Chapter Text
“So, go on then: share. Is life in the Bible Club all it’s cracked up to be?"
Dean leans against the bar, turned towards Castiel with a slightly wicked smile on his handsome face. He's sipping his drink and watching the priest through narrowed, calculating eyes. Castiel suspects he's deflecting; wanting to dig into Castiel's life rather than linger on the fact that he had spilled his soul in the confessional just a few days previous. His smirk makes Castiel squirm a little under the intensity of it.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
Castiel is filled with a sudden, fast-flowing dread as soon as the words leave his mouth. He very badly doesn’t want to tug at this thread; his own thoughts of doubt, inadequacy and confusion are overwhelming enough without sharing them with this handsome stranger. Although, are they really strangers if he knows things about Dean that likely nobody else on earth knows?
“Well, being so close to God and all, I assume you all spend your time congratulating each other on how much good you do and how happy you all are. How you help the poor and needy who are unable to help themselves, and how pure and humble it makes you all feel. Or am I way off the mark?”
"I...yes, yes you are." It comes out as a snap, and Dean raises a sardonic, disbelieving eyebrow in response. He's has hit the nail on the head so accurately that for a second, Castiel is thrown. Did Dean somehow know that those were Castiel's exact feelings? That he and the fellow members of his clergy seemed to spend more time talking about doing good than actually doing it, and the self-satisfied, congratulatory tones to their voices made Castiel's stomach clench unpleasantly with something akin to guilt?
"Am I? Really? You sure about that, Father?"
Dean lounges - there is no other word for it - against the bar, looking Castiel up and down with penetrating eyes. It's as though he's circling prey, and Castiel swallows to relieve his dry mouth. What is this man doing to him? Surely Castiel should have the upper hand, if there was one, since he knew intimate things of the other man's life and Dean knew absolutely nothing about his. How is it that he's the one feeling so off-balance? And the way he said 'Father' - drawled out and sarcastic, as though he knows it's a word ill-fitting on Castiel these days...how did he manage to make it sound so enthralling?
"I..." Castiel tries again, but nothing comes out. Dean's very presence is unnerving him, sending his thoughts spiralling, and he tries to refocus the conversation in the first way that comes to mind. "I help people, Dean, people who are lost and struggling and just need someone to talk to. People who are stuck in a rut not of their own making, or people who are just passing through. People with nowhere else to turn for help, Dean. People like you."
And, as he predicted even as the words left his mouth, Dean's expression darkens. He takes a deep swallow from his drink and slams it onto the bar with more ire than necessary. "People like me, huh? Poor hopeless cases who you feel you can generously help with your noble words? Is that it?"
"No! Dean, no. That's not what I meant at all." Castiel runs his hand through his hair, hassled. Dean's looking at him with narrowed, gleaming eyes, spoiling for a challenge, and Castiel may inadvertently give it to him if he doesn't tread very carefully with his next words. "I don't sit back at the end of the day and congratulate myself for all the differences I've made in the world, Dean. Heck, I don't congratulate myself ever, because it's what any normal person would do: help those in need. It doesn't make me special or noble or anything even close to it." Dean is watching him talk, his eyes focused on Castiel's lips, and the priest's tongue darts out to moisten them unconsciously - a motion not lost on the other man. "I get nothing back from what I give, Dean. Reward of any type isn't why I do it."
"So why do you do it?"
"I..." Castiel falters and stops. The simple answer is that he doesn't know. He doesn't know why he's still clinging on to the church when, as he just admitted to Dean, he gets nothing at all out of it any more.
"Tell me, Castiel. What does your life look like right now?" Dean has another drink in his hand, and is it Castiel's imagination or has he inched closer on his bar stool? "When you finish for the day, when you've said your prayers and your thanks or whatever it is you do, when you go home at night: what does your life look like then?"
Castiel starts to speak, but to his horror the word sticks in his throat and his eyes cloud with tears which he hastily blinks back. The word he was about to say was 'empty' - it was reactive and without thought, and it shocks him to his core. He has known for a while he has very little in his life, but to admit it in such a conversation as this? In a bar with a stranger who he knows the very heart and soul of? Castiel is jarred, emotional, and struggles for words. When he doesn't find an answer, Dean gives him a deep, intimate, appraising look and this time he definitely moves close.
