Author's note: Here it is, my DCBB. Enjoy, and if you want to read this story with awesome graphics, go to works/ 8571541/ chapters/ 19650820
"All clear, Mr. Novak."
"Thank you, Dean", he said earnestly, holding out a cup of herbal tea.
The young man huffed; he had insisted repeatedly in the past that he didn't like the beverage, but always drank it when offered, so James did it every time.
"It's no trouble, really."
The retired teacher begged to differ. It had been snowing almost every day since September 18 (he might no longer have to keep to a schedule, but he still noted every day meticulously, just as a way to pass the time) and it was the middle of November now. Which meant that Dean had come home from the garage and not only shovelled his drive, but James' as well, for two whole months. When he had first started, James had offered to pay him, but Dean had declined so vehemently that he had never dared to repeat it.
They had known each other for a little over a year, since Dean had moved in and knocked on his door to introduce himself, but had only had limited contact until this winter. James only left his house to buy groceries anymore, or on the rare instances someone needed him as an interpreter, and he never socialized. There wasn't anyone left to see.
And yet, when the snow had come and he had resigned himself to clearing his drive, a task that had only grown more and more difficult over the years, he had opened his door and found Dean already at work.
"Don't worry, Mr. Novak!" he'd called out. "I got this."
It had been the first time James had invited him into his house. He'd learned a lot about Dean Winchester that evening. He was thirty years old (fifty-one years younger than James; and why he deemed this important, he couldn't say); he was a mechanic who was hoping to open his own garage and specialize in restorations. He had a younger brother who had studied law at Stanford and was in the process of becoming a lawyer.
He was smart, and kind, and funny.
And when he had asked about James, he had found himself confiding in someone for the first time in years.
"Nine languages? You speak nine languages? I barely manage my own – that's so cool, dude!"
He laughed. "I assure you, after the third it's more of a habit, really. I taught in different countries; France, Austria, Slovakia – the US, of course – "
"Wow" Dean replied, taking a sip of his tea. "I'm living next to Phileas Fogg". When James looked surprised, he grew defensive. "I read."
"I never said you didn't. I just didn't expect you to have perused Jules Verne."
He shrugged. "I read it to Sammy all the time when he was a kid. He freaking loved it."
He looked sad.
"You must miss him very much" James said softly.
Dean nodded.
"He's living his dream though, can't really begrudge him that. What about you? Any brothers or sisters?"
"Not anymore" he answered.
"Oh – I – sorry, man, I just – "
James shook his head. "It's alright."
It was. He had slowly grown accustomed to the loneliness that accompanied old age.
"Have you – " Dean stopped himself.
"Ever been married?" James finished, guessing his meaning. It was one of the questions young people always asked.
"No. It never came to pass". There had been a few people he could have imagined spending his life with. But it had not been meant to be, and he had finally accepted that his old dream of finding a wife or husband (well, life-long partner – the verdict of the High Court had arrived much too late for him) would never be fulfilled.
He had ordered his life accordingly, and if he had been lonely now and then, he had at least been content.
Ever since that first evening, he and Dean had spent more time together, usually after Dean was done clearing the snow away.
It had taken almost two months for him to understand why the young man's visit had become the highlight of his days.
But this evening, Dean insisted they put his fire place to "good use"; and as he watched the warm glow of the fire dance across his cheek and make his green eyes sparkle, he realized.
One of the languages he had learned and taught was German.
The Germans had a word for what he was feeling.
Der zweite Frühling.
The second spring.
Dean Winchester was a beautiful man with a big heart, and for the first time in over three decades, James felt butterflies in his stomach when he looked at him. He had almost forgotten what it felt like, to smile just because someone was near; to bask in the warmth of a person's laughter; to be content to be silent together, as they sometimes were when Dean was too tired to talk but still wanted to spend time with him. Or maybe he was just too polite to say no.
There was no carnal desire in his – he supposed he could call it a crush. All of this had burned out long ago in countless lonely nights, leaving only the vague feeling of emptiness that vanished when Dean was near.
He had had to become eighty-one years old to find his life's great romance.
James Novak was not naive enough to believe that Dean suspected – or would have welcomed his feelings for him. He was an old man admiring the beauty of a young man, and no one would ever know.
Sometimes, though –
Sometimes, when he was half-asleep or dozing off in his favourite armchair, he imagined what would have been if he and Dean had been the same age when they met. In reality, of course, he would have been too shy to approach the beautiful man and nothing would ever have come to pass; but in his dreams of a different life, untainted by bitterness, only touched by a certain wistfulness, he was brave enough and charming enough, and Dean's eyes lit up when he entered the room. Dean listened to him and Dean laughed with him, and something happened.
