Author's note: I was just going through some files on my computer and I found this. I keep forgetting it exists. It's just a stub - I started it as a NaNoWriMo project in 2013. Until last year, I failed NaNo annually in a wide variety of ways, and always thought "maybe it'll go better if I...". 2013's attempt was fanfic and this is all I wrote of it. I think this is technically the first smutty thing I ever wrote? Not that it's particularly smutty. It was going to be, though.

I have a distant glimmer of a vague idea where I was going with it and no idea if I actually will work on it, but, well, it's written, so what the heck?

(I finally beat NaNo for the first time officially in 2014 - I wrote 80,000 words in November, which was a personal best until this past May when I wrote almost 200,000 thanks to "An Assembly Such As This." I unofficially beat NaNo in 2007, when I wrote "The Lost Generation," which I've been posting on here - I wrote about 57,000 words, if I recall, but I wasn't officially signed up. When I realized I'd have done it I was really pissed at myself)

Unfamiliar faces were common at the Finding God Ministry, and usually Castiel followed a simple procedure when someone new came in - let them be, leave them to their prayers until they rose to leave, and then greet them and see if there was anything he could do to aide them other than supporting their soul. Spiritual guidance was only part of what the Ministry did; the rest was social outreach and support, helping the people of the neighborhood get a roof over their head, a full stomach, treatment for what ailed them, employment training and job placement, a new set of clothes or a haircut. The needs of the poor were numerous, and Castiel had, over the past few years, cultivated ties with organizations throughout San Francisco and the Bay Area to provide for as many of those needs as possible. It only saddened him that he couldn't do more, that he lacked the resources to run a soup kitchen or offer to pay to a lawyer to provide pro bono legal services to the laypeople. So much need, and all that he did, all that he could do, was only a drop in the bucket.

He pushed the maudlin thoughts away. He did his best, and if he eased even one person through a difficult time, helped them see the light at the end of the tunnel, it was worth it.

Tonight's stranger was unusual, his appearance striking. Rather than bowing his head, eyes closed in prayer, reverent, as was normal, his green eyes were wide open and piercing, and there was anger in his expression as he stared down the cross. Castiel had trouble not meeting the gaze of those clear eyes, having to remind himself as he went about his evening duties that staring was not only rude, but in this neighborhood it could be downright dangerous. Dark hair, sharp nose and chin, shrugged into a worn leather jacket, the stranger radiated pent up violence. His shoulders were tense and hunched. He looked like a man who was being hunted, an expression Castiel knew only too well.

Tearing his eyes away from the stranger, he wondered if he should ask the man to leave. Violence came to the church sometimes, that was unavoidable, but if it must happen, if the pews were to be rent by gunshots yet again, Cas would hope that it was in defense of one his regulars, at least, not for a wandering vagrant. You're being uncharitable, he castigated himself. All visitors were equal in the eyes of the Lord. A stranger deserved and needed as much care and solace - maybe even more - than someone who had found a home already at the Ministry.

Steeling himself to meet the stranger face to face - wondering why he was finding it so difficult, a haunting pair of green eyes didn't make this time any different than any other time he spoke to visitors - he started to walk in that direction when the front door slammed open and four tough-looking Latino men strode in. To a man broad shouldered, with cropped hair and tattoos, all wore the flame-decorated bandanas that marked them as members of En Fuego, one of the most dangerous gangs in the city. Castiel glanced back at his green-eyed stranger, curious of his reaction, wondering if this was what had put the itch between his shoulder blades, only to find he had vanished. To all appearances, Castiel was the only person in the church.

"Hola, padre!" The clear leader of the posse was also the shortest, but he had the broadest shoulders and a jagged scar that ran angry red from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth. Castiel had never met him, but recognized him from reputation. His real name was unknown, but around the Barrio he was called El Ejecutor - The Enforcer. Castiel hid his dismay with a smile. Had En Fuego finally decided to force a levy on the Ministry? If so there was no way he could afford to pay it. The Ministry would have to shut down.

