A.N.- I'm an atheist. My views are not expressed here. It's not about preaching one argument over the other, I just wanted it to be another factor in their relationship.

I didn't get any reviews at all for the first chapter, which made me feel a bit dejected. I assume it wasn't very good. I'm brand-new to this fandom so maybe I got too much wrong or maybe it was boring or too unhappy. I can try to improve if you tell me what I did wrong. If not, then in any case here is chapter two and hopefully you like it.

Castiel Novak rifled through the clothes rack in the little shop of odds and ends. It was a particularly dull day. The area was quite derelict so he received few customers, and young people -the ones most likely to spend their money- were put off going into his establishment because it was charity-based; everything Castiel sold was second-hand and the larger portion of the shop's funds went to helping the homeless. Usually he at least saw a few of the elderly folks as they weren't too proud to be seen in his shop, but today, like yesterday and the day before, no one had turned up.

"I wonder if I'll have to shut this place down," he wondered as he fussed unnecessarily with the merchandise for want of something to do, "what would I do all day then? Stay at home I suppose, Lilith would like that..." the thought of his wife suddenly made his stomach churn uncomfortably. "Stop it," he told himself, "stop being so pathetic!"

But before he could berate himself anymore a man suddenly ran into his shop and all but threw himself into the clothing racks. Castiel didn't even get a good look at the man because he'd moved so quickly.

"Um, excuse me sir, can I help you?" he asked tentatively as he stalked cautiously to the clothes racks. He could hear quiet sobs.

"Go away!" the man cried, he sounded intoxicated, "don't come near me!"

Castiel could hear the man crying again. They were harsh sobs, full of sniffing and chocking sounds. They were the unpleasant tears of someone trying not to cry and to not cry too loudly. Castiel knew what it was like, feeling humiliated because you just couldn't hold back the tears, knowing how ugly you sounded as you snorted and groaned. It was horrible.

So, Castiel got up and turned the shop sign to 'closed' before sitting outside the clothes rack and quietly asking, "would you like me to pray for you?"

Being a devout Christian, Castiel liked to pray for others, he felt more sure of himself when asking the Lord things for other people, however he wanted to ask the man because he knew that praying for someone could sometimes be seen as insulting or patronising; for all he knew the man did not share his beliefs, or felt that a stranger praying for him was crossing a line.

However, the man didn't respond so Castiel began in a calm and soothing voice, "Dear Lord, please watch over this man. He is great pain right now and needs your unconditional, eternal love and guidance..."

Inside the temple of second-hand clothing Dean cried bitterly. God, he was so pathetic! He couldn't believe he was crying, but as much as he willed himself to stop he couldn't. It was the reason he ran into the shop, the tears had begun to fall shortly after he ran out of the pub and he was damned if anyone was going to see Dean Winchester running down the street and weeping like some silly bitch out of a costume drama romance.

He listened to the man's prayer. Of course he ended up with a religious nut, just his luck. But the man's voice, low and gravelly, like a whisper, droned on in a quiet litany and Dean found himself calming down. The tears soon cried themselves out and he was left breathing deeply and feeling the on-coming post-cry headache.

"So thank you Lord," Castiel continued, "for everything you've done for us and please help me help this man. Amen." Castiel opened his eyes and coughed politely, "um, there's a kitchen out back. I'll go make us something hot. The shop is closed so no-one will come in."

Dean was silent for a moment before rallying his broken bits of pride and calling out from between the cardigans and ankle-length skirts, "you got anything stronger than a hot drink?"

A low chuckle, "no sorry."

Dean heard the man leaving and so decided to stop being a big baby and to step out of the clothing racks. The man was nowhere to be seen but Dean could hear a kettle being turned on and the rattle of crockery in a room connected to the back wall.

He looked around the shop. He could immediately tell by the eclectic and worn-out merchandise that it was a charity shop. A picture of Jesus (the really European version where he had blue eyes and long, light brown hair and fair skin) hung on the wall next to the counter. A small red Gideon's Bible sat by the till.

"Here you are."

Dean turned around to see Castiel. The men looked at each other for the first time. They stood far away from each other, Castiel over by the door for the next room, Dean in the middle of shop.

Behind Castiel the dull yellow light of the kitchen shone out in rays all about him. Around his head the rays looked particularly golden because his hair was so dark, and the overall effect was that he looked like a character off one of the old medieval paintings one saw in churches, a religious, holy character with a halo about his head and the light of the blessed sun behind him as if God himself had set this man on Earth in order to carry out his righteous will. However, it wasn't this that made Castiel look especially beatific in that moment, it was the powerful blue eyes that shone out as hard as flint but also kindly and forgiving.

Dean stood by the clothes rack, surrounded by odd things people had gotten rid of, looking tired and pale himself. The pale, natural light from outside poured in from the wide windows, washing Dean and his surroundings out, making them pale and uncertain, almost as if he were a ghost. His eyes were large and shining from the tears, his hair ruffled and his skin looking fair and untouched. He looked vulnerable and lost, but also slightly ethereal.

Castiel gulped before smiling tightly, placing the cups of hot chocolate on the counter and then brushing down his unruly hair with his hand nervously; it didn't tame his dark spikes.

In turn, Dean slowly sat on a small plastic chair, coughing quietly and praying he didn't stink of booze or have bloodshot eyes.

"May I ask your name?" Castiel said seriously, leaning forward and staring at Dean with intense blue eyes.

"Dean," he leaned back as Castiel leaned in, feeling uncomfortable. "Who are you?"

"Castiel Novak. This is my shop."

Dean began to gulp his drink back, the feeling of discomfort growing. "Castiel, that's a weird name," he sneered. The anger was creeping back, Dean couldn't help it, the pain and fury was just there all the time fuelled by some unknown thing.

