Word Count: 584
Prompt for a_muse_meme: Alfred Pennyworth: With respect, sir, perhaps this is a man that *you* don't fully understand.
Purity of the Soul
What was it about this man that made him twist the rules so? Castiel leaned on the pitted surface of the bar, its wood stained nearly black from the oils of a million fingers and spills of various potables. The angel gazed into the shifting bubbles rising in his beer. He hadn’t taken a single drink of it. Even in his borrowed body he had no need to food or drink, but he was trying to learn to fit in. In this place fitting in meant having a drink.
“You don’t look too happy.”
Castiel glanced over at the woman who had plopped onto the barstool besides him in a cloud of cloying perfume and cigarette smoke. Her face was painted, bright pink lips, and rouge on her sunken cheeks. Fine lines traced away from her mouth and grew deeper where her spider like lashes fluttered.
“I’ve had a difficult day,” he muttered. Then he chuckled when he thought of Dean’s reaction to him being approached by a whore in a run down bar.
“Get in line,” she said before giving him the once over. Her eyes were pale brown, almost the same color as the watered down whiskey in her glass. “Things are rough all over. Buy a girl a drink, and you can tell me all your troubles. I’m a better listener than George.” She tilted her chin over at the bartender. “He fakes it more than I do orgasms.”
Shock sent a wave of heat over Castiel’s face. “You have a pure soul.”
She laughed hard enough for one of the barrettes in her hair to fall free. “Oh sweetie, I’m not pure of anything. I’m a whore. Ain’t nothing pure about me.”
“Your honesty is refreshing.” Castiel cautiously went to take a sip from his glass but stopped when the smell of the beer hit his nose. “It takes a pure soul to see the world as it really is without platitudes and fakery.”
The woman cupped her hands beneath her breasts and gave them a quick boost. “Sweetie, I’m all about the fakery, and I have been for a long time.”
“That’s just on the outside,” Castiel went on. “But beneath the paint and trimmings you are a good soul, Brenda. You’ve done what you needed to survive. You haven’t harmed anyone along the way out of malice or with forethought.”
“Did George tell you my name?” She asked her gaze locked with the angel’s blue eyes. “Because I know I didn’t.”
“I have a friend like you.” He pushed the beer away, and held up his finger to order Brenda another drink before sliding some money towards the bartender. “He’s been teaching me that you don’t have to be pure of body to be pure of soul. You’d like Dean.”
Brenda took her refreshed drink and took a long sip of it before gasping with a coughing fit. “Is Dean as pretty as you?”
“His soul is beautiful, just like yours is.” Reaching over, he placed his hand on Brenda’s shoulder and sent some of his power into her to touch the blackness in her lungs. “Take care, sister. The Lord is with you.”
Castiel slid off the barstool and straightened his rumpled coat. His hair was tousled, and the thin blue tie was loose as always. He was an angel and had no need of the vanity the demons held. Once through the door he let the whim of God take him to his next appointment.