Take Me To Church

A/N: DISCLAIMER:This piece is a work of fiction and is not designed to discriminate anyone. I have nothing against religion and I do not disapprove of those who do not have devout affiliations—the comments made throughout the story are strictly the opinions of the characters. I do not own the passages I reference to and do not claim to have any more knowledge of Christianity than anyone else. Please feel free to correct me on anything in the comments box below.

Dedications: to the baes

February 22, 2015

"Dean, you're going."

"Says who, God?" Dean quipped.

"I wouldn't joke about that. I'm pretty sure the guy's smited, like, a thousand disciples."

The first-born carded his hand through his hair and sighed through his nose. "Bobby, help me out here," he pleaded, shifting to his adoptive father only to find him screwing with a tie, decked in the same formal attire as the youngest. Hell, he'd even combed his hair. Bobby Singer, whose idea of religion was an uncapped bottle of Gin. "Bobby?"

"Don't you 'Bobby' me, boy," he warned, shrugging on his jacket. "Jody Mills ain't gonna find her way 'round a scrapyard anytime soon."

"Well, I'm glad ya'll found your respective ladyloves, but if you don't mind I'm gonna lay low and preach Zeppelin into my headphones, so—"

"Dean." Sam kept his eyes steadfast on his brother. "I know you're not a believer, but it wouldn't kill you if you came along. You owe me that much."

"What about your boyfriend? I thought you were going with him. He's the one who invited you."

"Cas isn't my boyfriend," Sam groaned. "We met in Book Club. We bonded over Maze Runner."

"You gotta start making friends in your own grade… and stop using words like 'bonded'. I'm not going."

Dean was an atheist—a full-blown 'Baby, I'm An Anarchist' atheist. Needless to say, he was less than thrilled by the idea of sitting in a House of the Unforeseen Holy, listening to a guy read from a fancy book for three years. He'd rather spend his Sunday doing Algebra homework—and that said a lot because Dean was in his second semester of senior year and hadn't turned in a take-home assignment since Pantera called it quits.

"Oh well," the youngest sighed, "I guess that means you'll have to skip out on the pie…"

Hello, now. "What about pie?"

Castiel Novak took his seat in the pew nearest the altar. It wasn't like he was more pious than those who sat in the back of the nave—in fact, on various occasions, those occupying the back benches were nomads that literally descended from the streets until the church gave them the shirt off their backs—but it did enable him to feel closer to God. Sixteen going on seventeen, Castiel didn't have many friends outside of evening mass and his three siblings (which didn't count when Balthazar was at Yale, Anna was barely old enough to twiddle her thumbs and Gabriel was… well, he was closer to Cas's age, but Cas still had no validation that they were brothers).

"Your boyfriend's here," Gabe said in an undertone, nudging him in the rib. They had to be extra careful what they said around their parents, Naomi and Zachariah, so they wouldn't wake up castrated and strapped to a clinic bed.

Cas tried not to look too flushed as Sam Winchester neared their section—only that's not who Gabe was referring to. There was another boy trailing a ways behind him. He was older than Sam, no doubt, and wore a definitive smolder that reminded Cas of a scalded hound.

"Hey, Sam, glad you could make it," he said when the freshman took the seat next to him.

Sam regarded him with a curt but kind "Of course" and motioned to the downcast stranger to his right, respectively. "This is my brother, Dean. Dean, Cas."

Immediately Cas was hit with a sense of transparency and something else he couldn't quite identify. Dean was beautiful—for lack of a more suitable word. He had short mocha-brown hair that in no way hindered his eyes, a brilliant shade of green infused with golden iotas dancing around his irises. He had freckles of the same shade that cluttered around an evenly tanned, peninsular nose and expanded outward to delimit his square jaw. His smile, though brief in nature, was cunning and magnetic, like a gravitational pull that sucked the words right out of his mouth.

He was comparatively larger than Cas. When Cas lent out his hand, albeit the other man displayed hesitance at first, he was pleasantly surprised with a sensible and agile clasp.

The service went on as it always had—a passage evaluation, a few singings from the choir, a silent pray, and lastly, the offering. The only things different this time around was an elder Winchester gaping at him like Pepé Le Pew, wagging his eyebrows provocatively. Cas did everything in his power to divert Dean's attention but the guy was relentless. It was like he was deliberately messing with him.

Then the basket came to them. Cas dropped in a liberal amount from what little he made at the Gas n' Sip the week previous and passed it to Sam. Sam did the same and passed it to his brother. Dean stared at the basket stilled in Sam's hand, smiled, and reached inside.

"That's really generous of you guys," he said, sliding a ten dollar bill into his back pocket. It was everyone else's turn to gape in complete horror. Sam buried his hands in his face while Cas just sat back, piqued by the not-so diplomatic exploit.

On the left of him, Gabe chuckled under his breath, "I like him."

"Oh my—God, you have truly outdone yourself," Dean lamented through a mouth of flaky, saccharine-coated crust. He piled on a second serving before his stomach could protest, pricking and bleeding the tomato-red cherries embedded beneath the bed with his plastic fork. He saw his brother coming toward him, seething at the lid. He got another bite in before he was being bombarded with another one of his daily squabbles. The kid always met his quota.

