The Year of Redemption

Chapter 11: Saint Or Sinner

Dean spotted a bar, and they pulled into the parking lot. "This ought to be it," he said, checking the map of Springfield on the dash. "Don't... drink the bar, Cas," Dean advised, remembering the time that Castiel had showed up at his and Sammy's door after quite literally drinking an entire liquor store.

"I will control the quantity that I imbibe," Cas assured.

Dean donned a black trench coat and hid the stake in a pocket inside the coat. Castiel followed him into the bar, and they sat at a table in the corner so they could observe the entire place. Dean ordered them a couple beers, and they drank in silence, scanning the bar and then training their eyes on the front door.

A couple of guys in leather jackets, presumably motorcycle riders, walked up to their table. They focused their attention on Castiel, then looked over to Dean. "Bet we could beat your little friend in a game of darts," they challenged. Dean stood up, automatically taking the offensive. He was about to say something back when Cas stood up too.

"I accept your offer," Cas told them. He turned to Dean and whispered, "You keep an eye out."

Dean glared at him, then sat back down. The bikers sneered at Dean, "Don't worry, we won't go too hard on your boyfriend."

"Yeah, that's your job anyways," another joked. They all laughed and jeered. Dean was about to stand up again, but Castiel glared at him, and he remained seated.

"Come on," the bikers pushed Cas towards the dart board, and the angel complied.

"Here, on us." One of the bikers offered Cas a shot of whiskey, which he accepted and downed in one gulp.

"Alright, so you throw these," another biker handed Cas three darts, "and try to hit the middle," he said, pointing to the dart board. "Stand here." He moved Cas into position about 8 feet from the board. Castiel threw each of the darts. One after the other, they all hit the bulls-eye.

The bikers' eyes widened. They offered him another shot of whiskey and took their turns. Then they positioned him about 12 feet away from the board and gave his three darts back. Castiel again threw three perfect bulls-eyes.

"Damn," one said. "What are you, superhuman?"

"Something like that," Cas replied.

The bikers took their turns again, still loading Cas up with beer and whiskey and moving him farther from the board. Eventually, they had him across the bar, still throwing bulls-eyes and near-bulls-eyes at the board.

"We can take him at billiards," one challenged.

"Whiskey billiards. Every ball you hit in, you down a shot," another biker suggested, slamming glasses of whiskey around the rim of the pool table. They all grunted in agreement.

One of the bikers took the first shot, hitting in a solid ball. He hit in another one, claiming solids for the biker team. On the next shot, he missed, and it was Cas's turn. Castiel judged the angles of the shots and the force he applied to the pool stick just right, rebounding the balls off the sides of the table and hitting in all of the stripes in a single turn. The bikers made sure he downed a glass after each ball he pocketed.

By this time, the bikers were dumbfounded. They sat at a table to ponder their next attempt at making a fool of Castiel, who was somehow still on his feet after at least two dozen shots of whiskey and several beers. Dean was getting concerned. He walked over. "Cas...?" he muttered.

"Don't worry, Dean, I have it all under control," Cas replied.

"Hey, buddy," the bikers called, "come over and try your hand at poker." One of them patted an empty chair around their table, and another started dealing cards.