Chapter title is from another Walt Whitman poem - I suspect this will be something of a theme for the chapters mostly about Dean and James, since it's hard to find period quotes that portray homosexuality in a positive light. :) This one is from "Once I Pass'd Through a Populous City." Note that the "standard" vision uses heterosexual language, but the original manuscript version used male pronouns - or at least so says an interesting article I read.
A note about time:
In this chapter, there is a bit where it's dawn, James pulls out his watch, and finds the time to be 4:30. "But wait," you say, "Unforth, I just googled sunrise on December 11th in Alexandria, and it's a 7:15 AM!" (Wait, am I the only one who googles things like that regularly?) "How can James be saying it's 4:30?"
Time is a construct. What time is it really at any given moment? In the early days of the railroad, time tables began to be standardized for various reasons (for scheduling, to be sure people got to their trains on time, to prevent accidents, etc.). Before that standardization, at any given place at any given time, what time it was…was kind of relative, in a strange way. So James' watch would be set to the local accepted time for the army, and probably matched the time in Washington, Alexandria, and the general vicinity. However, this was a point before time zones existed or any of that jazz. In the US in the mid-19th century, every single railroad company kept it's own standard time! A quote from Wikipedia to demonstrate how ridiculous this was: "Some junctions served by several railroads had a clock for each railroad, each showing a different time." Indeed, standard time zones in the United States are first proposed during the war, in part to simplify/aid with the logistics of supply and transport.
In the meantime, individual places did as best they could, and confusion was more than once caused by different officers thinking the time was different.
In my personal decision to call sunrise 4:30 on this day…well, I've read a LOT of accounts of battles, which often cite times (since generals who wrote reports tended to name the times in said reports). Though I've never read it explicitly described anywhere I've noticed that very often, marches start at dawn, with statements like, "the troops began the movement at 4 AM, not long after dawn." This has lead me to think that timekeeping then tended much earlier than timekeeping now – I mean, I've never been anywhere in my life where dawn was at 3:30 in the morning (though I've never traveled in the north in summer…). The people writing these reports were in Virginia, Maryland, Kentucky, Tennessee, not Nova Scotia or Scandinavia. Time must just have been…different.
For example: The Battle of Fredericksburg starts on December 11th, 1862 – so, the same day as this scene. That day, engineers begin building a bridge in the "pre-dawn darkness." This aligns to 2 AM, apparently, when Union artillery is in place. By 5 AM, despite thick fog, it was bright enough that soldiers put out their fires.
So, in Virginia, in 1862, dawn on December 11th was right around 5 AM. It has nothing to do with our modern conception of time. Time isn't an absolute, and it was different then. :)
Oh and in case you were wondering…the battle of Fredericksburg? Why yes, that IS the same Fredericksburg that Sam and Dean are from. *smiles teasingly and secretively*
Chapter 9: We Wander, We Love, We Separate Again
Dear Zachariah, December 8th, 1861
I'm writing to beg your intercession with your acquaintance. Though it's not yet winter, the weather has been cold even in comparison to New York, a level of chill I'm informed by the locals is absolutely shocking. A man in Company D froze to death last night, and I have spent the day rearranging the regiment's sleeping arrangements in the hope that such might be prevented in the future, but body heat and fire can only do so much. We need stout wool. I recall Mrs. Talbot discussing her family's textile concerns and was hoping you would approach the Talbots directly about acquiring more adequate protection for our soldiers.
Thank you for the party held in my honor. I had a delightful time and I am grateful for the effort that you and Margaret went to on my behalf. Send her my thanks as well.
If you are returning to Wolcott for the Christmas holiday, might you carry my best wishes and gifts with you? Please let me know.
J.C. Novak
Gently blowing across the page to dry the ink, his breath misting in the cold air, James flexed the stiff fingers with which he'd been holding his pen. He recalled that, months ago, Anna had mentioned that the Aid Society was busily knitting winter gear, but not a single package had ever been received by the Regiment. The sutlers could not keep gloves in stock and the army did not issue them. It had been days since his hands had been warm through. No amount of holding them towards the fire or clutching them around his coffee mug got at the core of cold. In addition to the death in Company D, there had already been several cases of frostbite. One of the Benders had lost two toes. Now when James' thoughts wandered to Valley Forge he could no longer sanguinely believe that the government would ensure that General Washington's tragedy was not repeated. That no one seemed to care was the worst part.
"Major?"
James jerked his head up to see a large form silhouetted against the entrance to his tent. Brightly backlit, it could have been anyone, but even tentative, Henriksen's voice was unmistakable.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" James asked, wondering how long Henriksen had waited for acknowledgement, that he sounded so unsure about interrupting. "Come in."
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I've been looking for you all day." Stooping as he entered, Henriksen let the tent flaps fall shut behind him and James blinked to clear brilliant spots from his vision. "A woman from Alexandria approached the pickets on the road last night with a note for you. I have it here." Henriksen produced a small folded slip of paper from his pocket and passed it to James. Sans envelope, it was sealed tallow judging by the grease soaking the cheap weave.
"Thank you," James said.
It could be from Mr. Roman or Ms. Harvelle. It could be from someone in my family. It could be from almost anyone. But it must be from Ms. Cassidy. What other woman would come with a letter for me? There's no other explanation.
James' heart started to race, his breath to come more quickly. Anticipation spiked, but he didn't dare open it with Henriksen standing there, didn't trust himself to react impassively to whatever it might say.
"How have you been, Henriksen?" James asked. It felt like forever since he'd spoken to any of his friends from Company B except in the course of their formal duties. They'd been rotated from night patrol, which was great for them but meant that James no longer spent the long, quiet hours with them and he was far too busy to socialize when not on duty. He was always on duty. It was all he could do to occasionally steal meals with Hannah or Hester, to exchange pleasantries with Fitzgerald while James was getting information on the Company's needs from him.
"More of the same," replied Henriksen with resignation. "You've seen how the Colonel behaves, and in the face of his attitude, many who formerly kept their mouths shut now feel free to state their opinions to my face."
"I've tried to—"
"I know," Henriksen interrupted harshly. "I know," he repeated more kindly, with a smile, squatting down beside James. "I in no way meant to imply that I blamed you. Don't trouble yourself about it. From what I've seen, you've got plenty of troubles already. Colonel Crowley appears to have almost as high an opinion of you as he does of me."
"It's beyond my comprehension," confessed James, rubbing grit from his eyes with the backs of his cold hands. Still clutching the letter, he jammed his hands into his sleeves. "I've completed every duty he's requested of me, every duty that he didn't requested but would not have been done due to his neglect. I've ensured that despite his frequent absences all appears as it should. None would think the regiment poorly managed..." James trailed off with questioning inflection, and Henriksen nodded his agreement. "...which protects him from reproof. I do not require thanks nor praise – I am not so shallow as that – but I would expect him to be appreciative and instead I am rewarded with callous sniffs."
"And talk when your back is turned," supplied Henriksen. James sighed. "Have you considered asking for a transfer?"
"Have you?"
There was no need for either to answer the question. Neither would consider it, because neither was prepared to concede that they were incapable of facing their treatment. James felt a surge of kinship towards Henriksen and resolved that should he have the opportunity, he'd make sure that his friend was rewarded for his forbearance and hard work.
"It recently came to my attention that, since Fitzgerald became Captain, management of the contraband camp has fallen to you?" Henriksen asked. James nodded. "Was Bradbury not able to oversee it?"
"It seemed inappropriate to request such of him," James said. "It should never have been the duty of a single company, of a single lieutenant. After all, the camp is under the stewardship of the entire brigade. The people who live there have aided to every regiment by doing laundry, taking over mess, and wielding shovels to build the new line of trenches around the base of Eagle Hill. It seemed only fair that overseeing the camp fall to someone of higher rank. I have spoken with General Elkins and he has requested a suitable officer or civilian be assigned from Washington. I merely have the stewardship until such an individual is found."
"If you cannot learn to delegate you will work yourself to death," said Henriksen bluntly.
"It is a duty I would only give to one I truly trust to look after the former slaves' best interests," James said with an imitation of blitheness. In truth, being relieved of that additional responsibility would be splendid and enable James to relieve Sam of tasks that should never have been his. There had been no word from Washington. The request was likely sitting at the bottom of an enormous stack of papers on the desk of the wrong functionary, never to see the light of day. The chances that aid would be forthcoming seemed depressingly low, given how well acquainted James was becoming with the near-inert behemoth that was the United States Department of War.
"I'll do it," Henriksen said. James blinked. "I understand that in light of our previous argument you'd never ask me. But am I mistaken in my belief that I am 'one you truly trust?' "
"With my life, Henriksen," James interjected with heartfelt sincerity.