"What the hell, Dean?"

Dean smiled at him through teeth glazed in red extract. "Well, this one is cherry. I tried the cobbler, but it didn't give me the satisfaction I was hoping for—"

"Not that, the money. What were you thinking, stealing from the church?" he fumed in a whisper.

The first-born threw his head back incredulously. "The church was stealing from everyone else. As far as I can see, I was doing them a favor. I'm like Robin Hood; I steal from the rich and give to me."

"You're unbelievable," Sam scoffed, crossing his arms. "Are you sure we swam in the same gene pool?"

Dean snickered, tossing him a crafty wink. "Oh c'mon, you make it sound like it's a bad thing."

Fleetingly, he looked over his brother's head to find his friend Cas talking to a girl in the furthest row back. He remembered her from the "Witnessing Ceremony"—Tessa, povertized from Rapid City. She was pretty, but she wasn't Cas. He didn't know how to describe it (because Dean Winchester definitely didn't use words like "cute" or "beautiful"), but Cas was… different. His unruly dark tresses and full-blown sapphire eyes told a story and he was determined to find out how to purchase it in hardback.

He fisted Sam's shoulder and made his way through a handful of yokels. Cas saw him and gave the impression that he was torn between being more surprised or disgusted.

"Great service," he said, "really felt the voice of God resonating through those rather…enticing choir boys, don't you think?"

He was so close to Cas he could see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he struggled for a proper response, blue eyes trained on his own wayward ones. "I wouldn't exactly use 'enticing', b-but—"

"What would you use then?" he asked, flicking his eyes to his lips that practically screamed to be kissed.

Cas shifted cumbersomely on the balls of his feet. "I, uh—I should be going."

Dean glanced over his shoulder to find two authoritative figures standing next to one of the many concession stands, talking in idle chit-chat to other adults. One was a balding man in his late fifties, the other a slightly younger woman with pinned-up brunette hair—both had faces that suggested radical Bible-thumpers. They were definitely parents—not like Dean would really know other than by every other guy or girl he's ever gone out with, and that's usually when he fled. Dean turned back to the gorgeous boy practically writhing below him.

"I don't want to hold you up," he said in the best prude-like voice he could muster, taking a significant step back. He grinned. "We'll continue this conversation later. See you next Sunday, Cas."

March 29, 2015

Sundays could not be a more excruciating day for Castiel. Church was supposed to be his haven away from home, from school—hell, from just about every place that had pressure weighing him down like a glass paperweight. Now the House of God was the one place he felt like he was on the brink of an aneurysm. One more wisecrack or personal space harassment from Dean Winchester and he was he would be in a rehabilitation center and taking prescription capsules for the dull throbbing in the back of his head.

Surely this had to be a test of willpower and endurance. What was that quote? "God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear."1 Cas kept that thought with him all the way out to the piazza, wrapping his wonted trenchcoat around his chest. It wasn't an increment over forty (which was relatively warm considering that precipitation in Sioux Falls was always fixed in the high seventies all year round), but the comfort of holding onto something gave him extra reassurance.

He half-expected a few bodies to be outside, bumming for a cigarette by the statue of Jesus, but much to his surprise the section was cleared. He almost laughed aloud for the salvaged, unrequited silence had he not noticed a figure lurking in the shadows of the passageway, staring at him through curious eyes.

"Quit following me."

Dean took a step forward from out of the darkness, muttering, "Jesus Christ, Cas…"

"'Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain'—you just broke a commandment."

"It wouldn't be the first time," the other man gibed playfully, "and it definitely won't be the last."

Cas rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable."

"I get that a lot," Dean replied, kicking a loose pebble from underneath his boot. "C'mon, tell me."

"Tell you what? That you're an unhinged stalker pining over younger guys?"

"That you pine over me, too," he said, curtailing the distance between them. Sandwiched between one of the concrete mainstays and the eldest Winchester's sturdy build, Cas made a pathetic attempt to breathe. Dean gestured with his head to the statue on the other side. "Don't worry; it'll be between us and the Big Man."

Temptation was a sin, just as much as indulging in the impulse was. He liked girls. He liked their generosity and forbearance—two things Dean seriously lacked…and yet made up for with those bright, delirious green eyes and plum, ruddy lips that were inches away from… no—nope, it was merely a neighborly observation. And he certainly didn't covet thy neighbor's goods… that would be ridiculous…

"I'll call the cops," he threatened.

The senior shook his head. "No, you won't."

Then he hoisted himself from the pillar, looking slightly deflated. Cas recognized why when Sam came sauntering up around the bend, bright-faced with armfuls of foodstuffs.

"Church is awesome," he said, offering him a super-sized turkey leg. Cas politely declined. Dean snatched the poultry out of the youngest's hands as he passed by. Sam scoffed, bringing a thick, koshered pickle to his mouth, "What's his problem?"

Cas budged uncomfortably. "Beats me."

April 5, 2015

"Before we proceed with the service, is there anyone among us that has yet to open their soul to God?"

