Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine.
Dean, and other people's clothes. Spoilers for 7.02.
Making the Man
He doesn't remember the first time it happened- doesn't even remember if he meant to do it. All Dean knows is that one night he went to bed wearing one of his father's shirts, and when he wakes up and John is gone again, somehow it's easier to take. It's just a faded black wife beater; Dean keeps it on all day. And if Sammy notices, he doesn't say a word. His question-asking phase has been, for the moment, dispelled.
It's a little loose on him; Dean's at that strange in-between of being too big for kid's sizes and too small for men's. The arm holes hang to his ribs and the extra fabric tucked into his waistband makes his jeans fit wrong. But that's okay because it smells like Dad- like gunpowder and whiskey and Irish Springs soap- and Dean catches himself leaning forward and just breathing now and again.
When John returns two days later, Dean is still wearing the shirt. "'snt that one of mine?" the hunter asks offhandedly, and Dean shrugs and says that he must have grabbed it from the laundry basket by mistake. It's a mistake that, from that day on, he just keeps making now and again.
It's a few days after Sammy leaves for Stanford, and they're packing up for another move. Dean uncovers a small cache of shirts that his brother hasn't taken with him, and yes, he definitely means to do it this time. When Dad disappears briefly to check out of the motel, Dean strips off his own shirt and shimmies quickly into one of Sammy's. It's a plain grey t-shirt, and so Dad won't notice, Dean slides his jacket over top.
It's a little snug on him, which means this shirt is pretty damn old. It's been a long time since Sammy was that much smaller than Dean. The sleeves strain around his biceps and the collar feels too tight. But that's okay because it feels like Sammy- soft and worn in and familiar- and when Dean takes his jacket off in the diner bathroom he notices a coffee stain near the bottom. Typical Sammy.
Years later, his brother is back, and finds the shirt while they're doing laundry. "Dude," he laughs, "you kept this?" Dean frowns and insists that it's his. But he doesn't wear the shirt again for a long time; he doesn't have to.
Cas is dead and Sam's in the shower; Dean sits alone on the edge of his bed, holding that stupid coat. What kind of angel wears a damn tan trench coat, anyway, he wants to know- damn stupid ones, that's who. Carefully, he unfolds it, holds it out in front of him. Has the stupid, damn, childish urge to try it on, just because he can. He doesn't.
He catches sight of the tag though, and notes that it's just about his size. Weird to think of angels having coat sizes- weird to think that he and Cas could ever have anything like that in common. Weirder even to think that he'll never see Cas in this coat again, or in that stupid tie, or with that stupid face. The coat looks like Cas- beat-up and unexpected. But the coat is in one piece, and Cas is not.
It's pointless even to keep it. It's not like he'll come rambling in the door at any moment, saved yet again in some strange twist. Not like Dean will ever have the opportunity to give him his coat back and insist that keeping it just seemed like the polite thing to do.
Alone in the dim motel room, Dean bows his head, closing his eyes so he can no longer see the garment hanging slackly from his hands. Less than polite, and a bit closer to desperate, he knows. But how could he ever just throw it away? This, and a scar on his arm- it's all he's got left.