"Hola, señor," Cas said in his terribly accented Spanish. He'd picked up a lot of the language since he'd moved here but when he spoke he still sounded like a white boy from the 'burbs. Which, in the interest of fairness, he was.

"We are looking for a gringo who stole from us. We thought, maybe he comes here? You are a gringo, he is a gringo...your kind always sticks together en el Barrio, right?"

Only one white person other than himself had been in the Ministry all day, the green-eyed stranger. "No, I haven't seen anyone all evening," Castiel smiled, allowing the relief that this wasn't a demand for protection money to seep through and obfuscate that he was bald-faced lying, not something he was generally very good at. "Would you care to pray with me, brothers? A prayer for peace?"

They all laughed. "There will be peace," replied el Ejecutor, "once I've cut off his balls." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and then held it out to Castiel, showing a picture of the Ministry's visitor. "This is him. You are sure you haven't seen him?"

"Never in my life," he turned away to hide the recognition he was sure must be on his face. "If I do, I will find your men and let them know."

"That is wise of you. A wise man, padre."

"Yes," Castiel's heart pounded in his ears. He shouldn't lie to these people. They could ruin everything he'd worked to build since he'd come here five years ago, ruin it all without a second thought, without any concern, and probably beat him to within an inch of his life while they were at it. "If you'll excuse me, it's late, and I have to prepare the church to close for the evening."

"Don't you want to look at his face again? You don't want to forget his appearance, do you?"

Castiel schooled his features, turned around, and forced himself to walk over at a measured pace and inspect the cell phone picture carefully. The stranger was dressed the same as he had been today, though his expression was less guarded, a hint of a smile played at the edge of his lips, though whatever had elicited that expression wasn't visible in the shot. The man was shockingly handsome; it had been a long time since Castiel had seen a man who could excite his libido. He thought he'd finally moved past that particular danger.

"If I see him," he repeated, "I will most definitely let you know." He walked by them and over to the door, which was still ajar from their entry. Opening it wide, he gestured and said firmly, "buenas noches."

The looks that the gang shot him were courteous as they exited - no matter what else they might think of him, Castiel was still a man of God and this was still a church, and they at least played lip service to respecting such things - but El Ejecutor gave him a stare that made it clear that he had his doubts and would be back again. Castiel smiled in return, shrugged his shoulders slightly, trying to look apologetic, and then closed the door and locked it as soon as they were outside.

Gasping in a deep breath, he sank to his knees. He hadn't realized how scared, how wound up he was until they left. Now that the confrontation was over, it was like all the strength had left him. Several minutes passed achingly slowly while he remembered how to breath, calmed himself down, slowed his heart rate.

"Thank you," said a gruff, raspy voice, just the way he'd have imagined the stranger would sound. "You didn't have to do that. You...you saved my life."

Castiel forced himself to stand up and turned around. The stranger was standing in the aisle between the pews, shoulders still hunched, expression hard to read, eyes lowered but mouth still set aggressively.

"It was the right thing to do," Castiel replied, confused by the body language signals that the stranger was communicating. Almost like he was angry at Castiel, almost like he didn't want Cas to have lied for him or hidden him. Almost like he had wanted to be caught, had wanted to die. "My name is Castiel."

"That's an unusual name," the stranger scowled.

"Well, it's not the one I was born with, if that's what you're asking, but it's the only one I have left to me now," he approached his visitor, trying to look safe, comforting, friendly. "Those guys will be out for quite some time - En Fuego has men throughout the area. It won't be safe out there tonight. Do you need a place to stay? There's an few cots in the basement. You're not the first indigent to come through, though no one else is staying here at the moment."

"I shouldn't," the man shook his head. "I shouldn't have come in here at all, damn stupid ass thing to do. If you'll unlock the door, Father, I'll get out of your hair." There it was again, that hint that he wished Cas hadn't intervened, that turn of expression almost like he wanted to be caught. Castiel took a step down the aisle towards the exit. The man walked right by him, a faint waft of leather and sweat in his wake, and Cas turned, staring at the determined set of the man's back as he lifted a hand to the dead bolt.

