Chapter Text
~CASTIEL ~
God hates sin.
God hates wickedness.
God hates abomination.
These were the truths that Castiel had been taught since before he could read. The same truths that he now repeated silently as he stood with his sign held high against the darkening sky.
Six hours they had maintained their righteous vigil, six hours of bearing witness before lost souls. His shoulders ached, and the cardboard edges of his sign dug into his palms, but he couldn’t allow himself to focus on his discomfort. Physical pain was trivial compared to the eternal suffering that awaited the unrepentant.
“GOD HATES FAGGOTS” The words blazed in neon orange against black. The final word was spelled in full, even though his mind still flinched from completing it, even in thought.
His father, Chuck, had painted it himself. The letters were precise, perfect. Like everything his father did.
“Castiel,” his mother’s voice cut through their chanting. She appeared at his side, face pinched. “You look pale, are you drinking enough water?”
“I’m fine,” He straightens his shoulders, lifting his sign higher. A real soldier of the Lord doesn’t complain about weariness.
His father had taught him that lesson when he was nine years old.
“Make sure Amelia has enough too.” She patted Castiel’s arm and returned to her position.
Castiel glanced to his right where Amelia stood, her hair catching the streetlight. She held her sign with both hands, her wrists surely aching by now, though she’d never admit it.
Her sign read “REPENT OR PERISH!” The E in REPENT was crooked. Amelia wasn’t precise like Chuck was.
“Would you like some water, Amelia?” Castiel asks, leaning towards her.
She looks up, startled, as if pulled from deep thought. “Oh—no, I’m fine, thank you.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
They had been officially dating for three years, two months and seventeen days.
Their families approved. She was modest, obedient, and possessed a gentle spirit that would make her an exemplary mother to their future children.
These were the qualities a godly man should seek. This was the path laid before him by his father.
So why did it feel sometimes that they were both acting in a play, reciting lines that neither of them had written?
He pushed away the disloyal thought and returned his attention to the establishment across the street. The Bunker. Such a misleading name, as if it offered safe refuge rather than spiritual destruction.
Bass pounded through its walls, a rhythmic mockery of a heartbeat. Men entered — young men, old men — some dressed modestly, others dressed in garments that displayed their bodies in ways that made Castiel quickly avert his eyes.
Yet sometimes, before he looked away, he noticed something. They were smiling. Really smiling — not the practiced Sunday morning greetings they exchanged at church. What did they have to smile about? Didn’t they know what awaited them?
“They choose eternal damnation,” his father had explained when he was twelve, the first time he had brought him to witness. “We stand as the final warning before they cross the threshold to sin.”
The memory of his voice strengthened Castiel’s resolve. He raised his sign higher and joined the renewed chant.
“GOD HATES THE WICKED! REPENT BEFORE JUDGEMENT!” His voice merged with the others — twenty-three members of the Lawrence Covenant Church, standing as a wall of truth against Depravity. This was their Thursday night ritual. A reminder to the community that God’s standards hadn’t changed, even as the world embraced darkness.
Yet as the night deepened, another truth became increasingly difficult to ignore. His bladder throbbed with urgent discomfort. They had been there since 4:00PM. It was now past ten. The hot chocolate that he had consumed before the protest now demanded release with an insistence that was becoming painful.
He shifted his weight, pressing his thighs together in a manner that he prayed seemed casual. Perhaps he could endure until they departed.
Pastor Uriel had said they’d maintain their position until eleven. Surely he could withstand another forty-seven minutes.
But as another wave of pressure assaulted him, he knew the situation was becoming desperate.
He scanned the area. The surrounding businesses — the bookstore, the café, the hardware store — all stood dark. Nothing remained open at this hour in this part of town.
Nothing except The Bunker.
No. Absolutely not. He’d rather suffer physical discomfort than step foot in there.
Another wave of pressure caused him to inhale sharply. The possibility of public embarrassment suddenly seemed very real.
“Castiel?” Amelia’s voice was soft with concern. “Are you okay?”
He couldn’t bring himself to explain his predicament to her. Certain bodily functions were not appropriate to discuss with a woman, even one that he intended to marry eventually.
“I need to step away for a moment,” he manages.
Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Would you like me to come with you? We could take a short walk.”
“That’s not necessary. Please stay here, I’ll be back soon.”
Castiel lowers his sign and approaches his father, who stands at the front of the group, his powerful voice leading the chants.
“Father, I need to be excused briefly.” He leans in to talk to him in order to be heard over the noise.
His father paused, his expression questioning.
“A physical necessity,” Castiel explained.
