What Do I Stand For?

by unforth

US Civil War AU. The influence of the Novak family enables James Castiel Novak to be named Captain of Company B of the 27th New York Infantry. Determined to do right by his family, do his duty as a soldier of the United States, and stand up for liberty and justice, James is quickly faced with the hard truth that there may be no way he can do all three.

13. Strained By Passion

Chapter Title: Roughly paraphrased from one of the last line's of Abraham Lincoln's First Inaugural Address...the exact line would, in my dreams, by the actual chapter title, but it's much too long and the phrasing isn't quite right - but it gets the idea across:

"We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection."

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Chapter 13: Though Strained By Passion, We Must Not Break

Darling James, February 1st, 1862

I cannot imagine the preparations that must go in to welcoming a man of General McClellan's stature and eminence. You must be running mad! Though you've scarce been able to write, I've had several letters each from Hester and Hannah telling me in detail the minutiae involved in their own preparations – though I doubt you've spent nearly as much time selecting a new dress as Hannah has done – and they've spoken of you as well. I fear perhaps I have given you poor advice. Having raised the possibility that you might do more to impress the Colonel, it sounds as though now you have gone too far to the other extreme. Hester in particularly is worried about your health. She says the weather has been fussy and erratic, cold then warm then cold again, that you do not sleep close to enough, that you have lost more weight than I can credit given how slim you were when you departed, that you are all over the camp at all hours regardless of sun or rain or snow or sleet. While I am sure some is exaggerated sisterly concern, please, do take care of yourself. I never meant to imply you should harry yourself to utmost extremes, merely that you should step up from your earlier, more meager efforts. I hope that, when the General's Review is done, you will take care of yourself as you properly should, find comfort and rest with your friends, take a break from pushing yourself so hard – though not at the expense of doing your duties, of course.

But the Review is tomorrow! I must know every detail! I know it will be over by the time this letter reaches you, and I hope that means you will have more time to write me than you have in January. In light of all, I understand the deficiency of your correspondence, but I'll confess I did not realize how greatly I depended on hearing from you near daily until I ceased to receive such dedicated, assiduous, beloved communication. I begin now to understand why your parents grew frustrated to hear from you but once a week – having been subject to the same, it is a grievous deprivation. We sit at home and fret and wonder, "Is he marching? Is he hurt? Is he ill?" If your duties have let up – does your affianced ask too much to request that you try to write her more frequently? Had your last letter been sent piecemeal as but the paragraph you had time for, I'd have had five letters instead of one, and I do not mind if each is short. I do not need essays – I know you have not the time for composition that, alas, I do. But enough of that, I do not mean to be a scold, it's only that I miss you so.

Tell me of McClellan! What does a General-in-Chief wear? How sits he his horse? It must be a fine beast, he has the pick of every mount in the entire nation! What of his staff? The papers say he is accompanied not only by the usual generals and colonels and majors and the like, but also by a prince and a count! Did you see them? I think one is the son of King Louis Phillippe? They must have been quite a sight! Tell me of the brigade, how did they look as they marched, every button polished and every bayonet gleaming? I can only imagine how noble it must be! I wish you might send me an image, but I'm sure with all the hustle and bustle it would be impossible for a photographer to get an adequate still. Tell me of Hannah: did the General even notice the dress she so agonized over the procurement of? Was he impressed by Hester's hospital? And darling – tell me of you. Are you well? Did he praise you as I'm sure you have amply earned?

I cannot imagine what I might write in this letter to add to your knowledge of my own affairs, as I have written you near daily. I hope my correspondence has helped you through difficult times, as yours has helped me. Mrs. Carrigan is up to her usual contrariness, arguing with your mother on how best to handle the sending of some small things for the Easter holiday. It is a difficult enough to contemplate, considering that – by all accounts – the army will march before spring, so we've no idea where you might be or how we might send you anything come April 20th, but when we considered what comfort such a delivery might be were it to arrive in time for the holiday, we decided we must try. Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Carrigan disagrees, as she does with everything your mother resolves to accomplish. She thinks it is a waste of resources to assemble a care package that we have no means of ensuring the delivery of, that might find itself stored in Washington for weeks or months while the armies are deployed in Virginia. I cannot deny there would be something absurd in you receiving good cheer intended for Easter in July or August or September, but I cannot credit, as she does that the war will last so long as that once you start marching. I cling to the hope that once McClellan sets the Union Army in motion, the Confederate forces will realize the futility of their rebellion and will surrender, though they be 100,000 strong! I cling to the hope that you will return to me this summer and we might be wed.

