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Dean buys it mostly to embarrass Sam.
He wears it around the bunker, which is worthy of an eye roll or five, but whatever. It's fine. When he wears it to go drink and play pool at the Milton and forces Sam to come along, it's cringe-worthy and Sam spends those nights drinking to forget that he's with the moron wearing a shirt with "SEX MACHINE" emblazoned across the front in an atrocious marriage of camo and rhinestones.
Cas, of course, is completely unfazed. He didn't even blink an eye at The Shirt's debut—which had Sam choking on his own humiliated spit given that Dean chose to reveal its existence in the back pew of an Alabama Pentecostal congregation's Sunday service.
Sam envies Cas's complete disregard of human sensibilities.
He knows it's disregard and not obliviousness because sometimes some jackass will give Dean the stink-eye, and Cas's usual response is to make them as uncomfortable as divinely possible.
Tonight, Dean and Cas are hogging the otherwise ignored pool table while Sam occupies a nearby booth, because, fucking again, Dean's wearing The Shirt. And Sam wants to be the guy playing pool with the idiot wearing The Shirt even less than he wants to be the guy who walked in with him.
Dean's not playing his best—mostly just chugging beer, talking and laughing too loudly at everything Cas has to (very quietly) say, and fooling around trying to make ridiculous shots in the most ridiculous ways. He's a pro at pool, but even he's hard-pressed to make a five-point rebound while shooting left-handed.
When the shot fails spectacularly, scratching the table and sending the cue ball jumping off the table entirely, Dean just laughs harder and Cas goes fishing under the table for where the ball rolled. When he resurfaces, he watches Dean's amusement with soft eyes and an actual, recognizable smile.
Which is another thing Sam's been getting increasingly frustrated with lately. Now that they're all living in the bunker, he's been forced to watch these two idiots fall even more in love (and seriously, how is that even possible) and yet dance around it harder than ever.
Sam drains his beer and heads over to the bar to get himself a whiskey, because he can't take these morons and the hearts in their eyes and not on their tongues.
But he's not the only one watching the epic, unrealized love story of Dea-stiel being acted out before them.
Joe's behind the bar like most Thursdays, and as Sam pulls up a stool, he sends him a "just a second" gesture. While he waits, he can't help but overhear the two guys to his left.
"Fuckin' queers, man. Got their gay marriage and suddenly they think they can just throw their gay shit all up in our faces?"
"Can't even play a game of pool right. And they're just gonna hog the table where maybe folks respect the game can't get in a game or two?"
Joe arrives in time to distract him temporarily from the anti-CasDean fans, and he orders a double whiskey and another Flathead.
Once the drinks are in front of him, though, there's an attractive blonde who needs tending to at the other end of the bar, Joe's on his way to her aid, and Sam's attention is once again stolen by the assholes two seats down.
"Gays, man, they want everything for themselves—they just wanna take it all, telling our wives how to dress and decorating shit, while hard-working guys like us do all the real work."
It's at about this point that Sam's equal parts frothing with rage and halfway to hysterical laughter, because seriously? Either Dean or Cas giving advice on fashion or interior decorating?
Wow.
It's the sick and vengeful sense of humor in him that makes him do it.
Turning to the guys, he clears his throat and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Couldn't agree more."
It's hard to keep a straight face, but he manages, and continues, "Those two are in here a lot, just taking over the bar like it's their God-given right."
The initially wary looks on the homophobes' faces slip quickly into easy camaraderie.
"Fuckin' queers, right?" the first douchebag repeats himself, tipping his grimy trucker cap up. "Man can't even drink in peace in this country without them shoving their unnatural business all up in our faces."
"Yeah," Sam nods, so earnest and repulsed, "Can't get away from it. And, seriously, they gotta flaunt it so hard they even advertise it on their shirts?"
Okay, so Sam isn't 100% adult about his hatred of The Shirt. Still, he's about to get these guys hustled and good, so he's allowed a little dig at Dean's expense.
"Oh man, right?! Jesus, what assholes!" the other guy exclaims. "Hey, you're alright," he follows, after a moment, and holds his beer out to clink.
Over at the table, Cas makes a shot that sends the balls ricocheting in every direction, and Dean again bursts out in laughter, mouth wide, hand pressed against his chest as he bows full-body backwards. Cas beams at him, gums visible.
The homophobes have also noticed, and one of them pretends to throw up in his mouth.
