He blinked. That wasn't possible.
He raised his right hand. The young man in the reflection did as well.
"As soon as you're done admiring yourself – what are you doing here? That's Mr. Novak's house."
He was lost for words.
Dean squinted at him. "Actually, you kinda look like him... you a relative or something?"
He opened his mouth, closed it again. Was this a dream? But it felt real. Should he tell the truth? Dean would never believe him –
Before he had made a conscious decision, he heard himself speak. "Yes. James Novak is my... uncle." He remembered that he looked like thirty and corrected himself, "Grand-uncle, actually."
It felt strange to talk about himself in the third person, but he had no other choice. He could barely believe what was happening, so why should Dean?
"Your uncle, hm?" Dean glared at him. "He never mentioned you."
"His relationship with the family is... rather strained. He had a falling out with my grandfather, his brother, over thirty years ago. I don't really know him, but..." James trailed off for a moment before coming up with an idea. "When the hospital called, I felt I had to – "
"Hospital? James is in the hospital? I never heard an ambulance! I knew I should have stayed with him last night – is he alright?"
He had waited so long for Dean to pronounce his first name, and in Dean's voice it didn't sound boring. He swallowed before answering, "He had a heart attack. Right now, no one's allowed to visit. He's in a very bad condition." He congratulated himself on the quick thinking that had prompted this excuse; Dean seemed ready to jump into his car and drive to the hospital any second.
"Not that you seem to mind" Dean commented, clearly agitated, and James realized he would have to act differently if he wanted his neighbour to trust him. He shook his head and yawned exaggeratedly.
"I'm sorry. I spend half the night in the hospital, and I didn't sleep well." He shook his head again as if in an effort to clean it.
Dean immediately looked apologetic, and James felt guilty at having lied to him.
"That sucks, man. And of course your uncle – you know what, make it up to you. I'll make breakfast."
"I – you really don't have to – "
And Dean moved past him into the house.
He had now and then prepared little snacks for them to eat in front of the fireplace, so he knew his way around the kitchen; when James entered, he had already taken out a pan and was starting on what looked like French toast.
He looked beautiful in the morning light. James felt heat course through his veins. He really felt like he was thirty again, looking at the man he had feelings for.
"You really don't have to..." he tried, but Dean shook his head.
"It's no problem. I owe it to you, really. I shouldn't have been so hostile, but I was worried – am still worried. Your uncle's a good man."
James nodded, unsure how to react. After all, he had told Dean that he barely knew his uncle...
"Not that I am not thankful, but shouldn't you be at work?" he inquired.
Dean looked up. "Yeah, but I never take a holiday, so it shouldn't be a problem. Stir that for me for a second, okay?"
And so Dean went out to call his boss while James stirred the ingredients for French toast in a bowl.
He looked at his hands as he moved the spoon.
Strong hands. Young hands. Hands without veins or the specks of old age, hands that didn't shake. Hands that wouldn't look out of place, wrong, if they reached out for –
He shook his head. He should concentrate on the problem at hand, not his neighbour. What had happened? When he laid down on the couch, more or less expecting not to see the next day, he had been eighty-one years old, too weak to clean his driveway. Now, he looked about thirty and had just told Dean that he was his own nephew and that he was dying in a hospital.
How could it be? The answer was simple: it couldn't. This was impossible.
But he looked up and studied his reflection in the window, and there could be no doubt about it.
But how –
And then he remembered.
Let's play for years.
James had won fifty years last night because Patrick Langleben had folded. But this wasn't possible, surely. You couldn't win years. You couldn't just... rejuvenate because you won a poker game.
Yet the proof that he had was staring him right in the face.
Dean came back, grinning at him.
"Told my boss I had a family emergency. Close enough." He took the bowl out of his hand. "Thanks." After stirring for a few moments, he continued, "Sorry, I never asked your name."
"I'm – "
Before he could think of a normal name, he remembered.
What does the C stand for?
"Castiel. My name is Castiel."
Dean looked at him, surprised. "Wow. That's... different."
"My family has always liked to give their children angel names."
Dean snorted. "You show me an angel called James."
"Uncle James is... somewhat an outsider."
It was surreal to talk about himself like this. And that he had just told Dean his middle name, the one his mother wanted to call him eighty-one years ago.
"I'd say. I didn't even know..." Dean stopped and shrugged. "But hey, I'm only the neighbour."
"More than that." James spoke without thinking, then quickly added, "It's clear you two are close."
Dean smiled. "I suppose that's true. Like I said, he's a good man. I've been helping him out a little."
More like working every single day to make sure he got out of the house alright, but James couldn't tell him that. He was supposed to know nothing about his uncle.
Dean winked and he could feel himself blushing. "Name's Dean Winchester, by the way."
