AN: Almost there, sweet readers. Thank you to so many of you who have favorited or set this fic on alert. I appreciate those as much as the wonderful people who send me reviews. And to the Anon who was worried about me coming back to finish...fear not. I ALWAYS finish what I start. :) And leave me your name next time. I can't comfort you if I don't know who you are. *hugs AN2: There are lots of nods to some of my favorite people in this chapter. You'll know who you are when you see it.
Disclaimer: Lots of book titles in this chapter as well as a few quotes. I own none and they should all be pretty clearly marked. I do however own James, since technically he's not Castiel...yet?
Dean managed to get his act together and saw them safely out of the Institution and across town to James's apartment. James had been reluctant to let him drive considering his obvious impairment, but Dean assured James that he'd driven in worse condition and he had indeed seemed quite capable of handling the big boat of a station wagon.
Dean stopped in front of James's building, slid the car into park, and was sitting quietly with his arms wrapped around the steering wheel, staring up at the clear night sky; bright with a million stars.
"See that one over there, forty degrees or so above the horizon?"
James leaned forward, braced himself against the dash with his forearms, and peered out the windshield. In that overly dark section of town, they had a perfect view of the vibrant heavens and looking up into the sky, James saw a star as bright and beautiful as the moon itself, and knew immediately that was the star Dean was pointing out. James nodded without saying a word.
"That's Venus," Dean stated confidently. "She's not always that bright, but she's always beautiful."
James turned to study Dean's profile in the dash light and found that the man looked surprisingly at ease.
"You spend a lot of time looking at her?" James asked quietly and Dean answered with a nod.
"I've spent almost my whole life on the road, and this sky…it's like my security blanket. As long as they're still up there, looking down on me, then I know everything's going to be okay. One way or another, it's gonna be okay."
"We are still talking stars, right?" James asked, looking back up into the night sky.
Dean huffed out a short, dry laugh. "Maybe."
His hands were healed. James hadn't been able to shake the thought from his head. He'd had trouble falling asleep; tossing and turning, and counting the hours by staring at the ceiling; trying and failing miserably to keep Dean out of his thoughts. But the man had a way of sneaking back in, and if James stared too hard into the darkness above, Dean's brilliant night sky would open above him on the plaster ceiling.
When he finally drifted off, James's sleep was equally troubled; blurred with images and sounds from the earlier part of the night: wild, dark eyes rimmed with hazel – "You can't do that!" – a strong hand closed around a brother's throat – "You can't change the rules." – the sick, dull thunk of a man's skull slamming against the wall – "People and demons; yes, but you can't taunt me with Angels." – and the voice of a young man at war within himself, filled with pure violence and terror – "You said you can't!"
The morning sun broke through the curtains, splashing its warmth across James's face, and causing him to jerk suddenly out of his sleep. Groaning, he flopped over on his belly, used his hand to shield his eyes from the bright light, and squinted at the bedside clock. 7.00 am. He did the math in his head and groaned again.
"I'm too old for this."
He rolled out of bed slowly and padded down the short hallway to the bathroom to splash water over his face at the sink. The small room was lit with the soft, golden glow of a nightlight, and James leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror to study how the light played in the dripping water and deep shadows of his face. He seemed nearly unrecognizable. "You don't-you don't know who I am?" Dean's voice echoed out of the past.
"Hell," James answered to himself, "I don't even know who I am."
He climbed onto the metro bus, nodding to the driver in passing and found an empty seat so he could watch the town fly by. James had always taken the ten minute ride into the work as time to collect himself and prepare for his day, but today the furthest thing from his mind was work. Truth be told, he was trying to keep his mind free and clear of any thoughts, as they kept veering back towards Dean.
"Dammit, don't pretend you can't hear me."
The bus pulled over and came to a halt at a designated stop and James lurched forward out of his seat, moving quickly to the front and off of the bus.
"Hey, this isn't your stop," the driver called after him.
"It is today," James muttered to himself, moving away from the bus and away from the homeless shelter that stood half a mile up the street. He had no idea where he was going; no destination in mind. He just knew that he couldn't keep going that direction. Dean would be there; waiting for him. He didn't know how he knew that exactly. It was just a hunch, but a hunch that James would stake a week's pay on and running into Dean…not in James's game plan today. He needed time and space and…and time to think; to sort through all of this…information overload that was swimming around in his head. Or better yet, to not have to think about it.
He walked swiftly, zig-zagging his way through town, past small, privately owned shops. Everywhere there were people bustling inside and out as they prepared for the business day, and the bitter scent of percolating coffee and just-baked bread wafted out through doors propped open to let the fresh spring air in. It all provided a much needed distraction, and grateful, James felt himself relax a bit and his pace slow.
James peeled off and entered one of the shops; a small, quiet used book store, tucked into a recessed nook in a row of shops. The store was cozy and peaceful; its walls lined with floor-to-ceiling book cases and a well-lit reading area tucked in to the center of a handful of stacks. The front of the shop was designated as a small café, and behind a glass case, stood an older man in old fashioned apron strings, looking like someone plucked from the pages of Little House on the Prairie. The man wiped his hands on his apron and leaned his hip into a counter.
