Chapter Title:
While I KNOW I've heard specific quotes referring to distant thunder, I can't find any that are entirely appropriate. However, in general, the phrase referred to the rattle of artillery and battle heard in the distance, and everything that portended about coming conflict and danger. There's also some subtext, because throughout the war it was repeatedly observed that the layout of terrain could cause strange effects in sound - battles might be impossible to hear even if they were close, yet be audible from miles and miles away. Thus, no one could ever be sure just how distant that thunder actually was...
Quick Note: So...I goofed. I got it in my head that Benny Lafitte's lost love's name was Andrea KOSS, when in fact her name is Andrea Kormos. As far as I can tell the only placed I put the wrong name in was in Chapter 11. I'm sorry about the mix up, it's fixed now!
Chapter 12: The Distant Thunder
Dear Cassie, January 13th, 1862
Will wonders never cease, I received your letter in a mere two weeks and have hopes that perhaps this one will make the return trip to you with similar "alacrity." Considering that the distance between Kentucky and Virginia can be covered by rail car in four days, isn't it absurd that it takes the post weeks? Still, I should as soon complain about the weather or the state of our rations for all the good it will do, so I suppose I should let it go. There are battles that can be won – I'm sure word will reach you of Middle Creek before this letter arrives – and there are those that cannot – there will ever be an endless supply of bed bugs – I must accept what I cannot change and move on.
I am glad to hear that my letter was of use to you, and that you were not paralyzed into non-action in its absence. It sounds as if you and D. are much on the same page. Obligatorily, I must ask that you inform D. that, should he hurt you in any way, I will eviscerate him. We are in the midst of war, I doubt anyone would even notice a mere act of murder. If you find yourself conflicted in the future, do write, and I will be happy to give you another swift kick in the verbal ass.
Raphael and I are fine. The need here amongst the colored populations of the western states is extreme, and we have been getting runaways from Kentucky, Missouri, Tennessee, and a few from as far as Mississippi and Alabama. Theoretically, we are to return those from loyal states to their masters, and this has been a source of conflict more than once. At this point, we have a cadre of contraband who...no, let me put this another way.
Theoretically, if runaway slaves were to arrive here from Missouri or Kentucky or any other state still part of the Union, they must be returned to their owners, no matter how against the grain such runs. Raphael and I, of course, can do nothing to protect such a person, nothing to spirit them away, nothing to protect them from fate. If such an individual comes to our attention we are in the very unfortunate position of returning them. But if – this is all a fantasy, of course – the first to greet incoming arrivals were not under such strictures – if some intelligent, well-prepared welcome committee could intercept such an individual and direct them appropriately – then, I suppose it might be possible that alternative means could be found of freeing the people in question, unofficially, by spiriting them into the usual pre-war channels and sending them north.
Such a thing would of course be illegal and ill-advised, though, and Raphael and I would never condone, let alone aid and abet, such behavior.
In terms of aid you might render, it is a sweet and vacuous offer, as you well know. However, there is one thing that you can do. While I was in Washington, you were serving with Henriksen, correct? Is he still with you? If he is, please pass on the enclosed to him; it is the second letter I have written on a matter that is of personal interest to him. Having received no answer to the first I feared either the post lost it or that I misdirected it.
Take care of yourself, Cassie. The casualty lists from the recent battle remind of the human cost of this war. I will be very put out if you get killed in battle.
Gabriel Novak
Dear Gabriel, February 2nd, 1862
I've scarce a minute to write but fearing to do Henriksen an injustice I dash off a few quick lines. He has written you a reply and asked to append it to my letter – you will find it enclosed. He tells me you have word of his family? That is fantastic! He is hoping to take leave to come out west and investigate himself – so he tells me – though I fear that his request will not be honored, as it will fall to Colonel Crowley to approve such, and unless I've much misunderstood the man he'll not do so. Anything that Crowley believes will give Henriksen ease or satisfaction will be denied him, or else granted in such a way as to negate all pleasure that might have been found, lest Henriksen ever forget the subordinate position that he has deigned to rise above in donning the uniform.
Other than that, little to say. Tremendously busy. General McClellan comes in hours to inspect the camp. Button polish has never been in more demand.
I think myself in love with D. I've not yet told them so. Every intelligent impulse screams that I should not do so, that it would be ill-advised and perhaps even dangerous to speak the words aloud, yet in intimate moments of passion they rise unbidden to my thoughts, rest on the tip of my tongue begging for release, and the urge to surrender and speak grows. I both long for and dread the marching of the armies.
J.C. Novak
"I expected no less from you," said General McClellan to Colonel Crowley as he walked past the 27th New York Infantry. General Elkins and all the Colonels, Lieutenant Colonels, Majors and staff from the Brigade trailed behind McCllelan as he paced his horse before the neatly ordered files of soldiers. Visitors and observers made a line to their left, important men and women from Washington. Raising his voice, the very paragon of how James imagined a leader to sound, every bit a match to soldierly appearance and bearing, the General shouted, "I expected no less from the men of New York and Maine!" A huge cheer erupted from the assembled Regiment. "When I see troops as committed, as loyal, as dedicated, as hardworking as you, I am inspired, I am honored to be the leader of a force composed of such noble men. Your efforts will not go unrewarded! The time approaches when I shall lead you to glorious battle and you will reap your just desserts in the form of victory over our traitorous opponents!" There was another cheer, the loudest James had ever heard the soldiers give on the promise of so little in return. Even should the Army of the Potomac emerge the victor of the next conflict, how many would die to secure triumph? Would such a win herald the end of the war? James didn't dare hope so.
"I'm very impressed, Colonel," McClellan continued conversationally as the group proceeded. Unsurprisingly, after all their hard work and additional drill, the entire Regiment's performance had been exemplary but the 27th New York had outdone themselves. Word had trickled down through the ranks of Crowley's condemnations and, for better or for worse, the troops were united in hating him and wanting to show that they were none of the things Crowley had accused them of. Whenever they next found themselves in battle, James suspected they'd fight like demons.
"They were a rough bunch, but I've whipped them into shape," said Crowley with false modesty. Disgusted, James repressed a snort at the unsubtle comparison of the soldiers to slaves. "And even I must confess, they've worked very hard this past month. They wished to impress you, General." The Colonel said that last bit loudly enough for the soldiers to hear.
"They have succeeded," roared McClellan, to the general acclaim of the amassed soldiers. "Who was responsible for their training while you were attending the Council of War in January?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Tanner," Crowley said, making sure his young second-in-command was pushed forward. The young man looked especially boyish amidst the group of older soldiers, but there was nothing but confidence on his face.
"Excuse me," General Elkins interjected mildly. "I believe Major Novak has borne primary responsibility for their training this winter; before that it was my responsibility."
"Yes," said Crowley with a sneer. "I'm sure your brother-in-law was assiduous in doing his duty, but the Lieutenant Colonel had the command, not a mere Major."
"Is this the brother of the lovely Hannah?" asked McClellan graciously. It was impossible to tell what he thought of Crowley's suggestion that Elkins was only bringing up James' contribution because of their relationship rather than because it was the truth. James resisted the urge to grind his teeth and instead smiled and modestly inclined his head to his commander. This might be the only chance he had to impress himself on McClellan's memory, he wouldn't ruin it with his well-earned, long-nursed bitterness against the Colonel.
"Indeed, and he's a fine officer," said Elkins, nudging James forward. "Originally the Captain of Company B of the 27th New York – you'll recall, you noted the promptness of their response to the bugle calls?" McClellan offered a hand and James shook it deferentially. The General gave him a warm smile, his irresistible charisma and the praise bringing a faint flush of embarrassment to James' cheeks.
I didn't do much, I could have – should have – done more…
"Keep up the good work, Major," said McClellan. "Your Colonel is going places – high places – and there will be many opportunities for a young, talented subordinate of his."
"Thank you, sir," James replied, trying to repress his natural reticence to own his accomplishments.