"In that case, consider me an eager volunteer," said Henriksen. "While I am frustrated that all will look and say, 'of course the black officer is responsible for his fellows,' the Colonel has curtailed me to near-uselessness despite Fitzgerald and Bradbury's efforts to the contrary. This, at least, he will allow me to do. I'm sure he'll feel caretaking the ex-slaves is an appropriate direction for my energies." There was a sour note in Henriksen's voice, but it overlaid his obviously genuine willingness to be of service. "If I may trail you over the next few days as you attend to that aspect of your duties, I'll be prepared to take over in no time."
"That would be perfect." James couldn't keep the relief from his voice. "Aside from the inevitable interruptions, I generally attend to matters at the contraband camp between 4 and 6 – currently, that is just after sunset. Alternatively, seek out Ms. Moseley. She is pleased to pretend to primarily be the regimental wash woman but in actuality she is the one ensuring that the camp is seen to, for I haven't the time to devote myself to them as they require. If you speak with her, I'm sure she can train you as thoroughly as I, save that I am the one who handles the aspects of management internal to the army – requisitions and pickets, some other odds and ends. The population is nearing 300, and though the Colonel has suggested to me that winter will decrease the number of arrivals, I disagree. Reports suggest that the Confederate army is baring the local cellars in their need for food. No matter how much 'a part of the family' many swear their slaves are, when January and February come and it is a choice between feeding actual family members – white family members – and slave property, we both know who will suffer." By the time James fell silent, Henriksen's expression was grim.
"I'll take care of it," Henriksen vowed.
"We're not to pester the locals, no matter their treatment of their slaves," cautioned James.
"I won't do a thing I shouldn't," said Henriksen, feigning innocence. James smiled despite himself, envisioning covert rescue parties being sent from the contraband camp to pressure the remaining local enslaved population into seeking their freedom. He couldn't encourage such behavior, but the contraband weren't actually in the army, James couldn't order them not to try to free their fellows. How they spent their free time was their own concern.
"I'm positive you will be the soul of propriety," James agreed. "And discretion." Henriksen gave him a grin, and James returned it.
"I will see you this afternoon," Henriksen said. "Until then, try to get some sleep, sir."
"Unlikely," James replied, "but I'll manage what I may. Thank you, Henriksen."
Henriksen ducked from the tent. With sleepy bemusement, James reflected with pleasure on the conversation. It was nice to share his duties, nice to feel that he was doing good, but more than that, it had been exceptional to have a few minutes to speak with a friend and to discuss matters with someone who entered into his feelings. There was no need to hide his opinion with Henriksen, no need to smile and pretend. Going forward, for the sake of his sanity he'd have to carve out more time with those he knew best.
The thought reminded him what he held in his hand, and as the tent flap stilled behind Henriksen, James withdrew the message from his sleeve. The tallow had grown tacky in the heat within his wool uniform and it gummed and threaded as James carefully unfolded the square of paper, his nerves thrilling. He could scarce get a breath through his tight-clenched throat. The greasy fat had caused the ink to run, but the words were legible, the hand recognizable.
Major Novak, December 6th, 1861
Dawn, Wednesday the 11th.
D. Winchester
With surreal detachment, James noted it was the same hand as last time – it must be Lafitte writing, despite Dean's name appended to the bottom. It was a letter, it was from Dean, at least it claimed to be from Dean, and it gave a time and date, a time when presumably Dean wished to meet, a date soon...
...Dean wrote to me, Dean is willing to speak with me, Dean wants to see me...
The world spun and James realized he was taking desperate, shallow breaths, his heart racing. The hand clutching the page tingled but it had naught to do with the cold, for he felt warm for the first time in days, over warm, feverish. The sheet shook with increasing violence as James tried and failed to still his hand.
This letter doesn't necessarily mean any of those things. What exactly did I write, does he think to meet Sam, is he expecting I'll bring Sam, should I bring Sam?
There was not the least question that James would go. He'd rise from his deathbed to see Dean. It was an absurdity and yet he knew it was the truth. Only by seeing the young man again could James hope to quell the disquiet aroused in him.
Only by seeing Dean again can I touch him, have him touch me, spend time with him, soak in his presence.
His vision faded white around the edges. Seizing his errant thoughts, with difficulty James restrained his breathing, forced a semblance of calm. His reactions were insane, unreasonable. Something was wrong with him, something beyond potential infidelity that troubled him less and less, something beyond his desire for a man. James longed for Gabriel's answer to his letter. Perhaps, inconceivably, his brother would write with the explanation of what ailed James.
Perhaps seeing Dean again would enact a cure for what ailed James.
It had been six weeks. It felt like a lifetime.
The thought proved depressingly prescient. Whereas the weeks since October had passed at once like lightning and at a snail's pace, they had nothing on the three days that separated James from his meeting with Dean. Sleep was impossible to come by, his thoughts running round and round anticipation and self-recrimination. His irrepressible longing to see Dean was opposed by his perception of the inappropriateness of his feelings, the unreasonableness of his expectations, his fruitless attempts to counsel himself to modest hope and good sense. James attended to his duties, but he felt like a ghost, disconnected from his exhausted body. He scarce ate for the knots binding his stomach and throat and the chill wind cut through the fraying felt of his uniform and left him shaken and weak. His behavior wasn't healthy – given the unrelenting cold, might even be actually dangerous – but he couldn't help it. For once, he understood the severity of emotion he'd oft read in stories of romance and had never understood. The absurd things he was thinking and feeling, the ridiculous reaction of his body, must be the misery that drove many a Shakespearean tragedienne to an untimely end.
Ash, Bradbury and Alfie found James while he was doing an inventory of supplies on Tuesday afternoon. Ash seized one of his arms, Alfie another, and when James protested, Bradbury threatened to grab his feet and carry him unless he went peacefully. Unsure what was going on, but determined not to make that much of a spectacle of whatever it was, he allowed them to drag him to his tent.
"What's going on?" James asked dumbly as pulled him within the modest shelter. Winchester didn't even look up from the ledger he was working on.
"Go to sleep," said Alfie with all the demanding, near-officious confidence that only a childhood friend could muster.
"There are too many things to do," argued James, taking off his hat to run a hand through his already-mussed hair. "I need to—"
"Go to sleep," snapped Bradbury. Ash didn't speak. Instead, he gathered up James and Winchester's blankets, shook both out and held them up pointedly.
"But—"
"Major, right now I doubt you could overpower one of us, much less all three," Bradbury interrupted acidly. "You can't keep pushing yourself like this. It has to stop. You are only one man and you can only do so much. Hester suggested that we hit you over the head, but we thought you might at least consider reason. We've all seen how hard Crowley is pushing you, but if you do not eat and sleep you'll collapse, you'll sicken and you won't recover. If you won't do as you ought for your health, I have your sisters permission to sit on you."
"What about—"
"I'll take care of it," Winchester said. "I'll be here, working, and Alfie and Bradbury will stand guard. There are exactly three people in this camp who do not believe you are in a track to kill yourself by the end of the week: Colonel Crowley, Lieutenant Colonel Tanner, and yourself."
"I will punch you in the face if you don't rest on your own, James," Alfie added with a wry smile.
"I've felt your punch, it'd barely tickle," said James, mustering what little dignity he had left. Ash held the blankets out towards James insistently. At least the cold had killed the lice. A yawn burst from James before he could restrain it and it nearly drove him to his knees. They were right, of course, even his tension and anxiety for the coming meeting could only fuel him for so long. He was so tired. "Fine," he mumbled, surrendering. He lay down on the frozen earth and Ash lay the blankets over him. For an instant, James felt even more chill, but rapidly the cloth gathered his warmth and he wrapped them around his body to shield him from the ground.
If I don't relax, if I don't forgive myself, if I don't accept my feelings, I won't be able to see him at all.
The thought comforted him, warmed him, even though something about it niggled at his thoughts as inconsistent. He couldn't think on it, couldn't muster any logic in the face of his fatigue. Four sympathetic faces peered down at him.
Thank you, he tried to whisper, but he had no idea if he said the words aloud, sleep overtook him so quickly.
When James woke, it was full dark save for the faint, warm glow of a lamp within the tent. Winchester did not appear to have moved over however many hours had passed, still bent over the table working diligently.
"What time is it?" James asked, his mouth feeling strangely unresponsive. God, he was tired. He felt even more tired than when he'd fallen asleep. The blankets were snug, a contrast to the cold of his cheeks and nose, and the ground was cold against his back despite the layers protecting him. His stomach grumbled loudly.
"Late," replied Winchester without looking up. "Go back to sleep."
"How late?" James said suspiciously.
"Maybe 10?" Winchester shrugged as if he wasn't saying something that spelled James' doom. "I don't have a watch; it's been a while since curfew was called."
Scrambling at his blankets, James tried to rise. Instantly, Winchester was leaning over him, a hand on James' shoulder pinning him to the ground, surprising strength in the youth's grip. "Ms. Novak spoke with General Elkins and told him that, in her 'professional' opinion as a nurse, you needed a night off to sleep. Elkins concurred. You might as well lie down, Henriksen is standing outside the tent with a rifle and bayonet to prevent you leaving should you try."