"How are we expected to sit around with them making displays like that?" the first asshole asks.
The other snorts in disgust and takes a long pull off his beer.
Sam subtly clears his throat. "Maybe you guys should teach 'em a lesson," he ventures, studying his beer.
Their attention shifts to him with sharpened eyes.
"How's that again?" the second guys asks.
"Well," Sam shifts, looking up at them, "Can't beat sense into 'em without someone yelling hate crime, but you could show them a lesson or two about pool, and empty their wallets in the process…"
He's being super-obvious, but these guys are too fired-up and drunk to notice such a rookie hook.
"Yeah," the second guy says, "Yeah! Come on, let's make 'em play! We'll show them what they can do with their gay shit!"
The first guy grins, caught up in the idea. "Yeah, sure, let's go."
They're sliding off their stools and sauntering over to the table within seconds.
As they lean obnoxiously on the lip, plunking their beers down and raising their voices to challenge Dean and Cas, Dean looks over at the booth for Sam, brow furrowing in confusion at his absence. His eyes scan the room before he finds Sam, who winks. Dean's mouth twitches in understanding, and he turns the bravado and slurring up a notch.
And even if Dean wasn't a pro at hustling assholes out of their money, even if he couldn't shut these guys down in two rounds by himself, he's got a secret weapon.
Cas can and has sent every single ball into a pocket in a single opening shot when dared. Some of it may have been with a helpful push of mojo, but he's done it.
Soon enough there's fifty on the table and Dean must've clued Cas in, because he's playing like a normal amateur and only putting a ball at a time in a pocket, and no more than two in a row.
The homophobes easily win.
Sam smiles into his beer.
At some point during the second game, Cas notices the sneers and derisive laughter whenever he and Dean get too close or touch or share a glance, and his expression becomes darker each time, his mood souring. In response, Dean starts shooting him worried looks. Cas begins playing more robotically, clearly stopping himself a couple times from ending the game in one shot.
Cas gives Dean a look across the table, and the first guy tips his ugly trucker cap up and elbows his buddy snidely.
"Little distracted, huh?" the first guy says, "Maybe you'd, ah, you'd handle your, ah, stick better without all the, ah, balls bouncing around."
It's such a pathetic dig that Sam almost feels sorry for him.
And Cas isn't dumb. He knows when he's being mocked, and he knows when someone is mocking him over his perceived sexuality. What Sam knows and these guys don't, though, is that Cas has Asshole Superpowers when he's pissed and trying to make a point. Moreover, Cas's Asshole Superpowers are at their strongest when someone is being a jerk to Dean.
Sam sees the glint in Cas's eye as he apparently forgets how to play. He's hitting nothing, though somehow he keeps setting the table so it's nigh unto impossible for anyone else to pocket anything.
After the third round of this he sets up to take his shot once more, face set in frustration.
"How'd you do that one earlier, with the three ball?" he asks Dean, bent over the table, legs spread and back arched unnecessarily. Dean is barely even reining in the staring.
Cas makes his shot and it goes flying off into a side pocket.
Their opponents' faces twist in mockery as Trucker Hat retrieves the cue ball.
"Guess you could use some more practice, huh?" he jeers, and Cas doesn't miss a damn beat.
"Well, Dean keeps trying to show me how to get it right in the hole, but I guess he needs to show me another time or two."
Sam nearly spits his drink.
The other three players turn bright red, though for differing reasons. Dean spends an inordinate amount of time chalking his stick and carefully ignoring Sam's existence.
Meanwhile, the douchebags look fit to burst.
Cas fingers the neck of his beer, stroking up and down. "Sorry about the table—I just shot everything all over the place."
Sam's gotta tip his hat. Cas is on a fucking roll. He also makes a note to never piss Cas off.
"You—" the second asshole sputters, "You piece of—"
Cas turns his head curiously, squinting in that innocent, adorable puppy way of his. "Did I say something wrong?"
"Ha ha, yeah," Dean claps a hand around Cas's shoulder, carefully pulling Cas away and positioning himself between Cas and the jerks. "N'aw, man, you're fine, how about you go get some more drinks, huh?"
"Of course, Dean," Cas says, eyefucking the shit out of Dean as Dean eyefucks him right the hell back.
Sam doesn't make eye contact with Cas while Joe bites back his smile and hands over two Margies with a quiet, "On the house," but he does send a mental pat on the back his way, and he catches the minute nod Cas gives him in response, mouth turning up slyly at one corner.