They finished passing the 27th and McClellan turned to Colonel Jackson of the 5th Maine and began lavishing praise on his unit. Though McClellan was lavish and effusive in his commendation, James knew that regardless of his own accomplishments, the 27th New York had earned every word bestowed upon them. Glancing back, he shot a covert thumbs up and smile of approval towards the Captains of his Regiment and received beaming looks in return.
The remainder of the review passed quickly and when it was done, McClellan met with the senior officers and everyone else was dismissed. Left to his own devices, James hurried back to his Regiment so he too could compliment them as they deserved. The troops had been dismissed to an afternoon off, well-earned, and already most were engaged in quiet pastimes, knowing their commander remained on the premises and thus avoiding more raucous pursuits that might otherwise tempt them. The day was mild and sunny and music drifted through the camp, voices raised in upbeat songs, and the crack of wood spoke of a game of stick ball being played on the parade grounds. Most of the officers from the 27th were gathered at a low fire before Crowley's tent. When James approached, every one save Wandell looked up, expressions ranging from curious to relieved to excited to nervous.
"The General was impressed," said James. It felt unnecessary to repeat, McClellan had said enough to make that clear, yet broad grins broke out on many faces at his words. They looked like a class of school boys responding to the praise of a favorite teacher. McClellan was very popular among soldiers; his approval meant a lot. "Colonel Crowley sang your praises as well – he is pleased with the improvements you made over the past month."
"But what did you think, Major?" asked Lieutenant Tran. James flushed red, took his hat off and raked a hand through his hair.
"I thought it went without saying that I think you've done phenomenally," he managed. "You have worked tirelessly for this accomplishment, and if there was anything I could do to reward your diligence, you know I'd do so."
"You got us blankets," said Bass.
"Captain Fitzgerald got the Regiment blankets," James corrected.
"At your instigation," amended Fitzgerald. James' cheeks grew even hotter. "We've also you to thank for the hospital."
"That was entirely Hester's doing."
"I'm sure she'd have done as much if the Regiment did not include her brother," said Bradbury, rolling his eyes.
"Major, don't fight it, you've done great," said Captain Shurley. "We assume Crowley will get the credit but we wanted you to know that we know who deserves the credit." Henriksen nodded solemn agreement, Bradbury grinning at his side, the others assembled showing him approving looks.
"I just came to say that you all did fantastically," stammered James.
I didn't do anything commendable, all I did was my duty – all I did was enforce the unreasonable orders of an unreasonable man. I've done nothing worthy of this praise.
"No," Wandell looked up from poking at the fire, gave James a steady look. Technically they were all veterans after Bull Run, but often it didn't feel that way, but Wandell's greater experience still gave him authority and respect among the other Captains and among the men. "We assembled here to say to you that you did good, Major. You did real good. What you're dealing with isn't easy, and we appreciate what you're doing and how hard you're working."
"Thank you," he whispered. It was all the reply he could muster, his eyes swimming with tears. Mortified, he pulled his hat back on, wiped his hand over his eyes before anyone could notice how effected he was. His ridiculous reaction was just fatigue dragging him down, just stress making him over-sensitive, just their praise going to his head. He knew there was so much more he could have done, so much more he should have done. He'd done well, but he had to do better.
"Well, I'm for a game of cards, if anyone is interested?" Wandell looked around.
The lieutenants and captains recognized the informal dismissal and began to disperse towards their own pursuits. Wandell pulled out a deck of playing cards and shuffled them with practiced expertise. Though several shot James looks and offered invitations to join in whatever activity they intended to spend the afternoon in, James demurred, struggling to contain his emotions, determined to devote his limited hours of freedom to some much-needed sleep.
"Winchester," James said as he ducked into his tent. He was sure his clerk was working, and he was sure that it would take a direct order to make the boy take his own break. "You should..."
Zachariah, General Blaine, Richard Roman, Ms. Harvelle and Boyle made a crowd in James' tent. Stunned, he froze. Sam looked up from the desk, a wild, distracted look on his face, and looked down again determinedly.
"James!" said Zachariah with warmth, catching a startled James in an stiff imitation of a brotherly embrace. "It's been too long!"
"What brings you here?" James struggled to collect himself, still moved by the officers' declaration of support, rattled after assuming he'd step into the small tent to peace and quiet. "Um, won't you join me outside? It's rather crowded in here…" If he couldn't have serenity he could at least give Winchester privacy. "And Corporal, you're dismissed, read a book or something." Surprised, Sam blinked at him, but James gave no one time to reply, stepping out of the tent and into the open air outside. The group around the nearby fire was mostly gone, only Wandell, Shurley, Pike and a Lieutenant whose name James couldn't recall staring intently at the cards they held, a rock holding down the top of the deck from which they drew so that the wind couldn't scatter the cards.
"That was well done, Cassie, very well done," beamed Zachariah. "Did I see you shaking hands with the General? Fantastic – capital. And Colonel Crowley is the very model of an officer: he's going places and he'll take you with him!"
"That would be..." James fished for something to say, anything to say, that wouldn't be a lie.
Blaine spared him having to come up with something adequate to say by nodding and speaking into James' pause. "I was at General McClellan's Council of War. Colonel Crowley distinguished himself with his intelligence, insight and knowledge of the stratagies of war."
"I'm a little jealous," said Boyle, and he did sound it, though James couldn't guess which aspect of the situation Boyle was jealous of.
Was it the 20 hours days or the all night duty? Or perhaps he envies me the paperwork. No, I cannot believe he wishes the work, he merely wishes the accolades, as Crowley himself does. Boyle wishes he were attached to a superior with prospects, that is the only aspect of my condition he would emulate. I never knew him ambitious. Was he ever thus?
"Nonsense," said Ms. Harvelle with a doting smile towards Boyle which, as usual, Roman appeared completely oblivious to. "You are in a fine position yourself, Colonel, you have quite the future ahead of you. What was it that General McClellan said when he reviewed your Regiment in December?"
" 'I have never seen a better display of artillery in my life,' " said Boyle, imitating the General's rolling, rich voice. " 'If I could replicate your unit man for man I could think of no better defense for our august capital city! I am glad it is you and your troops at this most vulnerable outpost position!' " Boyle beamed smugly.
"I take it your training as heavy artillery has gone well?" asked James, mustering the appearance of interest.
"Excellently," Boyle said as if such an outcome was a foregone conclusion. "The 14th Massachusetts was rechristened the First Massachusetts Heavy Artillery on January 1st, with our orders from the General himself – written in his hand, no mere clerk left to pen such an important honor!"
"So when we embark on the offensive with the coming of spring, you will not be participating?" James said mildly. Affronted, Boyle stared at him, but James assumed a guileless expression. If his friend wanted to compete for accolades, let him be reminded that he was boasting of outpost duty, that provided the Army of the Potomac performed their duty, there would be no call for the defenses around Washington to act because General Johnston and the Confederate army would be engaged elsewhere. The best chances for promotion and notice would be among those facing the greatest danger, those who actually fought.
"Speaking of which, when will the armies march?" asked Zachariah curiously.
"That is the question on everyone's lips," Ms. Harvelle chirped. "Even my dear Mr. Roman is told nothing! Nor the Colonel! Though we came among General McClellan's party, he is mum on the matter." The look on her face was all innocence, an image enhanced by the bobbing of a large feather on her hat, the subtlety of the powders which made her appear even more youthful than she actually was. The doting expression on Roman's face only added to the idea that there could be nothing more innocuous than for her to ask about military affairs. It had been a long time since James had cause to think on all he'd observed at the November dinner for his birthday – only the letters that Freeley and Ms. Cassidy wished forwarded had reminded James of civilian matters all winter – but now all his suspicions returned enhanced. Fortunately, James knew nothing of import, nothing that wasn't public knowledge, and thus felt no compunction telling what he might.
"Word is that we are to transport down the Rappahannock River to someplace beyond the Confederate flank and from there march on Richmond," he supplied. "And the president, as Commander and Chief, has issued orders that regardless of where we march – he suggests Centreville and Manassas – we must do so by February 22nd."