"May I have something to eat before I go to sleep again?" James asked. He wanted to sound wry, angry – how dare they treat him like a child? – but instead the words came out sheepish and meek. He couldn't deny that he needed the rest. He felt pathetic for it.
"We can manage that," Winchester said. "Henriksen, you hear that?"
"Yup," Henriksen could be clearly heard through the thin material of the tent. "Ms. Moseley kept a bowl of stew aside for him and some fresh bread. I'll be right back." The sound of thick-soled shoes on frozen dirt faded into the distance quickly.
"You don't get to leave just because you're no longer under guard," Winchester added distractedly, making a note on the page he was working on.
"I'm still under guard," grumbled James.
"You remind me of my brother," said Sam abruptly. James sat up, the world spinning, and blinked at him in surprise. The golden light picked out every line of Sam's face and gleamed auburn off the long strands of brown hair framing his cheeks. For the first time, James noticed a sparse, short growth of fuzz on the boy's cheeks. "Our dad was always saying things that made Dean feel like he wasn't good enough and Dean always believed him, so he'd push himself hard – too hard – as if there was any amount Dean could do to meet dad's expectations. Couldn't, of course, nothing Dean did was good enough, but that didn't stop Dean from trying until he was ready to fall out of the saddle."
"That sounds familiar," James admitted.
"I thought it might."
"I'm the youngest of six," said James. "My parents have high expectations. They want to see me excel. I'm only trying to show them I am as capable as my brothers and sisters."
"You haven't slept more than an hour at a time for more than a month," Sam pointed out. "You're the only person in this entire camp pushing themselves that hard. I doubt your siblings do half as much."
"They're very devoted to their goals," James protested.
"I've seen how your younger sister spends her days," Sam said dryly, glancing at James. Despite the way he was scolding James there was a faint smile giving a charming yellow gleam to his eyes. "And your elder does work hard but she still takes care of herself." There was a long pause and Sam continued with a tense nervousness that James didn't understand. "Don't be a martyr. Your friends and comrades in arms would rather you do less and be alright than do everything and die."
"I understand," said James at length. Sam burst out an explosive, relieved sigh. "What?"
"When I said that to Dean he told me to go to hell," explained Sam. "Glad you're not that much like him."
"I thought you didn't want to talk to me about him," said James tentatively.
"Sorry I lost my temper last time you brought it up," Sam looked away, expression shadowed as he faced the dark corner of the tent. "I was worried about him and he was a jerk to me. He said I should get out of his life if what I said was how I felt, and so I did. He doesn't get to decide that he wants me back now. If he doesn't understand yet what I was trying to tell him, there's no point in us trying to reconcile."
"What were you trying to tell him?"
"That he needed to stop believing the words of the only person who didn't believe in him," Sam said, voice far away. "That he needed to consider that flattening himself to impress someone who hated him was never going to get him what he wanted. That if he tried to define his identity by what our father said about him, he'd never be anyone worth a damn."
James' heart ached. The implications of Sam's words – that Dean was unhappy, that their father had said terrible things to Dean, that their father had hated Dean – were too sad to consider. However frustrating James found Naomi and Michael's unachievable standards, they did care about him. They wanted what was best for him and pushed him because they believed him capable of more. It sounded like Sam and Dean's father didn't believe Dean capable of anything, which was demonstrably untrue. Dean was intelligent, educated, a fine artist, an excellent rider, fearless and committed to his brother. Even barely acquainted with Dean, that much and more had been evident. If Sam were asked about Dean's good qualities, surely the list would be much longer, yet it sounded like their father felt differently, and that for whatever reason Dean had taken his cues from his elder instead of from the brother who cared about him and respected him.
"He did tell me how to reach him," said Sam after another long silence. "I just haven't made any attempt to do so."
"Do you want to?"
"I don't know."
Before James could ask more, try to learn more about the man he hoped to see in hours, the tent flaps brushed apart in a swirl of shockingly chill air and a rich aroma of spice and potato. Henriksen came in and passed James a tin bowl filled with steaming stew and a large chunk of crusty fresh bed. James' mouth watered. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a meal that wasn't small and hastily consumed while he was in hurrying about some other task.
"A lot of people went to a lot of bother for you, Novak, make sure you appreciate it." James nodded even as he tore off a chunk of bread with unseemly haste and soaked it in broth, letting it get soggy before he lifted it and took a bite. He moaned around the delicious mouthful. "I don't only mean telling Ms. Moseley you like her cooking. You take care of yourself from now on, you understand?"
"Yes, sir," James said. A trickle of stew leaked from the corner of his mouth, and he used the stub of bread to mop it up and took another bite.
"Good enough," Henriksen rolled his eyes. "Get some more sleep. You're back on duty tomorrow."
Sam fell silent as James ate, and James was too hungry for even Dean to distract him. When he'd finished every bite of the best meal he'd eaten since he joined the army – counting every meal at Zachariah's and Roman's – he set the dirty bowl aside, lay back down, and promptly fell asleep again, warm through and sated. What else he might have asked Sam faded in the wake of contentment. It didn't matter. He'd see Dean in a few hours, he could ask Dean those questions. Maybe Dean would even answer. James was lucky to have such good friends.
The tent was dark when James awoke. The only sign that Sam was present was the steady breathing of another person and a warm presence to his side. As the nights grew colder, men sharing tents huddled for warmth, a comforting presence through the long winter dark. Rolling out of the blankets, James rose quietly =. He spread the blankets over Sam, who muttered incoherently and shifted before settling again, a hand tugging one of the blankets up about his face, which showed as an indistinct pale circle in the blackness. Curious how late – or how early – it was, he stepped out into a crystalline night.
Faint starlight showed the camp in shades of black, blue and gray. Henriksen sat curled in a ball beside the tent flap, rifle negligently held between his folded-up legs, muzzle sticking up over his shoulder, his arms draped around his knees, head down. They really had kept James under guard all night. There was no hint of dawn yet on the horizon and too dark for James to read his watch, but he thought it must be after midnight. Fully awake for the first time in days, James felt strangely hyper-alert, incredibly aware of his surroundings: the chill tingle of the air against his skin, the dry hint of future snow itching at his nose, the surprising amount of light despite the absence of the moon, the sky so clear that James could count the bright blue stars of the Pleiades, the sound of hundreds of men sleeping and breathing and dreaming and snoring, the underlying rank smell of the privies. Anticipation burned through James' throat, compressed his chest.
Going to sleep again was inconceivable. James was wide awake. Ducking back into the tent, he retrieved one of the blankets from atop Sam, stepped outside and wrapped the other around Henriksen's shoulders. Neither man reacted, both too tired to so much as stir. That done, James walked a brisk loop around the camp, energized by the bite in the air and the rest. He hadn't realized how profoundly spent he was until he could feel the contrast. While he'd been exhausted, it had been impossible for him to see past the necessities of the moment. He'd been completely absorbed in the present, with everything that had to be done immediately – not to mention the things that had needed to be done the day before but weren't complete yet. Clear-headed, he could see now he'd been stuck in a cycle that left him short-sighted and exhausted, and that the added stress of his upcoming meeting with Dean had been the final anxiety that pushed him past all ability to self-assess and restrain himself. He'd not make the same mistakes again. Going forward, he'd find a means of getting a few solid hours of sleep each day.
What if I misunderstood the note Dean sent me?
No one said anything to James as he circulated among the tents. Few people were awake at that hour, and those that were had grown accustomed to James' presence. None questioned when he stepped out of the fortress walls and made a circuit of the exterior walls as he did every night.
What if Dean didn't intend for us to meet in the thicket? Where else might he have meant? Maybe it wasn't a request for a meeting at all? Why wasn't he more specific, why didn't he give me more information? Does he think that someone is reading his notes? Someone must be, presumably Lafitte, but then why not give more detail? Is Dean keeping secrets from his friend? What secrets? Something related to me?
All was normal. Despite Crowley's injunction that one of the officers charged with leading the regiment be awake and on duty at all hours, there was no sign that Tanner or Crowley had taken the duty upon themselves while James enjoyed his night off. Why should there be? The nights were uneventful unless one counted the occasional disorderly drunk or shirking private attempting to skulk back after an unauthorized evening in Alexandria. If the Confederates ever did attack at night, all of the regimental captains were men who knew their duty well, and James wished that Crowley would trust them. And stop punishing me, added a thought James could scarce credit.
What if Dean intended for me to bring Sam? What if he has no interest in seeing me, only his brother? Other than when Dean rescued Sam at Bull Run, when was the last time they saw each other? It must be years. It's selfish of me to think this has anything to do with me, selfish of me to assume that, considering how much I wrote of Sam in my letter, Dean wouldn't be thrilled to see his brother. I deliberately mislead Dean, let him think that Sam wanted to speak with him when I know it not to be the case.
