Pairing: Dean/Cas
Rating: PG
Length: ~320
Disclaimer: I own a trench coat, and an angel, and a Dean. But unfortunately these. I can always wish, though.
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Dean plays with the lapels underneath his fingers. They're still damp, still stubbornly damp, even though the heat he's giving off should be more than enough to dry it -or so he thinks. Or maybe, maybe it's the small tears which he swears he's not crying that drip and stain the fabric, spread out and make the color that much darker, that much heavier. Maybe it's that. Even so, he doesn't let it go - he doesn't think he can let it go.
The car's stubbornly silent as Sam drives, the tapes lying old and forgotten on the floor -who the hell needed them anyway? They were tapes -stupid, old tapes. He should have, he should have bought new ones, he should have paid attention to that look that he gave him, the one which said 'I am displeased with this music.' Maybe that -maybe it would have made him trust….
But that doesn't matter now. His shirt's wet, and it sticks to his chest, but Dean doesn't loosen his arms around the fabric. He can't. Not even if he wanted to. A small whisper of a name that he can't quite say falls from his lips, followed by a choked 'Dammit' and a tightening of his fingers around the sleeves, as if somehow, magically, arms would appear and the angel, his angel, would be sitting there, disgruntled but not mad - He didn't care about personal space anyway, and Dean'd give anything to have him too close, too heavy in his arms -because at least he'd be there again.
But he's not, he's really not. He's at the bottom of a lake and all Dean's got to remember him by is that stupid fabric, bloodstained and wet in his arms, against his body, sinking into his skin.
I'll save it, Dean thinks, I'll save it for when he comes back.
But he's not coming back, not now. And instead of the garment of an angel, the symbolised wings of Castiel, flying behind him, it's just a piece of clothing. It's not his anymore, it's not him.
It's just a wet trench coat in his arms.