"The General doubts that the army will be prepared to march in a scant few weeks," said Mr. Roman. Boyle nodded agreement. James looked at them each in turn, wondering what they had seen during the review earlier. For his part, James had seen troops fit as a fiddle and raring to go. Their greatest ailments were the cold and boredom, both of which could be cured by marching south. If it were up to him, they'd have moved in January, as the Confederates had done in the Valley, as Thomas and Garfield had done in Kentucky, as the press suggested General Grant was to do in Tennessee.
"That's nonsense," said General Blaine, sparing James from having to find a polite way of saying the same. "While some units are more prepared than others, with scant rearrangement the troops best trained – such as those here – can be sent to the front, and those yet green can man the fortresses. That is not a position that requires a veteran unit." Boyle glowered, catching the dig even though Blaine appeared to ignore him. "This army is ready to fight. I would suggest, based on my experience, that this army needs to fight!"
"What experience is that?" asked Ms. Harvelle curiously.
"My father-in-law led Free Soil troops in Kansas," Zachariah explained with pride, as if the connection bestowed expertise and authority on him by extension. "He participated in the siege of Lawrence, leading several hundred men against the Missourian agitators."
What did Dean say? "After mama died, everything was blood and fire and violence." Was he at Lawrence? Based on Dean's statements, I must suppose that if he fought at all, it was on the side of the "Missourian agitators." What does that say about the Free Soil men? What does that say about the death of his mother? What does that say about Dean and Sam and their father? John Brown did murder at Pottawatomie in the name of 'freedom' and 'justice' for the slaves. What excesses might others on the Free Soil side have engaged in? What cause might they have had to kill a woman, a mother with young sons?
"Cassie?"
"I didn't know you were involved in the actual battles." James fished for a way to steer the conversation that might provide answers to his questions. There weren't so many people in Kansas that'd it be outlandish to think that the Winchesters and Blaine might know each other – perhaps Sam recognized him, perhaps that's why he looked so out of sorts, perhaps I can ask him about it later – especially if both were living around Lawrence. "Might you have met my clerk while you were there?"
"Your clerk?" asked Blaine blankly.
"The young man who was in my tent with you earlier. He is from Kansas, as is his family. Their last name is Winchester."
"Samuel Winchester?" Blaine broke into a cold smile that sent a chill down James' spine. Suddenly, he was possessed by the feeling that he should not have said anything about Sam. "I scarce recognized him, he's sprouted like a beanstalk. Yes, I knew the Winchesters in Kansas." There was nothing of excitement at the kindling of old acquaintance; Blaine's tone was cold, snide, aloof, strangely dangerous. "Their father, Captain John Winchester, was one of the commanders of the Federal troops in the area, and frustratingly sympathetic to the Missouri interlopers. Men like him were a part of the problem there, a big part of it – happy to allow the principals of popular sovereignty to be trampled upon even as they crowed loudly about neutrality and equality. 1,500 men marching on Kansas from Missouri wasn't neutrality, it was an invasion of those who would see the will of those actually living in Kansas trampled upon."
Captain John Winchester. That's what he did after graduating West Point. That's why the Winchester's moved to Kansas in 1850, at a point when it was scarce civilized and overrun by Indians. Not only was Winchester somehow capable of hating Dean – sweet, vulnerable, loving Dean – he was also a man who would move his family a thousand miles and more to an untried frontier, with no knowledge of when statehood might come, despite the dangers of Indians, isolation, illness, exposure. Worse than that – considering the things Sam and Dean each have said, the way Sam looks and acts like a veteran though he is but 16, how Dean speaks of violence with detachment, Winchester must have taken his young sons into battle.
It all comes back to their mother, doesn't it? Whatever happened to Mary Winchester is at the heart of this.
"He's not spoken of it much," said James with what detachment he could. "It sounds like it must have been interesting."
"That's one word for it," snorted Blaine. "I see the look on your face, Novak – it's precisely what you think, both sides did cruel things to the other, it's true, but whatever ill deeds some zealots on our side did were for the Cause. Brown was a great man – an inspired man – for all that he was extreme by my standards. Too obsessed with the black man, he kept losing sight that it was about the freedom to make the choice, not the actually outcome. Watch out for Mr. Winchester – young though he may be, and younger still when I knew him, he had the devil in him in a fight."
"I'll keep that in mind," said James faintly. Sam was always gentle, intelligent, hard-working, yetJames found Blaine's words entirely plausible.
It sounds like perhaps he had cause to be vicious in battle. Dean said their mother was murdered in May, 1856, didn't he? That was when the violence was escalating in Kansas. This must all interrelate, though I don't yet know enough to see how.
Those poor boys. My poor Dean.
My Dean?
James shuddered.
"Yes, enough of this talk of a bloody past," said Ms. Harvelle lightly. "I'd far prefer to speak of a bloody future!"
"That's macabre of you," Roman said, looping his arm through hers affectionately. She gave him a beaming smile even as she shot Boyle a coy sidelong glance.
"I think the armies will march by the 22nd, I do," she said. "Despite McClellan's objections."
Happy to sound an authority, Boyle chimed in with his theory of what the General intended. Zachariah picked up the thread, ranting that McClellan's objections were bunk and that if others could march, so could the army encamped about Washington. That led to spirited discussion between the others, their guesses on where the army would march and when, how the Confederates would react. With nothing to contribute, it was easy for James to fade into the background. As a group, they revealed a startling array of knowledge on different aspects of the war. Zachariah reported the opinions of his allies in Congress – Mr. Sumner said this, Mr. Stevens said that. James noted with interest that everyone he named were aligned with the Radical elements of the Republican Party, those who said that the war should be pursued more ruthlessly, that emancipation should be made an explicit war aim, that President Lincoln was vacillating and weak, that McClellan was dilatory and slow. The authorities cited by Mr. Roman were no less august, ranging from the President to Secretary of War Stanton to Horace Greeley; General Blaine joined in the name dropping as well, General Halleck and General Meigs and other high-ranking officers. Blaine was also the only one to have been involved in McClellan's Council of War, and seemed indifferent about the danger of speaking in front of non-army civilians of unknown allegiance, boastfully reporting what he'd heard of the General's plan: take transports down the Rappahannock, bypass the Confederate emplacements along the river, march to Urbanna, steal a march on the Confederate army and march on a largely undivided Richmond. Ms. Harvelle listened as silently as James did and far more assiduously. There was an intense look to her eyes that a vapid smile did nothing to hide, whereas James was hard pressed to pay attention, his exhausted thoughts too busy attempting to piece together what little he knew of what must have happened in Kansas.
If I can understand what occurred there, if I can reconstruct the horrors in Dean's past, I will be better able to support him, better able to offer words of comfort that are not devoid of meaning, better able to pleasure him. I will be better able to love him as I wish to.
"Are you well, Major Novak?" A gentle hand on his shoulder pulled James from his reverie. The group had fragmented as they'd walked, James too abstracted to notice, and Ms. Harvelle had fallen back and was looking at him with what appeared to be genuine concern.
Of course, entirely genuine. Does she still think to flirt with me? Surely after this conversation she can have no belief that I have any information of interest, certainly nothing to compare to the intelligence possessed by Blaine, my brother, Mr. Roman, and even Colonel Boyle.
"Tired, Ms. Harvelle," he replied. "It's been a stressful month, preparing for the General's review today. Things should calm down now."
"That is optimistic of you," she said, smiling. "Colonel Crowley does not seem a man to let up on the reins, and while General Elkins has never struck me as unduly harsh, he is clearly a dutiful general. I'm sure you must be very busy." He nodded. "Go on – go rest. I'll let the others know, they will scarce notice the difference, though I suspect your brother will wish to say goodbye."
