Pairing: Dean/Castiel implied
Summary: He keeps the trench coat. S7, drabble.
This is a life written out in the ruins:
Dean keeps the trench coat folded as neatly as he’s capable of folding anything, which is not very. It goes in the trunk, inside a cardboard box that holds the very few things he owns that are of no practical use. Theirs is not a life that encourages sentimentality. He keeps guns and knives and holy water, rock salt and talismans and enough clothing to keep from having to go out in public bare-ass naked.
Dad’s old cassette tapes, a shoebox of faded snapshots that are nearly thirty years old. A well-thumbed copy of Slaughterhouse-Five that he stole from a public library in Boise the year before he dropped out of school. Cas’ trench coat.
If anyone asked, he wouldn’t be able to articulate why he hangs onto it. It’s not like he keeps souvenirs of all of his dead; if he did, he wouldn’t be able to fit in the damn car. The coat is singularly impractical, too: it’s bulky, it’s too narrow through the shoulders to fit him, and it reeks unpleasantly of stagnant water and some hard, alien metallic tang.
It’s pure sentimentality, stupidly pointless to a degree that he wouldn’t be able to defend if Sam or Bobby asked about it. But of course, neither of them does.