Dean stood in the motel room he and his brother had checked in to. Sam was out at the city library, researching information on the case they were currently investigating. The hunter stood beside one of the two beds inside the room, staring down at an object in his hands. He squeezed it, and pressed it against his chest, lowering his head to rest his face in it, shutting his eyes and inhaling the sweet, familiar memories.
In Dean's hands… was a trench coat.
Not just any trench coat; Castiel's trench coat. The last bit of memory the eldest Winchester had of the angel. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he missed Cas. Missed him terribly. He wanted him back. They needed him back. The human was surprised he and his brother weren't dead already without Cas.
But everyone else was.
Name anyone the Winchester's had known in their life- They're dead. Bobby. Dead. Mary, John. Dead. Ellen, Jo- everyone. The Winchester's were alone. Dean's grip on the trench coat tightened, silent tears slipping down his cheeks.
"Goddamn it, Cas, why'd you have to be such a dumbass?" he whispered, emerald eyes still shut.
"Dean, I think I-" The door slammed open, and Sam shot in grinning, but immediately broke off when he caught sight of his older brother: Crying and clutching a dead angel's trench coat to himself for dear life. He blinked, eyes wide. "I-I, uh," he stammered awkwardly.
Dean's eyes flew open at the sound of the door whipping open, and his arms fell, but he still held the trench coat. His expression grew defensive.
"What?" he snapped, glaring at Sam. "It's not like I committed a crime or anything. There's nothin' wrong with-" he paused, glancing down at the beige coat, "-uh, this."
Sam raised an eyebrow at Dean, but stayed quiet. After a moment of glares and stares, he finally said, "Right… So, uh, as I was saying…"
Dean's brother began going on about finding a link between the case and something their dad had wrote in his journal, and blah blah blah. Dean sort of tuned it all out. He rubbed the tears off his cheeks with the back of his hand, still gripping the trench coat. His thoughts were clouded with worry. Worry about what his brother must think of him now. Finding him standing in the middle of the motel room, squeezing a trench coat in his arms, crying his eyes out.
"…Dean?"
The hunter glanced up, blinking, at his younger brother. "What?" Sam stared at him, frowning.
"Did you hear a word I said?"
Dean pondered for a bit, wondering if he should just tell his brother no, he hadn't been paying attention, or just come up with some smart-ass remark. Like hell Dean would go with the first option.
"Yeah, sure, I listened to that boring ass speech about whatever-the-hell we're hunting," he said sarcastically.
Sam's frown deepened, suddenly growing concerned. "Hey, you want to talk about, uh, this?" he asked carefully, eyes flicking down to the trench coat, then back up to his brother.
Shit, Dean thought, Now I've gotta listen to Miss Samantha's annoying chick-flick crap. He rolled his eyes, swerving past Sam and over to the door. "No, everything's just peachy clean," he growled, slamming the door behind him. Sam watched him leave, eyes sad. His brother must really miss Cas.
Dean sat himself down in the driver's seat of some crap car they were now driving. He didn't just miss Cas. He missed his baby. His beautiful Impala. He wanted both of them back. The hunter still clutched the trench coat. It was resting on his lap, and he was staring down at it, eyes full of regret and pain.
There was so much he had wanted to say to Cas that day. They were so close to getting out; getting away. He had the angel at his shoulder, where he belonged, but was pushed back when Cas had felt Them. Those damn leviathans. Killed Cas, Bobby, and hundreds of more people. Dean trembled. If only there was a way to kill them- He'd have 'em dead in seconds. Especially that jackass, Dick. If only there was a way to kill them. Dean would have Dick the first to- The hunter suddenly froze. Something didn't feel right.
There was someone- or something - else in the car.
Dean whipped around, ivory-handled gun in hands, and he aimed it in front of the figure that sat in the shadows of the backseat.
"Who are you, what do you want?" he snarled, finger on the trigger, ready to pull. The figure was silent. It was too dark for Dean to see his face, but the hunter could tell the guy was wearing a suit… And it was… wet? Soaked, even. It was a black suit, and the blue tie was all messed up and tied wrong. Dean panted heavily, the gun still pointed at the figure. "Who are you and what the hell do you want?" he repeated more ferociously. Suddenly, the lighting changed as the figure shifted to the middle section of the backseat, and Dean's heart stopped. Silence filled the air.
"…Cas?" Dean breathed; voice shaking, and his eyes wide in shock. The person who looked exactly like the angel- Dean's angel, goddamn it- blinked at him, expression sad. A familiar, rough voice murmured to him.
"Hello, Dean."