Understanding dawned on his face. He nodded once then handed him a different sign from the stack behind him. “Be swift, Castiel, and take this sign with you. Spread the message wherever you go.”
Castiel glanced down at the sign. “LOVE THE SINNER. HATE THE SIN!” — the more gentle message that he preferred.
Whether this was his father’s attempt at kindness or a test of his resolve, he couldn’t tell.
He accepted the sign and walked away from the group, acutely aware of Amelia’s eyes following him.
The gas station was six blocks east. Too far.
The university buildings were closed at this hour.
He halted, staring at The Bunker’s entrance. Rainbow lights framed its door, a garishly coloured beacon. Two security men stood outside, sharing a cigarette, their laughter carrying across the street. They cast occasional glances toward the protesters, their expressions dismissive.
This was a test. It had to be. God was testing his resolve, his dedication to avoiding even the appearance of evil.
God was merciful, wasn’t he? God understood physical necessity. Surely entering this establishment purely for its facilities, without participating in its activities, wouldn’t constitute endorsement. He’d be in and out in moments. No one would even notice him.
Castiel told himself that it was desperation that drove him across the street. He told himself a lot of things as his feet carried him to the rainbow-lit doorway. The security fell silent as he approached, their conversation halting mid-sentence. He kept his eyes fixed on a point just past their shoulders.
He didn’t want to see judgement or mockery in their eyes.
“Bathroom emergency?” One of them asked, his tone surprisingly sympathetic rather than derisive.
Castiel gave a curt nod, still not meeting their gaze.
“Through the main room, left hallway, end of the corridor,” he said.
“Thank you,” Castiel replied stiffly, then immediately regretted acknowledging him at all.
He pushed open the heavy door and crossed the threshold into another world.
The sensory assault was immediate and overwhelming. Music crashed against him, so loud that he felt it in his chest. The air was thick with artificial fog, pierced by strobing lights that transformed moving bodies into fragmented shapes. The scent was a bewildering mixture of cologne, sweat and alcohol.
He froze just inside the entrance, his eyes struggling to adjust to the chaos. Men danced with men. Women held women. Bodies pressed against bodies in ways that made him want to avert his eyes but somehow couldn’t.
This was sodom. This is what they warned against.
So why couldn’t he look away?
No one seemed to notice him standing there, rigid with shock and discomfort. The crowd was absorbed in their revelry, moving as one pulsing organism to the music’s command.
He spotted the sign for restrooms down the left corridor.
He moved forward, keeping his back straight and his focus on the distant sign.
His steps were mechanical, his body navigating without conscious direction. Each beat of the music seemed to match his heart beat.
A hand brushed against his in the crowded space. He jerked away as if burned, his heart suddenly racing.
“Sorry, man,” Someone shouted.
He didn’t respond. He didn’t look. Just kept moving, ignoring the strange flutter in his stomach that had nothing to do with his need for the bathroom.
The hallway offered marginal respite from the sensory onslaught. The music was slightly muted here, though still loud enough to feel in his bones.
Posters lined the walls— advertisements for events with names like “Pride Night” and “Drag Eleganza Extravaganza” he tried not to look at the images of men in various states of undress, but his eyes betrayed him with quick, furtive glances.
He finally reached the restroom and pushed through the door, relief washing over him as he stumbled inside. Thankfully it was empty. He hurried to a urinal, his gaze fixed straight ahead at the wall as he relieved himself.
“Thank you, Lord, for this small mercy,” he whispered, then immediately felt foolish for thanking God for a urinal in a gay bar.
He quickly washed his hands, splashing cold water on his face to clear his head. In the mirror, his reflection stared back with wide, anxious eyes.
His church lanyard hung around his neck like a branded mark. He should have removed it before entering. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
He glanced at the sign leaning against the bathroom counter. “LOVE THE SINNER! HATE THE SIN!”
“You can do this, Castiel,” he told his reflection. “Just walk out, do not look at anyone. Do not speak to anyone.”
He dried his hands and turned towards the exit, mentally planning the quickest path back to the protest. Three steps to the door, left down the hallway, straight through the crowd, through the exit back into the night air. He could be back with the others in less than two minutes. No one would ever know where he had been.
He turned to reach for the door handle, but before he could pull it open, it swung inward. A man stood in the doorway, deliberately blocking the exit, one shoulder leaned against the frame with casual confidence. His hair fell across his forehead and his eyes — a deep shade of green that Castiel couldn’t name and somehow amused — captured his before he could look away. His flannel clung to his broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms.
Castiel’s breath caught in his throat.
