Work Text:
In a laundromat in Colorado, Amelia Novak pulls her dead husband's trenchcoat from a washing machine.
She doesn't recognize it at first. All she sees when she opens the only machine that doesn't seem to be running is that someone left their clothes in it.
She doesn't get angry. She's too tired for that.
Maybe she's a little frustrated. Maybe her movements are a little rough, a little impatient when she pulls the forgotten laundry from the machine and drops it carelessly on the floor. Something about it catches on something in the back of her mind - but she can't place it. She's exhausted. She'll think about it later.
It's only when her own laundry is in the machine, revolving lazily in water and detergent by the grace of her quarters, that she finally looks at the dirty pile at her feet.
It is then that she sees it, its blue color bright against the black of a crumpled suit jacket.
She doesn't think, it can't be.
She doesn't think, that's impossible.
She doesn't really think much of anything at all as she slowly squats down before the pile of black and white and tan with the long blue band that she now reaches out for to run through her fingers, once, deliberately, before setting it back down on the floor. She settles down on her knees. Lifts up each piece, looks at it, and places it down again, from one pile to another.
A blue tie, stained with blood.
A black suit jacket, stained with blood.
A white dress shirt, stained with blood.
A pair of black dress pants.
One black sock. Two.
A tan trenchcoat.
She doesn't put that one back down.
She moves it in her hands, creasing the already rumpled fabric, running her fingers over edges that should be frayed, seams that should be worn, tan cloth that should be faded, because this trenchcoat has been gone for four years now, and another one before that. And in the back of her head, a voice starts saying, No.
She tries not to listen. She doesn't want to, she's tired, she's been running so long, been afraid for so long; she doesn't want that anymore. She just wants to sit here and wait for her laundry.
But her tired, haunted mind is saying no no no no no no no...
"It's okay", she breathes out, not even bothering to look up if anyone's hearing her talking to herself, just running her fingers over the dark brown bloodstains that have dried into the lapels of the trenchcoat in her hands, "it's okay."
It's not okay.
It's Jimmy's, that's Jimmy's coat, Jimmy's suit, Jimmy's clothes, that's Jimmy's clothes with blood on them, Jimmy's old trenchcoat with blood on it, Jimmy's blood...
"Jimmy's dead", Amelia whispers, because she has to believe that. She has to believe that he's gone, that he's not walking around as an angel's puppet still after all these years. She has talked to Claire. About what it felt like. That can't still be happening to Jimmy. It's Castiel now, it must be Castiel.
If Castiel is wounded, Jimmy cannot still bleed.
Castiel was here.
Why would an angel use a laundromat?
The thought is sudden, and so absurd. For a moment, she is roused from her musings, stares blankly ahead with a frown on her face, absently twisting and kneading the trenchcoat between her hands, the washing machine rumbling, but providing no explanation.
What the hell is going on here?
Before she can come up with any kind of answer, she is startled again from her thoughts by the ringing of her cellphone. She almost screams. For a moment, her hands don't seem to know how to untangle themselves from the fabric they're holding. Then they're scrambling, hastily, for the phone in her pocket, and she's picking it up with trembling fingers, pressing it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Mom?"
Irrationally, she feels something like disappointment. As if she had been expecting her husband. Her dead husband, who doesn't even have this number.
"Claire, hey", she sighs. "Is everything alright?"
"I'm fine." A pause. "You sound tired."
"I'm fine", Amelia mutters, unconsciously echoing her own daughter, "I'm fine." She lets out a deep breath, slowly. Runs a hand through her hair. Realizes she has dropped the trenchcoat. "Did you want something?"
Claire hesitates. "It's about the angels", she says.
Amelia sighs. "Claire, I told you. That was a meteor shower. They all said so on the news. Meteors, okay?"
"Mom..."
"Meteors, Claire." Amelia cuts her off, feeling a panic rise in her chest. "That's all it was. No more angels, okay?"
"They might need us."
"They're angels, Claire. They don't need us."
A sullen silence answers her from the other end of the line.
A sullen silence is also the only thing the washing machine in front of her provides.
"Laundry's done. I'm hanging up now. I'll be back in an hour, okay? I'll see you then."
"Okay." Her daughter's voice is flat, and Amelia knows this isn't over by a long shot.
"I love you", she says, then she hangs up and shoves the phone back in her pocket. Her hands open the washing machine, retrieve her own clothes. Carry them over to the long line of standard issue tumble dryers. Fill them into one of them. Feed that machine quarters.
Her body folds. Sits down and waits.
The trenchcoat is back in her hands. She's not sure how it got there.
But she curls up around it, pulling her legs up, her back pressed against the dryer as she waits for it to complete its cycle.
She doesn't even notice at first when the tears start spilling, but suddenly she is burying her face in Jimmy's trenchcoat and crying, her body shaking, muffling wails and sobs she has held back for far too long in the dirty, crumpled fabric of the coat an angel stole from her husband and wore like he wore the man that came with it.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
You're dead.
The dryer starts beeping.
Amelia Novak gets up and opens the door. She retrieves her laundry. Folds it. Piles it into her bag. And leaves the laundromat, going home to her daughter.
She takes the trenchcoat with her.