"Our Father, who… ain't in Heaven…"
Dean barely stifled a snicker. It wasn't his fault. Hell, anyone would find the classic prayers a bit pointless had they known what he knew. But it was a terrible time to reflect on irony, and with a sigh, he allowed his gaze to travel upwards to the enormous gilded crucifix hanging on the wall in front of him.
"Um, hi," he began again, and cleared his throat softly before continuing. "I don't know if you're hearing this. Uh, not sure if you tune in to the whole 'angel radio' thingamajig… I mean, I'd get why you wouldn't." He glanced over his shoulder, and lowered his voice. "Some of those brat kids of yours need their feathery asses beat, I'm not gonna lie."
He dropped his forehead to bang against the edge of the pew in front of him. If meeting Jenny Moore's parents when he was 13 had been uncomfortable, this was downright agonizing, even without his unfortunate habit of getting his foot stuck deeper in his mouth every time he opened it.
"So, uh, you're probably wondering what I'm doing… here…" Dean glanced around the deserted sanctuary. "Or maybe not. I mean, with you being God and all…" He cleared his throat again, mouth suddenly a bit too dry for comfort. "I…"
A few deep, steadying breaths, and he could say it. How hard could it be, after all? He doubted the Big Guy was even listening in the first place. And even if He was, something this insignificant (compared to the Apocalypse, at least) wasn't likely to pique His interest. Another deep breath, and he felt the word levee burst.
"Don't know why I'm even bothering to tell you this, 'cause I'm sure you already know, but Cas and I… we… well, we're close. Like, close-close. And I…" His head collided with the pew again, and he shoved his hand into his left pocket "See this?" he said, maybe a bit louder than necessary, hand outstretched towards the giant crucifix. The light from the candles—the only light in the room, save the faintest glow of moonlight through the stained glass—reflected delicately along the elaborate grooves and engravings on the otherwise simple gold ring resting in the center of his palm. "Nice, ain't it? And I didn't even steal it! Honest to G… to you."
With considerable effort, Dean suppressed the urge to laugh. "So, I guess what I'm trying to say," he continued once he'd regained his composure. "I know we don't see eye-to-eye. And after all the shit with the demons and Hell and however many of your kids I've iced… well, I can see why. But Cas... He loves you, and he's always called you his father, and if you mean anywhere near as much to him as… as my dad did, I…" He trailed off, voice catching in his throat for a moment before he continued. "I thought I should have the common courtesy to ask your permission to marry one of your kids."
The silence was deafening. In all honesty, Dean had no idea what he was expecting, but anything that took that much effort to say deserved at least an acknowledgement, didn't it? Nothing big. Maybe some candle-flickering, or a dove smacking into the window. Anything was better than nothing.
"You know what? Fine." Dean got unsteadily to his feet, knees long past aching and edging more into the territory of 'dull throbbing'. "Don't know what I'm even doing here. And hey!" His voice echoed slightly in the empty room. "Next time you come down from your damn mountaintop, tell the masses to put some freaking cushions on these things! No wonder people hate going to church." He kicked the edge of the pew for emphasis, and immediately regretted it as the pain shot through his toe. "Shit!"
For a moment, all he wanted to do was storm out of the church and put the whole pointless experience behind him, but no sooner had he taken a step into the aisle, his mouth was moving—seemingly of its own accord.
"What's it take to get through to you, huh?!" he shouted at the ceiling, heedless of the loud echo it produced. "There's gotta be something you care about! Clearly not the Apocalypse, or your kids having a civil war while you're out! What about Cas? You think just putting him back together after he's been torn to bits puts you in the running for Dad of the Year? Far as I know, you just like watching him suffer!"
The candles flickered in a sudden draft, and Dean's verbal onslaught ended as quickly as it had begun. A feeling of hope (and maybe a bit of dread) had sprung in his chest, and he glanced around nervously until a tiny cough sounded from the door behind him.
"I'm sorry, son, but we're locking up for the night," the small man said. Dean felt his heart sink.
"I'm not done with this douchebag yet," he protested, pointing at the crucifix adorning the far wall. "He needs to give me some sort of sign. After all the bullshit he's got me putting up with, it's the least he can freaking do!"
The man gave a quizzical look, but held the door open and gestured for Dean to follow. "God will still be here tomorrow," he said, easing the doors shut behind them.
"The hell he will," Dean grumbled. He stood rooted to the same spot for a good ten minutes before giving up, feet dragging somewhat as he walked back towards the Impala.