Work Text:
He hadn’t meant to ruin it. It shouldn’t even matter; he had plenty more where that one came from, but this shirt...this was one of his favorites. He didn’t want to admit it, but it had been the shirt he’d been wearing when he had his first experience with Cas.
(Well, not the first...the first was when Cas pulled him up out of Hell, an act for which Dean could never thank him enough, even if he didn’t do so verbally)
No, this shirt was special. And now, after fixing the Impala after yet another collision orchestrated by somebody in a higher paygrade than him, it was dotted in oil and stained with sweat and other fluids. Not what he’d wanted to have happened to it, but Cas...well, Cas wasn’t around and he wanted to feel closer to him.
(He always felt so far away sometimes, even if they were seated next to each other, getting closer all the time but still...the gulf between them was wider than he’d like)
No amount of detergent was going to salvage it, but he figured he’d try anyway. Prayed under his breath even, that maybe whatever gods or goddesses or saints or whatever those laundry people prayed to would let it be clean by the end of the wash cycle.
(He almost prayed to Cas, more out of habit and familiarity, but stopped short because it was just a shirt, and why would he care if it was the shirt he’d been wearing when they’d called for him in the barn?)
But at the end of the wash cycle, it was just as dirty as it had been going in, as if the oil had hugged the fibers tight and wasn’t letting go, leaving splotchy fuel stains where it cried.
(And why was he waxing poetic about a shirt? It was just a shirt, it wasn’t important, but it was and he didn’t like that feeling because he couldn’t explain why without explaining why Cas was so important to him and that required words he dare not say aloud)
So he tossed it in the trash can in the bunker and went to lay down and rest; rebuilding the Impala took a lot out of him. But at least it was done, and for that, he was grateful.
(It was all done, the fighting with the monsters, the cruel games Chuck played, the story of their lives had been written out but not to the ends the author had planned so they were still here, still waiting for something like the other shoe to drop, but for the moment it was day to day existing and it was kind of driving him up the wall)
When he woke up, the shirt was clean, folded and on his dresser. He knew it was a miracle with a small m that it had been cleaned, and he wanted to know why Cas had wasted one on him and a shirt that he wouldn’t admit he wanted to lose.
(Maybe he hadn’t exactly prayed to Cas while he was washing it but Cas must have heard him anyway like he always did, even now that God wasn’t around and Cas didn’t have a reason to be either, and maybe Cas realized how important it was without him saying anything, but he didn’t want to press his luck)
He picked up the shirt and sniffed it. It smelled crisp and clean in a way that had nothing to do with laundry, almost like it was new and never worn and brought back from the dead like so many other things had been.
(Some things that were dead should stay dead, and at times he thought that should have included himself, but then he saw Sammy and Cas and Jack and Jody and all the others and he thought maybe he was brought back for a reason, a purpose, and that was to live with these people and work with them and make a difference in the lives of others, and that’s a good reason, right?)
He set it back down, a small smile on his face, and said softly, “I might just kiss you.”
(And maybe one day, one time, tonight, he actually would, if he could muster up the courage to tell his best friend just what he meant to him)