Sam didn't know, but Dean did try to burn away the coat once. Not just toying with the idea, but actually making a fire to toss it in. It was few weeks after Bobby died. Dean had slipped past Sam who had fallen almost comatose after brutal hunt they had. They were going to have their car changed the next day. After hours of fruitless attempt at falling asleep, he thought he might as well get rid of the baggage he carried with him. Fresh start, if you will. If such a thing ever existed.
He took a swig of whiskey and stood in front of the little fire burning merrily. Just by standing close, his face felt warm. Or maybe it was the alcohol speaking. Dean clutched at the coat, poised to throw it in.
This was a bad idea, Dean realized as he stared at the play of red and yellow light on the clothes. The combination of fire and the coat took him back to the night when he trapped the angel in the ring of fire.
Where were you when I needed to hear it?
He had answered that he had been there, but had he? Blah blah Raphael. Did he ever really tried to learn about the war seriously? Did he ever looked for a way to help him?
I think you call him when you need something. We're fighting a war.
The blood stain starkly came to life beside the deep shadow the fire threw in. He suddenly felt like a little boy trying to get rid of the evidence of his crime. Each stain told him that he had so many chances to pull back the angel, that he failed every time. The guy told him that he couldn't afford to care, that he was forced to do regrettable things. Why did he just stood idly by until it was too late?
He staggered back as if he had been burned. He fell to his bottom.
"Cas," he croaked. It felt like years since he uttered his names. He fell quiet. He realized that he was straining his ears to hear the fluttering of wings. He let out a broken laugh. Of course, third time was the charm. He finally managed to kill the guy. Figures that no one would be left to listen when he finally got his head out of his ass.
On a whim, he fed the rest of his drink to the fire. It roared up, no longer merry but furious, craking the very air. He stared at it until it ate itself up.
The next day, the coat rested in the trunk of the new car.
Dean hits the wheel irritably. Things that he doesn't want to remember keeps popping up in his head. Emmanuel's callous disregard for himself shook him up. It was as if he was stading in Osris's trial again, facing the ghost of a friend that he killed. Worse, since this ghost was explicitly offering to march himself up to his death once again, conveniently oblivious to Dean's sin. "Stupid son of a bitch," he mutters to himself but stops-
as he hears the flapping of wings.
He whips his head around, heart in his throat. There is no one except for him. He still looks, knowing that angels can remain invisible if they want to. He grips the wheel tightly.
Another whooshing sound comes, followed by rattling noise. That's when he feels the wind on his face.
The window is slightly cracked open, letting the wind whistle by. He must have forgotten to close it properly.
Baaang-!
"Hey, watch where you're going, asshole!" A driver in a red car hollers as he whips past him.
"You watch it," Dean yells back a second too late. The car is already fading into a dot. It might be for the best. He knows he deserved what he got. His attention slipped dangerously. It was only a wind, for god's sake! He pulls over to the side of the road, not wanting to crash and hear Sam bitching in the E.R. He leans heavily against the wheel.
The sun is still too goddamn high. Bars wouldn't be opened yet. A swirl of complicated mess of feelings threaten to lap at his feet once more. He turns his car back to the town. Apparently, driving isn't good enough to vaporize every thought in his mind. He needs booze. He will drink in a fucking park if it comes down to it.
What are you doing, a corner of his mind asks him incredulosly. You finally found him and this is what you do?
Dean doubts his move for a second, millions of things that he thought he was too late to do springing in his mind. Shouldn't he be elsewhere? But the voice dies down as he finds a liquor store. He gets out of the car, dithering. That's when a sign across the street catches his eyes.
He can't help it.
He begins to laugh hysterically.
Well, that went well. Sam puts his hand over his eyes. Given that Dean and Castiel both had a history of running off in the middle of emotional conversation, perhaps this was inevitable. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Emmanuel standing still with lost expression on his face.
"Don't worry, he'll be back," he tries to put on what he hopes is a reassuring face. "He just needs a little time."
Emmanuel nods, but doesn't seem to be paying attention. He closes his eyes, trying to make sense of something. He ends up shaking his head.
"Why is he so distressed about my death?" his question falls softly, like a shoe that a child dropped from high atop a ladder, welcoming its owner to follow its fate. Emmanuel continues to ponder, unaware of how pale his companion has gone.
Thanks God Dean isn't here, Sam thinks to himself. He shouldn't be hearing this.
Night after night, ever since the day in resorvoir, Dean has been trying to drown himself with alcohol. He wouldn't talk about the reason, and Sam soon gave up on asking, too aware of the fact that his hallucination made his brother feel guilty for his grieving. All he could do was pretend to be nonchalant everytime Dean carried that tattered trench coat into their new car.
