1982
Toronto
Saint Michael's Church stood like a watchtower in the heart of the city. Its spire pierced the sky, casting long shadows over the red brick and gray streets. It was both a house of worship and a home for the forgotten—orphans, runaways, and kids who'd slipped through the cracks.
Castiel Winchester had called it home for two years now.
He was twelve years old and taller than most boys his age, though he never carried himself that way. Quiet, observant, polite—he often kept to the chapel even after mass was over, sitting with his cross in hand, whispering prayers that came more from the heart than the Bible.
He liked it here. The silence. The smell of incense. The sense of peace. But more than anything, he liked Father William.
Father William was old, but not frail. His voice was deep but gentle. When he spoke, people listened. Not out of fear, but respect. Castiel had come to see him not just as a priest, but as a kind of father—a true one, patient and warm in the ways that mattered most.
That spring afternoon, the priest handed out a folded wad of bills to a group of kids, Castiel among them.
"Go on now," Father William said, smiling beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. "Get yourselves some pizza. It's a good day to be full."
The children cheered, thanking him as they poured into the streets, sunlight warming the sidewalk.
The pizza place was just a few blocks from Saint Michael's. On the way there, laughter echoed between buildings. Castiel walked quietly near the back, hands in his jacket pockets, the cross around his neck bouncing lightly with every step.
Then they heard it.
Voices. Jeering. Angry.
Around the corner, a smaller boy stood backed up against a brick wall. A group of three teens—probably a few years older—shoved him, mocking his accent, his clothes.
And his necklace.
A gold pendant hung from his neck—a delicate Om symbol, unmistakably Hindu.
One of the bullies ripped it from him and held it high. "What's this supposed to be, huh? You worship squiggly things?"
The boy tried to grab it back. They pushed him down.
Castiel stopped walking.
"Hey," he said. But before he could step forward, one of the other orphans, Lucas, pulled him back.
"Don't bother," Lucas muttered. "It's just some Hindu kid. Probably believes in monkey gods or something."
Another boy added, "Their faith's weird, man. They don't believe in Jesus. That's not our fight."
Castiel hesitated. Something twisted in his chest.
But… he said nothing.
And walked away.
That night, long after dinner, Castiel sat in the chapel. The stained glass windows flickered as candles danced in the breeze.
Father William found him there, alone.
"You've got that look again," he said, sitting beside him. "Like your soul's heavy."
Castiel hesitated, then told him everything.
The alley. The boy. The bullying. And how he did nothing.
Father William's jaw tensed. But his voice remained calm.
"I see," he said, folding his hands. "And why didn't you help him?"
"The others said…" Castiel looked down. "They said it wasn't our problem. That… his religion was wrong."
Silence fell like a stone.
Father William stood and walked to the altar. Then he turned.
"Castiel, listen closely. Being a Christian… it's not about being right. Or about whose God is stronger. That's not faith. That's pride."
Castiel looked up at him, wide-eyed.
"You know what makes you a good Christian?" the priest continued. "Being a good person. And that means helping anyone who needs it. No matter where they're from. No matter what they believe. You think Jesus only healed people who agreed with him?"
"…No."
"Exactly. Compassion doesn't ask for a résumé. It just gives."
Castiel lowered his head. "I'm sorry, Father."
"Then show me you mean it. Go find that boy. Make it right."
The next afternoon, Castiel returned to the alley.
And there he was again.
Same boy. Same pendant—now tucked under his shirt. Same bullies.
But this time, Castiel stepped in.
"Hey!" he barked, voice cutting through the noise.
The bullies turned. One of them rolled his eyes. "Oh great, what do you want."
Castiel didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and threw the first punch.
The fight wasn't pretty—but it was over fast.
The bullies ran off, cursing and limping.
The Hindu boy stood frozen, eyes wide.
Castiel held out a hand. "You okay?"
The boy nodded slowly. "Yeah…"
"I'm sorry," Castiel said. "For yesterday. I should've helped you."
"It's okay."
"What's your name?"
"Gursahib. Gursahib Gill."
"I'm Castiel."
They sat on the curb, catching their breath.
In the quiet that followed, they talked.
Turns out, both of them were twelve. Both liked old fantasy stories. Both had read The Lord of the Rings three times.
"I always liked Gandalf," Gursahib said. "Wise, but could throw down when needed."
"Yeah," Castiel smiled. "Me too."
As the sun dipped lower, Castiel stood. "You should come back here tomorrow. I'll bring a book."
Gursahib grinned. "Deal."
When Castiel returned to Saint Michael's, Lucas and the other boys were waiting near the chapel.
"You snitched," one hissed. "Told Father William, didn't you?"
Before Castiel could answer, they lunged.
Fists flew—but they didn't get far.
Father William's voice cracked like thunder down the hall.
"ENOUGH!"
The boys froze.
"You three," he barked. "Your privileges are revoked. No field trips. No pizza. No common room. One month."
They grumbled, but they didn't argue.
Father William turned to Castiel. "What happened?"
Castiel told him everything—the apology, the fight, the name.
And the smile that crept over Father William's face wasn't prideful. It was peaceful.
"Well done, my boy," he said. "That's the kind of strength God values most."
And for the first time in a long while, Castiel felt something warm bloom in his chest.
Not power.
But purpose.