“I thought as much. You spend your days saving other people, and your nights alone with your thoughts, your fears, and your own doubts about the meaning of it all. Am I close?" Dean's voice is melted caramel, his eyes drawing Castiel in so he can flounder and drown in their depth, and all he can do is nod helplessly. "And at the end of it all? When you've spent your whole life saving other people and finally take a step back to let your own life begin? Who will be there for you then, Castiel? Who will be there to save you?”
Castiel can't answer. He should answer ‘God, my faith is all I need’, but the words won't come. His throat is constricted, and he feels like if he tries to talk he might start to cry. The way this man, Dean, is looking at him…it's as if he can see into Castiel’s soul.
They're face-to-face now, and Dean's abandoned his drink in favour of running his hands up Castiel's arms until they rest gently on his bicep. Castiel swears he can hear his own heart beating in time with the other man's. The music in the bar has faded away, the other patrons have sunk into the distance: all that exists now is Dean and Castiel and the slowly-closing gap between them.
"If you could, would you save me too, Castiel?" Dean whispers it in a sultry voice, and Castiel unconsciously leans in and nods slowly. He's transfixed by the look in Dean's glittering eyes.
“It's a wonderful thing to have faith, Castiel. I admire you, I really do; I wish I had faith. But don't let it define you. Don't let it stop you from being who you really are.” Dean is leaning in close now; Castiel can smell the liquor on his breath, the leather of his jacket, and the innate scent of him: gun oil and spiced vanilla. They are so close that it would only take a gentle movement from each of them to press their lips together. Castiel, afraid of what he could be about to do, let's his eyes fall closed as Dean’s voice washes over him. “Don't let it stop you from being who you could be.”
And then it's happening. Dean’s hands ghost up to cup his jaw, feather light against his day-old stubble, and angle his head up just right. Then their lips meet, and it's the sweetest, softest, most intimate kiss Castiel can ever remember experiencing. Dean pours every inch of himself into the kiss, keeping his lips closed against Castiel’s but pressing just a little deeper and the priest swears he lets out a timid, breathy moan. Dean pulls back for just a second, just far enough to whisper ‘goodbye, Cas,’ against Castiel’s mouth then, after another chaste press of lips so fleeting that it could have been imaginary, Dean pulls away fully. Castiel keeps his eyes closed, chases Dean’s kiss for just a second, and feels the loss as the other man backs away. He doesn't dare open his eyes. His lips are tingling and warm and his whole body feels alive with something unrecognisable. If he opens his eyes, he will either beg Dean to stay - which he cannot do - or beg Dean to take him with him: which Castiel should not do.
...should he?
Dean’s words have hit every raw nerve ending, reinforced every worry and doubt Castiel has been harbouring in recent months; that his faith is suffocating him, beginning to feel hollow and forced, and that he could put his time and efforts to better use out on the street, actually helping people and seeing results. Because, let’s be frank, God hasn’t provided very many reliable results. If he went with Dean, perhaps he could be of some use. Perhaps he could help heal the young man who was in such obvious pain, and somehow be of use to his ailing brother at the same time. Would Dean welcome his company? Could he really abandon the church? His faith? Was it really abandoning his faith if he did what he so often told others to do and follow his heart? There was only one way to know.
Castiel’s eyes snap open, and he’s up and off his barstool and out of the door before he really releases he’s moving. The cold sweeps around him, a flurry of snowflakes momentarily blinding as he casts around in the dark, crowded street for Dean. People push past him, laughing and merry, ready for an evening out, and every face he sees is unfamiliar. He calls Dean’s name, casting left and right for the young man in the leather jacket with devastatingly beautiful eyes and an aching soul. And it takes a moment before realisation, followed by a deep drag of resignation, settles upon him as he admits the reality to himself.
Dean is gone.
Dejected and, for some reason, on the verge of tears, Castiel pushes the door to the bar open and walks morosely back to his seat. His skin is chilled from the cold and he rubs his palms together vigorously to generate some heat, fighting back the burning behind his eyes and pretending to himself that it was just down to the bitterness outside. He reaches for his drink and, as he lifts it to his lips, notices a piece of white paper stuck to the bottom of the perspiring glass. He peels it away, hands shaking with anticipation, and reads the hastily scribbled words that preface a stream of digits, with his heart in his throat. When he finishes, his cheeks are damp with tears, and his lips curved with the ghost of a smile.
'Cas - profound bonds like this only come along once in a millennium. When that dog collar of yours becomes too tight, give me a call. Maybe together, we can save us both. - Yours already, Dean'