James knew every nook and cranny of fortress walls, and thus it was easy for him, when he found the optimal moment, to escape prying eyes and duck into the abatis. Since the trees had been felled, wild animals had made a few narrow, low passageways through the obstruction, and James had made a note of where such was located against the possibility that he would need to leave once more to meet Dean. Tunnel-like amidst the thick dead branches, the animal run wended and switch-backed down the hill past frozen tree trunks and around rocks before emerging in the clear not far from Ballenger's Farm at the northwest corner of the hill, close to the copse of trees. He'd not had a chance to scout where the tunnel egress was, and was pleased to find it so well situated for his needs.
What if it's a trap of some kind? What if I was right about Ms. Cassidy, she is a spy of some kind, and all of this is an elaborate means of making me appear traitor? If I am captured at a time like this, it will ruin me, disgrace my brother, cast suspicion over the entire family. When the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War finishes investigating Ball's Bluff, the Novak family could be next, I could be next, if I'm not named Benedict Arnold and executed for whatever crimes they can pin on me.
Traffic on the road to Alexandria had steadily fallen off as the nights grew colder. Where in the mid-fall, James routinely saw riders, now he'd seen hardly one all night. Taking to the road, James neither saw nor heard a soul. A sliver of a moon had risen to cast a faint silvery glow, giving the impression of a pristine night so fragile it might shatter if James made a loud noise. Every step, every scuff of boots against macadamized pebbles, seemed preternatural in the stillness. Arriving at the thicket was a relief, for there the few leaves yet clinging to branches rustled in the wind, branches clacked, and the world suddenly seemed alive again.
What if he doesn't want to see me? What if this is only to tell me not to trouble him more? What if I say my piece and he feels differently? What if he rebukes me? What if he thinks me corrupt, vile, disgusting, for desiring him as I do?
The thicket was thin with winter bareness, the ground so carpeted in fallen leaves that the path James had discovered was obscured. There was no way to move silently; the dry rustle and crunch of crumbling frozen leaves accompanied every step. Nearby, a clatter spoke to some animal hearing his approach and fleeing, but he could see little. Even the scant cover of barren branches was enough to filter out what little light the moon and stars cast.
What if I've misjudged him? What if he's actually depraved? What if he is trying to use me, as I suspect that Ms. Harvelle is using Boyle? He is clever enough to concoct and enact such a ruse. When we meet tonight, will he ask me of Union placements and plans? Does he think me high enough rank to have knowledge of troop movements, fortification plans for the city, McClellan's intentions for the spring? He'll be sorely disappointed when he learns how profoundly ignorant I am of everything save how many barrels of hard tack 700 men eat in a week.
The clearing was, unsurprisingly, empty. James was hours early but even so he felt intensely disappointed. The anxiety of anticipation was wringing him out and he would have taken comfort if Dean was as eager as he for this meeting, if Dean arrived as early as James did. The letter had said dawn, though, and objectively James knew how unfair it was of him to expect Dean to arrive earlier and to judge him for not doing so. Crossing to the tree where Dean always sat, James settled between the roots, the cold of the trunk and the frozen ground soaking through his clothing instantly.
This is where he sat as he stroked himself, as he thought of me. He meant me, didn't he? He must have meant me.
Dean's low, raspy moans yet echoed through James' memory: Dean speaking to his imagined lover, calling that person Captain, calling them Billy. No woman would be referred to thus. Dean had been picturing a man, fantasizing about a man, speaking about man.
About me. Dare I believe that it was about me? If it were so, that would be...marvelous. Yes, God help me, it would be. That is what I want.
The thought quickened his heartbeat, dried his mouth, caused his cock to twitch despite the quelling chill. With difficulty, James turned his thoughts aside. It wouldn't do to arouse himself. He could exercise some self-control, even as concerned Dean.
I wonder what will happen if this meeting goes well, if all my fears prove unfounded, if my optimistic assessments prove correct. I wonder if we might be able to meet thus again in the future. Soon.
Given the opportunity to grow and blossom, hope warmed James through and through and he lost himself in more pleasant mental wanderings, thinking on all the things he'd like to ask Dean, all he'd like to know of the man, carefully shying away from the prurient temptations whispering all the things they might do together, given the opportunity.
In the overgrown thicket, dawn came all at once, heralded by a burst of eager birdsong. It seemed hardly a moment passed between when James could scarce see his hand before his face and when he could make out every rhimed leaf on the ground, every overhead branch silhouetted against the sky. There was hardly any color in the world, the tree trunks brown, the leaves a lighter shade of the same, the sky white with thin clouds. Deep green evergreen leaves bedecked a holly, waxy and near black in the dim light. Rich ruby red caught James' eye, berries buried in the briar that thatched between the trees to his left. A flash of bright blue drew his gaze, a jay stopping on a branch to glare at him balefully. James pulled out his pocket watch. 4:30 AM. How long might he be absent before anyone at the camp noticed? He suspected he'd have at least another hour or two. Knowing how diligent he was, he dared hope his friends and subordinates would assume that he was taking some more time for himself, getting more rest somewhere. Bradbury might even think he was visiting his mysterious paramour. Crowley would assume the worst of him regardless. He had time. But damn did he hope that Dean came soon. His nerves were thrilling with tension. He stared so avidly about him that his eyes burned from the bite of the wind, then closed them and counted seconds in the hope that somehow he could make the time pass more quickly.
One.
How long should I wait before I give up and head back to the fort?
Two.
It will be much harder to sneak back in by the light of day.
Three.
A different regiment will have the guard duty, none to know me or help me or look the other way when I return without permission to have left.
Four.
There's so much to do today: all the things I didn't finish yesterday, all the day's business, and tonight it is back to duty as normal.
Five.
I must carve out time for sleep, though.
Six.
Perhaps I might reserve from 5 until 8 this evening for myself.
Seven.
It will be full dark then, which should help me to sleep well.
Eight.
The camp will be noisy, but it could be worse.
Nine.
I wonder if Crowley will be angry if I say that in the future, save in emergencies or unexpected exigencies, I will not be available at those times.
Ten.
Winchester can keep an eye on things in my place, as he's done any…
"Mornin', Billy Yank," Dean's voice cut through James' thoughts, painfully dry, so perfect that James gasped as he opened his eyes. He'd been so lost in thought he hadn't even heard Impala approach.
In daylight, Dean was even more handsome than James recalled. Impala stood idly behind him but James could spare no attention for the horse. For once, Dean wore a uniform, the wool of both the jacket and pants a tan nut color, buttons of blackened tin, the cuffs at the wrists and ankle worn and frayed, grown threadbare and thin at the thighs due to the hours Dean spent in the saddle. The garments were too large, yet instead of being unflattering, their size served to heighten the contrast between their bagginess and his slim, muscular body. Beneath the jacket he wore what looked to be the same gingham shirt he'd worn the first time James had seen him, though now the collar was completely out, damage inadequately hidden by a jaunty green sash tied around his neck. The worn leather belt cinching the waist of his jacket revealed the narrowness of Dean's waist compared to his wide shoulders and highlighted the strong curve of his lower back and hips, made powerful by endless time on horseback. Worn but well-maintained cavalry boots disappeared beneath the tattered pants, and Dean was armed with a finely made revolver, engraved silver showing through a holster at his hip. Shameless in his appraisal, James' gaze reached Dean's face, took in the embarrassment and uncertainty that had in no way been audible in Dean's greetings. In the early morning light, Dean's eyes practically glowed green in contrast to the more muted shade of his neckerchief; James could scarce remember noticing their color before but now it was so vivid he knew he'd see it in his dreams. Dean's skin was paler than James remembered, a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks reminding James of his youth. Thin lips made a tempting pink line. His features looked to be in transition, shedding the last round plushness of youth in favor of the harder lines and planes of adulthood.
Praise holy God he's gorgeous.
"I, uh, wasn't sure you'd come, either," Dean said awkwardly, averting his gaze and apparently doing his best to interpret James' stunned silence. With a bow-legged gait, Dean crossed the small clearing and sat down heavily to James' left, further around the tree. He added softly, "I'm glad you did." At this angle, James couldn't see Dean's expression, only a shadowed profile, his shoulder, the curve of crossed legs meeting distractingly at Dean's crotch. James tore his eyes away and forced his gaze forward.
"I'm sorry, Dean," said James in a rush. Dammit, I used his first name again! He didn't let himself dwell on his mistake, didn't let himself stop talking now that he'd started. Dean was there and listening and there were things that James must say. "I'm sorry I left that night and I'm sorry I haven't been able to come back and I'm sorry that anything I said or did caused you to think that I didn't care for you and I'm sorry that I wasn't able to bring Sam with my today and I'm sorry that I when you spoke of your wife and child I reacted as I did. I was surprised, and taken aback. You're so young, and I thought…I don't know what I thought." I hoped you didn't, I hoped you were unattached, though to what end I can scarce imagine, what end can we possibly have? God, I can't say that. "That's no excuse, not for storming off, not for staying away, but I wanted you to know: I'm sorry."
