They settle into a pattern easily, and it's difficult to believe that things haven't always been this way. There's purpose, though, in their pattern. Each day, they try to accomplish three things.
One: help Sam recover.
Two: find out which angel healed him from the Grace left behind.
Three: research the Basilica of Saint Mary.
Most days didn't turn up as much as they would have liked, but researching is more difficult without the internet, the angel who healed Sam did well to hide their presence, and none of them were qualified to help someone with severe burn scars covering half his body to the point that they wonder if he'll have permanent damage from it.
Although, as crazy as it sounds (and Dean's never given voice to the thought), it seems like Sam improves faster the more effort and time Dean commits to him. If Cas notices, he doesn't mention it. Not like they were ever known for their communication skills anyway.
"There's a church outside of the village. Not too far away, but far enough." Dean doesn't know what prompts him to bring up the topic, but it grabs Sam's attention, and Dean realizes he now has to continue with the thought.
"At first, people went there regularly. Some from the villages, others who were passing by while they headed for a place that no longer existed. Before any of us knew what the extent of damage done to the world would be. Before we knew how dangerous heading out of the village could be regardless of how close the destination was. Before I knew… Before I knew what happened to you."
He stops himself from saying 'Before I knew what you did.' If they're going to work past that, he needs to be more careful with his words. He needs to remind himself that for every fault of Sam's, he has a fault of his own.
He needs to think before he speaks.
The church is filled despite its dilapidated state, the cracks in the marble floors and the shattered stained glass windows. Some of the old wooden pews are missing the armrest at the end or a leg that leaves them tilted closer to the floor on one side. One or two of them have split in half. He doesn't know what happened to them, but no one has tried to clean it up as far as he can tell.
Silence is nowhere to be found. The choir has been replaced by the warbling song of human despair. The electricity gave out a long time ago, and the clouds covering the sky make it that much darker inside. But the informal congregation of wanderers in the End Days have come prepared. Flickering candles fill the church alongside the beams of flashlights wielded by those who have been lucky enough to sustain a battery supply this long.
Nature is beginning to reclaim the church with vines creeping up the wall and plants trying to sprout between cracks in the floor and defy the darkness of the place. It smells of the earth, ashes, and candle wax. Somehow, Dean feels like it's a fitting scent for the atmosphere here. He walks halfway to the altar, then stops to let a woman stumbling into the aisle exist her pew, her hands gripping sections of rotting wood to keep her from tripping over the kneelers. The violent steaks of grey slashing through her otherwise average brown hair reminds him of how much they've all aged since the beginning of the end.
She moves to go past him, but then her head lifts. With a couple of quick, stuttering movements, her hands are clutching his shoulders, bony fingers letting him know the shape of her hands without having to look at them, and her dark eyes stare at him from their sunken homes above her hollow cheeks.
Her hands find perches on his shoulders, and he forces himself to stand still despite the urge to recoil and knock her away. His fight-or-flight instincts (and the flight one isn't nearly as dominant) flare up, but he bottles it back down quickly. She isn't a Croat, he reminds himself. Just a traumatized human looking for hope.
Like the rest of them.
"Richard? Richie, I never thought I'd see you again," she says, her voice rough and gravelly as though she hasn't had a drink in too long or she ran herself ragged yelling to the heavens for answers in this madness.
He takes her hands in his and tries to lower them to her sides, though she holds on with a tight grip. "I'm not Richard. My name's Dean."
"Richie, honey, I've been so worried. So worried." She shakes her head. "You scared me when you vanished like that."
Dean refrains from pushing the woman away. She's not in her right mind—clearly—but she's not posing any threat to him. She's just… not dealing with this new world well. And hell, who can blame her? Is anyone dealing well?
He takes another good look at her, but he's certain he hasn't seen her around the survivor's village. A traveler, then. He doesn't know where she's come from or where she's headed, but she came to this church for comfort. For answers.
For anything.
It's the same reason everyone comes here. The earth is shaking beneath their feet and faith feels like all they have to hold onto. This is the fire and brimstone preachers warned them about. The end of times. The Rapture. The invasion of people infected with a demonic virus trying to kill or infect others (okay, maybe that one wasn't included in sermons or holy books).
No matter how they describe it, the truth remains the same. This is the end. There isn't a coming back from this. There isn't a way to make it through to the other end of the tunnel. There's no light waiting to welcome them. The storm isn't passing, it's staying. No fancy metaphors or optimistic sayings.
This is survival until survival is no longer possible.
So, why bother? Dean asks himself that a lot.
He looks at the woman holding onto him again. This is why, he thinks. He bothers to keep going for the people who are looking for their family and friends. The people who are holding onto hope that this mess will be cleaned up one day and they'll be able to pretend that it never happened in the first place.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I don't know Richard. I'm not him," Dean says. He tries to be patient with her, but patience with strangers has never been his forte. There's a twinge in his stomach at the thought that he won't be able to get through to her. What is he supposed to do then?