"Thank you, Ms. Harvelle." He could think of no ulterior motive for her kindness. Good God, what am I becoming, that I look at a gesture of goodwill from a woman against whom I harbor only unsubstantiated suspicions, that I assume that everything she does must have an agenda behind it? "You're too kind."
"I'm not, really," she said with a toothy grin.
And then she goes and looks at me like that, says something like that. I scarce know what to think. It is for greater minds than mine, for more assiduous investigators, to suss out the motives of a Miss Joanna Harvelle. Someone call a Pinkerton.
General McClellan's party clustered near the entrance to the fort, fancifully dressed officers and attaches on horseback, the entourage that advised and aided the General in the execution of his duties. Zachariah and the others drifted towards a group of mounts tied to a hitching post; they stopped and looked back. "Coming!" called Ms. Harvelle brightly, straightening her bodice, hefting her shirts to make what haste she might despite her corset, full skirts, thick coat and dainty slippers. Waving farewell, James returned to his own tent.
When he stepped within, Sam was still bent over the small table, but in place of the ledgers and account books that normally rested open to reveal columns in Sam's neat handwriting, he instead stared at a single page on which he'd scarce written a word. He jumped in his seat as James brushed entered, the poorly built stool creaking under Sam's weight.
"Hello, sir," Sam said weakly, settling back down. He's grown even more, how did I not notice?
"How are you, Winchester?" James asked, gratefully dropping to the cold ground and wrapping his blanket around his shoulders.
"Fine, I suppose." Sam's eyes flickered to his paper, back to James.
"I'm sorry, I have interrupted something private? I promise, I'm far too tired to read letters over your shoulder, even were I inclined to invade your privacy so rudely," said James. Sam flushed.
"No, I didn't think you…I mean…it's nothing," stammered Sam.
"You're writing to your brother about A.Z. Blaine," said James with abrupt insight.
Shut your damn mouth, James! Did I truly say that aloud?
"How did you know that?" Sam demanded shrilly.
James let his eyes slip shut and massaged his temples, wishing that the therapeutic heat and pressure of doing so would fix his fatigue and the apparent negative impact it had on his judgment. "The General mentioned his time in Kansas and I discovered that he had known your family there. I return to find you writing a letter, acting like I've caught you filching my rations. It seemed a logical conclusion, that you must be doing something you consider illicit. You know I do not mind if you write to Dean, right?"
God damn it, James, shut up! Maybe he won't notice, maybe…
"Dean, huh?"
Damn it all!
"Yes," James said steadily. Perhaps he could yet brazen his way through the egregious error of referring to Winchester by his first name. "He and I have exchanged several letters by way of his friend Lafitte," he prevaricated hastily. "If you'll recall, some months ago I mentioned he was concerned about you? Traitor or no, I wished to ease his mind on your health, and we have been in correspondence since."
"You had no right to go behind my back like that!" said Sam angrily.
"Perhaps I didn't," James said. God, he was tired. Better to have this out now, better to have him know that Dean and I are acquainted. It couldn't stay a secret forever and the shock and anger produced when Sam found out would have been greater the longer the deception was maintained. "But it's done now. I assure you, Mr. Winchester and I have said nothing concerning you in some time. As it turns out, he and I have a great deal in common. We're friends." And we have illicit liaisons once a week. And we're lovers. And oh, Corporal, I adore him. James flushed bright. "I don't owe you an explanation about whom I choose to befriend nor whom I write to."
James' words had no impact on the fury painting Sam's face, reddening his cheeks. The young man seemed at a loss for how to reply. Sam looked down at his paper, at James, back to the page. Finally, Sam threw his pen down, splattering ink in black droplets, and stormed out.
"That went well," muttered James, dropping his head into his hands.
"What a volatile boy," his brother's voice was snide as Zachariah stepped into the tent, stooping so as not to brush his head against the canvas top. An ugly sneer twisted his lips. "Your clerk nearly ran me over, Cassie."
"I'm sorry for his rudeness," James apologized, though he wasn't sure why he bothered. As if it was his place to seek forgiveness for Sam's supposed rudeness!
"Youth is wasted on the young," Zachariah sniffed, settling onto the stool. "I'm glad we had this opportunity to see you in your natural element. You've been too long from the city. Margaret has had enough of your excuses – you must come to dinner."
"I cannot be spared for even an evening," said James, repeating the words as he'd done every time his brother and sister-in-law had sent him an invite to their home over the past few months.
"Pish posh," said Zachariah dismissively, the flippant words incongruous in his slick voice. "The Colonel says you are scarce essential here, and I can see why – with such a competent colonel and lieutenant colonel, there must be little left for you to do." Dropping his hands, James stared at his brother, beyond bemusement, beyond wonder, beyond shock. It was so similar to the way he'd been treated since November that he couldn't even pretend surprise, but that his family members and loved ones so consistently believed it was unbelievable. How could they think that James would be content to laze about, that he wasn't working his hardest? Between the words of his mother at the wedding in October, those of Anna in her letters, considering Zachariah's words now, they all accepted that he must be indolent no matter what he said to the contrary. At least Elkins and Hannah know the truth. At least Hester has seen all. I know that Gabriel would take my part were he involved.
Dean believes me.
"If you will not believe me unavailable because I have said so, I scarce know what I can say that will convince you." Though he started mildly, the longer James spoke the more anger surged through his veins, forcing away his fatigue, quieting the small voice in his mind yet toying with thoughts of the Winchesters and Kansas. "Since I have arrived you have consistently undervalued me, taken the word of virtual strangers over my own, and I have accepted it, understanding that it is a product of my own diffidence, an inevitable result of my unwillingness to draw attention to the failings of others that they might thus be seen for the shirkers they are. I must wonder, though – in this case, regardless of what Colonel Crowley says to you, how little must you think goes into the management of Regiment? You know he spent three weeks in Washington during January, that even before that he was frequently at your table and at other events in Washington. When he was not here, when Tanner left with him, who do you think bore responsibility for the management of the unit? Yet, your words indicate that you think management a substantive job and that Colonel Crowley is commendable for doing it well. You cannot have it both ways, brother.
"If you think this job intensive, you must acknowledge he has been largely absent, in which case you have to see that in his absence I have borne responsibilities that are above my station, and done so admirably to have achieved the results that you commend. Alternatively, if it is not a large job, he has done nothing to earn your regard nor have I to earn your scorn. Regardless of which you are convinced of, you cannot have it both ways. Further, if you will for once listen to me instead of assuming that you know more of my own employment than I do, I will tell you: Crowley does little, Tanner does less. Though I be but Major I have done the duties of all three with only that clerk you scorn to aid me, and I have done it well enough that none can tell the difference. So no, Zachariah, I am not available to come to dinner at your home, I do not have time to spend hours riding back and forth to Washington DC, and I am extremely busy."
Zachariah was, inexplicably, beaming at him. The saccharine, toothy smile only increased James' agitation. Throwing off his blanket, he leapt to his feet and agitatedly paced the short length of the tent, his hat brushing the ceiling wherever the canvas sagged. "Furthermore, I have held my peace about our equipage but I'd have you know that the materials we were provided were precisely as substandard as I indicated. I still cannot believe that you took the word of corrupt men over that of the observations of my own eyes, as if I have any cause to lie." Leaning down, he grabbed his old blanket, moth eaten and filled with holes. He used it now to grant meager protection from the chill of the frozen ground "If we'd not taken matters into our own hands, this garbage is all that we'd have to survive the winter. Only the benevolence of the Fitzgeralds of Binghamton has seen us provided with blankets. To them will go the credit and the praise and the reputation that could have been ours – could have been yours – if instead of tying yourself to such people as Mrs. Talbot and Mr. Roman, you would take a stand in defense of the lives of thousands of your countrymen who are prepared to leave all the comforts of their own homes and risk their lives in defense of the principals that I always believed we as a family and you personally subscribed to."
"This is it, Cassie!" crowed Zachariah.
