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Cas flew to Dean's side in a flutter of wings.
And narrowed his eyes, confused. "What are you wearing?" he asked. He'd never seen Dean dressed like this: red vest, string tie, sleeves of his white shirt held in place with black garters. He was in the middle of tying a long apron around his waist.
"Don't even start," Dean grumbled. "I look ridiculous."
"No, I like it," said Cas. "Red is a good color on you."
"Shut up," said Dean. "It's a costume, OK? Look around."
Cas tore his eyes away from Dean (always a challenging feat) and took in their surroundings: a one-room saloon, dominated by an antique wooden bar with a mirror behind it. There was a player piano in a corner, paintings on the wall of scantily clad women--not in lingerie like the ones Dean looked at in his magazines, but in ruffled bloomers, tightly laced corsets. "Are we...have we gone back in time?"
"We're on a case," said Dean. "This place is like--I don't know, whatever you call a museum that's all old-timey buildings and staff playing dress-up? From when Wichita was the Wild West. One of the houses is haunted, original owner pissed off at tourists, and we could only get close to it by getting jobs here. Sammy's off running the gift shop, and I'm stuck being a goddamn 'bartender' in a place that doesn't even serve booze."
"Oh." One of the loops of Dean's tie was bigger than the other, and Cas itched to adjust it, remembering Dean's hands at his collar a long time ago. He'd buttoned Cas's shirt then, but Cas's mind had gone the other way: in daydreams, Dean loosened his tie, undid his buttons one by one, touched Cas's skin and didn't stop. He wrestled his thoughts back to the present. "Why do you need me?"
Dean shrugged. "Don't we always?" And that memory was painful, Dean on his knees on the floor of that crypt, bleeding and broken at Cas's hands. "I mean," Dean continued, "Sammy and I can keep an eye on the visitors between us once the place opens, but it's good to have someone who can go invisible."
"Yes, I can do that." The usual silence fell between them--Cas was never sure whether it was comfortable or not.
Dean cleared his throat. "OK. Good. Uh, you want a sarsaparilla?"
"I don't know what that is."
"It's root beer-ish. Not bad, really. They should have whiskey, but I guess the place gets a lot of little kids, and you know, Kansas." Dean crossed behind the bar to fill a glass; Cas sipped the fizzy liquid, angelic senses teasing out sassafras and birch.
Dean readied the saloon for opening while he told Cas about the case: most of the buildings in the park were historic, moved to the site and restored for safety. A barn had belonged to the widow McCarty, the only woman who signed the town charter in 1870--"She was Billy the Kid's mom, actually, so it makes sense she's got a temper."
Cas was listening, he really was, but the case didn't seem that complicated, and he fell into a reverie, watching Dean's mouth move. Once, he licked his lips between sentences, and Cas pictured himself leaning across the bar to kiss him, run his own tongue over those sumptuous lips, hike Dean's apron up to his waist, slide his hand between his legs.
"Hey," Dean said, "earth to angel. What is with you?"
"N-nothing!" Cas stammered. "I'm paying attention."
"Right. What did I just say?"
Cas had no idea. His fantasy Dean had just said "Fuck me, please," while Cas stroked his cock, but that was hardly something the real Dean would say. "I apologize. The widow McCarty, it's her ghost."
"Dammit, Cas." Dean started going over it again, and Cas's thoughts went right back where they'd been; Dean's pants were around his ankles, hands braced against the bar, Cas had fingers in his ass and Dean was pushing back on them, begging, Cas was thrusting inside him and Dean was saying "I need you, I need you," and...
"I have to go," Cas interrupted--and before Dean could protest, he was gone, standing beneath the ice-cold cascade of Niagara Falls.
His imagination was really getting out of control.