"You..." Dean trailed off with a wet sound of lips being licked. "You don't have to apologize. You didn't owe me anything then, you don't owe me anything now."
"I'm not saying this out of a sense of obligation," James said. "I'm saying it because it is my genuine sentiment. I wanted to come back." I did come back, and it was spectacular, but there was no way I could say anything, no way I could tell you that I was there. "I haven't been able to return since because I have worked through every night since late October. I managed to steal one midnight in November but you weren't here, or I'd have said these things then. The last thing I heard you say, that you feared I hated you and never wanted to see you again, has haunted me for six weeks. It's not at all the case. I don't hate you, and I do want to see you again. I'm so profoundly sorry, Winchester."
There was a drawn out silence that made James increasingly uncomfortable. What was Dean thinking? Was there some clue on his face? It was all James could do not to look over, but he forbade himself doing so. All it would do was make him more nervous. He could only hope that Dean would be forthright and tell him the honest truth.
"You can call me Dean," whispered the other man, strained voice revealing nothing. "Do you mean all that?"
"Of course I do!" James tried to think through what he'd said, to determine what aspect Dean might be doubting, but the words were gone from his mind, he couldn't remember what he'd admitted to, what he hadn't, over the clamoring of all the confessions still screaming in his thoughts.
...want you, want to talk to you, want to touch you, want to kiss you, want to hold you, want to hear you moan my name, want to be with you every way I can be...
"That you wanted to see me again? That you came back but I was gone? That what bothered you was learnin' about Lisa and Ben? That you..." The sound of Dean licking his lips came again and James' skin tingled as his thoughts spun out tantalizing fantasies. Dean's voice dropped lower and softer before he continued, a faint rumble blurred by his accent, "That you care about me?"
With the question, all James' anxiety suddenly silenced. His thoughts went completely clear, his heartbeat ceased beating like a bass drum, his breathing slowed. Every detail of the overcast morning came to him crystal clear, the seconds stretched out. Dean's voice wasn't that of a man who didn't share James' feelings. Dean's voice was that of a man who didn't dare believe, couldn't conceive, that James felt the same way as he did.
"I do," James replied calmly. "I do care about you, Dean."
The moment lengthened again, but James could wait now. He had no idea what Dean was thinking, but he knew, knew, they were moving in the right direction.
"Why?" Dean asked in shell-shocked confusion. James started to answer, but Dean pressed on. "You don't know me, and you think I'm some sick slave-lovin' bastard. It don't make a lick of sense."
"That's not true," said James. "I don't think you're a 'slave-loving bastard.' I think you're a man caught up in events, fighting for his home and his family. While I think some of your views on slavery naive and inadequately considered, I also consider that an issue we can discuss. Thus far you've shown every sign of being willing to hear me out and consider my point of view. With a foundation of considerate respect for each other's opinions I can't but think that over time we can find even more common ground than we already have. Further, I thought your explanation of your views cogent and apt, and I can't but respect them. I don't agree with the cause you are fighting for but that doesn't mean I am not respectful of the reasons you personally have chosen to fight. If you had told me you were fighting to keep every man, woman and child of African descent in perpetual servitude, we'd not be having this conversation. You said nothing of the kind – all you said was that you were indifferent to their plight – but I've seen such signs of kindness and consideration in you that I'll own that I think you can be brought to care, to be as horrified by their lot as I am. But even if you can't be, I believe you respect our difference on this and that you are not actively malicious towards the suffering of your fellow man. It is saddening that you do not care more passionately but it does nothing to reduce the interest I feel in your other parts."
"What other parts?" asked Dean suspiciously.
...oh, all of them, your eyes, your lips and mouth, your powerful hands and broad shoulders and round butt, your stiff cock...
James blushed crimson and chanced a sidelong glance. Dean was staring at him, mouth curled in a faint frown, brow lowered, and James forced his gaze to the bare tree trunk across the clearing from him.
"I do not know you well yet, not so well as I would like to," James spoke quickly to cover his embarrassment. "But from what I've observed, you're brave, intelligent, hard-working, devoted and loyal. You're educated and talented and skilled. You're..." He closed his eyes and pressed on. "Behind your aggression and bravado, you're young and you've been hurt and you're vulnerable. You're intriguing to me."
"You're serious," muttered Dean. "You're serious. I don't...I mean...I can't...I can't." There was a rustle of leaves as Dean shifted, started to rise, set a hand on the thick tree root that separated them.
No!
Desperate for Dean to stay, James grabbed the hand, wrapped his fingers around it before Dean could finish standing. Dean gasped, turned towards him, and James met wide green eyes.
"What is it with you?" Dean demanded. "What does someone like you want with someone like me?"
"What does that mean?" James held that gaze, refused to let go. "I've told you what I think of you –I think we have far more common ground than we have conflict. What do you think of me that leads you to believe that we cannot be friends?"
"You're...you're..." Hovering half-risen on one knee, Dean tried to tug his hand free without breaking eye contact. "You are..." Dean pulled hard, and James twisted his wrist, caught Dean's thumb with his own, managed to intertwine their fingers. "You're perfect," Dean groaned, collapsing back against the tree, slumping in defeated. The words shivered down James' spine, tingled along his skin, captivated his entire imagination. Without a doubt, he'd hear those words in Dean's beautiful voice as an echo down all the years of his life.
"I ain't none of those things you think," Dean said unconvincingly. "You're too nice for your own good, Captain." Far louder than words, James listened to the uncertainly delivered compliment and the way that Dean was tentatively running the rough pad of his thumb along the arch of James' knuckle and pointer.
"I have no sense that you appreciate your own value," James smiled and gave Dean's hand a squeeze. "Perhaps that is something I can help you to see, going forward?"
"Not perfect," Dean said, incredulous. "Crazy. Absolutely crazy, Billy Yank."
"That doesn't sound like a 'no,' Johnny Reb," said James.
"It's not," breathed Dean.
Relief flooded in and James' tension drained out with a long sigh as he settled back against the tree trunk. "Thank God," James couldn't keep the whisper back. Dean's hand spasmed around his, flesh hot to the touch, palm sweaty.
"I've been thinkin' about you for weeks," Dean confessed. "Convinced there wasn't no way you felt the same. I never thought I'd see you again. When I got your letter, I still thought, 'don't get your hopes up, Dean, ain't no way it's what you're thinking.' All that talk about Sam...told myself you wouldn't be here today, told myself he'd be the one here, told myself I'm a fool."
"I'm sorry the letter was so vaguely worded," said James. "Ms. Cassidy informed me that you would not be reading it yourself, that she would be the one to read it to you. I scarce know her and do not trust her. I'd told her I knew you only due to Sam, that I wrote entirely to ease your mind as regarded his well being, so I had to couch all I said in light of that. I've been dreading that you did not understand, that if you arrived today at all, it would be with the expectation of seeing your brother."
"I'd not mind seeing my brother," Dean said. His hesitation was palpable, and James waited patiently. He was beginning to see the pattern, Dean's natural reticence causing him to pause a long time before admitting to things that frightened him or revealed his vulnerability, and James was content to give Dean time, pleased that he found the other man so easy to read. "But today I was hopin' to see you." There was so much to those simple words, such hope and wistfulness and expectation and fear and uncertainty.
I'll teach you to be sure how I feel about you, how I think of you, how I want you. I'll teach you to see yourself how I see you.
They sat in silence as the morning steadily brightened, the dawn birdsong faded. There was more to say, but the moment felt so nice, the confessions they'd each already made adequate and safe.
Tell me...you've got to tell me, Captain... Dean's voice whispered to James from a dream, his own reply following immediately. I will, Dean, I will.
If he didn't find the nerve now, would he ever? If he shared the physical aspect of his attraction, would that destroy the rapport they'd built? Would Dean's walls go back up, would he try to leave again, would he avoid James? Could James stand the anxiety and tension of not knowing?
It would be better to confess all and know the truth. It'd be better to have all in the open and deal with the consequences, whatever they are. I cannot bear more weeks of agonized wondering.
Inadvertently, James cleared his throat and Dean started.
"Do you remember the last time we spoke?" James broached.
"Nope, forgot all 'bout it," said Dean dryly.
"I came back that night," said James. Dean's hand went stiff in his. "I felt terrible for leaving as I had, guilty. Your parting words, the pain in your face as I left, harried me, troubled me deeply. I tried to get some sleep, but couldn't, and as dawn came I resolved to return, to apologize to you." His heart was pounding again, with desire, with anticipation, with concern. He couldn't leave well enough alone, no, he had to push further. I have to know. If he doesn't reciprocate I have lambasted myself for nothing, confessed to Gabriel for nothing, accused myself of all manner of evil for nothing. I need to know if he feels the same as I do. If he doesn't I return to life as it was before, return to Anna, return to the peace of mind I felt before I ever met him. If he does... "You were...busy...when I arrived." If he does feel the same as I do...
"Fuck," muttered Dean, head clunking against the tree as he dropped it back, but he made no move to leave, no attempt to escape.