"So what do you do?" he asked, realizing that he had to act like Dean was a stranger too.
"I'm a mechanic. Nothing important, but it pays the bills."
James had noticed Dean's habit of talking himself down repeatedly, and he had never liked it.
"I can't repair a car to save my life."
He should have expected the next question, but he hadn't.
"What can you do then? Or rather, what do you do?"
"I'm an interpreter" he answered automatically. Ever since his retirement as a teacher, this was how he had identified himself, and he cursed internally.
"Seems like the talent for languages runs in your family."
"I suppose it does."
"Your uncle and I were at the police station yesterday. He had to translate for some Russian kid." Dean paused and continued to prepare breakfast. His shoulders slumped. "If I had known he wasn't feeling well, I wouldn't have driven him. I would have insisted he stay at home. He really shouldn't have been running around in the middle of the night at his age."
"It wasn't your fault. My grandfather always assured me that my uncle could be very stubborn."
"Stubborn is not how I would describe him. A little dorky, maybe. Still – I shouldn't have let it happen."
James reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "It's not your fault, Dean."
He had underestimated how it would feel to touch Dean now, with young blood coursing through his veins.
It was addicting. He never wanted to let go again. He forced himself to let his hand drop. No matter what had happened, he was still an old man. Although he didn't look like it now. And he was lying to Dean.
But what choice did he have? He himself barely believed that he had won his youth back in a game of poker played at the insistence of a man with a strange German name. At best, Dean would laugh at him, at worst, declare him insane. And what then? If he should choose to call the police, it would soon become clear that James Novak wasn't in the hospital at all.
James could very well end up either arrested or on the run because he couldn't explain why he'd been in the house of a man who had disappeared.
He needed to relax. He couldn't freak out. He mustn't. If he did, he was bound to make mistakes. He forced himself to remember countless hours spent with screaming teenagers and took a deep breath.
Dean beamed at him. "Hope you like French toast."
"I do."
He couldn't remember the last time someone had prepared breakfast for him. It might have been Meg, thirty-five years ago, until she left, claiming he was "too pure and boring."
It hadn't surprised him that Dean was a good cook. After what he had heard between the lines, he had been forced to raise his younger brother; he must have learned how to feed him.
"How long will you be staying?" Dean asked.
James shrugged. Right now, he had no idea what he could do to rectify the situation. The most logical step seemed to get in touch with Patrick Langleben.
"I don't know. As long as it lasts, I suppose."
He had meant the – whatever had happened to him, but Dean obviously took it differently. He looked down at his plate and put his fork away.
"How long does he have?"
"The doctors are not sure" he managed to stammer out.
"Do they think he has a chance?"
"They are very cautious."
"I'm sorry." Dean's face was full of sympathy, and guilt made it difficult to speak.
"Me too. You seem to have spent a lot of time together."
"Not that much, really. Like I said, I was helping him out. It was better than sitting home alone."
James had never considered that Dean had actually spent every evening in his house for the past month. But a man like him surely had a lot of friends. On the other hand, he had never really mentioned anyone, apart from his brother.
They continued to eat in companionable silence, until Dean said, "You remind me of him, actually. Your uncle."
"Oh?" he asked stupidly. Of course. Dean wasn't dumb, and he hadn't really tried to act differently around Dean, apart from taking care of talking about himself in the third person.
"Yeah. You talk like him, and you're polite. Anyone else would have probably bitten my head off when someone came to their door in the morning and asked them what their business was."
"It's Uncle James' house, so it was hardly my business to be angry."
Dean chuckled. "Got his sense of humour, too."
James had never thought that he possessed any.
"If you say so..." he answered, unsure.
"Don't worry" Dean grinned. "I like it."
James blushed. This... certainly felt like flirting. He hadn't done it in years and he'd never been good at it, but it seemed like Dean was flirting with him.
And he couldn't deny that it felt good. Right, even. But he was lying to Dean, and anyway, once he had returned to his real age –
What if he didn't? He suddenly thought. Maybe this was permanent. Maybe this was permanent, and he needed to live his life again, and Dean was flirting with him so he might be interested, and perhaps –
No. This way lay madness. After all, if he had won fifty years –
The realization forced itself upon his mind, and he let his fork fall.
If he had won fifty years, Patrick Langleben had lost them.
He might very well have killed a man.
"Castiel? You alright?" Dean asked.
He smiled weakly. "Yes. It was delicious, but I am still exhausted."
"Better let you get some rest, then." Dean quickly cleaned up, then wrote down his number for James.
"Call me if you need anything, alright? Or if you hear..."
He promised to do so, and Dean left.
James let himself fall on the couch.
He had to find Patrick Langleben before their ill-advised game claimed his life.