The man’s brows raised, his eyes widening in recognition. His gaze traveled slowly down to Castiel’s lanyard, then back to his face, a slow, deliberate assessment that made his skin heat.
“Well,” the man said, his voice somehow cutting through the music with surprising clarity. “Ain’t this interesting.”
Castiel realised with horror that he was effectively trapped. He wasn’t moving from the doorway. “The bathroom is free,” he managed to say, his voice embarrassingly hoarse.
The man’s lips curved into something between a smile and a challenge.
He didn’t budge. “I’m not here for the bathroom, Castiel from the Lawrence Covenant.”
The way he said his name sent a shiver down Castiel’s spine.
“I’m more interested in what the hell you’re doing here.”
+++++++++++
~ Dean -
Dean had gotten used to the assholes who protested. They were like pigeons outside of the window — annoying, occasionally shitting on things, but ultimately just background noise.
“More drinks?” Dean asked, signalling the bartender before anyone could answer. The Bunker was their sacred ground for the queer frat comprised of every and any gender that actually partied.
“You tryin’ to get us drunk, brother?” Benny leaned against the bar beside Dean, his eyes scanning the crowd with the measured assessment of a leader always checking on his people. Benny never fully relaxed, even here.
“Fuck yeah I am,” Dean grinned. “Constitutional Law brief is due on Monday, and I plan to forget about it until Sunday night.”
Jo appeared at his shoulder, their hair catching the pulsing lights as they draped themselves dramatically across the bar. “Some of us,” they announced, “don’t have the luxury of procrastination. Some of us have a performance piece on the commodification of queer identity due on—“
“Tuesday,” Stevie finished, pushing a fresh drink into Jo’s hand. “Which gives you plenty of time to get spectacularly drunk tonight and make breakfast with me and Charlie in the morning.” She adjusts the sleeve on her leather jacket.
“Stevie is right,” Charlie agreed, already filming the interaction for what would undoubtedly become part of her documentary on “found family dynamics in marginalised communities.”
She never went anywhere without her camera. “Beside, I need footage of Jo drunk dancing for the montage.”
“You’re all enablers,” Jo sighed, taking the drink. “I love it.”
The bartender slid their drinks across the bar. Dean distributed them with practiced efficiency. Whiskey neat for Benny, a beer each for himself, Jo and Stevie, a fruity monstrosity for Charlie and a shot of tequila for Sam, who was lurking at the edge of their circle looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Dean nudged the shot glass towards his brother. “Drink up, Sammy, your face is scaring the baby gays.”
Sam rolled his eyes but took the shot. “Someone has to maintain awareness of our surroundings, Dean.” His gaze flicked meaningfully towards the windows, where the protesters were still visible, signs raised.
Dean glanced over at the window, the assholes were still there, clutching their signs and looking miserable in the light drizzle. One particular sign had caught his eye: “GOD HATES FAGGOTS!” In screaming red letters.
Original.
“Y’know. I kinda feel bad for the dicks,” Dean said, taking a swig of his beer. “Gotta be freakin’ exhausting to hate something so much.”
“Don’t waste your empathy, chief.” Benny said, “they’d drag us all to conversion therapy if they could.”
“Hey! Speaking of,” Charlie said, lowering her camera, “did you guys see one of them came in?”
That caught Dean’s attention. “What? Who?”
“Dark haired guy,” Charlie Shrugged. “Kinda dreamy if you get past the terrified look. Asked for the bathroom.”
“And Lee let him in?” Dean raised his brows.
“Apparently he was very polite about it.” Stevie explained.
“A polite bigot. Who knew?” Jo scoffed.
Dean drained his beer, suddenly curious. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom. I’ll be back.”
“Don’t terrorise the poor homophobe if he’s still in there,” Stevie called after him.
Dean flipped her off, not looking back as he weaved through the crowd.
The music pulsed around him, bodies pressing in close in the packed space. He nodded to familiar faces, slapped a few shoulders, declined two dance invitations. He was on a mission now. The bathroom hallway was quieter, the bass just a dull thud against the walls. He pushed the door open and — well, hello.
The guy stood at the sink, staring at himself in the mirror with the haunted expression of someone who who’d just seen a ghost.
He was a couple inches shorter than Dean, stupidly blue eyes, full lips that looked like trouble. And wearing a fucking church lanyard round his neck.
Dean couldn’t have designed a more perfect specimen of repression if he tried.
He startled when the door opened, his eyes darting to Dean’s in the mirror.
The fear there was so naked, so raw, it almost made him take a step back. Almost.
Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, blocking his exit. “Well,” Dean said, letting his eyes travel slowly down his body. “Ain’t this interesting.”