"I don't know what you did or why they are looking for you, but you did it for a reason," this man, with the piercing green eyes and the body language that said he had a mission in life and would walk through any wall that tried to block his way, this man wouldn't have messed with a group like En Fuego for no reason. He wouldn't just give up. "Whatever that reason was, if you go out there and they kill you, you'll never accomplish it."

Castiel's heart started to beat hard again as silence stretched out and the man stood immobile, hand still on the door. After what seemed like a long time but couldn't have been more than moments, the man turned around to face him, an odd half-smile on his lips that didn't touch his eyes at all. Nothing like the picture that El Ejecutor had shown him. "I think I'll take a look at that cot, Father."

"It's this way," Castiel stammered slightly on the words, so relieved that the man had decided to stay, so bored through by that unwavering green-eyed stare. Michael used to look at him just like that, it always took his breath away, left him desperate for a touch, for a laugh, for any chink in the impenetrable armor that protected the vulnerability within from a harsh world. "But there's no need to stand on formality here. Everyone who attends the Ministry just calls me Castiel."

"Alright, Father," answered the man. "You can call me Dean."

Castiel woke to pitch darkness in the tiny room he called home, soaked in sweat and disoriented. He'd been lost in a dream of times gone by, a dream filled with people and places he'd never see again, feelings he'd never have again. How long had it been since he had dreamed of Michael? Years, surely. Awake, no force in hell, earth or heaven could have compelled him to return to the lover who had destroyed him, but though his mind and heart remembered the pain and betrayal, his body only recalled caressing touches and the hot tension of skin brushing against skin.

That was the past. This was the present, and he flicked on the light in his drab office, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a bed barely wide enough for one the entirety of his personal space. The memories faded as he forced them away but the feelings lingered. His erection was as firmly in place at it had been from the moment his eyes had flicked open. No amount of self-denial was going to cure him, he realized resignedly, and forced himself up, stumbling to the bathroom, rubbing himself through his flannel pajama pants.

There was only one bathroom in the entire Ministry, and at the moment it smelled less than appealing. Cas was going to have to clean it again. The fluorescent light buzzed unpleasantly as he tried to ignore his disheveled appearance in the mirror, hair mussed, eyes still puffy with sleep, yesterday's stubble darkening his cheeks. He turned the cold water tap on all the way and splashed the frigid flow over his hair, his face, let it drip down his bare shoulders and torso. Even the smell, even his own tired reflection, even the icy water didn't affect a cure. The tent in his pants remained firmly in place.

He switched on the warm water, finished washing his face, his hands, and then reached into his pants. It wasn't that he was opposed to masturbation, not at all, he found it a healthy pastime and engaged in it happily as a normal part of his life. However, right now the dream still lingered in his mind, Michael's remembered voice still whispered filthy nothings in his ear. He didn't want to be aroused by that. He didn't want to touch himself and remember that other touch. He didn't want to come gasping Michael's name, never again.

If he had to masturbate, he had to think about something, anything else.

A flash of memory came suddenly, piercing green eyes and the delicious smell of well-worn leather. He groaned despite himself and began to run his hand along his shaft, the soft skin covering the hardness, twitching with desire beneath his experienced fingers. Dean, he thought, and his cock surged between his fingers just thinking about him. It was wrong, the man was sleeping ten feet beneath him, blissfully unaware of the ragged breathing his appearance was eliciting, the pre-ejaculate slicking Castiel's hand as he fingered his head and imagined peeling back that leather coat and kissing those full lips, feeling hot breath on his neck, staring into those eyes as they pierced right through him. His eyes slipped shut, his left hand gripped the sink until his knuckles were white, his world narrowed to the hot feeling in his groin, the pressure and movement of his hand along his length, and the tender, imagined ministrations of the stranger. It was so wrong, but it felt so good.