"I haven't the foggiest what you mean by that," said James hotly, "I am done with you treating my hard work and accomplishments as if they mean nothing, I—"
"Good," Zachariah interrupted him. James stopped abruptly, tottering, nearly falling onto his blankets. "Excellent. Cassie, I'm not a fool. I'm well aware that Crowley is claiming accomplishments beyond his capabilities. You know why it happens? Because you do not contradict him, you do not crow, you stand quietly aside and allow him to triumph at your expense. If you will not own your worth, if you will not boast of your accomplishments, who will? Modesty is a virtue and I commend you for it, but it has no place in politics."
"This isn't politics, this is the army!"
"I'll not even dignify that with a refutation. I know you know better," scoffed Zachariah. "Do not lose this fire, brother. If you have any hope of forging ahead, you must learn to be Colonel Crowley, instead of letting him reap the benefits of your accomplishments while you toil in obscurity. As long as you remain so, you will forever be the whipping boy for any officer who realizes that you are a sure-fire bet to make them look good while happily taking none of the credit you richly deserve. Stand up for yourself, Cassie! No one else will do it for you." Looking well-pleased with himself, Zachariah rose, turned and left the tent, leaving a stunned James staring after him, yet holding a ratty, tattered blanket before him.
…he's not wrong.
He's an ass, but he's not wrong.
Exhausted, James spread the blanket on the ground once more, wrapped himself in his more stout woolens and lay down. He was asleep almost instantly, his dreams haunted by demons roaming the plains of Kansas, the grasses afire, and two boys weeping over their dead mother.
"Leave me," James groaned as a hand latched onto his side. He was badly injured, laying amidst weeds, and the fires were coming closer.
"Time to wake up, Major." Sam was rescuing him, young Sam. It seemed fitting, but it also felt wrong.
It should be Dean – where is Dean, is he alright? Sam should be helping his brother, we have to save Dean, he's in more danger. Nothing is more important than…
James' eyes flew open and the dream imagery faded instantly, leaving him with a sense of disquiet, the heat of a lamp falling over his face in the darkened early evening, and a need to be reassured that all was well with Dean.
Damn it, why isn't it Wednesday yet?
"Sorry, sir," said Sam. The faint lamp light illuminated his face in stark brightness while leaving some features in deep darkness, giving him an air every bit as demonic as the forms that had haunted James' sleep.
Sam had the devil in him in a fight.
It was hard to believe as Sam stared down at him with something resembling tenderness, contriteness in his eyes suggesting that the words he lilted out referred to more than waking James up.
"Thank you," James said, rising and scrubbing grit from his eyes. His hat had fallen free; retrieving it, he placed it on his head, grimacing at how cold the fabric was, how greasy yet brittle his hair had become. It had grown annoying long as well, curling about his ears. There was a barber for the Regiment but James hadn't time to visit him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to take a bath, been able to clean his body at all beyond soaking a rag in frigid water and quickly scrubbing himself. "I'd better go." Straightening his coat, adjusting his pants, he surreptitiously itched his inner thigh.
"I'll walk with you," said Sam. Shrugging, James stepped out into the night. The rhythm of the camp was back to normal, perhaps a little bit more boisterous than normal. It was a relief. James hadn't realized how familiar the sequence of their days had become until the preparation for General McClellan's review disrupted them. "I was writing to Dean. About Blaine. He was in Kansas when our mother died and it got me thinking…I mean, the armies are going to march soon, right?" Sam paused, awaiting confirmation that James could not give. "Well, regardless, either Dean'll go to battle, or we will, or both. And he could die. Considering that, it seems petty to stay angry with him. If I got word that he died – you'd hear, maybe, since apparently you're his friend – how would I feel knowing I hadn't contacted him because of stupid things we each said years ago?"
"That's a very mature attitude," said James approvingly, unsure what to say, what Sam expected of him. Absolution? Approval? Guidance?
"I'm not a child," huffed Sam, sounding very childish indeed. James chuckled, and after an angry cluck, Sam joined him ruefully. "Do you think he wants to hear from me?"
"I think he'd be delighted," James replied. Even in the low light he could see Sam flush. They made their way through the camp and out to where the pickets were taking up their positions around the walls of the fortress. The weather, thankfully, held mild. It felt warm in contrast to the weather in December and early January, though clouds on the horizon suggested a shift to come, with rain or snow to presage it. "From what he's said I believe he cares about you a great deal and is genuinely concerned for your welfare."
"Or at least, those are the words that Ben Lafitte puts in his mouth," said Sam, rolling his eyes.
"Have you reason to doubt Dean's friend?" James asked, surprised.
"I can think of a few," said Sam darkly. "They've been close for a while but I never could trust Lafitte like Dean does."
"Oh?"
"Always seemed to me like he was using Dean." Sam shifted uncomfortably. In the darkness, James tried to read the expression on Sam's face, but it was impossible, the shadows too deep, too shifting, to reveal subtleties. "Then there was Andrea Kormos, his fiancée. Our father always thought Kormos brought those who killed mama, told them stuff about us that wasn't true. It's hard to know – the men wore masks and she did come to warn us. By then she and Lafitte weren't together any longer, but John was always suspicious. He hated when Lafitte was around and did whatever he could to keep him and Dean apart. Might be the only time I know that Dean willfully defied him – he and Lafitte still spent plenty of time together, just not when John could see."
"I met Kormos," James said. Sam's eyes narrowed. "I attended a dinner at my brother's home. General Blaine was there and Ms. Kormos was his companion. I can't say she made much of an impression on me."
"From what I can tell, that makes you an exception to the norm," said Sam. "Men think her 'exotic.' She got attention wherever she went. Then again, there were so few women in Kansas that any woman, young or old, attractive or unattractive, got attention wherever they went. Even men received unwanted advances sometimes – or at least, I know Dean and I did." That's as close to confirmation as I'll ever get, unless Dean can ever bring himself to speak of it. Sam paused. "Do you know that Lafitte writes all of Dean's letters?"
Right, I told Sam that I exchange letters with Dean. More lies, even when I try to come clean, I tell lies. How on earth would he react if he knew that Dean and I meet regularly?
"I am aware, yes. Dean is illiterate?"
"Not exactly." Sam shook his shaggy head. "I'm not sure how to explain it. He's smart, no matter what our father says, as smart as I am, but I've seen him try to write and heard him try to read, he's got the letters down but he can't seem to string them into words. Mama always told him not to worry about it, that he'd figure it out eventually, and she got him into other hobbies. Our father was less understanding. Dean took John's words to heart. Anyway, Lafitte could write anything he wants in those letters, Dean'd never know the difference."
Not that it matters. I've never met Lafitte, and I've only had a couple letters from Dean. I don't have to worry about whatever lies Lafitte might put in Dean's mouth, I only have to worry about what Dean's inhibitions prevent him from saying.
"I am grateful for you sharing this with me," said James sincerely. "Whether Dean be the one I am having trouble understanding, or if it is the lens of Lafitte's interpretation that makes things challenging, I don't know – though honestly I doubt Lafitte is much of a factor. However, I find him difficult to fathom – Dean is self-deprecating to the point of incomprehensibility sometimes."
"If you knew our father it'd be understandable," grumbled Sam. "Major, if you have been trading letters with Dean, you must have a way of getting word to him?" James nodded. "Might you forward my letter as well?"
"Does it bother you that Lafitte will be the one to read it aloud to him?"
"It's not ideal," Sam conceded. "However, there's little choice. At least Dean trusts Lafitte. At least there is someone with him in whom he places some confidence. I'd worry about him if he were alone, especially during the war. He doesn't value his life worth a damn."
Does Dean trust me? How would he feel if I were to write to him? How would he feel if I asked about Lafitte, about Kansas, about Blaine and Andrea Kormos?
"Thank you for this," said James. "All of it – your family's personal business is yours and that you'd share it with me is much appreciated."
