Dean woke up with a start. The bottle of whisky that had been nestled in the crook of his elbow clattered onto the floor, making him jump again. He propped himself on his elbow and looked around, alert. He strained his eyes in the dark, trying to perceive an absent foe. In the far corner of the only room of the dilapidated cabin, he made out the shape of Sam, fast asleep, an arm hanging over the side of the small bed. Dean's body relaxed and he gradually became aware of the cold sweat covering his body. His t-shirt stuck to his back. He brushed the wet hair from his brow with the back of his hand. He sat up. He felt like crap.
Dean closed the door quietly behind him. The sun hadn't come out yet, but the forest was already lit by the morning twilight. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. He could see his breath. He walked down the few rotten steps of the veranda and made for the forest. The dry leaves crunched under his feet. Some late autumn bird chirped in the distance. He didn't pay much attention to it. As he walked, he took sips from a flask at irregular intervals. He winced at each one of them; it had been a long time since whisky – or any type of alcohol, really – has tasted good. He might as well have been drinking rubbing alcohol.
The abandoned hunter cache finally came into view as the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon. The pink light made the place look even more decrepit. With a sure hands, he moved the door aside (the hinges had rusted long ago) and stepped in. The musty smell of rotting wood and leaves assailed his nose. Without hesitation, he stooped to one of the corner. Taking his knife out of his back pocket, he scraped at the earth until he uncovered a large plastic bag. He dislodged it from its hiding place. Soil, rocks and stray leaves rained on his shoes. He carefully walked back out.
Holding the bag against his chest, he walked passed the cache towards the lake. The sun had poked its head further over the horizon, basking the calm surface of the water in soft light. Dean found a flat boulder and half sat, half leaned on it. Carefully, he unfolded the bag. He reached inside and sighed. The tip of his fingers touched sturdy yet soft fabric. He closed his fist around it and pulled the garment out of the bag, which he set next to him. The trenchcoat looked almost pristine in the early morning light. He scrutinised it, trying to picture Cas wearing it. The thought of the angel still brought up mixed feelings. How could he have betrayed them? Yet, more than the anger and resentment, lately it was sadness that filled Dean's heart. He would forgive it all, he thought, if only his friend were given back to him.
He roughly folded the trench coat and set it next to the bag. He took another swig from the flask, emptying in. He was half tempted to throw it in the lake. He didn't. He sighed. Dean reached for the bag again, hesitating a moment before plunging his hand inside. He fished out a small faded blue cap, the kind a child might wear. The kind Bobby used to wear. He clenched his hands on the hat. Long gone was the time when this hat had fitted his head, yet he had never gotten rid of it. This was the cap he had insisted on wearing even to bed until he had outgrown it. This was the cap Sam had been jealous of. This was the cap Bobby had given him when he was only six years old. He felt a prickling in his eyes. He looked up, focusing on the distant shore of the lake.
"Cas…" he said in a rough voice.
Neither the wind or the birds answered him. The sun peeked above the line of the trees. Steam rose from the lake.
"Cas. I don't know what to do…" his voice broke. He took a deep breath.
He could feel the pain rise in his chest but didn't want any of it. He didn't want any more of this crap. He set the cap on the trench coat and got up. It was as if his legs were moving by their own volition. He walked to the edge of the lake. He roared.
Dean's voice echoed. A flock of bird took flight nearby. He clenched his fists. He screamed again. Before he knew it, he was yelling at the top of his voice, insulting Heaven, Hell and everything in between. Later he wouldn't remember clearly if he had actually shot at the lake or if he had imagined the whole thing.
Panting, Dean bent forward, his hands resting on his thighs. His throat was hoarse. He reached for the flask then, remembering that it was empty, he chucked it in the water with rage. Broken, he staggered back to the boulder he'd been sitting on and slumped down to the grown. He hugged his knees. Tears spilled from his eyes. He didn't try to stop them. Alone in the woods, he cried like he hadn't allowed himself to in a long time.
It took him a while to realise that he wasn't alone. Weary and half hoping a leviathan had come to off him, he raised his head. A few pace away, sitting on another, smaller boulder, Sam stared at him. His eyes were red, his cheeks wet, his lips pinched. Embarrassed, Dean tried to smile but could only manage a grimace was fresh tears spilled out of his eyes. He looked away.
"Hey," said Sam.
Dean nodded in reply, fearing the sounds that might come out of his mouth if he opened it. Sam took a fifth of whisky from the inside pocket of his jacket.
"Can I…?" he gestured to the spot next to his brother. Dean nodded weakly. Sam sat down next to him. Dean looked straight ahead. He felt the bottle being pressed against his arm. He brought it to his mouth and took a long draught. He passed the bottle back to Sammy.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," he said in a rough voice. He wasn't sure what he was apologising for; probably for all of it.
Sam wiped his face with the back of his hand and shook his head. He took a sip of whisky.
" We'll make them pay. Even if it kills us."
Dean smiled for the first time in what felt like eternity. Yes. They would pay for Cas. They would pay for Bobby. Those black goop dicks would know what it meant to mess with the Winchesters.