"Uhh...oh," that gruff voice was unmistakable, and Castiel's eyes flew open to find the real thing staring at him, looking him up and down, taking in his dripping black hair and the hand vigorously at work in his pants. "Sorry, dude, it's cool, I'll wait. I just gotta piss."

"No," Castiel gasped, fighting through his mortification and trying to put on a casual expression, as if getting walked in on while jerking off was a perfectly normal event in his life. The scent of leather reached him even though Dean wasn't wearing the jacket, and his erection jumped in his grip by way of reply. Castiel resisted a bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to overcome him. Dean didn't know what Castiel was thinking. Thank fucking God Dean didn't know what he was thinking. "No, really I'm sorry. I'll get out of here."

"Seriously," Dean answered, averting his eyes, his cheeks flushed. He can't read my mind! "Finish up what you're doing. Even priests get hard up," he emphasized the expression with a lewd gesture, as if Cas could have possibly misinterpreted. "I'll come back." He turned to leave.

"No point," Cas let the laugh out, surprised himself with how cynical it sounded. "This all...kinda killed the mood." The erection was going flaccid, the intense driving need faded as his embarrassment overrode his horniness. Still trying to act like this was all perfectly normal, he washed his hands vigorously in the sink and pardoned himself, heading back to his room. He could feel Dean's eyes on him the whole way down the hallway. His room was, for once, a sanctuary. He went in closed the door, and for the second time in 24 hours, sank weakly to his knees, shaking. Dean was not good for his health.

Life didn't stop just because he was ashamed, though, so soon he arose and started his day. Unsure what to expect from his guest, he set about making breakfast: nothing but eggs and bacon and toast, but at least fresh. If he'd been on the run, Dean probably hadn't had a good meal in a while. Equal parts hoping to avoid another run in with his visitor and looking forward to a chance to interact with him more, Castiel was surprised by how sad he felt at the prospect of eating alone. Before he realized what he was doing, he got up to see where Dean was and let him know that he'd made breakfast for both of them.

The basement was empty, the cot neatly made, the blanket folded at the foot. The bathroom proved equally empty, and the small meditation garden out back, beginning to glow with morning light, was equally vacant. That left only the main hall, and there he found Dean. As Castiel entered the room, Dean rose from a pew and walked to the door.

"I thought you might like a meal," Castiel called across the room to him. "Are you leaving already?"

"Yeah, Father, a guy like me can't stay in one place too long." Every time Dean spoke, it seemed like there were layers of meaning that Castiel couldn't guess at, in this case hints of pain and loneliness and resignation.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Castiel asked.

"No," Dean said shortly. Castiel waited for him to say more, to explain further, but he didn't.

"I'd like to help you."

"You'd like to help me?" Dean's tone was part wonder, part disbelief, and a hint of hope. "You don't know me." By the second line the wonder and hope were gone, all the hard-edged standoffishness back, his voice more gruff and raspy than ever. "I appreciate that you helped me out last night, but I don't owe you shit, you understand?"

"I never said you did." Castiel's heart ached for a man so unused to having aide given freely that he just assumed that he'd be expected to pay something in return. "I'd like to help you, if you'd like my help. If you'd not like my help, that's also your choice, but you'll always be welcome here if you need sanctuary from the storm. These doors will never be closed to you, and I'll never tell them where to find you."

Dean's expression was unreadable, his eyes never leaving the floor. He wouldn't even look Castiel in the face. Slowly, he turned back to the door and unlocked the deadbolt. "Thanks, Father," Dean said inscrutably, and walked out.

Castiel ran after him, stopping at the door. "Next time you see me, you'd better call me Castiel!" he shouted, but he didn't get an answer. Dean didn't so much as glance back.

I will never see him again.

E/N: Earlier today I vowed I wasn't going to work on anything else til I finished some the stuff currently on my plate.

Having reread this, I remembered exactly what was going to happen next (though not really what I had planned beyond that, if I had anything planned...I used to pants projects like this pretty often).

Temptation to write more - knowing it will be full of all the angst - is extremely high.

I have a disease. A ridiculous, ridiculous disease.