The colour drained from his face. “Bathroom is free,” he managed, his voice husky, and in any other circumstances, made for phone sex.
Dean didn’t move. Something about this dude’s discomfort was magnetic. He wanted to push it further, see how he’d react. “Ain’t here for the bathroom, Castiel from Lawrence Covenant.” He nodded towards his lanyard. “I’m more interested in what the hell you’re doing here.”
His eyes widened. “How— how do you know my name?”
Dean tapped his temple. “It’s on your lanyard, genius. Castiel Novak, Lawrence Covenant Church.” He pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer. “So, Castiel Novak. What’s a good little church boy doing in this den of iniquity? Besides the obvious.” He gestured towards the urinals.
“I—uh. I just needed—“
Castiel swallowed hard. “I’ll be leaving now.” He tried to edge past Dean, but he shifted slightly to block him again. Not threatening. Just….there.
“Hey, what’s the rush, Cas? I’m sure your hate rally can wait a few minutes.”
“It is not a—“ he stopped himself, shoulders tense. “Please let me leave.”
“Sure,” Dean says, taking a deliberate step to the side. “I don’t keep people against their will. Unlike some organisations I could mention.”
His face flushed. Those blue eyes looking everywhere but at Dean. “I don’t — we don’t — “
“Complete sentences are your friend,” He advised him, now genuinely amused. “Try one.”
Castiel took a deep breath, squaring his broad shoulders. Church boy clearly worked out. “I appreciate your understanding. Apologies for the intrusion.”
Dean laughed. “Dude, you talk like you’re addressing a board meeting. Relax, Cas. I don’t bite.” He let his eyes linger on Castiel’s lips, “not unless I have explicit consent.”
The blush that spread across his face was pretty awesome — like watching a sunset in fast forward. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
“You know,” Dean continued, unable to help himself, “you’re much hotter than the average protester. They usually send the old, angry, balding guys. This a new recruitment strategy or somethin’? Send in the hot guy, lure the queers?”
“I should go,” he managed, but he didn’t move.
Dean stepped closer, close enough to smell his cologne — something clean and earthy. “Yeah, you should. But you haven’t.”
Something flashed in his eyes — confusion, fear, and something else. Something that looked suspiciously like interest.
“Your sign,” Dean says, nodding toward the bathroom counter where he’d left it. “Wouldn’t wanna forget your props.”
Castiel looked at the sign like he’d never seen it before. “Oh. Uhm…yes. Thank you.”
“Here, let me help you.” Dean grabbed the sign before Castiel could, examining it with exaggerated interest. “Love the sinner. Hate the sin.” He nodded appreciatively. “Classic. Less aggressive than your buddy’s ‘God hates Fags’ out there. You’re the good cop, huh?”
“It’s not— I didn’t—“ he reached for the sign but Dean held it just out of reach.
“Tell me something, Cas,” he stepped closer, dropping his voice low. “Do you actually believe this bullshit? Or are you just going through the motions?”
His eyes met Dean’s then, and the naked conflict in them caught him off guard. There was something happening behind those eyes — a war he hadn’t expected to see.
“I believe in God,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t what Dean had asked. Interesting.
“So do lots of people who don’t spend their nights harassing others.” Dean pointed out. “Including some of the ‘sinners’ in here.”
Castiel looked away. “May I please have my sign back?”
Dean relented, handing it to him. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and Castiel jerked back like he’d been shocked.
“You act like I’m radioactive or some shit.”
“No I—“ he clutched the sign to his chest like some sort of shield. “I really have to get back now.”
“I’ll walk you out.” It wasn’t an offer.
Surprisingly, he didn’t protest as Dean held the door open for him with exaggerated courtesy.
They walked side by side down the hallway, an odd pair— Dean completely at ease, and Castiel looking like the ceiling was about to cave in any moment.
“So,” Dean said conversationally as they approached the main room, “do you come to all the protests, or is this a special occasion?”
“My church organises them regularly,” he answered stiffly.
“And that’s how you get your rocks off? Standing in the rain, telling people they got a one way ticket to hell?”
Castiel hesitated, just a fraction too long. “It’s my duty.”
They’d reached the entrance now. The security — Lee — raised his brow at Dean, and he gave him a reassuring nod in return.
“Well, Castiel from Lawrence Covenant,” Dean said, “it’s been enlightening. Maybe next time you need to take a leak, we can have a proper conversation. One where you actually form sentences and say what you’re thinking.”
Castiel looked at him then, something raw and vulnerable in his expression.
“Why do you believe I’m not saying what I’m thinking?”