"You're my friend," Sam said brightly. "And it sounds like you're Dean's friend too. While I'm still angry with him, and I was – justifiably! – annoyed to learn that you'd written to him without telling me, the truth is he could use a friend, use a good friend who will tell him the truth and be straight with him. He's got a bad habit of making friends with people who treat him like garbage, people who treat him like our father treats him, and I know you'll never do that. The more I thought about while I was trying to cool my head, the more I realized I'm actually glad that you're his friend. I just want you to understand where he's coming from. Also I do expect something in return." There was a wicked grin on Sam's face, made evil by the faint golden light leaking from his lamp. His eyes glimmered yellow, reflecting the flames. "Tell me about your family!"
"Huh? Why?" asked James, surprised. "Not that I mind – I'm more than willing – but we're not terribly interesting."
"I've now met three of your siblings," Sam said skeptically. "Hannah is so cheerful and outgoing she is practically a caricature of herself; Hester is obsessed with women's liberation and self-sacrificing enough to devote herself to the care of a brigade of strangers; and your brother is every stereotype of the slick politician rolled into one. I can scarce believe the three related. There must be something interesting about the family that would produce the three of them – and you as well!"
James thought about it for a moment before replying slowly, "Zachariah wasn't always like that. You have to understand, he's the eldest and…"
He and Sam talked all night as James made his rounds. There were no further great revelations about Dean and James didn't dare steer their conversation in an attempt to learn more. It was still one of the most enjoyable evenings he'd had in a long time. James learned that Sam wished to be a lawyer, that he'd left home to go to school in Geneva and Sam shared stories of life on the frontier, carefully avoiding talk of the years after his mother died. For his part, James found himself speaking more openly about his family than he was accustomed to, discussing his parents and their expectations, the challenges they faced, his own interest in the law. Their long hours and months together had taught James that he and Sam saw the world and the country and the war similarly, but he'd never realized how closely their interests and their plans for after the war aligned.
I haven't thought about what happens after the war in some time.
When he'd first joined the army, when he'd first arrived in Washington DC after the 27th's months in Elmira, all he could think about was what he would do when the war was over. While he and the men had signed up for two year terms, no one had believed the war would last so long. One battle and it would be over, they'd all be home by fall. Even now, many felt that when the armies marched again that would be the final cataclysm. James had always doubted things would end so quickly. The longer he stayed in the army, the more he believed that the next battle would no less settle things than the first battle had. The skirmishes that had thus far occurred during the winter had all be inconclusive, the armies on both sides were growing, and the Confederate States of America was a fully realized republic with a constitution, a government, a capital, archives, and all the trappings of state. This was not a half-baked opponent on the verge of collapse and there was no reason to believe that they would cease to fight regardless of the results of one battle.
When I first arrived, I thought we'd all be home to spend Christmas with our families. I thought I'd be wed, happily wed, to Anna by now. I thought this would all be behind me, a brief interlude to burnish my reputation and help build my future in politics. When did I truly last think of going home? No, it is worse than that. Now, I do not wish to go home.
Matriculating at Union College, James had forged acquaintances with many men like Bartholomew Boyle, thought many of them close friends. The passage of a few years and a modest amount of fame and reputation had gone to Boyle's head, changed his personality, but in the behavior of the man now James saw echoes of the boy he'd gone to school with. Nearly all came from prominent families, nursed high ambitions, and many had already met with successes made possible by their family's wealth, prominence and connections. James was no different from them save in his lack of desirefor the eminence that they sought. The friendships had primarily been intended to help him in the future, to enable him to build a network that would further his career. Contrasting those hollow acquaintances with the close relationships he'd developed with Bradbury, Henriksen, Fitzgerald, the Winchesters, even Reidy and Wandell and Bass, was like comparing the barest touch of sunlight on a chill day with the warm glow of brightest summer. The officers he worked with were bosom companions as well as dear friends with whom he shared common views and interests, men who would risk their lives to save him and whom he would willingly risk his life for. Because they shared a uniform, he would fight and die for Boyle should it prove necessary, but with none of the ardency that would fill him should he see, for example, Charles Bradbury facing mortal danger.
I belong here, in a way that I never belonged at Union, or at the law firm, or even at home.
"Reticent" was the best he could describe his current attitude towards his fiancée. While he still cared deeply for her, the contrast between James' feelings towards Dean and his feelings for her was stark. In all the ways his attachment to Anna was quiet, calm, restrained, his interest in Dean was exuberant, passionate, and uncontainable. Though there was no knowing what would happen with his new-found love, he was sure that even should he and Dean's relationship prove short-lived and disastrous – even should James fall out of love as easily as he fell into love – he no longer could see himself longing for the quiet comforts of Anna's companionship as a lover. As a friend, nearly as dear as a sister, she would ever have a place in his heart, but the thought of sharing intimacy with her brought no fire to his blood. Should he choose to stay the course with her, would that quiet love be enough? When he was forty, fifty, sixty, would the loving friendship they shared be of more importance than the relatively brief fire of youth and ardency? There was no way to know, but he suspected that regardless, even if the worst should happen with Dean, James would never be able to look on the insipid love he felt for Anna as a virtue in the way he once had. Some part of him would forever long for the all-consuming desire that enveloped him at the mere thought of Dean Winchester.
I do not want the war to end.
It felt selfish and wrong to long for the continuance of a conflict that brought misery and suffering to so many, yet it was inescapable when he considered what his future likely held. He yet anticipated great things for the United States when they weathered this conflict. The end of the war would signal a time of national unity, would – he had to believe! – mean an end to slavery, and would bring an end to the suffering and illness and death that afflicted even their peaceful winter camp. However, for him personally, he saw little to look forward to when he was drawn inexorably home. The end of the war would mean a return to Anna and the push to start a family of his own, a return to his work in law and the inevitable push towards politics that such employment naturally entailed so far as his family was concerned, a return to the constant pressure from his mother and father to accomplish more, be better, work faster, and a return to the dull familiarity of life in Walcott.
After the war ends, I will never see Dean again.
That such a prospect filled him with dread far more chill than the evening air was absurd, yet he could not put any other name to the creeping horror that goose bumped his flesh. Never seeing Dean again was a terrifying prospect.
It is well I have this realization now. I must learn to resign myself to it.
Dean, February 2nd, 1861
I don't know how to begin but I feel compelled to write you. Today, of all people in the world, I have encountered Joanna Harvelle here, in Virginia, in our tent, acting like she's never seen me before. She's smarter than that; I am sure she knew me. What brings her from Lawrence? Further, she is in the company of A.Z. Blaine, who either doesn't recognize me or can't be troubled to recall my name. Major Novak tells me that he has also met Andrea Kormos and that she is "with" Blaine, which I assume means she's his mistress. Lafitte – who I assume is reading this – I thought you might like to know that she is residing in Washington. Save for the Major, there's no one I can talk to about the absurdity of this group of people being assembled in one place at one time so far from where we all met. Though I am torn I felt I should write you and tell you. I've no idea why it feels so imperative. Perhaps it is merely an excuse.
I'm sorry, Dean. We both spoke in anger that day. You've attempted to communicate with me and I've been an ass in return. Even after you likely saved my life at Manassas, I couldn't see past how angry I was that you refused to come north with me two years ago, that you chose dad and Lafitte over me. Seeing Blaine and Kormos and Harvelle again brought back many memories, of the night mama died, of the hunts dad took us on, of the last time I saw each of them. Seeing them brought back memories of the last time I saw you.
You're my brother, Dean, and I don't want to lose you. I think I've been so mad because I felt like I did lose you, but that was bull and I see that now. There's more important things than a childish grudge. Major Novak said he writes you, and that he'd send this your way along with his letter.
All I wanted to say is: I accept your apology, and I hope you'll accept mine. When the war is over, maybe we can talk sometime?
Sam Winchester
James fell silent, feeling profoundly awkward to be intruding on this moment long-distance intimacy between the estranged brothers. Expression carefully neutral, Dean had stood silent as the grave the entire time James read, not interrupting, not commenting, not even an exclamation leaving his mouth. Folding the letter, James hesitantly offered it to Dean across the space dividing them. It was only a few foot – they faced each other in the familiar clearing – but it felt further due to Dean's stiff body language and undecipherable look.