It's not my imagination, it's not my dreams, what I feel is real, and he feels it too, or else he'd already be running for the hills.
"I saw..." James swallowed, cheeks warming. "I heard..." He didn't really have to say it, Dean's behavior made it clear he recalled exactly what he had been doing that morning at dawn. That Dean would remember at all spoke volumes. "Did you mean me? The things I heard you say..." He took a deep breath. It shouldn't be hard to say anything more, what could he confess more mortifying than what he'd already alluded to? "I thought...maybe...you were thinking of me."
"What if I did mean you?" Dean asked, hand going clammy in James' grip. "What if I was thinking of you?"
"I'd like that," admitted James. Dean groaned, and the sound was like dry tinder to flames. All sense of the cold of the morning vanished as James felt suddenly sweltering in his uniform, blood rushing to his cock to thicken it, lengthen it. All sense of shame at his desire vanished as if it had never been. Dean had as good as admitted that he was thinking of James and with that confession went all sense that James' desires were wrong. If the attraction was mutual, there was no harm in James thinking of Dean as an object of desire.
It's not as if Dean is a woman. It's not as if he and I could ever do the things a man would do with a woman. It's not the same, in the same way that the men who entertain each other in the camp are not violating oaths as they would be if they instead bedded a prostitute. Dean is a man, all of his attraction is that he is a man. It is still a betrayal of Anna's trust that I speak to him thus, that I consider being with him, but is it truly a betrayal of our engagement? I think not.
There was a ring of disingenuousness to the thought, but James pushed it away. He wanted this too much to hesitate now.
It's not the same.
"I like the idea of your touching yourself and thinking of me," James said, scarce recognized his own voice, deep, coarse, wanting. The words no longer struck him as shameful. They were honest, sincere, and heartfelt, a confession of the simple truth James had known and nursed for weeks.
"You're perfect, Captain," breathed Dean, hand clenching James' harder, breathing quickening audibly. "You're impossible."
I want to hear you say my name, want you to call me James... A whisper of Anna's voice in his mind, the sweet inflection with which she said his name, brought a momentary surge of the guilt. No. Not James.
"Castiel," James said. "My name is Castiel."
"Castiel," Dean repeated his middle name, sampled it, tested it. Desire thrilled unrestrainedly through James. "Castiel."
"Yes," murmured James encouragingly, rubbing the back of Dean's hand with his fingers. A vocal sound – that a whimper, please let it have been a whimper – escaped as Dean exhaled.
"Cas?" Dean asked.
"That would be fine," James continued in the same low voice. As long as he doesn't call me Cassie. Their palms pressed together, Dean's damp with cold sweat, and James swore he could feel the racing pulse of Dean's heart beat. "It's taken me months to come to terms with how much I want you, Dean." Head yet back against the tree trunk, James let his eyes slip shut, reveling in the liquid hot feeling of his body, the pleasured anticipation gripping him, the firm connection between them where Dean determinedly clung to James' hand. "I've never felt this way about any man before – about any one before."
"I have," whispered Dean anxiously. "Is that okay? I think of you, now – I always imagine you, now. Since the first time we met, I've wanted...I've longed for...is that okay?"
"That's fantastic," James said, earning a drawn out moan. Dean's grip eased in his, and James recognized another pattern, the relief Dean felt when James reassured him, followed by growing fear and tension, until James offered further support and Dean's stress faded away again. "I loved listening to you that night. After I was sure you were gone, I had to see to my own desires." Another groan, as arousing as James dreamed a touch might be, caused James' aching cock to strain against the wool of his pants. "Does that make you hard, Dean?"
I said that, I said that aloud, I—
"Yes," panted Dean. The tension in his grip was growing again, but James sensed no undertone of fear this time. It was Dean's desire, a match to James' own, and it was glorious. "God, yes."
—and he doesn't mind, and he feels the same, I can say these things, it's alright. I can admit what I want...
"Would you touch yourself for me?" James asked breathily.
"Anything you want, Cas," Dean's voice was pleading. "Anything at all."
"Reach into your pants," instructed James. He heard the rustling as Dean did so. He wasn't sure why he didn't watch, but this felt right. James wanted to soak in the beautiful sounds of Dean's desire, wanted no distractions from the effect every moan and whimper was having on James' enflamed body and captivated thoughts. "I'm doing the same." James suited action to words, shifting his jacket so he could reach beneath the loose band of his pants. A rough, low gasp escaped Dean, his hand trembled against James'. James' fingers were painfully cold against the heat of his cock, but even so the relief of finally touching himself was profound. "Grip yourself...grip your cock loosely." Saying the word aloud spurred James on, perfectly filthy, and Dean's long groan as he followed the orders – James hadn't the least doubt that Dean was following his orders – was just as perfect. "Slowly, very slowly, I want you to stroke yourself. Is that okay, Dean?"
"Yeah," whispered Dean, the words accompanied by the faint brush of fabric on fabric, of flesh on fabric, of flesh on flesh. Dean's hand twitched in James' grip. James followed his own instructions, cupping his length loosely, tracing up and down with a teasing, tortuous pace. "Feels good, Cas. Feels so good. Is there something else you'd like me to do?"
There was something crucial in that simple question, something James had needed, had never known he needed until Dean asked and James suddenly realized that he'd taken the lead, that Dean hadn't questioned it, that Dean was following his instructions willingly, that Dean wanted James to continue. "Stop," he demanded, unable to prevent himself from pushing Dean, from testing him. The sounds of movement ended abruptly and James let up his own stroke, though every part of him screamed protest at his self-denial. The moment stretched out and Dean didn't move, his breathing grew increasingly vocal, increasingly desperate. A groan tore through James.
Dean listened, damn, he listened, that's amazing, why is he listening? Why isn't he doing as he will? He wants me to tell him what to do. And damn do I want to direct him, want him to obey, want to tease him until he cries my name in that desperate voice over and over.
James' body felt afire, bliss thrummed through his gut, sparkled like sunspots against his eyelids, pulsed rhythmically through his cock. He couldn't resist his desires, he tightened his grip against himself, jerked chaffed skin roughly against his incredibly sensitive flesh, felt the pressure of his climax building spectacularly. Another stroke, another, accompanied by the delicious sound of Dean whimpering, but not moving, James was certain Dean was not moving. God, it was amazing. James swiped a finger over the head of his cock, through the liquid pooling there, and moaned.
"Please," gasped Dean, voice reedy with need. "Please..."
"You want to continue to stroke yourself?" James forced his hand to slow, forced himself to hold back his impending finish.
"Yes!"
"Then why don't you?" As much as James didn't want to break the wonder of this moment, ruin it by pointing out the simple truth that Dean was under no obligation whatever to do as James said, it was a question that he needed to know the answer to.
"Because..." Dean moaned low. "You haven't...you didn't...you were telling me...what should I do, Cas? What do you want me to say? I don't know...I don't know why, but you said...it feels so good...I want to hear you say that it's alright...I can't..."
"Shhh," murmured James soothingly, caressing Dean's hand. He felt a stab of guilt at Dean's confusion and distress and realized how completely vulnerable Dean was at that moment, how completely he had opened revealed himself, how completely he was trusting James. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. You know you don't have to do as I say, right? I won't stop wanting you if you do otherwise. I won't become angry. I won't leave."
"I want to," Dean whispered, his hand quivering and weak in James' grasp. "It feels right. Is that okay?"
"Yes, Dean." James' desire struggled against his self-restraint. He had no idea where this urge to take the lead had come from nor what had prompted him to start giving orders in the first place, but Dean's willingness to obey was... "It's spectacular. It's perfect." ...it was beautiful, and James thoughts were already spinning with ideas of things he could ask of Dean as he wondered how far Dean's obedience would go, what he'd be willing to do. Visions outside of anything James had ever dreamed of sprang to life in vivid detail: Dean on his knees, Dean with his hands bound awaiting James' touch, Dean staring a challenge at him even as James thrust into Dean's open mouth. Another groan tore from James, echoed instantly by Dean, and James' hand spasmed around his cock. When they were less...involved...James would have to ask Dean what he'd be comfortable with and what he wasn't. There was a frightening amount of potential for abuse of Dean's vulnerability and exposure.
"With just a light touch, Dean – I want you to touch the tip." James swirled his own finger over his slit, his cock throbbing and bucking as Dean sighed with happiness and moaned. "Is it wet?"
"Yeah..."
"How does it taste?" James had no idea where the question came from, couldn't bring himself to care. Pure instinct had taken over, and he pulsed with pleasure when he heard the distinct smack of Dean's lips around his finger.
"Bitter," answered Dean. "Like...like dandelion greens. And a little sweet."
"May I try it?"
Dean didn't answer. Instead, there was rustling, of cloth, of leaves, and then there was a wet finger against James' mouth. Without opening his eyes, James parted his lips, sucked the finger in, earned a drawn-out groan from Dean. Dean's skin tasted like leather and horsehair, his release like nothing James had ever experienced, a hint of bitter, a hint of sweet, a hint of something earthy like mushroom, and James loved it. He ran his tongue along the length of the finger and he could feel Dean quivering.
