Pastor Novak considers himself to be an open-minded sort of man, especially given the common misconceptions that people have about him and his fellow Christians — Castiel knows this because his father has, for as long as he can remember, spoken at length about how open-minded he is while organizing protests at mosques, gay youth centers, and Planned Parenthood clinics. He's even been known to fight against the "poisonous" notion that men and women who take vows not to let religious views impact their decision-making can help the mentally ill, though as he leaves Doctor Davidson's office, heading for his father's sedan, Castiel supposes it's to the pastor's credit that this extracurricular disapproval has for the most part stopped in recent years. For all Davidson attends his father's parish and proudly displays a silver cross on his office wall, he is still a mental health professional; it must count for something that Castiel's father pays for his session.
It's already getting dark as Castiel slips into the passenger seat to the sound of his father's questions — how did this session go, how is Doctor Davidson doing, how does he think Castiel is doing, how much longer will they need to keep up with this Zoloft business — and as they pull out onto the road, the course of the conversation changes to the one group of people his father is earnestly open-minded for: Catholics. Apparently, they can't just go home — despite having been out running errands and going to appointments since eight this morning. "We're just stopping by Saint Sebastian's for a few minutes, Castiel," Pastor Novak points out with a sigh, going through the green light toward home and toward the Catholic church. "Father Murphy and I need to talk about of business concerning our annual New Year's faith festival."
Castiel only barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes, both here and when they finally enter the church. It's nothing truly personal, but he hates the patronizing way that the priest asks him questions — the way he asks how are you doing, and how's school, and any girls managed to catch your eye — we can find you a nice, Catholic one here, you know with the lilt at the end and the carelessly extended vowels, with the tone that suggests he thinks of Castiel as something soft and breakable. When Father Murphy takes Dad into his office, Castiel allows himself a sigh of relief at finally having some time to himself. Finding the doors into the chapel unlocked, he lets himself in; it's cold in here, and the low light gives him a comfort, coming only from the lamps behind the altar, which illuminate the elaborate nativity scene, and the rack of candles that sits along the eastern wall.
For all he's been raised Methodist, Castiel has always seen an appeal in the dramatics and the symbolism of the Catholic Mass — not to mention the statue of Saint Sebastian's Heavenly patron, a long-legged youth with curls that reach just past his shoulders, both slender and muscular, dressed only in a cloth around his waist (for decency's sake, Castiel imagines), tied to a post and punctured by arrows all up and down his perfect body. The contorted expression on the saint's face, he supposes, is meant to be one of pain, but as Castiel examines it now, he sees an odd resemblance to the way Dean looked that night when they debauched the library floor, which makes his lungs writhe around most uncomfortable and his heart start beating like rain on a tin roof — biting his lip, Castiel turns his eyes away from the ceramic Sebastian and back to the candlelight. Fewer than half of them are lit, but the ones that are burn so persistently, shedding their little glimmers on the church like some pocket constellation — he takes a five-dollar bill our of his pocket and sticks it in the black donation box, and he lights a candle in the center of the rack.
Kneeling on the plush rest, Castiel inhales deeply, watching the flames flicker as he does so; closing his eyes and clenching his hands together, he hates the uncertain way that his exhale quivers on its way out. "Father," he whispers, "or God… whichever? …If You're listening, please… I need some guidance, if You will spare me some." As he opens his eyes, Castiel looks up to the burnished wood of the ceiling's rafters, and lets himself get lost in the way they criss-cross. "…Why do I keep feeling like this Father? And about Dean Winchester? This is going to be another mess… like Andy all over again, and I haven't forgotten how that went… I know it's wrong, Father, I know that; Dad's made that abundantly clear… but there are plenty of nice enough young ladies at Harvelle, and none of them are bad people in the slightest, and none of them have spent the weeks Dean has getting under my skin… But when I look at him, I just… I can't help it. I feel like he knows me better than I know myself, and his eyes smolder, and… I didn't mean for this to happen, You know that I didn't, so please, please… just help me. Tell me what to do."
Castiel shudders as he finishes his prayer, feeling the uplifting in his chest as he tries to reach out and spiritually find the guidance that he asked for; when there's no tingle of inspiration in his chest, he looks around for any sign that might be coming. For a long moment, nothing happens: Saint Sebastian keeps his silent vigil, melted wax drips from a candle that's been burning for Castiel doesn't even know how long, and the nativity's infant Jesus smiles his placid, plastic smile, entirely unaffected by the world outside this church. Sighing, Castiel lights another candle and prepares to pray again — for it must be that he hasn't prayed well enough, or believed enough to have his request be heard — but a gentle, lilting voice interrupts before he can start:
"Castiel, my son," Father Murphy tells him, "come along now. Your father's ready to head home."
