To say that Dean is trying his hardest would be to understate the sheer, teeth gritting effort that goes into his every waking moment.
He controls his thoughts at all times, is alert for problematic influences like pictures of men or naked men on the television in the den. Dean buys pyjamas to wear in bed, so that he is not tempted whilst sleeping naked. He throws out the lubricant he keeps in his bedside drawer and tells his rosary when he wakes up, half hard and with the afterimage of blue eyes seared into his brain.
He's trying so hard it hurts.
He's being so good and it's cruel that, just like drugs hit the system best when you're clean – Father Novak affects him now more than ever. It's like he's cut himself off from all other meaningless stimulation, taken away all his outlets, and then there's the priest, and Dean can't look at him without wanting. Wanting so badly it aches.
He's not an idiot, he's only almost seventeen and, ok, so he's hot, he gets noticed, but there's nothing there to interest someone like him, someone older and intelligent and so together he makes Dean's scattered thoughts and prayers look like a car turning frantic circles in the gravel.
And yet he still needs him, he needs Father Novak's help, even if the final stage of that help will be to cut himself off from Dean entirely. He knows it's coming and yet the threat of separation, that this time when he can at least look at the other man will come to an end, does nothing but make him want more.
Father Novak is too lithe, too pale and bright and impossibly unblemished to be anything less than perfect. Dean sees it in every sermon he delivers and in all their meetings. Blue eyes resting on his own, long pale fingers wound in rosary beads. Dean sits through hours of church just watching his soft mouth form the words of the teachings, of each ingrained ritual. The way his eyelashes lie flush against his skin when he closes his eyes to pray, his voice like rolling thunder and intimate murmur all at once.
It's because of this effect that he is back in confession.
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been four weeks since my last confession."
Castiel hear Dean's voice and wonders why it is that God is rubbing salt into this most painful of wounds.
"May God bless you and keep you." He reels off. "Tell me what you have done, child."
It doesn't help that he can imagine Dean, that stubborn set to his jaw and cheekbones, belied by the softness of his mouth, the smoothness of his face. Dean is young yet and is for all his mannerisms but a boy in a body that is slowly coming into manhood.
"I've failed myself Father...I..." Dean licks his lips and Castiel can hear the sound. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry and I've worked so hard Father."
For a second, no more than a second but God help him if that second isn't Hell itself, Castiel is sure Dean is going to confess to being with a man. The thought of Dean, carnally open with a stranger is perhaps the most horrific thing Castiel can conceive.
"What sin is it that you have committed?" He asks softly.
"I was..." Dean shifts restlessly, his voice harsh and low with shame and desperation. "I lost it Father...I couldn't...it's just your voice."
Castiel is growing to hate himself for the ways in which Dean's desire increases his own. He knew as soon as Dean confessed to him initially that he should not engage the boy and attempt to council him, he has only been proved right every time Dean confessed to further fantasies, further obsessions. It is his own desire that allowed Dean to convince him to return to this folly. Now he is here, in an enclosed space, listening to this perfect boy tell him that his voice is like a tool to break through his reserve.
"The sermon...?" A creeping combination of disgust and arousal coiling in him. "You mean to say...you ..." he flushes as he says it, even though no one is there to see. No one but God anyway. "You touched yourself?" he murmurs, brokenly.
"Father..." There is no denial there. Dean had sat in one of the pews and pleasured himself through the service. He knows he looked at Dean, more than once and thinks now that perhaps he had seen a kind of...restlessness to him, the furtive motion of one hand, out of sight. It is both appalling and appealing.
"This is a church Dean...this is..." Castiel feels the wrongness of it crawl over him, and it still isn't enough to curb the response of his body. "everyone is here, everyone, to worship – do you understand the...the implications of this act? It's a damnable offence."
"So give me, something, penance – tell me it's wrong." There's hopelessness in his voice. "Because right now I really need to believe in Hell, Father...I need to know what this'll cost me because I...I can't stop." He sounds both broken and aroused and Castiel cannot, will not, listen to this man, this boy fall apart for him so wantonly.
The lesser sin here is in saving himself. Dean must cease to be his concern, now that his own chastity, his own fealty to God, is in danger.
"Dean...I cannot absolve you of this, knowing that you are capable of it...you must find someone else to help you back to what is right...I fear I have failed you in that and all else."
"Father, please don't." Dean shifts and Castiel can hear his voice clearer, closer as his face comes near the grille, perfect features hazy behind the fine mesh.
"You must still attend on Sunday, your parents would think it remiss if you didn't...but as for our sessions, any contact with me would be inadvisable. I will recommend you to another priest...Father Milton perhaps."
"I won't go." Dean's strength returns with a sudden rush. "You can't just send me to someone else, some stranger, and expect me to go willingly."
"This is your soul, my son." Castiel stresses. "You must do what is best for yourself, and becoming closer to me is most definitely not in your best interests." He sighs. "We are both compromised, and you..." Castiel bites his lip. "You tempt me in ways I had not thought possible."
"Father..." and the sheer, unmasked desire in the boys voice is enough to make him shiver.
"No." He says, roughly, sharply. "It ends now, and for both our sakes keep both your thoughts and your hands to yourself."
Dean recoils at the harsh words and Castiel senses his upset, but he holds strong in the face of it.
Dean bolts from the confessional after a few fraught seconds, and Castiel hears his feet hammering the stone floor as he runs to the exit. Thankfully the church is entirely empty, Dean's is the last confession he will hear.
Castiel makes his way to the alter, gets down on his knees and begins his prayers, working his way around his rosary.
He stays on the floor for just under five hours, and when he is done, when he can pray no more, he feels there is little point in moving.