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of castiel ♃ (castieli) wrote in silverage,

The interjection caused the muscular girth to turn with the tapered movement of a Godzilla tickled by a pebble. The drunkard was clearly immune to the dark suit's urbane charm. "Might be you shouldn't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, if you want to keep it. Or might be it'll be you and me taking this outside."

Castiel examined the interaction with a distinctly third-party curiosity, but reached out for the thickset wrist when the man took a threatening stride towards the mediator. "Winebibbers shall come to ruin. It is written." Whereas a Saint would have delivered much the same message in a more tactful way, the angel's purpose had never been to perch on individual shoulders for comfort, and it had left him utterly unpractised in rhetoric. "You should not seek solace in the cause of your wife's infidelity."

The man blinked slowly, his alcohol addled brain still processing the words and linking them together. Then his eyes widened in sudden erroneous understanding. "You," he spat. "You're the other man!" How else could he know about his marital troubles?

Without wasting another breath, the heavy frame assailed, fist first, but Castiel side-stepped with ease and barred the weight with an arm, preventing its collision with the wall. Under the cover of their entangled limbs, his fingers touched between the man's wrathful brows, and the body went as slack as a potato sack. He released the bulk unceremoniously. The man would awake in due time without harm.

When he lifted his head back up at the room, several tables around them had gone silent, and a couple of patrons and the bartender were poised to break up the fight. "This man has had too much to drink," he announced. "Someone should see to him."