Debridement
For Restraintstiel Week Day 6: Magic
Summary: After years of looking for someone who can restore Castiel's missing memories of why he set a deadly fire, they finally find someone who can help. Dean believes it must have been for a good reason, whereas Castiel believes he did something unforgivable and just wants answers. When the truth comes out, it's not quite what either of them were expecting.
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Castiel waited quietly at the bar, sitting at the edge of the stool and sipping cheap bourbon to appease the bartender. He looked like the exact stereotype of a perfect bartender: handsome in a ruddy and chubby way, a bald head that shone with sweat in a pleasing contrast to his thick ginger beard, and thick forearms that were a canvas for tattoos that showed a variety in age, complexity, and artistic skill.
“Nice ink,” the man said to him, nodding at Castiel’s hand wrapped around the glass he was drinking from.
“Thank you,” Castiel said, but no more than that, before he turned his head away.
A lot of people who had tattoos wanted to chat with him, seeing him as some kindred spirit. But the mirrored waxing and waning moons on the backs of his hands were not there for decoration. Anybody who could read the ancient script tattooed inside the moons would know that, but there were few people who could. He doubted that any scholars of nešili cuneiform were hanging out in a dive bar in Montana.
Restlessly, he drank bourbon and watched the other people in the room. There weren’t many of them. A couple who looked simultaneously too young and too old seemed to be having an argument, two grizzled old men were watching a baseball game on the little television mounted in the corner, and five people in biker leathers were alternating between playing pool and being outside, smoking.
Castiel immediately loved them. They were such delightfully ordinary people. And that made up his mind: he’d already argued against staying behind, and he couldn’t just sit here putting people at risk for no reason. If the witch that Sam and Dean were talking to was the real thing, he could be making the bar a target just by being here.
He threw a few bills on the bar and strode out the door. Piles of gray-brown slush slumped around the edges of the small parking area, where plow-displaced snow had been heaped in areas with enough shade not to melt in the weak winter sunlight. He shivered, cold in spite of a thermal undershirt, a flannel, and a thick woolen coat layered on him.
A familiar black car turned into the parking area, and a familiar head poked out of the window.
“Cas!” Dean hissed at him. “Where do you think you’re going?”
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