Monday was the day.
The day it had all happened.
The day he went away.
Monday was full of apologies and reassurances.
It was quite probably spent in a state of shock, staring blankly while in his head Cas sinking flashed over and over again until he wanted to think about something else, anything else.
Seconds were hours and hours were eternities, full of thoughts of him until there was no denying his absence.
Monday was absent. Cas was absent, he was absent, the whole world had ceased to be for Dean.
Monday was when it all came crashing down.
Tuesday was very different.
It was strong Dean time, big brother time.
They all moved on, physically.
Leaving that little body of water in their dust.
Dean’s mind lingered but he was damned if he’d admit it.
He’d had his twenty four hours of grief.
That was more than he usually allowed himself.
He drove stoically, knuckles white on the wheel, staring straight at the road ahead until his eyes burned.
He was vaguely reminded of his stint in Heaven, driving like this with Cas whispering to him through the radio.
Did Angels go back to Heaven when they died?
By Wednesday nobody could tell the difference between this Dean and the usual; drink in the daytime; don’t wanna talk about my feelings Dean.
Days passed easier with the help of Jack Daniels and nights threw it all back at him, pulling down any progress he’d been stupid enough to think he’d made.
Castiel would tell him this is unhealthy and Dean would remind him of his own benders when his faith had deserted him, just like Cas had left him now.
So really, it was just Wednesday. The first of many Wednesdays where it would undoubtedly be 2am somewhere.
Thursday hit him hard.
Cas was the Angel of Thursday.
He’d once said so.
Said he never got any peace on a Thursday.
Not that he got any peace any other day, thanks to the ongoing drama of the Winchesters.
Dean occasionally called him on a Thursday, just to take the piss.
Not once did he never not come, even if he knew it was a joke, just in case.
Dean suspected he’d been the only human that not only had an Angel’s love; he’d been a royal pain in the ass to one too.
Who’d look after Thursdays now?
Dean was pretty sure it had been a Friday when Cas had pulled him out of Hell and put him back on Earth, or in Earth at least.
He couldn’t be sure, he never wrote it down and he wasn’t about to ask anyone.
Maybe it hadn’t been a Friday.
Did it really matter?
Surprisingly and irrationally he found it did matter, a great deal.
Perhaps he feared if he let little details like that slip, he’d lose everything and he really didn’t have that much left to lose.
He bit down his pride and asked.
It wasn’t a Friday.
Saturday was a blank.
Demons needed killing any believe me, they were killed.
People needed saving, he made sure they were saved.
He bit down on a belt as Sam stitched him up, another scar to add to the collection and a justification to down the cheapest bottle of whiskey available.
Dean wiped blood away from his skin, trying not to think about whether it was Sam’s, his own or someone else’s entirely.
It seemed like they were always covered in somebody or something’s blood.
But God knows what state he’d be in if he didn’t have this to do.
A day usually spent in peace or the devastation of the week, depending on whose life you led.
He wondered if Angels ever got a rest on Sunday like their religion so often encourages.
Dean doubted it.
Castiel never did, not with them around.
Morbid irony struck him; Cas had all the time in the world to rest now.
And Dean prayed, despite knowing there would never be an answer or at least not the answer he wanted.
He prayed to his angel of Thursday to grant him a moment of relief before the next set of seven days.