Cas should know this. If only he could figure out how to put all of this in a word that an amnesiac angel could understand.
"How else do you think Dean would react to your death?" Coming up with nothing, Sam just asks point blank. He is frustrated with his lack of ability.
Emmanuel tilts his head. "He had no qualms about killing me the first time he met me. And I betrayed him recently. I thought he would want to see me dead."
"Oh," Sam mutters. "That wasn't the greatest first or last impression, was it," he resents the fact that the logic isn't entirely unsound. Of course, they really had to have everything complicated. He resists the urge to bang his head on the table.
"But is that all you remember? Is there nothing that would make you think that we were on the same team?" Sam is almost desperate. If all Cas remembers about them is bad moments between them, any attempt at convincing him that they were friends would fall flat. He might as well be weaving tall tales about unicorns frolicking with demons to the guy.
"There is," Emmanuel answers, pondering. "But I speculated that I was decieving you into trusting me."
"For what end?"
Sam doesn't think that the angel would have thought deeply about that matter, too busy to cast himself into the role of an irredeemable villain. Sure enough, Emmanuel looks uncertain, facing a hole in his theory. "To become a president?" He suggests hesitantly.
"Exact- wait, what?"
"When you want something really really bad, you lie," Emmanuel recites slowly, clearly quoting someone. "Because that's how you become a president," he pauses. "I'm afraid I have no idea where this came from."
"Yeah, me neither," Sam shakes his head. Who fed a crappy political show to the angel? That shouldn't have been allowed. "Perhaps you might want to be a bit more selective in your channel surfing."
"Surf what?"
"You know, television. I think you come across that while watching TV."
"Oh," nods Emmanuel. He observes the man in front him strangely. "You are at ease around me."
Sam blinks. "Yeah."
"Aren't you worried?"
Everything that transpired today comes to his mind and he can't help quirking a wry smile. "Not about myself."
The angel stares at him for a long moment. His eyes flicker toward the closed door.
"If you want to know something, ask me," Sam offers quietly. "I won't be able to answer everything, but I can give you some basis." He debates on whether or not he should be telling the next bit to the man, if it is too much. But he has been in that place, in that tangle of self-loathing, and he knows the words that he burned to hear. He licks his lips.
"I see myself in you. So believe me when I say you're not a monster you think you are," he looks straight at the blue eyes, willing him to listen. "Please give yourself a chance."
This time, Emmanuel doesn't continue to stand rigidly. He wavers, taking a step back. For a second, Sam thinks that he managed to scare away the angel, too.
"I-, thank you."
When the words land like a wisp of wings, Sam feels boneless with relief.
Donna carefully sorts through many clothes with a small notepad in her hand. She doesn't want to get an order lost among her long list.
"Hey, um, how long would it take to dry clean this?"
New customer, she sighes. Not that she isn't happy that her business is going well, but why couldn't customers come in a more orderly fashion? The flux between insanely busy days and boredly lazy days still irritates her.
She comes out of the forest of clothes, and finds a handsome young man about her son's age. Her professional smile turns slightly warmer.
"Well, you would have to wait for a day at least. We have-" Donna freezes as she witnesses the state of the article. The blood stain and black smudges on the trench coat are old. It looks like it came straight out of a horror movie. She slowly raises her head, images of robbery and murder scenes from the news flashing through her mind. The man's tight smile suddenly appears ominous.
"It's my friend's," the man hastily explains. She thinks he saw her surreptiously reaching for her phone. "He, uh," Donna listens, hands sweaty, wondering what kind of excuse the man would come up with. "Died."
The word falls flat between them.
It's not the whole story. The man opens and closes his mouth for further explanation, but it won't come to him. She isn't suspicious anymore. She is old enough to recognize struggling grief when she sees one.
"Oh," Donna says softly, not pushing. The man's hand on the edge the counter is white with pressure. He's on the verge of snatching the coat and just running back, she can tell. What the hell am I doing here, his face screams. She wonders how long he has been hanging onto this piece of clothes. She brushes the coat with her right hand. It's dirty, but it's neatly folded. Her ring catches the light.
"Three hours," she declares impulsively.
"What?"
"Give me three hours. It would be good as new," she flashes him a smile.
"Uh, wow, that fast?" he stutters, a bit confused at her change. However, the tension in his shoulders bleed out. She puts the notepad face down on the counter.
"That fast."
AN:
I think this was like the first 'comfort' chapter after 20K worth of journey X) Thanks for sticking by, folks! Hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you thought about it :)