A/N: Before going forward, I want to make it clear that the beliefs of my OC, or any beliefs I put onto the characters owned by CW, do not reflect my personal beliefs. This includes religious beliefs, among any others, and I am never trying to bash other people's religious beliefs. I'm a very open person in real life, and my point is never to offend anyone.

Thirteen

She wandered through the hazy house full of people with their backs turned to her, calling out to each of them, but none of them reacted. She didn't know what she was doing here. "Please," she called out. "Hello? Can someone please talk to me!" She grabbed at their clothes, but they all shook her off. Finally, she grabbed one by the shoulder and spun him around. His head was a mass of flesh with no features—eyeless, mouthless, noseless, earless. She screeched and let go of him.

One by one, they all began to turn around, shambling towards her like zombies. And none of them had faces. They closed in around her, and she began to suffocate, crushed in the mass of faceless bodies.

Wake up!

She spun around, and saw him—the man with the light and the wings. But he was smiling strangely, his eyes and mouth too wide, like the Joker. And there was black goo dripping from every orifice in his face, and from his hairline, like it was coming out of his brain.

"Wake up!"

She came awake with a gasp, sweating, and sat up, holding her head in her hands. She looked up after a moment, and jumped, seeing his face, half-expecting that crazed smile and strange black ooze to be dripping from his hairline. Instead, he looked exceedingly normal (aside from the glowy-ness and the shimmer of wings behind him, like a mirage in the desert). His face held nothing but concern for her.

He reached out gently and touched her face, his fingers trembling a little. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She looked into his eyes and saw such genuine, loving concern, so heartbreakingly pure, that she leaned forward and kissed him.

He inhaled sharply, and almost pulled away, but relaxed almost immediately. He returned the kiss, reaching up and holding her face in his hands. Her body seemed to hum at his touch and closeness, a feeling she had been subconsciously aware of this whole time, but had not truly noticed until now. And suddenly, that quiet mouse of a man he had been was replaced by a man full of utter confidence and power. Light poured into her mind like an ocean wave crashing down onto her—but one that she welcomed. All she knew was him, and all she thought were his thoughts:

You are mine, he told her. And I am yours. This is all I know, and it is all that matters.

Yes, she replied, though her own voice was so small and nearly swept away in the vastness of him.

And it was nothing to be worried or confused about. It was all either of them knew, and they clung to this knowledge like a lifeline. They pulled away from each other enough to look at one another, and the look he was giving her was one of complete love and understanding, as if they had known each other for a hundred years.

"Am I interrupting something?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice off to her left. She had forgotten, momentarily, that other people existed in the world. She turned her head and saw a man standing before them, a bemused expression on his face. He was holding a large box of donuts.

As one being, the two of them stood up. She was a little wobbly in the legs and stiff everywhere else from sleeping on concrete all night. But her partner… husband? soulmate? placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, and she felt the stiffness in her body melt away.

I enjoy thinking of myself as your husband, he murmured, once again gentle and demure—but underneath, a glimmer of power, of untapped strength.

His thought distracted her away from the man still standing and staring at them. Fantastical thoughts of crazy weddings in faraway locations filled her head.

If it would make you happy, he said, smiling.

"Um," said the man, still staring at them.

She turned back to look at him, feeling a bit of whiplash from moving between the heaven of her husband's mind and the Earth.

"Sorry," she said, a little breathlessly. "We…" She tried to recall what they were even doing there. "We need help. We…" She should have thought more about this. Even a preacher would have some questions. "We recently found ourselves… homeless." Not a lie.

The man—whether a preacher or not, she did not know—gazed at them with pity. He approached them and placed a hand on her shoulder. She wondered, wildly, whether he had noticed the fact that her husband's body glowed from the inside, and that strange, ethereal wings sprouted from his shoulders. If the man did notice, he was doing an exceptional job of pretending otherwise.

"Come inside," he said. "It's cold out here so early in the morning."

They followed him inside the church.

###

They spent some time sitting in a pew. The man who had allowed them in had, in fact, been the preacher, which is why he'd had the key. It was Sunday, apparently, so he was there before the nine a.m. sermon to prepare.

Sunday, she thought, cementing the day of the week into her brain, as if afraid it would be whisked away from her memory like everything else had been. Her hands were pressed together between her legs as she sat in the pew, something she was doing out of nervousness, she supposed. She felt at home in this church, but wasn't at all prepared for any questions the preacher might ask the two of them.

We need names, she thought, suddenly, and a twinge of discomfort entered her brain as she remembered the conundrum of the stolen credit cards in her wallet. All those different names…

You still don't remember your name, do you? she asked the man who sat beside her.

No, he said, quietly.

And she realized that they had been communicating telepathically for the past few seconds. She knew that the telepathy should freak her out—they'd been doing it since yesterday—but it did not. Like everything else about her connection to the man with glowing skin and the wings, it all felt surprisingly natural. It was, as he had said outside, all she knew.

You were happy to think of yourself as my husband, she mused, yet we don't even remember our own names, let alone each other's.

You may call me whatever you wish, came his quiet reply.

She smiled and placed one hand on top of his. You should name yourself, since you'll have to live with it. She felt his mind begin to work, sifting through different names that were in his brain. Almost immediately, a name came to the surface: Dean.

He physically flinched, and held his head in one hand, grimacing.

She stared at him in concern. Something about that name had caused him pain…

Did you just remember something? she asked, not sure why else a name would cause him physical pain.