"Mornin'," he greeted. "Can I get you anything?"
"G'morning," James answered, his eyes still sweeping throughout the store. "Thanks, but I think I'll just wander around for a bit."
The man nodded and added, "Give a holler if you need anything."
James's head dipped in appreciation, and then he crossed to the nearest bookcase. He spent half an hour wandering through the books, his fingers tracing over the leather bindings as he went. There was something sensual in the gilded pages and hand-laced bindings of the older volumes; a scent of age and experience in their fanned pages. James breathed deeply, relishing in the feeling of relief he found between their covers.
He stumbled across a selection of hand-picked must-reads from the 19th Century laid out on a table, with titles such as Alice in Wonderland, Red Badge of Courage, Oliver Twist, just to name a few. James snatched up a well-worn copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and found a seat in a comfortable, red leather chair. With his feet propped up and crossed on a foot stool, he read.
'TOM!'
No Answer.
'TOM!'
No Answer.
'What's wrong with that boy, I wonder? You Tom!'
No Answer.
What was wrong with that boy? Now there was a question. James caught himself laughing; his mind immediately reverting to Dean, and he quickly smothered the laugh by clamping a hand over his mouth.
Forget Dean. What was wrong with him?
James had been unable to hold onto a single thought without drifting back to the previous day's happenings. He'd skipped out of work without even bothering to call in, and now he was meandering through a pocket-sized book store and for what? In the hope that he could avoid the inevitable?
And what was it exactly that had him running scared?
"My hand…it's healed. They both are."
He'd seen it with his own eyes; had touched the new, unblemished skin with his own, and it had been perfect and flawless, not even a scratch. The impossibility of it scared James beyond reason. That and the fear which he had felt beneath Dean's steadfast belief that James had been the reason behind the healing, had been all the excuse James needed to go running for the hills.
The idea that he could magically hocus pocus Dean's hands back together was ridiculous, and James had to wonder a bit about the man's sanity for even concocting the hair-brained idea. And yet James couldn't come up with a single medical explanation for the miracle healing. He couldn't fool himself into believing that Dean's hands hadn't been as bad as he'd imagined, because he'd treated them himself. He'd witnessed first-hand how torn up and bruised the skin was, damage so bad that it couldn't possibly heal in one week, let alone one day. So if not science, what then?
Certainly not this fairytale notion of James possessing 'the healing touch' or whatever nonsense Dean had come up with. That was just…impossible. James wasn't magical – he shook his head in exasperation – he wasn't Harry Potter for crying out loud. However that didn't seem to matter to Dean; he'd latched onto miraculous thinking with the desperation of a man whose entire world was dying, frantic with the need to save his brother, by any means necessary, even if that meant breaking into the Mental Health Institute and practically demanding that James heal his brother with his 'magical touch'. James was left wondering what the Hell he had managed to get himself into. Dean had seemed like a normal guy when he'd met him. He'd seemed like a normal guy all the way up until the moment he'd said: "I brought you here so you could help my brother."
James's mind spun out of control; his thoughts, like a scratched record were stuck in a continuous loop, repeating the same things over and over, and he felt as though if he didn't get a grip on things, he might lose control of his senses. So he clambered out of the chair; dropped Mark Twain down into the seat, and stood in the center of the reading area not quite sure what to do, except to breathe. He was frustrated, and tugging on his hair he realized that he was also failing miserably at hiding that frustration. James let his hands fall from his hair, shook them out by his side and attempted to roll the tension out of his neck and shoulders. As he did so, he turned around in the small reading area, letting his eyes drift closed and his hands come up to stretch above his head, letting go of all the clutter in his mind. And when he reopened his eyes and they had a chance to adjust to his surroundings again, he saw and was drawn to another book. James stepped towards the bookcase, pulling on the edge of the spine to tug to book down.
"C.S. Lewis."
"He wrote the Chronicles of Narnia." The voice so close to him startled James and he bobbled the book in his hands before finding a firm grasp on it. He turned surprised eyes on the shop owner who was standing beside him with a polystyrene cup in his hand. "You looked like you could use some coffee," he said, adding, "It's on the house."
"Oh, thank you," James said appreciatively. He took the proffered cup, took a tentative sip and found it surprisingly just how he liked it; strong and dark. "Thank you," he repeated.
When asked whether he had read C.S. Lewis before, James shook his head and answered that he didn't recall having done so. He held up a plainly decorated paperback entitled, Miracles, and asked, "Have you read this one?"
"I've read everything here," the man quipped. "I found Miracles to be particularly persuasive and…comforting."
For reasons unknown to him, James frowned in confusion.
"Do you believe in miracles, son?" the shop owner asked.
"I, uh…I'm not sure."
The shop owner nodded. "Sounds like you've been found then."
"Found?"
"I have this saying: A man doesn't choose a book; the book chooses the man. And it looks as though this one's found its way to you. Perhaps today is a good day to explore, maybe find out if you believe in miracles or not."
James turned the book over, studying the back cover thoughtfully.