It was a mistake coming here. He knew that the second he left the village, but he ignored his brain and followed his heart (and didn't that sound girly?).
He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when the arms of an older man wrap around her and pull her away from him. He, unlike the woman, has a full head of grey hair and glasses that are missing a lens on the right side.
"Marla, honey, this isn't Richard," the man says. "Your head is clouded again."
He doesn't look to be in much better physical shape than the woman, but his eyes are clear and in the present. They're an older couple, Dean realizes, and he hasn't thought about how much age matters in this new world. He can't imagine that it's been easy for them to survive this long, and he relaxes a bit, trying not to imitate a coiled snake ready to strike with all the tension in his muscles.
Dean opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. What the fuck is someone supposed to say to this? Should he apologize, but why? He hasn't done anything wrong. He can't offer condolences or reassurances about Richard that don't sound as blatantly false as they… well… actually are. He has no clue who Richard is.
Dean's torrent of thoughts is interrupted by the man speaking again, but to him this time instead of the woman.
"I'm sorry about my wife," he says. "We got separated from our son, Richard, when this madness hit our town. We're just trying to find him, and you resemble him a bit."
"I'm Dean, and I don't know any Richards. I can point you to the survivor's village I've been staying in if you want to try searching there, but I can't do much else. Sorry."
The man smiles, though it has a sadness to it that Dean believes will never fade. "That would be a great start. Thank you."
Dean gives them simple directions, but the village isn't far enough away that it would be difficult to find. Under normal circumstances, he'd offer to take them there himself, but he's not ready to leave yet. Besides, he thinks that woman will be better off without a reminder of her lost son being that close.
He slips into one of the pews near the back, secluded. He's never been a praying man, but he tries to understand the importance of this place to the masses. He tries to connect to something—anything—that will tell him what he's supposed to do. How is he supposed to start cleaning up this mess? Should he even bother, or just go on and help who he can for as long as he's able?
Unlike those gathered around him, he doesn't pray to God. He knows that God has abandoned all of them a long time ago. He's not coming back to save this planet at the last second. Isn't it clear that he's perfectly happy letting it wilt away?
The angels are the ones who started this mess, trying to create paradise on Earth or whatever (and Zachariah is still welcome to go fuck himself as far as Dean is concerned). He won't seek solace in asking them to come help. Why should they care about the creations that have been left behind by God?
No, this place isn't comforting. He hasn't found peace or hope. He's found misery and a woman so traumatized that she sees her lost son in every man bearing the slightest resemblance to him.
He clenches his hands into fists and exits the church with quick steps before he lashes out.
He should have never come here.
Sam is looking at him with interest, but Dean sees a bit of "what the hell are you telling me this for" in his eyes.
"It reminded me of you. How you said you prayed every day even after all the shit we went through," Dean says. "You remember that case? Our Lady of the Angels and Father Gregory who thought he became an angel, not a ghost."
Sam nods. "Remember."
"I think if Father Gregory knew, then he wouldn't have wanted to be an angel so much."
Sam doesn't respond, and Dean doesn't have any more to say on the topic.
"Ready to try some more of those motor skill exercises or whatever?"
Cas working with Sam is the most boring part of Dean's day. Not that he doesn't like that Cas is trying to help Sam both with his recovery and to find out which angel healed him after killing Lucifer, of course he has a measure of gratitude for those things. No, he's supposed to be morale support or something (not that Sam has any reason to see him as such these days, but he somehow still does).
Thus, he's stuck here twiddling his thumbs in his chair and watching Cas and Sam sit in silence for the most part (yeah, Cas might be rummaging through Sam's mind, but that isn't producing sounds). Waiting has never been a talent of his, though it feels like he's been doing it an awful lot in these past months. Ever since Sam returned as… Sam.
"Think about the moment that Lucifer was killed, Sam," Cas says, breaking the silence. "Try to remember the faces that Lucifer saw in his last moments, the faces beyond the vessels. Think of any words spoken in those last moments. Think of who said them."
The silence returns, and Dean shifts his thoughts to the Basilica of Saint Mary. If he strains his memory, he recalls hearing the name now and again. He knows it's in Minneapolis. He knows several hunters who have been there or told him stories about that place over the years. But it all happened so long ago that he has a difficult time remembering the details.
What's special about the Basilica of Saint Mary? Why would Roanoke choose to hang out there and make it his headquarters?
His head snaps up when Sam gasps, but neither of them seem to be in pain. Well, Sam looks uncomfortable, but he always does when Cas is shuffling through his head. It has to be hard for someone who lived with The Devil in his head for so long to let another angel rummage in his noggin.
He isn't sure what happened, but Cas shifts from surprised to frustrated.
"Two angels? Sam, we're so close. I need to try again," Cas says.
