1. Cry
Dean Winchester does not cry. He does not let himself be that weak.
At least, except when he does.
He doesn't have much left of Castiel. It seems he's gone and no one cares. He holds the trenchcoat tightly in his hands, glad Sammy had gone out to do research, leaving him alone for a few moments. He'd gone out to the car and gotten the bloody, tattered coat, bringing it back into the motel room.
He's sitting on one of those crappy motel mattresses and he's leaned back against the headboard, legs crossed Indian-style, beer bottle resting in between his legs. It's open, half gone, and is probably his third or fourth, but he doesn't really know. He feels the cloth of the coat underneath his fingertips, reminding him, taunting him, 'He's gone.' He swallows, staring down at a splatter of blood that he'd refused to wash off. If he washed it, it seemed to him like it wouldn't be the angel's anymore. The essence of the previous owner would be gone and with it, his ownership.
Dean takes another long drink, tossing the empty bottle off to who-knows-where in the motel room.
The coat isn't supposed to make him hurt this much, Dean thinks, clenching his fists in the fabric, wishing there was a solid body actually in it. Namely Cas, like he always was. He stared at it longer, sliding down the headboard to lie on his back and face the ceiling. He's clutching the coat and for the first time in a long time, he prays.
Don't let him be dead. Please God, don't let him be dead.
He brings the coat up to his head, burying his face in it, smelling the familiar scent of lightning and thunderstorms and summer and ocean and distinctly Castiel. He chokes. Dean Winchester doesn't cry. Except when he does.
The clear liquid escapes the corners of his eyes and makes its way down his cheeks, past his ears, to land on the sheets beneath his head. He can't stand it any longer and he swallows, before he stands and throws the trenchcoat to the ground some feet from him. "You stupid son of a bitch." He'd growled, staring at it on the ground for a long moment, trying to replace pain with anger, but it would not work. Eventually his shoulders slumped and his expression softened.
He picks the coat back up again.
Moving back to the bed, he folds it, holding it with two hands, more tears slipping free. He doesn't bother to wipe them away. He climbs back onto the bed, situating himself on his side and using the coat as a pillow, breathing in Castiel's scent as he closes his eyes, imagining for a moment that the angel was there.
He slips off into unsteady sleep.
He dreams of light, pain, anger, hate, wrath, sorrow, forgiveness, love, loss, grief, and of a lake that turned black.
He cries again.
Sam doesn't say anything.
Dean doesn't know that he even knew.
First drabble in this 40 word challenge series. Also first fanfic. So please, no harsh critique and hope you enjoyed! Please leave a comment!