A/N: Spoilers up to the Season 11 finale!

Patch

Riiip!

It was the most dreadful sound Castiel had ever heard, the sound of tearing cloth as he tucked his silver angel blade into one of his inner pockets. Quickly he removed the angel blade and inspected the damage, gently probing around with his fingers. There was a split along the bottom seam, the cloth flapping open like a mouth in the midst of an anguished cry.

If he was Dean, this would be the part where he growled "son of a bitch!" Suddenly, he could see the appeal of doing so. All he could do was stick his fingers through the hole and frown. Currently, he lacked the angel mojo to do anything about it. He certainly didn't have the experience that most humans had with sewing.

A shame. There weren't many material items in this world that Castiel was attached to, but his trench coat was an exception. Just as Dean loved his Impala.

"Oh, no," a soft voice murmured. Castiel's head shot up to meet Mary Winchester's mournful eyes, his fingers still wiggling through the hole of his pocket. He wasn't used to Mary being around the bunker, alive and well. She had been nothing but kind and honest to him, but his social anxiety concerning people made it difficult to reciprocate. "Here, take it off."

She crossed the kitchen and held out her hand.

"Excuse me?" he sputtered. Mary smiled encouragingly and stepped further into the kitchen.

"Your coat. Take it off so I can fix it," she clarified, pointing to the obvious hole in his pocket. "Unless you want to go around with a hole in your pocket? I know how much you adore that trench coat. It's all I've ever seen you wear." Castiel lowered his eyes in modesty.

"I am rather fond of it," he admitted. He took his fingers out of the ripped pocket and slid the trench coat off his shoulders. He only hesitated a moment before handing it over to Mary's care.

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle with it," she teased as she brought it over to the kitchen table, where she had set up a white sewing machine. "I've done this many times. Believe me, I know what I'm doing." She sat down behind the sewing machine and got to work. Castiel settled into the seat across from her and watched as her hands expertly handled the machine. For a while, there was only the rapid click-click-click-click-click of the needle.

"You didn't have to do this," Castiel spoke up. Even as an angel, he was always amazed to encounter a generous human like Mary Winchester and he felt something stir inside him that could only be called gratitude.

"Of course I do," she answered, as if he was ridiculous to think otherwise. "Parents devote all sorts of time to making their children happy. Kissing their cuts, chasing away the bad dreams, teaching them to be strong so that one day they can live in this world without you…" She paused in her sewing. Castiel recognized the first glimmer of sadness in her eyes. It was always there, he realized, that intense longing to make up for lost time, but Mary was just as skilled as her sons in putting on a brave face. "Let's just say…I've missed it."

She carried on with her sewing. It was at this point that Cas felt he should say something, but what? He wrung his hands together in his lap. What would Sam and Dean say to a fellow human in distress? They would stick to the truth as much as they could.

"Sam and Dean have never forgotten you. They've become strong, good men, two of the best hunters I've ever seen," he assured her. Mary sighed heavily.

"I am proud of them," she insisted. "I only wanted to give them a chance to live a normal life, in a world without hunting. Once you get into the family business, you never really get out of it." She knew better than anyone, the memory of Azazel's cold threat hanging in the air between them. Castiel leaned forward, catching her eye.

"What Azazel did to you and your family…it wasn't your fault." Mary's smile returned, but it was a ghost of the one she wore before. It was sad and painful. It told him that she appreciated his concern, but he wasted his breath.

"I wish I could believe that," she whispered. Castiel felt his heart grow heavy in his chest. He wanted to do something, anything to ease her pain, but before he could figure out how, the moment had passed. He sat back.

Click-click-click-click-click—

"It's just like riding a bike," she mused as she began to mend other small holes and rough edges along the hem of his trench coat. "You know, I used to make all of Dean's Halloween costumes this way."

"Costumes?" Castiel inquired with a tilt of the head. Of course, Sam and Dean were accustomed to dressing up like FBI agents during their cases, but apart from that, Castiel had only ever seen Dean wear blue jeans, layers upon layers of plaid, and worn leather jackets. Mary bobbed her head with the sewing machine.

"Oh, yes. One year he was a cowboy. Then an astronaut, a fireman, and a rock star. We bought his first little guitar that year and he went around to every house strumming it and singing the words don't stop believin' over and over. That boy wanted to be anything and everything. The one Halloween I spent with Sam, he dressed up as a baby vampire—the Dracula kind, not the ones us hunters are used to. It was John's idea. Everyone thought those two boys were the sweetest things since sliced bread." She chuckled at the memory.

At last, the needle stopped.

"Here you are. Good as new." Mary whipped up the trench coat and helped him slip it on. His fingers immediately went to the pocket inside; it was perfectly patched up. With ease, he stowed away his angel blade for safekeeping.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, bowing his head to her. Mary caught his chin and raised it again.

"Anything for my boys."

…..