Faith

Dean lived.

He lived through holidays and birthdays and parties where women in white capris served bits of fruit on large plastic trays. He lived through the days and the long bitter darknesses that bridged them. He lived through weeks and months and the slow, sure turning of the world. He lived and he lived and he lived but not once did he ever feel alive.

It was true that he loved Lisa and Ben, that they were his family (the only one he had left), but most of the time it was like he was watching a movie and loving what he saw on the screen. Each moment was filled with an agonizing detachment that squirmed beneath the surface of his skin.

"It's worse than being dead," he told Lisa one night when his nightmares woke them both. "It's like someone took a hack saw and carved a piece of me away."

"Dean, this isn't going to bring him back," Lisa said. "You know that, don't you? Sometimes I think you keep suffering because you're scared of what'll happen when you stop, that it'll mean you never really loved him at all."

And maybe she was right. Maybe it was more than hating that Sam was gone. Maybe it was Dean hating himself.

That night was the first time he prayed.

He told Lisa he needed some air, kissed her gently on the cheek, and wandered out onto the back porch with a beer in hand. The night sky was deep and dark and full of lights, stars that burned from millions and millions of miles away. He knew that's all it was – hot gas and a distance too large to be ignored – but a part of him wanted to believe that it was Castiel up there, looking down on the world and everything in it. Looking down on him.

"Hey, Castiel," he said after a quiet moment of deliberation. "It's Dean. I don't know if you're listening or if you can even hear me."

Dean paused and licked his lips. The words were all getting tangled up inside his head.

"I don't…there's no problem down here or anything. Not a monster to gank, anyway. I just…I just need someone to talk to, you know? And Lisa's great and all, but it's not the same as…as it was with Sam."

Dean laughed nervously, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and out of place.

"I've never done this before," he continued. "Praying, I mean. Well, I've prayed, but not like most people pray, I guess. Is this what it's like? Talking without knowing that anyone's listening, just hoping…believing that they are?"

There was no reply from Castiel or anyone else, just the rustling of the wind in the trees and the smell of wet grass, damp with early morning dew. A few houses away, a sprinkler could be heard kicking to life. It was all so domestic and quiet and that was maybe what made it so eerie. It was unfamiliar. It was strange.

And Dean didn't belong.

So he prayed. He didn't ask for anything, just talked – about Lisa and Ben, about his nightmares full of memories of hell and visions of Sam immersed in flame, about anything and everything that came to mind. He talked until the beginnings of dawn began to creep over the horizon and turn the sky a milky orange.

Somehow, it made him feel a little better. Lighter. Like it was okay that he was alive.

Life continued and Dean found himself praying more and more. At first it was just once every week or so, but as time passed and it came to be half a year since Sam's death, it grew to once a day. He'd put Ben to bed and kiss Lisa and wander outside to stare up at the stars and talk to Castiel.

And maybe Castiel heard him. Maybe he didn't. Maybe the only ones listening were the trees and the dog that lived next door. But Dean couldn't help but believe that Castiel not only heard, but that he listened, as well. Sometimes Dean could almost imagine him, standing in the clouds in that trench coat of his, eyes closed and head tilted to the side, just breathing and taking it in.

"I'm okay, Cas, I really think I am," he said one night. "I'm definitely not good, but I'm okay."

Later, a long time later, after Sam came back and Castiel became a solid presence in his life again, Dean asked the angel about it.

"I prayed to you, you know," he said when they were alone.

"I know," said Castiel. "I heard."

"Then why didn't you reply?" Dean asked. "Not even once, Cas. I prayed to you every night."

"That's not the way it works."

"What, prayer? You replied before. Hell, you more than replied."

"No, Dean," Castiel said. "That's not the way faith works."

Oh, thought Dean. Oh. Faith.

And suddenly he understood.

He had faith in Castiel. He'd always had faith in Castiel, in a way he'd never had faith in anyone else. Not God, not Sam, and definitely not his father. Because Castiel was always there, even when he wasn't. Castiel was always listening.

And Castiel would never let him down.

A/N: Finally got caught up with Supernatural and wanted to write something. Kind of a downer when you think about what might be going on with Castiel but mostly I meant it as a way to project my own feelings onto Dean. Ha ha. I've always sort of identified with Dean and his lack of faith, even when faced with absolute proof. Faith, I think, is about something more than knowing something's real. It's about believing in the absolute goodness of something. And after everything he's seen and experienced, I don't think Dean can really bring himself to do that, even with Sam, who has let him down before. That's why I think Castiel is so important - Dean's relationship with him is a lot like the one that some people have with God.

In terms of my own experiences, I've never held much stock in religion, especially the organized kind. But I am jealous of the religious and the connection they have with their beliefs. I would give anything to have that kind of absolute faith in something. It sounds so wonderful, to be able to trust in someone like that. That's why I identify with Dean, I think. As much as he loves the people around him, they've always seemed to let him down, and that's why faith is so difficult. Knowing that Castiel may end up betraying him only cements that for me.

So yeah. Kind of personal. Hope it was well written and enjoyable, too. Let me know what you think.