Everyone had their eyes taped shut, all but a one Dean Winchester.

"Don't worry," the church leader, Bartholomew, said. "'Do not judge so that you will not be judged.'"2 They were all lying to themselves. They were not contempt. They were not virtuous. They wanted to be judged. They wanted it as much as Dean wanted the dark-haired, blue-eyed Christian boy two seats away so bad it physically pained him. He wanted him for everything that he was, because he knew that he wasn't like the rest of them—lied to, perhaps, but not contempt, and certainly not all virtuous.

Dean closed his eyes and raised his hand.

"Ah, yes, you in the first row. Yes, come up and witness the voice of God as He resonates through your virgin soul." Dean stifled a laugh just before the treads that led to the stage. Virgin, ha, in his— "What's your name, son?"

Everyone opened their eyes, but the only set amongst them Dean gave a damn about was Cas's. He registered nothing. He stared ahead patiently as if the ritual was nothing more than a paper dream. Dean shifted his attention toward the expecting audience. "Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Dean, will you raise your right hand above your head and rest it on the Bible?" The senior glanced to his right and saw said book in the pastor's thin hands. He did as he was told. "Good, now close your eyes and repeat after me: I do solemnly swear."

Dean licked his lips in anticipation. "I do solemnly swear."

"To abridge the beaten path that led me to my sins…"

"To abridge the beaten path that led me to my sins…"

Bartholomew roared the next sentence, "And to espouse a life led by God and by Him alone."

"And to espouse a life led by God and by Him alone." Dean swayed his head side to side.

The priest was as unrelenting as he was passionate. He had to give him credit, the guy could preach. "Lord, lead me not into the mouth of damnation, but guide me toward a brighter tomorrow." Bartholomew paused after Dean had repeated that last part, smiling broadly. "Well, what are you waiting for, son? Ask for forgiveness."

"O-oh," Dean sputtered dumbly, "okay, erm—" He almost looked straight at Bartholomew had he not seen a few of the anxious audience members turn their heads to the gilded ceiling above him. Dean glanced up, too, like he was looking for a lost contact. "Hey Big Man… look, I know I haven't always been a role model like Gandhi or Bruce Lee. I'll be honest; I've lied, cheated, stolen, bribed, kicked, beaten and, well, hurt a lot of people." Dean sighed, and suddenly he felt like he was punched in the gut. "All I ask is one chance to prove myself worthy." He paused, laughing. "I guess this is the part I ask for his hand or something. Lord, forgive me for being stupidly smitten with the church boy next door."

Dean opened his eyes only to witness a hundred strangers' irked intensity.

Bartholomew was furious. He raised his hand in protest, uttering, "You—you—"

"Spawn of Satan, I'll burn in Hell, yeah, I get it," Dean finished for him half-heartedly. He ran after Cas, who had bolted out the door and to the piazza, now completely flooded with rain water. "Hey," he breathed out, hands on his knees. "You know, you could make it easier on us fat guys and slow the pace, Lance Armstrong."

Cas slowed to a stop, arms folded tight against his chest. "Make it easy? Let's talk about making things easy, Mr. Self-Proclaimed Agnostic."

"It was the only way I could get your attention," Dean said over the roar of the torrent, shoving his hands tight into his pockets. He was pretty sure the rain soaked through his three-piece.

"Oh yeah, how completely stupid of me," Cas bawled, palming his hand to his damp forehead. "I almost forgot that having a conversation with someone was far too archaic for the twenty-first century."

"Would you have listened?" Cas said nothing, only pursed his lips. Dean scoffed. "That's what I thought."

Cas shook his head, voice suddenly cracking, "Dean—"

Dean turned his back and raised his hand. "No, I get it. You know, I thought you were different. I thought maybe, just maybe, somewhere underneath all of that stupid horse shit hypocrisy that you would actually give a damn about someone as ordinary as me. But now I get it. You made yourself loud and clear. Go back inside before you catch a cold. Don't want you missing church next week."

"Dean, wait—" Footsteps wallowed on the ground behind him before he was face-to-face with the blue-eyed boy. And then he didn't know how but Cas's lips were mingling with his and Dean was returning the beautifully slovenly kiss, feeling out blindly for his waist.

He tasted like church and Dean understood. It was salvation and baptism in one embrace and he never felt more christened in his life.

They stayed that way for a while like the walking-talking clichés they were until he felt the weight of Cas's tongue lift from his own. He pulled back to rest his head on Dean's, arms still coiled tightly into his sopped-through tuxedo, smiling against his twice-wet lips.

"You know, I have to say," he said, twisting his head to the corroded statue looming over them, "the bastard really took a leap of faith on me this time."

Cas grinned. "The Lord works—"

"If you say 'mysterious ways', so help me, I will kick your ass." He broke into a meek smile, shrugging out of his coat to wrap around the trembling teen. He drew him closer to his chest and lingered his lips on his temple as he whispered, "C'mon, angel boy, let's get out of here."

-END-

Key:

1(1 Corinthians 10:13)

2(Matthew 7:1)