Dean reached over and snatched the letter from him so abruptly that James started. The paper crinkled loudly as Dean stuffed it in his pocket, wheeled and stalked across the clearing.
"Dean…?" Concern and curiosity shared equal parts in James' thoughts, but he couldn't think how to give voice to his many questions.
"You been talkin' to my brother about me?" snarled Dean, rounding, his hat shadowing his face such as to make his angry glare dark and ominous.
"Huh?"
"Yousaid you kept my secrets and only told your own – this how you got about it? Told Sam all about yourself and me, huh? Told him – lied to him – that you write me? How in the hell did you justify that to him? Ain't nothin' normal or casual about tradin' letters with a stranger, Cas!" By the time he stopped, Dean was shouting, his face red, his eyes wild and rimmed with tears. The words struck James as the frightened lashing out of a hurt animal but that didn't make the outburst any less stunning, nor did it reduce the underlying justice of Dean's accusations. "And you know Blaine and Andrea? You know Harvelle? What're you playin' at, Novak?" The use of his last name stung as harshly as the rebuke behind every angry word. "Why'd you really come find me in that clearing? You still expect me to think it was a random coincidence? How stupid do you think I am?"
"I don't think you're stupid," stammered James. "I had no idea that you knew Blaine or Ms. Kormos or Ms. Harvelle, why should I think anything of the kind? Blaine is my brother's father-in-law, he's been an acquaintance for years!"
"Your brother is married to Meg?" Dean's voice went totally flat, his expression closed, and the pain in James' chest spiked. "How in the hell?"
"They've been wed for nearly a decade," said James helplessly. "Dean, I had no idea any of these people were anything to you. Why should I ever have thought so? I'd heard Blaine speak of Kansas, but it never occurred to that you or Sam might know them." Until I saw Sam writing, and I had to ask if it concerned you, had to know if there was any relationship between whatever prompted Sam to finally, finally write and the pain I always see within you that I dare not ask about. "Dean, I only spoke to Sam of you because I had no choice. I told him I'd written you to assure him of his recovery after Bull Run and that we'd maintained correspondence since. It's a lie, yes – would you rather I told him the truth? I'd not spoken to him of you since autumn, and then it was only to suggest that he write you. I thought you'd like to hear from him personally that he was doing well. At the time, he rebuked me for sticking my nose where it didn't belong, justifiably told me off, and I hadn't brought anything of the kind up again. It was officious of me to try to mend fences between you, I see that now. However, when he brought it up now, of course I encouraged him to do so. Unprompted, he spoke of Blaine and some of your past and I…"
I encouraged him to do so because I wanted to know more of you, wanted to learn things I thought you'd not share if I asked – even though you've told me that you'll tell me anything. Why did I push Sam, why did I feel I had to ask about his letter at all?
Dean muttered something under his breath, ran a hand roughly over his stubbled cheeks, turned away.
"Please, Dean, I had no intention of – I have not betrayed your confidence. It was inevitable that Sam would learn of our acquaintance. He and I share a tent, we are forever in each other's company, isn't it better he know now that we are friends? He was shocked at it but he wasn't upset, and now he's written you—" Dean said something soft James couldn't make out, and he pressed on. I should be calm, I should be measured, I don't need to meet his anger with fear. Despite the thought, the words kept spilling from him, desperate and afraid. Please don't leave, Dean, please don't be angry with me, please, I need you. "—and he's apologized! Isn't that what you wanted, to be reconciled with him?" Seeing you is my source of joy, being with you restores me every week. "I didn't know the content of this letter. You can't possibly believe I intended any intentional deception as regards your brother or Blaine or any of them, how could I have known they were anything to you or your family?" You think I'm enough just the way I am, you think I'm adequate in and of myself without requiring the improvement of greater achievement, greater accomplishment – your expectations are met simply by my being here week after week and it's glorious. I don't know how I'd do this without you.
"I said—"
I trust you – I trusted you with everything.
"Please, Dean!" Unable to keep away, James crossed the space to him, put a hand on his shoulder.
I just wanted to find a way to fix things – to help you feel less sad – to help you get your brother back!
"Shut up, Novak, just – stop talking," snarled Dean, rounding on him, throwing James' hand away with a roll of his shoulder.
Why are you so angry with me?
"But—" There were tears filling Dean's eyes, obscuring them to black pools, and beneath his veneer of anger James could swear he saw an ocean of anguish.
Why do I feel so broken and defenseless?
"Shut your damned mouth!" Dean's voice broke on the words and he fled the few steps to Impala, vaulting easily into the saddle.
Because you still don't trust me – because if you felt anything for me like how I feel for you, you'd never think so poorly of me with so little provocation. Would you?
"Dean!"
So many people have hurt you before that you cannot believe that I do not intend to do the same.
Dean kicked the horse into motion, made for the path he used to enter and leave the clearing. Paralyzed, James watched in horror, his chest agony, his thoughts in complete disarray. A tear slid down his cheek.
Please, Dean, don't go.
Tree branches mostly obscured Dean when he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and said, "Be seein' ya, Billy Yank. Hya!" Impala burst into motion with a crackle of dry leaves and the snap of twigs, and Dean was gone, lost beyond the screen of trees.
Let me prove myself to you!
"No," James whispered, his knees giving out.
As many times as you need me to, however hard I have to work, I will show you that I am here, that I care, that I believe in you even when you cannot bring yourself to believe in me.
It was too late. Dean was gone. James wept his broken heart into his hands, the exhaustion and fatigue and stress of the past few weeks finally more than he could bear without Dean there to support him.
Judging by the stares he got when he returned to camp, James was quite the sight. To his horror, he passed Bradbury, but managed to ignore the young man's attempt to ask him what was the matter. At least Winchester wasn't in the tent when he got there. Though it was a busy day and James had his usual array of tasks awaiting him, he folded the blanket over himself, curled up on the floor and feel immediately into a trouble sleep. No one bothered him until evening, which must have been due to the divine influence of the Lord, working through the instruments of Bradbury, Henriksen, Sam, and James' other friends.
The week that followed was hell. All of the normal frustrations and challenges remained, and on top of that James was forced to spend the week dodging the well-meant concern of his friends and his sisters. He slept poorly, his appetite was as nothing, and no amount of castigating himself for the ridiculousness of his behavior influenced how ill with worry and sadness he felt. Though February was passing quickly, there was no word on whether their Brigade would march, which did nothing to improve James' mood. At least were the army active he would have a distraction, something to think about beyond the now-familiar routine of winter camp at Fort Lyon. The only silver lining was the fall of Fort Henry along the Cumberland River in Tennessee, thus returning the US Flag to the soil of the rebel state for the first time in nearly a year, and the optimistic predictions from the media that Fort Donelson would fall just as quickly. The news brought James a surface veneer of happiness while doing nothing to assuage his underlying distress. Indeed, in some ways it made things worse, for none could believe him sad when confronted by such glad tidings so he was forced to pretend to raptures of joy he couldn't have been further from feeling. All in all, James was as low as he could ever recall feeling.
Despite his certainty that he was being a fool, James managed to keep a grip on a thread of optimism, the belief that Dean's temper would cool and he'd return on Wednesday the 12th and Dean would be there. Of course, his thin hope proved ill-founded. He waited for hours in a steady drizzle until he was completely soaked, until his skin felt rubbery and cold, until he couldn't tell if it was rain or tears dripping down his cheeks and off his chin.
I shouldn't be surprised by this. I should have expected this. What could possibly have possessed me to think he'd be here today, after how we left things last week? I thought we'd at least have the war together. I didn't really think things would fall apart, not like this, not so soon.
Please come back. Please, trust me, tell me clearly what I did that upset you so badly, let me apologize and make it up to you. I need you, Dean. I can't believe how much I already need you. I can't do this without you. Please.
