Canon. Takes place between 7.02 and 7.17.
For sentimental reasons
It was dark. It was always dark lately. The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling moved a little in the draft. Its light cast eerie shadows on the walls.
Dean was tired. Bone tired. The sort of tired he imagined you'd feel at the end of a long life, when your last breath came as a relief. The sound of running water didn't help. It made him drowsy. He should probably shower and brush his teeth too, but he didn't think he could stay awake.
The bed looked clean enough, so he lay down. He didn't even bother to take his jacket off. It was summer, but the weather refused to correspond to the season. Courtesy of the draft, it was even colder. Dean tried to recall the last time he'd felt warm. That was a while ago.
He reached for his duffel bag and dug around. The door of the bathroom opened. Dean wanted to comment on the long shower, but he thought better of it when he saw his brother's face. Sam was staring at the contents of the bag, with a mutinous expression. It was a familiar look.
Quickly, Dean closed the bag, but it was too late.
'I don't want to carry it,' Sam opened. His tone was argumentative. Nowadays, Dean alternated between worrying about his brother and wanting to kill him. He rather preferred the former. Ah, remember the days when all you did was worry about Sam? Good times. Just agree, he decided.
'Then don't. I'll carry it. I always carry it anyway,' he said.
'Yeah,' Sam responded, sounding ever so contemptuous. Fuck him. Dean usually did pretty much anything to avoid a confrontation, but he couldn't help himself. He reacted, sharply.
'What?'
Sam glanced at him and looked away.
'Nothing,' he mumbled.
Okay. Dean felt stupidly relieved for a second. That was it: no fight. Sam then proceeded to try and break everything he touched. He almost tore apart his own bag in an attempt to find something. Looked into the drawer of the night stand, banged it shut when he saw that it contained a Bible. He practically demolished the bed when he threw himself down on it. Dramatic much? After counting to ten, Dean sat up. He closed his eyes and opened them again.
'Obviously, something's up.' Up your ass. Dean was trying really hard to remain calm and only barely succeeding. Sam jumped up from his bed. He was not responding well to reason. In fact, it seemed to piss him off.
'It's nothing,' Sam snapped. He started to pace and continued in a similar vein, 'Go on and carry it. Carry it all you want. For the both of us. You're very good at carrying it.'
There was definitely a fight coming on. Too bad that Dean was kind of losing the thread of their late night battle. He had thought that he knew what they were talking about, but now he wasn't so sure anymore.
'The coat?' he asked. His hesitation and confusion infuriated his brother.
'Yeah, the coat,' Sam spit out. They were clearly not talking about the coat. Or they were; in a metaphoric, symbolism sort of way that Dean didn't understand. Dean did nothing. He simply wasn't going to say anything. You couldn't argue if one person refused to participate.
'You're being a douche,' Sam then stated. Come on, Dean thought. He snorted as loudly as possible.
'Oh, I'm being a douche.'
'Yeah.'
This whole serenity thing wasn't working. His hands were beginning to twitch. He gritted his teeth and tried to control his anger. If Sam said 'yeah' one more time, he might just strangle him. And only regret it a little bit afterwards.
'It would be nice if you told me what we're fighting about.'
Good. That was good. Civil. Reasonable. So what if it pissed Sam off?
'About the coat,' Sam repeated. Sam acted weird around the coat, weird about the coat. Dean knew that. When Sam had exited the bathroom, he had glimpsed it in Dean's bag. That was what had set him off. But why?
'Why?' Dean carefully asked. He was rewarded with a massive eye roll.
'Because it belonged to Castiel.'
Scarcely allowing himself time to think or feel something upon hearing that name, Dean countered, 'So?'
'Why do you have to carry it around?'
'Beats me.'
They glared at each other. Suddenly, Sam approached the bag. Kneeled down before it. Dean felt something akin to panic when his brother opened it.
'Take your hands off,' Dean warned. Sam stopped and looked at him.
'Or what?'
In one smooth move, he got to his feet. He snatched the bag from Sam and shoved it under the bed. Clenched his fists in an epic effort to restrain himself. He was this close to violence.
'Dammit, Sam. I'm keeping it, okay! Why don't you leave me the fuck alone?'
His voice was unsteady. He was already starting to feel bad for yelling at Sam. This was par for the course. Lately, whatever he did, he felt bad.
Sometimes Dean thought that Sam picked fights to distract himself or keep himself together or something. Maybe he was even doing it for Dean too. To give both of them something to do to take their minds off of it. Half heartedly, Dean made a dismissive 'forget about it' hand gesture and sat back down on the bed.
'You loved him,' his brother exclaimed. As if it had just occurred to him.
'Yeah, I did.'
'You're not denying it,' Sam noted, surprised.
'It is what it is,' Dean said and added, 'I'm really tired.'
Sam nodded. Dean stretched out on the bed and watched as his brother turned off the light. In the dark, Sam shuffled to his own bed. They got under the covers. The motel wasn't entirely silent. The ice machine in the hallway made a humming noise.
'Dean, I don't think he's coming back.'
Still feeling cold, Dean rolled onto his other side, facing the wall. His arm dangled over the edge of the bed. His fingers brushed against the coarse fabric of the bag.
He pulled the bag a little closer and slipped his hand inside. Quietly, he felt around for the coat. This was okay. It wasn't as if he was using it as a pillow or wearing it. He was just... touching it.
'I know,' he whispered. Having the coat nearby made him feel better somehow. Warmer. Dean wanted to carry it. He closed his eyes.
The end.