The Crowley house and its adjacent kennel — occupied by Mr Alexander Crowley III (previously of Great Britain), his wife Elaine, their son, Alexander James IV, who prefers to be known by his initials or his surname, and the pureblooded bulldogs that they breed — sits atop a hill on the outskirts of a scenic town a few miles north of where Castiel lives with his father; as he pulls the car into the long driveway, he only sees two others — and neither of them belong to Crowley's parents. On the left sits the black Bentley that somehow — Castiel has never figured this mystery out — never gets broken into when Crowley leaves it parked on campus; on the right is Gabriel Lyesmith's neon purple eyesore of a Chrysler. Castiel looks down at Chuck once he's parked behind the Bentley; his friend's brow is furrowed and, behind the thick, black frames of his glasses, his eyes are wide.
"His… AJ's parents know… they know that he's having us over, right?" Chuck stammers. His glasses slip down his nose and, fumbling, he pushes them back up. "…Are they even in town?"
"It would appear not," Castiel supposes, turning off the engine. As it quiets, he thinks of what might wait for him when he gets back home; Dad knows that he's come here for New Year's Eve instead of tagging along to Saint Sebastian's for the faith festival — but returning home in the morning will probably bring a lecture and a half. "Then again, when has that ever stopped him?"
They tread up to the door and their bell-ringing is met with the sound of Crowley shouting: "Oh, bloody Hell! …Gabriel!"
The sideways glances Chuck and Castiel trade have equal concern beneath them, and for a moment, Castiel worries that his unkempt little friend might give himself an anxiety-induced heart attack. Chuck forces a smile and pushes his glasses up again, arching an eyebrow at the door and probably trying to think of something witty to say. For saying that writing is so hard, he certainly tries to speak "like a novelist" as often as he possibly can, to the point that he even has that ridiculous phrase, which apparently means that he feels some compulsive call to say intelligent things that don't always suit him. He opens his mouth and then closes it again; then he repeats this action — and right as he starts to speak, the door flies open. Taller than Chuck but shorter than Castiel, brunette with hazel eyes that have a permanently mischievous glint, Gabriel Lyesmith leans against the doorframe with a yawn and a towel draped around his waist.
"Hey-lo, Tiny," he tells Chuck, a smirk springing up on his face; glancing up to Castiel, he adds on, "Baby Blues."
"You're wearing pajama pants," Castiel points out. Considering the weather, he thinks Gabriel ought to be more interested in covering up his bare torso, on which Castiel can see more than Gabriel's fair share of hickeys.
"Aren't you the observant one," Gabriel quips. "Come on in, boys. Crowley's just handling a little accident we had inside."
Following at Gabriel's back, Chuck and Castiel enter the house. Around them sit all the artifacts of Crowley's parents' wealth — the vases, the paintings, the statuettes… and the antique rug in the living room, where they find Crowley crouching over a suspicious smelling stain with a rag and a bottle of carpet cleaner, beside a puppy that looks all too pleased with itself. At the advent of new people, it yaps and comes sniffing around Chuck's legs — but his attentions are otherwise diverted to the deep kiss that Gabriel and Crowley share.
"Uh, not to be blunt or anything," Chuck interjects, "but since when are you two sleeping together?"
Gabriel shrugs. "Since we had some margaritas and some whiskey and wondered why we hadn't started — what's it to you?"
"We might not be sleeping together tonight," Crowley snaps playfully, "if I can't get this goddamn puppy stain out of my parents' goddamn RUG—"
"Baaabe, come on! What was I going to do — make the little guy go piss outside?"
"That is generally where our puppies call the bathroom, yes."
"But, baby! …It's cold outside!"
For this atrocious jest, Crowley takes a fist and thumps Gabriel on the thigh. The air between them seems to, for a moment, snap — and then they kiss again, at which Chuck loudly clears his throat. As his three friends devolve into a bickering match about the history of Gabriel and Crowley's decision to sleep together, Castiel feels light-headed and as though his stomach might fall out of him. Before he can think to stop himself, he says, to no one in particular, "…I'm sleeping with somebody too."
The squabbling ceases, and he finds himself scrutinized in awkward silence by three sets of arched eyebrows. Finally, Gabriel breaks the ice all over again, patting Crowley on the shoulder: "Babe, get these two seated. I'm going to go get the booze and then, this? …I've got to hear."
Castiel sighs as Crowley leads him to the sofa. He inhales deeply, and steadies himself, even as Chuck's shocked expression, the one that's quietly wondering if he's the only virgin left, refuses to mollify. …These are, Castiel remembers, his friends. If he can tell anyone about Dean, then he can tell them.