And James Novak didn't grow old alone.
They were nice dreams.
Just like it was nice to open his door and see Dean, flushed from the work in the snow; like it was nice to hand him a mug of tea, their fingers brushing; as it was nice to listen to him talk about his little brother, his hobbies, cars, anything at all.
In return, James told him of the memories he had made, the countries he had visited, the people he had met.
One evening, he pulled out the language instructions he had written over the years. They were still wildly in use; and he would have lied if he hadn't said it was one of his proudest achievements.
Dean, though, was more interested in something else.
"What does the C stand for?"
"Sorry?" he asked, surprised.
"The C. I've seen it on your mailbox too. James C. Novak. What does it stand for?"
It had been a long time since someone had been interested enough in him to ask. James suppressed a smile as he replied teasingly (teasingly? He was starting to act like a teenager) "You'll never know."
"That's unfair, Mr. Novak. Here I am, toiling away at your driveway – "
Mr. Novak. Dean had never called him by his first name, although James had asked him to do so more than once. His answer had been a cheeky grin and "I would never call a teacher by his first name!"
And there was something special in the way he pronounced Mr. Novak, or maybe it was just James' imagination. He had never really liked his first name anyway. It didn't hold any meaning. Unlike the C. Dean had just asked about.
Castiel.
His mother and her love for angels. All throughout his partly adopted family, she had bestowed names of angels on those she loved. Gabriel, Raphael, Castiel –
There, however, his father had intervened, and so, as his brother Gabriel had told him once, he got away with "the normal name". He got lucky.
James wasn't so sure. Nothing about him had ever stood out.
Maybe that was why, throughout his long life, he had always kept the C. He had never been only James Novak. He had always been James C. Novak.
And maybe that was the reason he didn't want to tell Dean now. In the manner of a silly old man in love, he wanted to keep something for himself, something for Dean to be curious about.
"No reason to divulge my deepest and darkest secret."
"But – "
He winked at Dean (good God, was he becoming senile?)
Dean stopped and grinned.
"I'll get it out of you eventually."
James didn't doubt that he would, but it was a fun game to play.
"I had to translate for a Polish man today" he told him another night. Dean seemed surprised.
"I thought you were retired."
"I am, but there are still some institutions and police men who prefer it when I do it. And I enjoy it. Keeps me on my toes."
"And here I thought that's what I was doing."
James hoped he didn't blush, but the chances weren't good.
"You are certainly... a good distraction."
Dean burst out laughing. "Man, Mr. Novak, you know how to flatter a guy."
His blush grew worse. He knew. He had always made people feel uncomfortable. His social skills had never improved much, despite decades of teaching children and teenagers.
"Hey".
Suddenly there was a hand on his upper arm. James looked at the long, slim fingers, felt somebody's else's body heat and suddenly, just for a second, a faint echo of what it had been like to be overcome by desire returned to him. He was glad when the moment was over. He was already being silly enough.
"I didn't mean it like that, Mr. Novak. I'm sorry."
Dean looked so genuinely concerned that he couldn't help but smile.
"It's quite alright."
Dean took his hand away. James was at the same time relieved and disappointed.
And this night, his dreams included being held by strong, warm arms.
It was about a week later that everything changed. November had almost imperceptibly turned into December, Dean was still shovelling both of their drives, and one evening, just as they had sat down and the younger man wanted to start the fire, James' phone rang.
It was the police.
"Officer Johnson speaking. I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Novak, but we need you hear. Mr. Krushnic only speaks Russian and we can't reach any other interpreter – "
"It's no problem, officer" James said, already contemplating how long it would take a taxi to get there, "I'll see you in about an hour."
As he stood up, Dean was already putting on his jacket, flashing him a grin.
"At least you finally get to see Baby in all her glory."
Dean's car, the 67 Impala. James had watched her from his window often enough, and he knew Dean cared for the car so much he had made sure she (it had become a habit to refer to the car as female, he couldn't help it) was winter proof so he could drive her all year round.
"You really don't have to – "
"No point in calling a taxi when a driver's right here. Come on."
And so James sat next to a beautiful man in a beautiful car, as he had dreamed about sometimes when he was younger, much younger.
Dean told him he'd wait for him at the police station, and James would have protested, only he knew it would be useless.
His good mood was somewhat dampened when Officer Johnson greeted them, obviously relieved.
He pointed at a bench and told Dean, "You can wait here, Mr. Novak."
Cas felt mortified. In the next moment, he chastised himself for being silly. Of course they thought Dean was his son or grandson. What else were they supposed to think?
Dean seemed amused, and explained the situation.
The last thing James saw of him before he made his way to the interview room was his bright, happy smile and the thumbs up.