"May I taste you?" asked Dean in a rush.
With a wet pop, James released Dean's finger. "If you earn it." God, was that his voice? So low, so gravelly, so breathy? "Back against the tree." Giving a disappointed whimper, Dean settled into his seat. "You may grip yourself again – stroke gently."
"Thank you," Dean breathed, moaning as he followed the instructions. James held off on touching himself, though every sound from Dean thrilled him, his desire screamed to be sated. Instead, he soaked in every moan and groan, every whimper and mewl and pant, every swishing sound of Dean's hand rubbing against his length. The strain of patience told on both of them, their off hands trembling as one where they gripped each other across the tree branch that divided them.
"Don't go faster," James said. "Tighten your grip around your foreskin. Draw it over the head and back down, slowly." Dean groaned gutturally as he did as he was told, almost a growl, and James could no longer resist, he began a brisk stroke over his cock, his thumb going to his slit to toy at it. It was too good, he felt too fantastic to hold himself back. He wanted Dean to hear how affected James was, wanted Dean to understand that James did not understand where this strange power dynamic had spontaneously arisen from, but he liked it and appreciated it. "Just like that, Dean." He didn't need to see to know Dean was obeying him. The thought was pure bliss, and James groaned and squeezed Dean's hand, received a squeeze in return. There was a faint wet sound, each of their hands working over their lengths, the flap of the cloth of their pants, the crisp smell of winter a contrast to the hot breath filling the air before James' face as he stroked and caressed himself, listened to Dean pleasuring himself.
"Please," whispered Dean.
James deliberately ignored him. Time passed, bliss built in James' veins, his cock bobbed against his grip every time his hand passed over it. James could feel each stroke as a pulse through him, see each as a pulsing light before his eyes, endure each as fire searing through his veins. The steady rhythm of Dean working beside him was like a drug to James' feverish body, essential, pushing his pleasure to heights beyond anything he'd ever experienced before.
"Please," Dean whimpered out between vocal pants. "I need..."
"Do you think you can climax just from doing that?" mused James, still amazed by Dean's obedience, by the self-restraint that kept Dean from surrendering to his desires and taking what he was begging for.
"Please," Dean gasped, moaning. "Please...please..."
"No, Dean," James whispered. It was hard to speak, he was so hot, so needy, his breaths came so quickly. "Keep going just the same, just like I told you." A choked-back sob answered the directive, but the sounds of Dean touching himself didn't change, his pace didn't quicken. Rapture surged in James mind, coursed fire through his body, and he groaned and jerked his cock hard. "You're perfect," James panted, tightening his grip, stroking powerfully and rapidly. "You're perfect, you're perfect, Dean, God, I..."
"Please, Cas!"
"I..."
"I'm so hot, I'm so—"
"Dean!" The name ground out between clenched teeth as James' cock pulsed in his grip and ecstasy enveloped him, seared his skin, devoured all thought, and thick hot liquid spurted against his fingers, burst against the wool of his pants, dripped down his length and into the coarse hairs thick around his sacks.
"Oh, God, Cas, please, please, please..." Dean whispered the word endlessly. Pushing towards awareness through layer upon layer of bliss, James opened his eyes to find them gritty, the light of day dazzling.
Moving as if in a dream, he shifted left towards Dean. James pulled his hand, dripping with white release, from his pants. Dean lay slumped against the tree, head lolling, eyes closed, tears leaking from the corners, mouth slack as his pleas trailed off but his lips continued to move in the imitation of the his begging words. Dean's pants made a pulsing tent where his hand worked against his hardness.
"You're so handsome, Dean."
"Please," came the forlorn whisper in reply.
James settled straddling Dean's legs and Dean's pleading broke off in a moan. The moment Dean's lips cracked open, James slipped two release-streaked fingers within, brought their joined hands to rest against the fabric of Dean's pants so he could feel Dean running of and down over his length. Dean's entire body seized up, his eyes flew open, bright green and deep black without the least sign he saw his surroundings. Dean's lips sealed around James' fingers, sucking eagerly, spawning surprising pleasure in James' satisfied body, prompting a small spurt from James' cock though he'd have sworn he was spent. He groaned at the aftershock, and Dean hummed a moan around his hand.
"Come on, Dean," James whispered encouragingly. Dean lapped at his fingers, hips rutting into James' other hand, and, unbelievably, stunningly, maintained the same slow pace as he masturbated, drawing his foreskin slowly over the head and back down. Their eyes met, Dean's gaze wide and vulnerable and delightfully pleasured, and James couldn't bear to tease him longer. He released the hand he'd held all along, wrapped his grip around Dean's other hand with only a thin layer of wool separating their flesh, and forced Dean to hold himself more firmly, to stroke from base to tip. Dean groaned, and James repeated the movement, again, again, harder, faster, taking his fingers from Dean's mouth to cup Dean's scruffy chin, keep their eyes locked together.
"Cas," groaned Dean.
"Good, good," James murmured, tightening his grip further.
"Cas!"
"I can't believe you want me too, Dean."
"Castiel!" Dean moaned the name lingeringly as his hips thrust into their paired hands and his eyes rolled back in bliss.
Watching Dean overcome by ecstasy was easily the most enticing, gorgeous thing James had ever seen. James' cock gave a twitch of renewed interest. James panted, his hand stroking Dean through his climax as Dean moaned and then went limp, desperately drawing hoarse breaths.
Leaning forward, James brought their foreheads together, let his eyes slip shut.
"Did you enjoy that, Dean?" James asked warmly. There was genuine worry behind the words.
Dean chuckled. "What do you think, Cas?"
"I'd like you to tell me."
"It was great," breathed Dean. "Better than anything. Never felt this good...never..."
"I'm glad." James shifted to brush his lips over Dean's forehead and was surprised when Dean sighed contentedly in response. Leaning back, James opened his eyes to see Dean watching at him with wonder and contentment. As their gazes met, Dean broke into a relaxed smile unlike anything James had seen on his face before, and James' heart pattered in reply. Unthinkingly, James shifted a hand to the side of Dean's hair, slipped fingers beneath his hat, accidentally smeared release in Dean's hair. Embarrassed to see the white clinging to the brown strands, James colored and looked away. When he forced his eyes back again, it was to find Dean staring at him with an expression James didn't dare name worshipful.
"Maybe..." Dean blushed bashfully. God, with all his walls down, he looked and acted so young. "Maybe we could do this again?"
"Dawn is a good time for me," James said pensively. Not repeating this experience was inconceivable. "Is there a time soon that would be convenient for you?"
"Same time, same day, next week?"
"That sounds perfect, Dean."
"Thank you, Cas – thank you for all of this. I never thought...I didn't think..."
"It's okay," murmured James. "Neither did I. I'm so glad we were both wrong. I'm so glad that you want this as much as I do." He huffed a sigh. "But I have to go, I have to get back on duty before my absence is noted." He started to rise, started to turn away.
"Wait!"
A thought struck him, and he turned back to see Dean was moving towards him. Judging by his movements, Dean shared James' idea. They shifted in perfect harmony, turned, eyes slipped shut and mouths came together in a chaste kiss. Dean's lips were dry and chapped and nothing like Anna's, so soft and delicate, and James pushed the unwelcome thought away. Dean's lips were wonderful, unique, James never wanted to compare the two again, needed the two to be completely separate in his mind. A faint taste of bitterness, of musk, of wood smoke, clung to Dean's lips, and James delighted in the gentle contact. It was a wrench to pull away.
Neither said another word.
James started back to camp, cleaning himself up and adjusting his appearance to normalcy as best he could as he prepared to crawl back through the animal run, sneak past the pickets and find his way back behind their high, secure walls.
Absolutely perfect.
Interlude
Dean awoke with a start to the feel of a hand settling on his ass, soothing over the curve of his lower back. The glow of his dream carried him through the first few bemused moments – yes, Castiel, touch me, please, touch me – but then a voice whispered in his ear.
"Makin' those needy noises in your sleep again," Benny drawled. The fantasy snapped and to Dean's shock his stomach twisted in revulsion as he realized it was Benny's hand touching him. "Tonight at dinner call?"
"No," snapped Dean. He twisted away, knocking Benny's hand aside. Propping himself up on his elbows, he caught a glimpse of Benny's surprised expression. Dean never said no. Dean always wanted more than Benny was interested in giving to him. Dean was the eager one, Benny was humoring him, letting Dean have what he needed, as if Benny didn't get anything out of their physical relationship, as if Benny didn't enjoy screwing him.
Castiel said my name. Castiel asked to hear my voice. Castiel touched me, kissed me, tasted me. Castiel wanted to be with me, not a woman, not a substitute, me.
"Hey, don't worries, I didn't mean—"
God, that's impossible.