“Cos if you were, you wouldn’t still be standing here talking to me. You look kinda lost.”
The door to the bar opened again, spilling light and music into the night. A petite brunette woman burst out, her face a mask of concern that turned into something harder when she saw Dean.
“Castiel! We have been looking everywhere for you!” She grabbed his arm possessively, shooting Dean a suspicious glare.
“Amelia,” he said, sounding relieved and something else. Resigned, maybe. “My apologies. I needed to use the bathroom.”
“In there?” Her voice dripped with disgust as she glanced at The Bunker.
Dean gave her his most flirtatious smile, the one he knew worked on both men and women. Her cheeks tinged red. “He was just defending the faith to us heathens. Very impressive. Almost had me considering a life of celibacy.”
Castiel’s eyes widened, but Amelia was already tugging him away. “We are leaving. Pastor Uriel called it for the night.” She pulled him towards the parking lot, his sign dragging awkwardly at his side.
At ths last minute he looked back over his shoulder at Dean.
And there it was. That look. Not just fear or confusion — but longing. So raw and honest that it stopped Dean in his tracks. A desperate, hungry look that didn’t belong on the face of a true believer.
Dean watched them disappear into the night, Castiel’s tense shoulders and Amelia’s proprietary grip each telling their own story. He stood there for longer than he should have in the open doorway, the rain soaking through his flannel and light grey t-shirt, replaying that look in his mind.
“Dude, you communing with the rain gods or you coming back inside?” Charlie’s voice startled him. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed against the cold.
Dean pulled her into his side, draping his arm loosely over her shoulder. “Did you see that?” He asked, pointing to the now empty parking lot.
“See what? The protesters leaving? yeah. Thank whatever deity you prefer.”
Dean shook his head, leading them back inside. “Not that. The guy. Dark hair.”
“The one whose chick dragged him away like he was contaminated? Pretty hard to miss.” Charlie’s voice was slightly void of her usual cheer as they walked back to join the rest of the group. They were still at the bar, now in deep debate about something.
Jo spotted them first, raising their glass dramatically. “The prodigal son returns! Did you scare the poor homophobe?”
“I might’ve….engaged, a bit.” He admitted, accepting a fresh beer from Stevie.
“Engaged, huh?” Benny raised his brows.
“That’s Dean speak for flirted shamelessly with,” Charlie clarified.
Dean shrugged. “Probably. He was pretty hot.”
“You’re impossible,” Sam muttered.
“You should have seen him,” Dean continued, unable to get the image of Castiel’s face out of his mind. “So buttoned up. So….contained. Like a holy tax accountant. It’s like if he allowed himself to feel anything, he’d explode.”
Jo’s eyes lit up dangerously. “Oh my god! You’re into him!”
“I’m not into him,” Dean protested, all too quickly. “I just think his goddamn repression is interesting.”
“Uh-huh.” Jo was grinning now, a mischievous spark in their eyes. “I bet you couldn’t get him to loosen up.”
Benny shook his head. “Don’t even start, Harvelle. We don’t mess with those people.”
“I’m not suggesting we mess with him,” Jo argued. “I’m suggesting Dean could….save him.” They batted their eyelashes innocently. “A little conversion therapy of our own.”
“Dude! That’s not funny.” Charlie said sharply.
“I’m serious,” Jo insisted. “You didn’t see this guy. He’s textbook closet case. Probably praying the gay away every night.”
Dean thought about Castiel’s conflicted eyes, the way he’d lingered despite his obvious fear. “He’s definitely struggling with somethin’”
“So help him out,” Jo suggested. “The Dean Winchester Gay Awakening Experience. Limited time offer.”
“That’s the worst idea I have ever heard,” Stevie said, but she was grinning.
Dean took a long pull on his beer, thinking. The image of Castiel’s backward glance wouldn’t leave him.
“For fuck sake, he’s actually considering it,” Benny groaned.
“Hey! It’d be a public service,” Dean argued, warming to the idea. “I feel it’s my duty to free this poor, repressed soul from his chains.”
“You’re the worst,” Charlie said, but Dean could hear the fondness in her voice.
“Oh, I’m the absolute fucking worst,” Dean agreed cheerfully. “So what d’ya say, guys? Think I can get church boy to come around in say….two weeks?”
“Two weeks?” Jo scoffed. “With all that religious programming? Try a month, minimum.”
“Fine. Whatever. One month to make Castiel Novak question everything he believes.” Dean raised his bottle. “Who’s in?”
A chorus of groans and laughs answered him, but glasses clinked against his one by one.
Even Sam reluctantly joined in, muttering something about being there to “pick up the pieces yet again.”