Do miracles really happen? Can we know if the supernatural world exists? C.S. Lewis shows that a Christian must rejoice in miracles as a testimony of the unique personal involvement of God in creation. Lewis challenges the rationalists and cynics who are mired in their lack of imagination and provides a poetic and joyous affirmation that miracles really do occur in our everyday lives.
"Yeah, maybe," James answered softly. He flipped into the first chapter and read the first line aloud, "Those who wish to succeed must ask the right preliminary questions."
The shop owner nodded and with a smile, said, "Aristotle, a brilliant naturalist, however, you're unlikely to find the answers to your questions in his philosophies."
"How can I be sure? I have so many questions…I've got them comin' out of my ears. How do I know which ones are the right ones?"
"It's not whether the question is right or wrong, it's whether you're asking the right person. Take the book, son. Take it and find the answers you're looking for."
James folded his hands over his chest, hugging the book and his coffee to him, and dipped his head in agreement. He followed the shop owner up to the register and then remembered the other book he'd cast aside when his thoughts had overwhelmed him.
"Just one second." Excusing himself, James jogged back to the red reading chair, gathered up the forgotten Tom Sawyer, and brought it back to the counter. "I'll take this one too."
When James left the book store, he made a phone call into the shelter and had his schedule cleared for the day. The clerk working the desk, confirming that a man had been there looking for him shortly after 8.00. James wasn't sure if he was relieved not to have been there, or guilty at having purposefully avoided Dean, but what was done was done, and he could only move forward.
He continued to wander the streets, with no destination in mind; just letting his feet carry him. Too busy reading his new book to watch where he was going; James was surprised when he suddenly found himself standing on the edge of some random park in the middle of town. It wasn't anything fancy, quite the opposite in fact; just an open green space, dotted with a handful of shade trees that were just beginning to fully leaf out. On the end of the park nearest to him, sat a children's playground. It was dressed in bright yellow, blue and red, with park benches that lined the pebbled play area, and James wandered into it, found a seat on one of those benches and continued reading.
Looking up into the sky, James tried to judge how much time had passed since he'd come to rest on the park bench. It had been several hours at least, as the sun had moved a great deal across the pale blue sky, and when James stood up, setting his books to the side, he found his butt tingling and flattened by the long exposure to the metal bench. He rubbed absently at his backside and then allowed himself a good long stretch.
Half the day – gone. How had he managed to lose himself for that long? Although, James shouldn't complain, it had been the most relaxing few hours he'd had over the last twenty-four, and he had even managed to come more to grips with the events of the previous night.
Perhaps he had rushed to judgment over what Dean had been saying in Sam's room. Maybe he should have taken the time to listen better to what Dean had been trying to tell him. It seemed quite clear now, that Dean hadn't meant to say that he thought James was magical, but instead had meant something completely different. As James had read through the book, one thing had stood out in his memory. The fact that Dean had referred to James's surviving his drowning as a miracle. If James looked at everything from this newly opened view, he could see how Dean would come to such a conclusion. James had woken from a coma that he was never intended to recover, Dean's hands had been healed – also in James's presence, and finally, Dean had dragged James to his brother's bedside with the hope that whatever miracle mumbo jumbo James had working for him, would also work for Sam.
It was a far-fetched idea, unless of course you were Dean, a man so desperate to protect the one thing he had left – his family – that he was capable of believing in miracles and the power of his own will and even Angels.
"You're like an Angel watchin' over me or something."
Picking up his books, James slipped them into his jacket pocket and set out to wander the bicycle path that skirted the park; to think over his next course of action. The safest and probably the most rational choice would be for him to forget it all; pretend that he'd never met Dean, never been introduced to his situation, never been given the chance to become the least bit invested. But it was too late; he had become invested, and how could he possibly turn his back on the man now? "You're not alone in this." That's exactly what he'd said to Dean that first night on his door stoop when he'd mistaken Dean for a man down on his luck and handed him a ten and directed him toward the shelter. Stupid. Why hadn't he taken the time to listen? It was what the shelter was paying him for, after all – to listen. Instead he'd taken on the 'shoot first, ask questions later' mentality and had only heard what he'd wanted to hear.
So what had Dean really said? "My brother…he was pretty much the only thing I had. And…now I don't." "He's my responsibility; has been since I was four years old…" It was no secret that of everything and everyone in Dean's life, Sam was most important. He wore that bright and bold on his sleeve – I'm a big brother – like a badge of honor. That fact was absolute. So what had James missed?
James thought long and hard, making his fourth loop around the park, and then he remembered. There had been one moment the previous night which might have normally set alarms ringing in James's head, if he'd truly been paying attention.
Having become defensive, Dean had come at James with: "You could have family out there, man. And friends who care about you, depend on you, but instead you're here living this…other life. You could be someone important." The remark had come in response to James's own situation and his inability to remember who he had been before his accident. Now, looking at that conversation from the outside, James saw real turmoil in Dean's words, and James felt it only right for him to take it upon himself to suss out the reasons behind that turmoil.
"You're not alone in this," he echoed his earlier words. "I won't let you be."
And remembering the words of the book store owner, "It's not whether the question is right or wrong, it's whether you're asking the right person," James set off in search of the one person who might possible offer more insight into this perplexing situation.