The church is burned and broken, but it was made of stone and seems sound enough to poke around in. Dean goes in the back, gun in hand, and he rifles through shattered cupboards, taking a scorched silver cross and a miraculously -- yeah, he thought it -- undisturbed bag of communion wafers.
It looks like a mouse was chewing through one edge of the bag, but fuck it, he'll take what he can get.
"Cas," he says, heading back into the main church, "can you tell if these are, uh, holy? Or whatever?" Dean has learned that these things make a difference -- that sometimes stale bread is just stale bread and then he is well and truly fucked.
The roof is half gone, and there's a rare hint of sunlight in the sky today. It filters down through the ash and filth, touches Castiel's shoulders where he stands by the altar.
The once-an-angel has been rearranging things. He's found an almost-white cloth somewhere, and spread it across the altar's cracked surface; when Dean enters, Cas is positioning a half-melted cross at the centre, just where the sun hits it. The twisted gold flickers, gleams in and out beneath his shadow as he moves.
"Keep your damn gun out," says Dean, and then he's brought up short because Cas turns at that and Cas's eyes are fierce and hard.
"Don't swear here."
They are silent, then, both of them, and there is more than an edge of familiarity to the way they stare at each other -- Dean's irritated confusion, Cas's sharply obfuscated desperation.
An edge of broken glass, stained red, falls glittering from one of the broken windows and shatters against a scorched stone sill. Dean jerks his attention over, finger tightening on gun trigger, and then the moment has passed and Cas says, dully, "Yes. They're consecrated."
That's lucky, anyway.
Cas rubs a hand across the bridge of his nose, and fades back to what he is: unshaven, weary, stinking in wrinkled clothes four days old. "Let's go," he adds. "There's nothing here."
"Yeah." Dean looks at the ruined altar, at the sadly tilting cross on its thin cotton perch. He offers, "You can drive."
Random scenes FTW
It looks like a mouse was chewing through one edge of the bag, but fuck it, he'll take what he can get.
"Cas," he says, heading back into the main church, "can you tell if these are, uh, holy? Or whatever?" Dean has learned that these things make a difference -- that sometimes stale bread is just stale bread and then he is well and truly fucked.
The roof is half gone, and there's a rare hint of sunlight in the sky today. It filters down through the ash and filth, touches Castiel's shoulders where he stands by the altar.
The once-an-angel has been rearranging things. He's found an almost-white cloth somewhere, and spread it across the altar's cracked surface; when Dean enters, Cas is positioning a half-melted cross at the centre, just where the sun hits it. The twisted gold flickers, gleams in and out beneath his shadow as he moves.
"Keep your damn gun out," says Dean, and then he's brought up short because Cas turns at that and Cas's eyes are fierce and hard.
"Don't swear here."
They are silent, then, both of them, and there is more than an edge of familiarity to the way they stare at each other -- Dean's irritated confusion, Cas's sharply obfuscated desperation.
An edge of broken glass, stained red, falls glittering from one of the broken windows and shatters against a scorched stone sill. Dean jerks his attention over, finger tightening on gun trigger, and then the moment has passed and Cas says, dully, "Yes. They're consecrated."
That's lucky, anyway.
Cas rubs a hand across the bridge of his nose, and fades back to what he is: unshaven, weary, stinking in wrinkled clothes four days old. "Let's go," he adds. "There's nothing here."
"Yeah." Dean looks at the ruined altar, at the sadly tilting cross on its thin cotton perch. He offers, "You can drive."
****
Perhaps I should PM you my email address.