the last rainbow roll at the sushi bar. The hunter can't help himself, he catches the guy's eye, wriggles his eyebrows, and shoots him a nana-nana-boo-boo smirk before grabbing Cas by the arm and making a beeline for the bar. The look on the guy's face? Priceless.

Cas hangs back a bit while Dean waits for the man behind the bar to finish up with a customer. When he finally turns his attention to him, the guy's eyes light up and suddenly Dean feels like the rainbow roll here.

"What can I do you for?" he leers.

"There's a guy, goes by the name of Conners. I hear you know where to find him," Dean replies, squirming a little under the man's gaze.

"Is that so? Name sounds familiar, but the details are a little fuzzy." The man leans forward. "Tell you what. My shift's over in a few minutes. We could go out back, maybe you could jog my memory."

Dean smiles his I'm-gonna-be-polite-and-not-sock-this-creep-in-the-face smile and puts his hands in his pants pockets to alleviate temptation.

"I, uh, I would, but you see, I don't really..."

He trails off as two hands lace through his arms and slide into his jacket pockets from behind. Cas' head appears over his right shoulder, and the bartender straightens.

"How much longer are you going to be?" His breath is warm on Dean's cheek, and it takes him a second to find his voice.

"... th- think my boyfriend likes to share. But hey," Cas pulls away enough for Dean to fish his wallet out. "I'm sure Mr. Jackson here would love to go out back with you."

He slides the bill across the counter and flashes a not-so-apologetic smile.

Once they've made their way back through the throbbing wall of bodies and into the Impala, address in hand, Dean stares at the angel until Cas looks at him, questioning.

"Dude."

Cas glances to the left, then to the right.

"Yes?"

"Did you just pretend to be my boyfriend to get info outta that bartender?"

The angel seems to consider it for a moment then, carefully, as if he's not sure it's the right answer, "Yes?"

Dean shakes his head and moves to turn the engine over.

"You gotta stop hangin out with Sam."