Castiel, however, took no offence, seemingly not even noticing Dean's unwarranted aggression and instead shrugged and agreed with him. "My wife thinks it's practically a girl's name, like Lulu or Wendy or Mischa. She thinks it's stupid. It is pretty weird. But that's what my folks named me. It's after an angel. The Angel of Thursday, or at least, that's what I've been told." He smiled again, self deprecatingly and sipped his own drink.

"So you're from a family of religious freaks?"

"I suppose so, do you not believe in a god?"

"I'm an atheist," Dean answered, "I always have been. I never thought much about god or religion much. I didn't mind it, I just didn't believe it myself. But recently it's been on my mind a little."

"You're thinking of God, do you wish to perhaps get to know Him a little more?" Castiel was excited, he had never experienced the joy of helping someone find the Lord before.

Dean sensed Castiel's excitement and immediately resented it, "no!" he bit out, "no I don't! I've lost people recently, so I've been to a lot of funerals and god and his great plan has been getting shoved in my face a lot, so I've been thinking that if there is a god," he scowled at the picture of Jesus, him leering down condescendingly, hanging on the wall between them, "then he's a dick. He's an irresponsible, monstrous being who allows this shit to happen but keeps saps like you hoping things will get better, and so you never actually do anything for yourselves, you stay in the squalor. It makes me sick!"

There was a small silence. Castiel remained very still, his heart beating fast and his face flushing furiously. He licked his lips slowly, wondering if he could have the courage to talk. He too glanced at the benevolent face of Christ smiling down upon him. Yes, he could do this.

"I'm sorry you feel that way." He said carefully and slowly, "I cannot claim to know why God does what He does, or why He chose the way he chose to deal with us and sin. I also understand your rage. I have times like that. But please know that God doesn't hate you, He loves you, and he will make things better, but you need to help yourself first."

"You don't get it," sighed Dean, at once making Castiel sad (he thought he had done well), "I'm not mad at your god. That's what you folks get wrong. You always think we're mad at your god, but we're not. I don't believe in him. I'm mad at people. I'm mad at you. That all these things happen, these horrible things, and cheap platitudes and lies are the only way you can think of to make us feel better. It makes me realise how weak and gullible people are, how if it's something we want to hear, we believe anything." Dean got to his feet and continued, "you say you know my rage? You don't even understand it! And what would you know anyway? I can tell by your accent that you aren't around this part of town, where are you from, and tell me the truth!"

"I'm local," answered Castiel also getting to his feet but feeling a lump in his throat, "I'm from...the Hills..."

"The Hills," sneered Dean, "Rorshook Hills, the nicest most middle-class area in this entire dump! Yeah, I'm sure you understand all of us down here, who live in the muck! I'm sure you get us, which is why you have this cheap shop of trinkets sitting here not selling a damn thing because everyone here is too damn poor to buy a dog-eared book about romance, or some shitty, moth eaten pull-over! You're a joke! Do me a favour, do us all a favour, go back the Hills and live out your deluded life in your hoighty-toighty house, because at least then you wouldn't be a condescending hypocrite!"

And with those words, Dean stormed out of the shop and straight into another pub further down the road ready to get completely wasted leaving Castiel stunned and alone in his shop of unwanted things.

xxXXxx

Later that evening Dean stumbled home. It was dark and cold. The charity shop was probably closed now. Dean sighed. In his hazy, drunken state he recognised that he felt bad. Despite how much drink he had shovelled into his abused body, the words he had bit out in the shop kept playing in his mind, muddled up with the looks he had gotten from Ellen's pub, the terror of the boys he'd hurt, and the whispered words of Ellen. He thought of Castiel standing against the golden backlight, eyes blue and righteous and foreign. Castiel probably didn't know the first thing about hardship, being a bubble-wrapped, middle-class do-gooder, but was that something that Dean could hold against him? It wasn't Castiel's fault. It was nothing to shout at the man for.

Dean shook his head, internally telling himself off. He would go apologise the next morning, as soon as he could.

"Alright Dean!"

Dean turned to see a young boy, his neighbour's kid, sitting on a wall playing with his favourite action figure. Well, Dean figured 'favourite' but he strongly believed that it was the boy's only toy. He had never seen him with anything else and his mother didn't come across as particularly generous when it came to her son.

"Isn't it a bit late for you to be out?" Dean slurred badly. He was so drunk that just standing still his head felt like it was spinning. The world tilted to and fro making him feel queasy, he needed to go inside where it was warm and throw up in his toilet.

"Yes," evidently the child could understand and translate drunken-idiot-speak, "but mommy is with her boyfriend so I need to stay here."

Dean looked at the house opposite is own. All the lights were off. He pondered letting the child into his home, it seemed wrong to leave him outside, but if he did invite him in, then surely people would talk. The world was a bad place.

"You got nowhere you can go?"

"No."

Dean sighed heavily, before sitting down on the wall and trying to ignore the feeling tha the whole world was tipping sideways. He couldn't let the child in his house and risk a lynch mob assume he was some sort of pedo grooming a little lad, but he could sit outside with the boy.

"You been drinking again Dean?"

"Yeah..." Dean ruffled the head of blond hair, he liked this kid, which said a lot because Dean as a rule didn't like people in general. The boy smiled in response, pale blue eyes lighting up a little at the positive contact. Dean's heart hurt a little.

"Adam!" he could hear the neighbour screaming. He looked up, she was hanging out of her bedroom window, a little nightie not covering her up properly and so one of her breasts had slipped out and was hanging out the window as well. It was repulsive. "Adam get in here! NOW!"

"See ya later Dean," said Adam, hoping off the wall and walking back home, his mother flinging a key out of the window before shutting it, not even checking to see the boy get in safely.

"See ya," muttered Dean quietly.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would try to set things right.