James had never felt so alone.
Interlude
"Well, you appear to be back to your usual sunshine self," said Harvelle sarcastically.
"Shut up," snapped Dean. "Have you got anything for me?"
She knows Castiel. How? Is Cas actually a spy? Has he given her information? Has she flirted with him, used him, slept with him? There is no way that she doesn't know that Cas knows me and Sam. Considering how often she met me in that copse of trees, it is impossible that it be a coincidence, impossible that Castiel might have found me there by accident when she came so frequently on purpose.
"The usual," she shrugged, pulling out a tidy bundle of letters tied neatly with string. "You look like hell – Lafitte not treating you right anymore?"
But Castiel said he didn't know, said it was mischance. Cas said he would never lie to me. He believes me an infiltrator of some kind; were he feeding information to Harvelle, if he were secretly sympathetic to the Confederate cause, why wouldn't he tell me? I can't believe he'd lie, but what else can I make of this? I still want to trust him, I still want to see him, I still want to believe in him. It hurts so much. Why does it hurt, Cas? Please, make it stop hurting. You're so good at that. Except apparently you're a damn liar.
"It's none of your damn business," he snarled, his temper as hot as it had been all week despite the cold rain drenching them both. "Don't even know what you're talkin' about."
Bullshit, bullshit on all counts. Which one of us is the liar? Quit lyin' to yourself, Dean, you know who was really at fault for what happened last Wednesday.
"Of course not," she said with false primness, batting her eyelashes at him. When they'd been young, Harvelle had flirted with him constantly, at least until her father had been killed. There'd been a time when Dean had thought he'd marry Joanna Beth Harvelle. "Well, if that's all, I'll be off."
Didn't love Jo, not romantically; don't love Lisa; don't even love Ben, not like I should. Don't matter who I marry, it's all a lie anyway. Underneath it all, I'm good for nothin' but keepin' house and doin' the wash and cookin', just like dad always said. Good for nothin' but lettin' men use me. Don't need a wife, I'm more like a wife myself. Put me in a dress and no one knows the damn difference. I was born busted, stupid, useless. Everythin' about me is a lie.
"Never told me you knew Major Novak," he said abruptly.
Damn fuckin' fool, can't keep my mouth shut.
For once, Harvelle looked startled. Dean couldn't remember the last time he knew something she didn't. Wheedling information out of people was her specialty. She'd used that skill to help the pro-slavery faction in Kansas, gathering rumors at her parent's saloon in Lawrence, and she'd used it to devastating effect since. She was a phenomenal actress, brilliant and erudite yet capable of passing at every level of society. The Confederates were lucky she was on their side; they couldn't have asked for a better spy.
"Why should I tell you anything about who I know in Washington?" said Harvelle. "It's none of your business who I cultivate as a contact. Anyway, why are the Novaks be anything to you?"
"Novak is Sam's commanding officer. Didn't you think I'd want to know that?"
"Quite the contrary," she said, meeting his anger with calm that only frustrated him further. "I was sure you'd like to know where Sam is, but he's finally free of you and John Winchester and there's no way I'm ruining that for him. If he wanted to talk to you, he's a smart boy, I'm sure he'd figure out a way to get in touch."
"He wrote me a letter last week," said Dean.
"Congratulations, it's finally been long enough since he last saw you that he's forgotten what a charming personality you have," said Harvelle, rolling her eyes.
"Said he saw you in Novak's tent," he pressed on.
Have you seen Cas since then? How's he doin'?
"I was among a party that visited Fort Lyon, yes," she said, increasingly exasperated despite an attempt to appear unflappable. "I was doing my job."
Not like it matters, I'm sure Cas is fine. I ain't nothin' to him no matter what he said.
"How'd Sam look?"
Even if Cas is upset, he had it comin': talkin' to Sam about me, not tellin' me he knew Blaine and Andrea and Harvelle.
"Good," she said. "He's grown and he needs a haircut. Mary would have had scissors to his head lickety split. I haven't seen him much but it seems like he has a good thing going. He's Novak's clerk. If Novak's brother Zachariah is anything to go by, Novak is going places, and unless I much miss the mark, he'll take Sam with him."
Why wouldn't Cas talk to Sam? Why would he tell me he knew them, when he didn't know I knew them?
Try as he might, Dean couldn't make himself believe that everything Castiel had said was a lie, couldn't make himself believe that Cas didn't care about him. Thinking about it twisted agony through Dean's heart, churned his stomach, clutched his throat until he could scarce breathe. Castiel had made Dean believe him, forced trust from Dean, and then betrayed him and hurt him.
No. He didn't hurt me. I hurt him. Useless son of a bitch. I don't deserve him.
"Them working together, that'd be good," Dean said. As long as they don't both go to a battle grave. "Is…" He trailed off, licked his lips. "Have you seen…"
Is Cas okay?
I'm such a coward. I could have gone and seen him yesterday, I could send him a message, and instead I'm asking Harvelle after him as if she'd know. Fool, craven, idiot…
God, I miss him. The thought struck him with agonizing clarity, bursting to the front of his mind with the conviction of inescapable, absolute truth.
"Hey," said Harvelle, suddenly all gentleness and kindness. "Dean, what's the matter?"
I miss him so much.
"Nothin', Jo," he said gruffly, turning away, doing his best to surreptitiously wipe away a tear.
Why'd I get so mad at him?
"I haven't seen you cry since your mama died." A sympathetic hand came to rest hesitantly on Dean's cheek. Dean flinched, but though every instinct clamored for him to pull away, he couldn't bring himself to do so.
He didn't do anything wrong, not really, but I had to go and be an asshole to one of the only people who's ever treated me as anyone worth a damn. He's a fool for believin' in me, for trustin' me, for thinkin' I'm any kind of man. I'm so angry with myself I could burst with it, and instead of takin' responsibility, I act like an ass to everyone around me.
"Novak's a friend of mine," Dean managed, doing his damnedest to repress his tears. His anger drained away, leaving self-condemnation in its wake. "We've been exchanging letters." Harvelle quirked an eyebrow at him but didn't call him on the half-truth. Hopefully, she assumed that Dean was lying about nothing save who was doing the writing. "I, uh, I said something stupid in my last letter, guess it was only a matter of time, and he hasn't written back in two weeks." A thumb flicked under Dean's eye, wiping away a tear, as Harvelle gave him a look that somehow combined compassion and skepticism.
Maybe…maybe Cas spoke to Sam 'bout me for the same reason I spoke to Harvelle 'bout him. Maybe he missed me. Is that possible?
The suggestion was a plaintive voice in his head, promptly shouted down by reminders that he was a worthless excuse for a son, that Cas must be using him, that he was good for nothing so there was no reason anyone would miss him.
"Have you considered sending him an apology?" she asked.
Don't need sympathy from her, don't need anything from her, not after the things she's done and the things she's said. Anger bubbled up only to die again as he realized it had flared instantly when she'd suggested that he was in the wrong, that he had screwed up, that he was at fault. Even though he'd already acknowledged as much to himself, hearing another say it raised his hackles defensively.
But he said he cared, he said so many things I can't believe, but I want to believe him, I want to hear him say those things again. If I went back now…
There was only one way to find out the truth. If he could find it in himself to return to Fort Lyon, he could ask Cas.
…if I went back now, would he be there? Would he welcome me? He shouldn't do so. I hurt him. I'll hurt him again.
"Jo…"
Either he's as angelic as he seems, in which case I don't deserve him; or everything he's told me is a lie, in which case I was right to be angry.
"Yeah, Dean?"
The question is, do I believe him? Do I trust him?
"Would you write a letter for me?"
God help me, I do believe him. I do trust him. Oh, Cas, I'm sorry.
"Of course I will, Dean."
He'll never take me back now, though, not when he knows how ungrateful and selfish I really am.
"Thank you."
Endnote: ...I'm sorry Dean is busted...blame John Winchester...I'm just the writer... ;)