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Dean Winchester couldn’t sleep.
The little alarm clock on the dresser between his and Sam's motel beds was telling him it was 3:45 am, and wake time was in a few hours. Sam had been snoring since 1:00, not having flashbacks tonight, but Dean had tossed and turned and cursed the universe already, and still he couldn't sleep.
Maybe it was the aching pain that he had been trying to ignore for so many weeks now, a dull gnawing in his chest that was being buried under cases and denial and booze.
Yeah. He guessed that could be it.
No matter how many things he distracted himself with, the images burned in his mind: Cas, standing in the ring of holy oil looking so hurt (and how dare he? Wasn't he the liar? And why did his face make Dean want to run back?). Cas staring at him with cold eyes, freshly absorbed souls turning him into the righteous maniac Dean had first thought him to be. Later when Cas came back, literally ripping apart at the seams with the burden of a million souls. Turning back to Dean and saying "I'm sorry, Dean." The last word on his lips was Dean's name, the last word before he released them all into Purgatory and collapsed. The relief Dean had felt when Cas had been alive (despite everything he had done wrong, he could repent and fix things later. At least he was still here).
Then anger and revulsion and fear when Cas's eyes clouded over with a new maniacal gleam and he spoke with a voice utterly unlike his. Because it wasn't him, it was the ancient monsters he had been unable to dispose of, taking control of Castiel's vessel. They were laughing and jeering and insane, but they were dissolving the vessel into pieces, and so they fled. They walked Cas into the river and he...he...
Dean realized that his breathing had stopped for a moment. His inhale was a choked shudder, his exhale a deep sigh. It never got any easier to think about.
Worse, he couldn't bear to admit why.
Dean had had friends and family and loved ones die before—his mother, his father, Ash, Ellen, Jo, Sammy (shit, he'd signed away his soul to bring Sammy back that first time). He had been miserable before, broken, alcoholic, desperate. But that had been for his family. And sure Cas is family now, and Dean wasn't lying when he said that he'd die for him. But Dean's chest is hollow, his eyes moist, his spirit crushed. And all for the death of another friend?
Not to mention the “pillow” that Dean currently, nervously had his head perched on. Well, there was an actual motel pillow…but that was currently lying under a folded and slightly filthy tan trench coat. Dean had waited until Sammy had been asleep a good 2 hours to pull it out, and he was ready to flick it under the covers at a moment’s notice.
Yeah. Apparently, Castiel was such a good friend that Dean was currently burying his face into Castiel's ruined coat like a heartbroken teenager. Like a mourning lover...
A shuddering breath forced its way out of Dean's throat and he muffled it into the coat. Dean didn't have a proper word for what Cas was to him, but that wasn't really important now. Anything that Castiel was and could have been was just molecules distributed into the water supply.
Gone was the nerd angel Dean had come to rely on and talk to and joke with. The angel he had liked...the angel he had loved.
Loved.
Huh. It wasn't a word that Dean was comfortable with. Love was a terrifying thought, a promise of pain and rejection and loss and regret, and Dean had avoided it all his life. Romance wasn't for him, the sleezy guy that rolled into town and picked up pretty girls for a night at most.
Romance was acceptance and adoration and a house and togetherness. Things Dean would never have, not with Lisa and Ben, not with anybody. He was given the hunter life and his brother, and that was more than he deserved.
He was also given scars and nightmares and a freshly broken heart, all because the one person that he might've taken a chance on was dead, and Dean hadn't been able to save him.
Again and always, Dean let down the people he loved. Cas was no exception.
And so Dean lay, cheek against the tan fabric, a tear soiling it gently. Maybe if he inhaled the scent for long enough, he could pretend Cas was still here. Just enough to fall asleep.
And maybe he could wake up before Sammy saw and stash the coat back into his bag, so that nobody would find out Dean's secret.
But for now, it would just be Dean, the darkness, and the grubby trench coat that belonged to the fool he loved.