"Yeah, you did," Dean snarled, unable to restrain his temper. He was angry: at Benny for treating him as a surrogate for so long; at himself for letting Benny; at Castiel for offering him so much sweetness when Dean knew it would all crumble once Castiel knew him better; at himself for letting Castiel use him; at himself, for letting all the men who'd touched him use him. "S'ok. I don't want to do that anymore." Not with you.
"At all?"
"At all."
"Sure thing, brother," Benny shrugged. "Whatever you want."
Dean's anger crumbled. He shouldn't go back to see Castiel again, shouldn't encourage what was sure to end in disaster, but he couldn't help it.
"It don't change anything else, right?" muttered Dean, slumping down against the thin, tattered cotton he'd lain over the rocky ground. "You're still the best friend I've ever had. That ain't gonna change...?"
"Sometimes I think you actually are stupid," laughed Benny, rolling his eyes. "Didn't change while we were messing 'round, don't change when we're not. Honest? I'm glad of it. You deserve better'n what we've been doin' – don't get me wrong, it was fun and all, but I can take of myself. Always felt like I was usin' you."
Dean felt a stab of guilt to hear Benny say aloud the things Dean had been thinking. Benny wasn't using him. Benny had never done anything that Dean didn't agree to, didn't ask for. Now he conceded their relationship without protest, only a gentle smile that reminded Dean of why he'd enjoyed his friend's company for so long. "Thanks, Benny."
"All you have to do is ask, Dean," Benny said gently. "All you've ever had to do is ask."
Dean buried his face against the spare shirt he used as a pillow. He was relieved when, a moment later, he heard the tent flap open and Benny step away. Unlike Dean, Benny didn't spend all night, every night on duty. Benny didn't need to sleep during the day, not that Dean thought he'd be able to sleep any more that day.
Mere hours ago, he'd been with Captain Novak, with gorgeous Castiel. It was impossible. It was proof to Dean that he had finally cracked. No man like that could be interested in Dean. No man like that could want anything but Dean's body.
You're intelligent, loyal, hard-working, skilled...
The morning had been spectacular, everything Dean had fantasized about and more. But now, in the cool, faint light of day, rested and aware, Dean was haunted by the questions Castiel had asked him.
You want to continue to stroke yourself? Dean repressed a groan, his cock hardening even though it was uncomfortably trapped between the ground and his thighs. Then why don't you?
Because I don't want to, because I want all the proof I can get that you actually care for my pleasure, because I want to hear you tell me that I'm good. Because I want you to say that it's alright that I feel this way, that it's alright that I want you. Because I need to be reminded that you want me, because that's impossible. Nobody wants me.
Slipping a hand along his body, Dean adjusted himself, moving his erection into a more comfortable position, unable to ignore the pleasure that even a light touch against himself gave.
Castiel said I was handsome. Castiel said I was perfect. Castiel said he cared for me. Castiel said he wanted me.
Can I believe him? I want to believe him.
Propping himself up on his knees slightly, raising his hips, Dean wrapped fingers around the loose skin beneath the head and caressed it, pulled it up and down over the head just as Castiel had instructed him to do earlier. Brightness danced before his eyes, pleasure like pinpricks played over his skin.
So useless, I'm so useless, and he'll see that, he will, but when I'm with him I don't feel useless. When I'm with him I feel good, I feel respected, I feel cared for, I feel so many things I don't deserve and have never earned. I can't stay away, I could never stay away. I can't believe he thought I didn't want him. Who wouldn't want him?
Can climax just doing that? whispered the memory of Castiel's voice. Dean nodded mutely against the ground. He could; just remembering being together was so intense that he was close, his body trembling with the strain of continuing his slow pace.
I must be wrong about him. He can't as perfect as I believe, otherwise he'd never want me. But right now I don't care. I want him. I need him, God, I can't wait a week to see him again. He'll tell me what to do, tell me it's alright, tell me to stop if it's not alright. He knows that this is wrong, he knows I shouldn't enjoy it, and he made me work for it, made me earn it. He didn't give me anything he didn't think I deserved. He gave me what I needed. No one has ever given me what I needed. It felt amazing.
That's crazy. Why would I like that? Why would I want that?
But I do – I do – I want it so much. Please, Cas, please, make me wait, make me beg, and then, only then, give me what I—
With a barely muffled groan, Dean splattered his release into his hand.
I'll probably never see him again. He'll never come back for me.
End note:
There's the smut I've been promising. I've had this scene planned in my head pretty much since I started writing in the beginning of August, and I'm so excited to share it. I hope you enjoy and that you find it in character for the two as I've described them. If you've been wondering just how the D/S was gonna work in a time period piece? ...you're looking at it. Thoughts?
A note on Confederate uniforms: there was no point in the war when the Confederacy had a standardized uniform. Unlike the Union, where after the first year or so everyone pretty much wore navy blue jackets and sky blue pants (with exceptions), Confederate supply was inconsistent enough, and the Confederate states were so impossible to force into agreement about anything, that different states provided uniforms of different colors. A lot of Confederates wore whatever they could get their hands on – including raided Union uniforms.
The two most common colors for Confederate uniforms were gray and a color always referred to as "butternut." I don't know WHY that was chosen as the standard way to identify that specific shade of brown, but there we are.
Quick Character Guide:
There's been a confusion over who is who, because some of our standard SPN characters don't go by their last names (or don't HAVE last names).
The Novaks:
James Castiel 'Cassie' Novak: our protagonist. Once Captain of Company B of the 27th New York Infantry; now Major.
Anna Milton: James' fiancee.
Naomi Novak: James' mother.
Michael Novak: James' father.
Zachariah Novak and Margaret 'Meg' Masters Novak: James' eldest brother and sis-in-law. Republican in the House of Representatives.
Hester Novak: James' eldest sister. Spinster active in the women's rights movement. Runs a field hospital at Fort Lyon.
Gabriel 'Gabe' Novak and Raphael Finnerman Novak: James' middle brother and sis-in-law. Active in abolitionist causes.
Frederick Seward and Rachel Novak Seward: James' brother in law and middle sister. Assistant secretary of state. Son of secretary of state William Seward.
General Daniel Elkins and Hannah Novak Elkins: James' youngest sister and the commander of the brigade at Fort Lyon. Former Colonel of the 27th NY.
The Winchesters:
Dean Winchester: Confederate soldier serving as a scout under the command of Gen Robert Singer.
Lisa Braeden Winchester, Ben Braeden Winchester: Dean's wife and son.
Benjamin 'Benny' Lafitte: Dean's best friend and sometime lover.
Sam Winchester: Dean's younger brother. Union soldier. Serves as James' clerk.
John Winchester: Dean and Sam's father. Former soldier. Current location unknown.
Mary Winchester: Dean and Sam's mother. Died in 1856.
People in the 27th NY:
Ferguson Roderick Crowley: Current Colonel of the 27th NY.
Duane Tanner: Lieutenant Colonel under Crowley.
Victor Henriksen: 1st Lieutenant of Company B. Probably the only black man in uniform in the entire Union army.
Missouri Moseley: a former slave who helps the regiment.
Garth Fitzgerald IV: Originally 2nd Lieutenant of Company B, now Captain.
Charles "Charlie" Bradbury: Originally a sergeant of Company B, now 2nd Lieutenant.
John "Ash" Ashley: Sergeant.
Alphonse 'Alfie' Samandriel Smith: private in Company B, childhood friend of James.
Others in Company B:
Sergeant Calvin Reidy; Corporal Dodd; Chaplain Jim Murphy; Doctor Whittaker; Adam Milligan; Andrew Gallagher; Harry Spangler; Craig Thursten; Pa Bender; Lee Bender; Jared Bender; Sanford Ellicott; James Ellicott; Phillip Amici; Randolph Baxter; Curtis Mueller; Marshall Hall; Jeff Krause; Larry Pike; Matt Pike; Ronald Reznick (deceased); Wesley Mondale (deceased); Ed Zeddmore (deceased); Zachariah Warren (crippled and sent home); Missy Bender (camp follower)
Others:
Steve Wandell, Captain, Company A
Pike, Captain, Company C
Irvine Franklin, Captain, Company E
Rick Carnegie, member of Elkins' personal staff
Allies/Friends of Zachariah Novak
General A.Z. Blaine: political appointee general. Margaret Novak's father.
Richard Roman: businessman
Joanna Harvelle: socialite
Bartholomew Boyle: College friend of James'. Colonel of the 1st Massachusetts Heavy Artillery.
Mr. Talbot and Bela Talbot: business people.
Stanley, Mrs., and Amelia Thompson: bankers and investors.
Becky Rosen: Amelia's friend.
Balthazar Freeley: British military envoy. Stationed at the headquarters of Gen Robert Singer.
Ruby Cassidy: young Bostonian attached to Colonel Freeley.
Others:
Mrs. Carrigan: a rival of Mrs. Novak's in Wolcott, NY.
I think that's everyone I've mentioned more than once?
