Castiel's on his knees before the alter, hands cupped together in supplication. Words pour in a low whisper that could be mistaken for the wind in the rafters, or the gentle flutter of wings. Dean doesn't know what he prays for, Castiel's tongue is coated in old dialect that's as foreign to Dean as BMWs and day jobs.
Quietly he sits behind the angel on the dusty bench, swears he can feel the brush of feathers against his cheek and shudders.
"Hello Dean." That language isn't foreign, that's pure crisp english yet to Dean - it sounds like the word of God. Its sounds good, fucking good.
"What are you praying for?" Dean asks, and even though the church is abandoned, run down, the floorboards rotting and stained-glass shot through with broken vines, Dean can't help but mutter softly. He's never cared much for churches either way, the house of God brought no fear or salvation to him. But the picture Castiel presents is, in a word, holy.
The angel turns, casting a look of sadness with painfully blue eyes on Dean. He's still crouched there on his knees, long coat pooled awkwardly around him. "Hope Dean. I pray for hope. Do you ever cup your hands in supplication for hope Dean?" He asks, sadness puckering up to curiosity, head canted.
"The only hope I'll ever find cupped between my hands is in the barrel of a gun. Steel gets more action for me than praying to something that hasn't paid the time of day to me Cas." Dean replies, words bitter, elbows resting on his knees. Castiel seems angry by this, frowns deeply, which makes Dean shift uncomfortably.
When he speaks, it's firm as the faith he keeps. "You did pray Dean. You prayed for salvation...prayed for your brother...prayed for the pain to stop. It wasn't a gun that raised you from hell Dean. It was God's word. Perhaps praying," He says, getting up, shoes scuffing dust from the floor as he closes the distance with Dean and crouches before him, a hand raising to cup his cheek, smooth away at five o' clock shadow. "Can do more for you than you think. Hope Dean, is all we can have sometimes."
"Yeah? And you think you can give me something that offers a shred of hope other than the .45 tucked into my pants?" Dean quips, all snide and sarcastic - anything to keep him at least five yards away from the truth.
A long moment of silence stretches between them, Castiel running a near soul searching gaze on Dean, who stares back warily. Eventually, Castiel leans in, presses lips against Dean's, and kisses him.
The kiss tastes like warm honey and bitter spit, laced with dust from the church and makes Dean think that if alter incense had a taste, this would be it. Dean's lips are chapped, and Castiel's should be too, but the brush of warm moist flesh feels as soft as feathers, the tip of Castiel's tongue that traces Dean's tooth worn lower pout makes a grown bubble in Dean's chest. Finally, Castiel pulls away, Dean's eyes are still closed, dark lashes trembling on his cheeks.
"Yes. You can cup my affections to your palm and pray on them. If you can't pray for hope to the ears of our Lord, and a gun isn't getting you far enough, pray on this."
Hope, Dean's come to realize, is nothing different than wordless faith in love. Dean's also realized, the reason he has a hard time finding hope, is because hell's claws stripped him bare, and left him fearing love itself.
What Castiel has realized, is that he's determined to teach Dean how to love again, so that when the times comes, Dean can find hope. And Dean can have faith.