Somehow, by the time Cas returns to the table, Dean's calmed down Dick #1 and #2 enough that Trucker Hat's missed his shot entirely, and Dean's slowly putting ball after ball into the corners.
Shortly thereafter, he lets loose a wild whoop as he sinks the last of the striped balls, and they win the round.
"You fucking cheater!" shouts Trucker Hat.
"Hey, whoa," Dean placates, hands up, "I just got some good shots in, come on."
Trucker Hat's friend grabs his arm. "Hey, man, seriously, that was dumb luck. He wasn't aiming straight at anything." (Sam takes a moment to snicker.) "Weren't skill. You think someone like him's got skills like that?"
Dean keeps it together, not slipping up on his oblivious, drunk mark persona for a second. He sticks his lower lip out, cocky. "Guess I just got more'n you, huh? I'll, uh, be taking that $200?"
Before his hand can close over the money, Trucker Hat slams his down.
"N'aw, Sex Machine, I think we can still show you and your...friend a thing or two what it means to be a man."
Dean huffs a soundless laugh, smiling condescendingly as Cas returns to his side, handing him his beer. He takes a long pull and sets it down hard on the lip of the table.
"$500 says you go back home crying to your mommies."
"You're on."
"Rack 'em."
Dean's got that look in his eye that says he's going to ruin these guys' night, whether that means hustling every dime out of their pocket, or pounding them into the pavement. Cas isn't far behind. For no reason whatsoever, Cas lays a hand on Dean's bicep, far too intimate for the space.
Dean glances at him, smirking.
The homophobe douchefucks both bristle, and the second one grabs his cue, lining up and barely managing to get a single striped ball into a pocket. He does not manage a repeat on the second shot.
This is where Dean twirls his stick, pointless and flagrant. Sam barely restrains his laughter. Cas hides his own, biting his lip and ducking his head.
Three solids go down in one shot. Dean misses on the next, but he doesn't seem worried at all. He nonchalantly saunters around the table to Cas, chalking the stick and handing it to Cas with a flourish.
"Your turn, gentlemen," he says, sliding a hand around to Cas's hip.
Cas tenses for a blink of an eye before he leans toward Dean, relaxing into the touch with a smirk.
Trucker Hat manages to sink four singles in a row before he succumbs to the distraction of Dean's thumb running up and down Cas's side and Cas humming almost too quietly to hear in response.
And that was all she wrote.
When the guy misses, Dean leans in, grabs Cas with both hands at his hips, and gives him a filthy-wet open-mouthed kiss at the corner of his jaw, saying loud enough for the entire bar to hear, "Destroy ‘em, babe."
Cas grins at Dean, taking a step around the table to line up his shot and then hesitates. Straightening, he fixes Dean with dark eyes and a coy quirk of a grin.
"I'm not sure how to hit it..."
Without another word, Dean's pressed in against him, pushing him down over the table a little harder than necessary. He murmurs something Sam can't make out and presses a softer kiss to the back of Cas's neck before withdrawing.
Trucker Hat and his friend look ready to explode, but they apparently want to rob the gays blind before they break their faces, because they hold themselves back long enough for Cas to eye the set-up, pull back, and send every last solid ball into a pocket, the 8-ball knocking around slowly before disappearing as well.
"You motherfucking cheaters! You fucking played us!" the assholes begin yelling. Their curses grow incoherent from there, as things come to blows.
Dean, in an improbable show of charity, mostly tries to block them without hitting back (most likely so the three of them'll be welcome back), right up until one of them hits him in the side and rushes around him to Cas.
...who lets the guy punch him right in the face, barely turning his head. There's an audible crack as Trucker Hat's fist breaks.
Cas pops his jaw and straightens his head with a little more theatricality than necessary as the asshole howls in pain.
Asshole #2 grabs his partner, backing away.
Glaring straight at them, Cas crosses to Dean, pulling him in by his shirt collar, and kisses him for all he's worth.
Sam, Joe, the fucktools, and the entire bar watch, captivated, until Cas pulls back. Dean's mouth chases his and then they just breathe, heavy and too-quick, before Cas turns to the room, and, in a moment of inspired fuck-you, grabs the $500 and Dean's hand, and pulls him to the exit.
At the door he pauses, turning back.
"The shirt's accurate, by the way," he says with a smirk, and Sam barely catches Dean's burst of laughter above his own.