He was slowly shaking his head, his eyes downcast and searching, though not looking at anything. I… I think I saw a flash of something, but… It's gone now. He was straining his mind, trying to recall whatever the memory had been, but a headache was starting to form in in his temples.

Maybe you shouldn't force it, she said, gently, squeezing his hand. Maybe it'll come when it's… when it's meant to.

He glanced at her, and nodded once, releasing the tension in his mind, releasing the foggy tangle of a memory he had almost found. The headache began to fade immediately.

They sat quietly for a while, and then she asked, Do you… Do you think that was your name? She was almost afraid to think it, but did, anyways. Dean?

He shook his head, no. He squinted, head tilting to the side as he thought.

She giggled as she watched him; he looked so much like a puppy—

A thousand memories, little images, of that exact head tilt fell into her brain. She squeezed her eyes shut as they flitted past her eyelids. She had known him before, and for a long time, it seemed. Now a headache began to bloom in her own head. She took a deep breath and released the memories, forcing herself not to go searching for more. After a moment, the headache faded.

She opened her eyes. He was staring at her in concern, studying her face, his eyes so wide and earnest that she, once again, felt that outpouring of love for him. "I'm fine," she said aloud; her voice cracked and sounded too loud in the quiet church. She touched his face.

He closed his eyes at her touch and bowed his head, looking like a man praying. She marveled at the gentleness of him, hiding so perfectly the power that flowed in his veins. Hiding it from everyone but her. Touching his face, she could feel thrumming in her body, like she had suddenly become aware of the blood inside her, flowing through her. But it was more than that. Somehow, without being able to see it, she knew that she carried some of that same light that he had within herself. She knew it on an instinctive level, just as she knew how to breathe, or speak, or walk.

He opened his eyes, gazing at her, listening to her thoughts. His eyes were very blue.

A thrill went through her at the way he looked at her. He tilted his head again, wondering at that feeling. A flash of a thought was shared between them, something secret and sexual. His eyes became more intense, and seemed to trap her in place. That hum in her blood and bones sped up, matching the hum inside him.

She pulled her hand away from his face, remembering that they were in a church. Not the time or place, she murmured, though she was not exactly bothered by his attentions.

He kept his eyes on her for a moment, and she could feel them roaming her face, her body. Then, he calmed, and the hum in her veins slowed again.

Feeling a little like she needed to repent for… whatever had just happened, she reached down and pulled the Bible out of the slot in the pew in front of her. She held it, closed, in her hands and tried to think of a verse or two that fit their strange situation. Here they sat, in a House of the Lord, homeless and without memory, yet they were unafraid. One of them had strange powers and wings, and light poured forth from within his body. She thought about all of these things, strange and miraculous, and murmured:

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. / He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. / He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake…"

Beside her, the man she had accepted in only seconds as her husband, spoke the words with her: "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. / Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. / Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."

She turned to look at him as they finished reciting Psalm 23, gazing at him in wonder. "We don't remember our names, but we can recite entire psalms by memory," she said.

"Psalm 23 is very popular," said the preacher, coming over to their pew. "Still, it's impressive that you could recite it so cleanly."

She looked up at the man, wondering if he had been watching them and their strange, silent conversation. He was holding two donuts out, wrapped in napkins. She took one, and after a moment, her husband reached out and took the other. She bit into hers immediately; he simply stared at it, as if he had never seen food before.

"Aren't you hungry?" she asked, realizing that she was starving as she said it.

He continued to stare at the donut. "No," he said, his voice soft.

She studied his face. "You should eat, anyways," she said. "We don't know when or where we'll get our next meal."

He hesitated, and she felt a spike of disgust in his mind, but he bit into the donut. A small bite, like a mouse. Immediately, he grimaced, swallowed, and did not bite into it again.

She tilted her head, watching his face. "What is it?" she asked.

"I… don't know," he murmured. "It tastes… strange. Overwhelming."

She sucked in a breath through her teeth, massaging a temple with her fingers as a short memory flitted across her mind: Him, sitting in a car in the passenger seat, licking caramel off of his thumb and making that same grimace.

I… don't think you eat, she said, speaking only in her mind, for the preacher was watching them both, closely.

No, he agreed. I don't think I eat.

She shook her head. What are you?

The preacher interrupted them. "What are your names?" His voice was not accusatory, but she had to stop herself from flinching at the question.

Did they lie? Make up names? Or tell him the truth: that they had lost their memories?

She knew now, from experience, that trying to force the memories to come was not good. "I…" she began, with every intention of telling him the truth. "Ruth," she said, instead. The name had come to her like breathing. Somehow, she knew it was not her true name, but it felt right, somehow.

Another memory flashed across her mind, a Bible quote: And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.

Her husband's mind was working, spinning, for the thought of names seemed to have caught him off guard. Many names began to pour into his head, but with no memories attached: Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Raphael… The names of angels. Archangels. He squinted, staring into his lap, a headache forming once again.

She squeezed one of his hands. Don't force it, she warned.

He shook his head, for none of those names were his own, and he did not have it within him to lie. He looked up at the preacher, who was now staring at the two of them with open confusion. "I don't remember my name," he said, and his voice was sad and ashamed, as if forgetting himself had been his own fault.

The preacher pursed his lips. He looked between the two of them for a moment, and then he said, in a gentle but firm tone, "I think you'd better tell me what's really going on."