It was a cold, dark night. The wind was damn near deadly. The type of cold that made your eyes water and instantly have the sniffles.
No snow in the forecast, yet. Which was good news for Dean Winchester. For he was planning on bringing his baby out of storage as soon as this case was over. He felt horrible about ignoring his '67 impala for so long. She didn't deserve such treatment.
But as his luck would have it, they weren't seeing his baby tonight to take her out. Nope, just to grab some more of their hunting materials.
In the rundown shed where she sat, Sam had his duffle bag full of his monstrous size clothing on the top of the car, getting some new ones to wear. Dean was in the trunk digging around for some lighter fluid. His lucky lighter was running low and that just won't do.
Dean had been mindlessly searching for the things, so it didn't process in his mind. The way it usually does. The flashing words that usually go through his mind while he's grabbing something out of the trunk. At least for a while now.
Just stay away from the back, left side, and it'll all be good.
But as fate has it, he was pretty much worn out and wasn't thinking. So he stirred up the back, left side, without much thought.
There it was. Dean froze. His hand hovering over the item. It'd been awhile since he had even seen it. In the beginning it had been difficult to even part with. Even harder to manage because he didn't want Sammy to know. The obsession at the start was probably very unhealthy, and the way he just stopped was probably the same.
There for a while he was uncomfortable having it hiding around, he'd avoid places he knew it was. Even though he put it there. After a couple weeks though, it became tough to sleep without. Hidden, under the blankets, tucked in his arms and between his thighs.
Dean never cared for praying.
He prayed to it though.
The now dirty, filled with a swamp water smell, and ragged tan trench coat.
It belonged to an angel. Dean's guardian angel, some people might've called Castiel. Not Dean though. No, that was far too sentimental. Much too girly. Cas was his best friend for a couple years. Even when Sam went psycho for blood, Cas helped him.
After a while, Dean had a hard time remembering Cas was an warrior for heaven. He wasn't really the same level of douche as his brothers. Hell, Cas rebelled against heaven in order to help Dean rewrite the apocalypse. Cas put all his trust, his life, his wings, into Dean's hands. Trusted Dean when he said they weren't going to kill Lucifer, no, they were going to shove his ass back in the cage. Which even sounds suicidal. But Castiel went along with it, all of it.
Fuck. Castiel had died to help Dean, several times.
The awkward angel, with eyes so blue it should be illegal. The weird, virgin, angel who watches porn in the same room as two dudes. Who takes an entire liquor store to get drunk, who doesn't understand simple references, and loves bacon cheeseburgers.
Dean thought he could always hate Cas for the more recent events that have happened. The same ones that led Cas to his final death. Betrayal at its finest. At least to Dean, it was.
Dean couldn't though. Sure, he was still pissed as hell that he broke the wall in Sammy's head. But he seems to be okay for now, and if something changes there, they'll take care of it. Like the always do. For everything else though, he'd already forgiven Cas.
He missed him. Quietly. Painfully.
Which is why he had shoved the trench coat back in the trunk several months ago. It hurt too much. Yeah, it was a comfort to have around. To catch the tan color out of the corner of his eye from time to time. Which got his heart pounding, formed a small smile on his face and prepared to have his personal space violated. Until he remembered, the coat was empty. Useless piece of cloth, never to be filled again. So, of course, it got shoved back in the trunk after about the seventh time it tricked him.
It just wasn't fair.
Dean realized with a start, he was clutching the coat in his hand. So tightly his knuckles were turning white. His eyes were watery. Not teary, no, just watery from the damn wind.
It must've been longer than he also realized, because Sam was at the side of the car. Looking directly at Dean's hand that was in a death grip. With the damn kicked puppy dog look.
Dean slowly let the coat go, feeling Sam's eyes draw up to his face. Dean stood straight up, cleared his throat, and snatched the light fluid that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
He motioned with his free hand for his little brother to throw the bag into the trunk. Sam did just that with his eyes not leaving Dean. He knew his brother was having a tough time dealing with the angel's death. It was only getting Dean to talk about it, was the difficult part.
Dean slammed the lid to the trunk closed and started walking back to the stolen car of the week.
Sam followed instantly, but watched Dean as he faltered opening the driver's door. A quick, but noticeable, glance back to the impala.
"Dean…"
Dean shook his head, sent Sam a look to leave it alone, and jumped into the trashy car.
Sam sighed. Hoping sometime soon, his older brother would talk about losing Castiel.
Even praying, that maybe, just maybe Castiel would return once again.
Dean sure needed him.