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Dean doesn't quite know how he got here, but his legs feel stuck to the floor and as he shifts uncomfortably in the church pew he does everything he can not to puke.
Dean doesn't know when he stopped believing the words of his mother, her sickly sweet reassurances.
Angels are watching over you.
He guesses the first time he remembers not wanting to believe her, his knees were aching and dampening against the the gravel of the alley ground. At least, he remembers knowing he didn't want anything Holy seeing what he had done.
A form dressed in neatly ironed black finds residence besides him and Dean feels the rigid line of his shoulders set as he forces away the trembling. He's always been good at denying his body what it needs, anyway.
The figure beside him doesn't speak, but he wishes they would. He wishes there was something anyone could say to wash away his sin.
He croaks out the best impression of uncaring he can muster, "Do you believe in guardian Angels? Feathery assholes watching over us?" His attempt falls flat.
"I do. Do you?" The man's voice is even and calm, practiced. It causes him pause, for a moment. He wonders how many poor fucked-up souls ask him the same question every month, every day.
Dean shakes his head and laughs. It's a crude short laugh, and it burns coming out. It feels like a lie. The familiarity turns in his empty stomach.
"I think any Angel watching me would be a sick, cruel bastard."
Dean can't bring himself to meet the priests eyes and he hopes he's imagining the pity he feels boring into the side of his face.
"I don't believe they watch for fun. They certainly can't change what is happening to us, they can't do anything to protect us. Life is a cruel force, no one can change that, it's written in the way it was designed. I like to believe they can guide us through it, however."
Dean wishes he could have so much faith in the helplessness of God and his soldiers.
A guide isn't the word Dean would use to deserve the being that pulled him from Hell. With messy black hair and piercing blue eyes, Castiel seems to do the opposite of guiding. Dean gets lost in those eyes more than he could admit to anyone. His eyes seem to look right through Dean in a way that terrifies him. There's something almost sad in the way the Angel looks at him, it makes him feel stripped bare.
He guesses Cas knows him better than anyone, he saw Deans' soul ripped apart and he put the shredded pieces back together.
You don't think you deserve to be saved.
The sentence had rung around in his head like a church bell, it was true of course, but he had never intended to say it out loud. He could feel Sam's eyes boring into his skull, pity probably. Maybe worry. To be honest he couldn't decide what would be worse.
Sam isn't supposed to worry about Dean, it's not his burden to carry, never was and never will be as far as Dean's concerned.
Sometimes he resents Sam for that, and then he hates himself for it. He's 10 kinds of fucked up, he knows it. Who the hell hates that no one worries for him and then hates the worrying even more? He doesn't need the concern or the pity, anyway. He knows how to deal with things on his own. Most days it's about all he knows. He doesn't know how to want more, he isn't allowed to want anything.
He wasn't allowed to want to be saved.
Dean always knew he was going to hell, even when he was young. He remembers the look on his dads' face the night he found out, the night he saw how sick and twisted Dean really is. He doesn't remember much else, other than the scratchy motel carpet on his face as his head pounded, and feeling profoundly grateful that Sammy was at Bobby's house while they worked this job.
Dean chokes out a question, "Do you think God decides who gets punished? How does he choose?"
He gets another question in return, "I think we punish ourselves. What do you think you deserve to be punished for?"
What doesn't he deserve to be punished for? There's been a gnawing ball of guilt sitting in his stomach for as long as he can remember. He no longer remembers why it formed, he just knows he deserves it.
"I've been to Hell, Father. I've had my punishment. I just need to know why. I was born into this. I was born into the hellfire and the pain, none of that was new to me. How did he decide it needed to be me?" His voice breaks somewhere along the line, burning a hole of shame in his gut.
For the first time, Dean meets the mans' eyes and he doesn't seem so sure of anything anymore. He looks as lost as Dean feels, and Dean has a realization. This man couldn't possibly know the answer to any of his questions, he's just as human and fucked up as anyone. He almost has to laugh. He's been to Hell and knows Angels by name, yet he sits in a church asking a priest about faith.
To his credit, the Father replies, "I could tell you God gives his toughest battles to those who have the strength to handle it, but you and I both know that isn't fair to say. I don't rightly know, son. I don't rightly know. I'm sorry you feel so lost, I am. I wish I had more to offer you."
Dean does too.
The priests eyes are melancholy and for a moment he looks younger than his years. His face is oddly relaxed and the lines around his eyes soften, but the look in his eyes gives him away.
"What I do know, however, is that you get to choose what you to do with that. You choose your own path. Nobody else can do that for you."
If only he knew how wrong he was.