Cas stares around like the clueless thing he is, not quite understanding the rules of a place like this. He sees men tucking money into the strings of a dancing woman's thong underwear and tilts his head, puzzled. What are they paying her for?

"Dean," Cas shouts over the music, "I fail to understand the purpose of this entertainment." See, he gets the brothel, he gets it; that one is about the carnal act of copulation and the euphoria-inducing hormonal bursts that come along with the stimuli. Here, though, the only stimulus is visual, yet the viewers are still paying the dancers.

Is it art? Cas never gets art.