Sam looks down, the uncertainty that Dean has seen so many times in him before rising to the surface yet again. Then, he looks over at Dean, an unmistakable question in his eyes.
Should I?
Dean gives him one curt nod in reply before he consciously makes a decision of his own on the matter. It has to be done, so Sam needs to do it. It should be simple, so why would Sam need to look for approval?
Why would he need to look for Dean's approval?
But Sam nods back and turns to Cas, his decision clear.
Cas delves back into Sam's mind, and Dean leans closer from his seat.
They communicated without words like they used to, and it was like they had never been apart… If only for a second.
It has to mean something. Nothing can wipe away their sins. Nothing can change the multitude of choices they made to lead to this point. They made their decisions, and it affected everyone.
Including themselves. The bond they once had.
But that doesn't mean there is nothing left to salvage, right?
This existential shit is supposed to be Sam's to deal with, not his.
He rubs his eyes, trying to wipe away years of exhaustion. Unsuccessfully, but it isn't like he has any upcoming beauty pageants to win.
Two angels, Cas had said. Two angels healed Sam? One angel healed Sam and the other one just hung out during it? What does it mean?
Cas jerks back from Sam, standing so suddenly that his chair falls back to the floor. "Gabriel," he whispers, like he doesn't believe the word coming from his mouth. His eyes are comically wide.
Sam slouches a bit in his chair and leans too far to one side to stay properly seated.
Dean moves before he thinks about it, gripping Sam's shoulders to steady him in the chair once again. It's the old instinct that's been becoming stronger since Sam came back into his life, but he tries to brush it off. "No fainting on me, now. Sounds like Cas has found something."
Sam gives him a half-hearted smile, looking a bit shaken. Whatever Cas is surprised about must have shocked Sam as well. How much of his time possessed does he remember without help? Any of it?
"You guys wanna fill me in here?" Dean asks. "Gabriel, like Gabriel the archangel?"
Cas shakes his head. "Gabriel disappeared from Heaven so long ago. He vanished. But he was there when Michael killed Lucifer. Lucifer called him by name, and it would make sense that he could have stayed behind to heal Sam. It would explain why I don't recognize the Grace."
It's an answer. It's finally an answer, but does it mean anything?
"Do you think he'd come if we prayed to him?"
"I don't know," Cas says. "All we can do is try."
"Great," Dean says, running one hand down his face. "That's great. It had to be an angel that shows himself once after disappearing forever ago."
No one responds to him, but he wonders if they're sharing in the same doubts that he is.
Since searching Sam's memories is the most tiring for both Sam and Cas, they save it for the end of the day. Still wondering if Gabriel would show up to answer their prayer, they settle the cabin and themselves for the night. Cas excuses himself to see if he can connect with Heaven more fully and try to contact another angel, particularly Gabriel.
Dean sits on the edge of his bed. He knows that Sam is looking at him in the darkness instead of trying to fall asleep, but he's too lost in his own thoughts to care. He can try praying and invite an angel to their cabin. He can ignore this finding and leave things as they are.
He knows that it isn't a choice, not really. Gabriel might be able to fix up the remaining issues Sam is having with his injuries. He might be able to give them some useful information about Roanoke or any number of topics in this shit-hole world.
The problem is that none of them have a great track record with angels, including Cas (who might once again be an angel or somewhere in the angelic spectrum? Dean doesn't know what's going on with him these days). He doesn't know Gabriel. Yes, he might have healed Sam. Dean thinks he should be thankful for that. He kind of is, but there's still that lingering darkness inside him that isn't thankful that he hasn't managed to snuff out yet.
But why did he heal Sam? What if he plotted this and wants something from them in return?
Dean takes a deep breath and speaks with a strong voice before he can convince himself not to. "Gabriel! We know that you came out of hiding to help Sam. We need your help again." He gestures at Sam, despite knowing no one will see it. "No way his rib warding held up through angel degree burns, so you must know where we are."
Dean and Sam wait in the darkness for the signature sound of angel wings or any other sound that might alert them to a new presence in the room.
Sam falls asleep after some time, and Dean still sits waiting.
And waiting.
He isn't sure how much time passes before he sighs and lies down on his bed, giving up.
They tried. They prayed.
But there was no answer.
A/N: There's a lot that I want to say, but I'm going to keep it simple here I guess. This story is being removed from hiatus. I just needed some time to recharge and rethink a lot of things in my life. I thought of giving up on the story, but I would read the reviews again and they helped me fall back in love with it. That's one of the reasons I think it's important to review the works that you enjoy. Plus, giving up wouldn't be fair to those who have been hanging on every chapter waiting to find out what happens.
I also wanted to make a quick note about the news of Supernatural ending with Season 15. I'm sad, of course, but the universe will still exist and there are still so many stories to tell. As long as there are people out there willing to read and support my work, I'm willing to stick around and write for the foreseeable future.