Dean never liked the color yellow. He was afraid of bees, the sun was too bright. Flowers told lies, lies about happiness. The color yellow was in everything he hated.
"I've been waiting for you,"
But the words weren't for him.
"Oh, big plans for you,"
Dean knew who they were for. He knew, but he didn't want to know. He had to find the words to tell someone, warn them.
But all he could remember was the color yellow.
...
Wake up at five. Stumble from bed, sip of whiskey to drain away the nightmares. Stretch, shower, shave, dress. Pack the bags.
Dean was nearly out of the motel by six.
He shuffled down to the lobby to return his key, something thick and heavy at the back of his memory. As he handed the plastic card to the still-bored clerk through a haze of sleep, Dean dimly remembered a drink (or two), and a stranger who stood him up in a hurry.
"Hey,"
Dean wondered vaguely if the rough voice shouting even knew what time it was.
"I am talking to you!"
He considered telling him to shut his face. He pushed open the glass doors lazily with one hand.
"Hey! Dean!"
He stopped in his tracks. Memories of a photograph and a gun and an order to kill Winchester slammed like a raw fist into his brain.
Dean hadn't returned Cass' trench-coat.
"Well, fuck."
...
Castiel fixed Dean with a hard stare.
"Where is it," he snarled. Dean was standing on the rain-soaked sidewalk, his eyes screwed in sudden realization. In his arms he held a bulging duffel, and his hair was tossed and wet from a recent shower. He looked so...perplexed. Yes, that was the right word. Castiel frowned, and held out his hand once more. "My trench-coat. Give it back."
"Oh. Oh shit, Cass, I'm sorry. I uh...I must have left it in the bar." Dean looked honestly apologetic for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously with his free hand. "Sorry...?"
Castiel's heart was thudding in his chest. He suddenly couldn't feel the ground underneath him, and he was vaguely aware of someone grabbing his arm, voice full of concern, before he snapped back to reality.
"I need to go get it..." he turned away from Dean. The bar was only a few blocks away, he could run, he could run and see if it was still there.
Castiel didn't want to know what she would do to him if he didn't get it back. He remembered Gabriel coming home one day when he was small, a twisted, purple wrist cradled to his chest. There was a mark there, carved in red. A single feather. Heaven was merciless. They didn't like failures.
"I'll drive you. See? I've got a car. Baby here'll take us anywhere we wanna go," Dean suddenly piped up, leaning back to slap the hood of a low black car. It was shined with car, the windows sheer and the wheels an inky black. Castiel had to admit, it was a thing of beauty. Even if it was clearly illegal.
"Fine. But we need to hurry."
Dean had a marvelously crooked grin.
"Welcome aboard, Cass."
...
The bar was surprisingly empty. A low, pleading song played thick like molasses on the jukebox, and the day-time bartender wiped the counter with a soiled rag. She looked up to raise an eyebrow at Castiel.
"Lookin' for something, sweetheart?" She asked, leaning back on a heel to ball her fist at her waist.
"Yes. I believe I left an...an overcoat here?" he winced slightly at the awkward words (why, oh why hadn't God blessed him with the casual rudeness of his brother Gabriel?).
The bartender squinted, biting her pierced lip.
"Well, I dragged a trench-coat out into the trash out back a minute ago, and–"
"Thank you very much."
Castiel stumbled out the back door, pushing hard on the laminated wood. He emerged in the thin crawlspace between Building A and Building B, the air rank with trash and something sweet. Castiel felt lightheaded just being there, and a rat shuffled across his shoe.
Shivering, he pushed his way forward, spotting a beaten cardboard box leaning against the wall of the bar. It was labeled with a hastily scrawled "Garbage", and draped across the side was–he breathed a sigh of relief–the trench-coat.
But as Castiel yanked his jacket from the confines of the box, he realized suddenly how light it was.
How empty the pockets were.
The gun, the file, even the picture he kept folded neatly near him.
All gone.
He could almost feel the bones in him crack, Anna's red hair and vague smile leaning into his conscience like a brightly-colored doll. Balthazar was surely gone by now, and Castiel could do nothing at all to help him.
Dully, he fingered the thread-bare fabric of the coat. His fingers were numb with cold, and his breath came out in a shaded cloud from his lips.
"Oh, look what I found," came a sudden soft voice. Castiel turned too fast, losing his balance for a second. He squinted into the shadows of the suddenly far-too-dark alley, his eyes finally settling on a short shape leaning casually against a wall. "Looks like I found the sad little loser who's working for the g-men,"
A woman stepped from the shadows. In her hand, she held a file. On her lips, she wore a crooked grin.
"Well, isn't that lovely."
Castiel didn't know anything about criminals. He didn't know anything about dark alleys or bars or green-eyed strangers either, and his heart was screaming against his ribcage.
"Give me that," he managed after a moment, taking a step forward.
The woman laughed, wagging the folder. She had brown hair, in waves, and her leather jacket was rumpled and torn. A slice of dirt crossed her round cheek.
"Aww, you didn't say please, Clarence," she giggled. She took a step forward. "I bet you didn't think we'd find you, huh? What did Anna tell you? That we were all dead? Murdered?"
Castiel couldn't think straight. He needed those papers. He took another step forward, but something cold pressed into the back of his neck, a hand suddenly wrapped around his arm. The sharp blade of a knife cut into his skin, and Castiel felt a warm trickle down his shirt collar, down his spine.
"You see, we want to send those bitches over in Heaven a little message, Clarence," the woman was pocketing the file, and Castiel's stomach lurched. "A message that we're not gone. In fact, we're coming."
...
Dean smacked his palms against the bar counter, causing the admittedly hot bartender to drop her rag with a yelp.
"Did you see a guy come in here?" he asked, breathless. "Around my height, wearing a blue tie? Hair looked like he just lost a fight with a hairbrush?"
The girl pointed a finger at the back door. Dean swore violently, tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and skidded towards the door.
He needed to ask Cass a few questions, needed to tell him to tell the government to stick it up theirs and come gank Dean for themselves.
He needed (as an afterthought) to see those eyes again.
But the sight that greeted him as he flung open the door was about as unsavory as it could get.
Meg Masters smiled at him lazily, a look on her face that reminded Dean of a butcher about to carve up a ham. She was standing next to Tom, her brother.
And Cass, of course. He looked rather confused as to why Tom was pressing a knife into his throat, and Dean couldn't really blame him.
"Dean! How...nice of you to join us!" Meg was raising a gun from nowhere, her eyes bright and her smile cracked open to reveal rows and rows of shiny white teeth.
He wasn't expecting the gunshot, or the sudden pain in his shoulder, or the wave of dizzy shock that smacked into him at the speed of a jet. Or the look of complete horror in Cass' usually blank face.
"DEAN!" he was shouting, clawing at Tom, "DEAN!"
But Dean didn't hear the rest, because he was fading into a silence broken only by the quiet joy of Meg's laughter and a single dot of bright yellow.