However, failing that, I still find fallacy with Mrs. Carrigan's argument. Even supposing the worst case scenario – supposing you are marching when the package arrives, that the soldiers of the 27th New York do not receive their rewards until months later, if you have been on campaign that whole while will that not make the receipt of the package all the sweeter? Even should Easter goodies not be received until Independence Day, does that mean they'd be less welcome for being late? Your mother shares my thinking so I'm sure we will override Mrs. Carrigan's objections. Of course, once we have decided to send something, there next ensues the even greater dispute over what, precisely, should be sent. The early shots of that battle have already been fired, though the true cacophony of the conflict has yet to fall upon us. Nevertheless, I am sure it will be a Waterloo when all is done. Your mother vanquishes all before her. Were she in General McClellan's position, I've no doubt the war would be over already.

One piece of bad news, which I should have included earlier, for now I am forced to end my letter on a sour note. Mr. Warren, whose arm appeared to be healing so well over the fall, fell ill last month and soon passed. Though Doctor Benton says it could not be helped, that his pneumonia was dire, I cannot but think that his wound played a part – weakened him, left him vulnerable – and further that the malaise that came with the wound, the challenges he faced in finding employment and returning to his life as it was before his injury, also was a factor. When such things happen I fear for you so greatly I can scarce stand it. I wish you'd come home, James. I wish you'd come back to me.

I had meant to write good cheer in a final paragraph, to send you off to your day with something happier to ponder, but I find I am at a loss save for the best of all: I miss you dearly and I love you with all my heart. I know you have written your parents that you will not take leave before your term of service is done in 15 months, but is it too much to hope that I might see you before then? Perhaps us to visit you in camp, after the coming campaigns are over? Or for you to return during a lull? It will not be all fighting from dawn to mid of night every day, surely you can be spared for a week to see to those who pine in your absence? Until then, my dreams will have to suffice—

Anna Milton

---

James knew he made a pitiful sight as he returned to camp, wet through on a gray morning, hair matted to his neck, unshaven cheeks pale beneath a shimmery skim of rain water, uniform near black and so soaked with water that his cuffs dripped. His exterior could scarce match his misery better. Even as exhausted as he was, he knew he'd not sleep, he was too cold, too wet, and his anxious thoughts were too busy going round and round wondering what he might have done differently, wondering how he could get Dean to tell him what he'd done wrong so he could apologize. The prospect that he might take his blanket and enfold itself in its warmth for once offered no hope for comfort. On the contrary, like a contagion, the cold and depression afflicting him would spread to that beloved article and it would grow sodden and unpleasant, incapable of offering the protection it once did.

Dean could have comforted me. Dean could have held me and warmed me even as I warmed him. How selfish I have become. Even had we not argued I should never have wished his presence on such a miserable day. He should be at Centreville keeping warm, not risking illness and injury riding miles out of his way in such drear and dangerous conditions.

Walking past the pickets through the fortress gate into Fort Lyon, James stopped, at a loss for how he should proceed. The tasks of his day called to him, an insurmountable barrier between him and rest, a welcome distraction from his bleak thoughts. There were requisitions to be done, Henriksen's report on the state of the Contraband camp to review and comment on, and a dispute to settle between the Regimental color bearer and three drummers that started as an argument over who would take the lead if and when they marched and somehow escalated into a fist fight involving more than a dozen people. Other things would surely occur to distract him in the midst of those tasks, and should he manage to finish them in a timely manner he had been putting off a thorough review of the state of their equipment, especially the Regiment's rucksacks and bags, which they would need if only they ever got to leave Fort Lyon.

"Major!"

James' attention snapped to the present. Bradbury stood before him, bright eyed, cheeks beaming with a healthy flush, expression concerned even though he was sopping wet and looked as bedraggled as James felt.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," said James weakly, wondering how long he'd been standing there oblivious to prompt such consternation.

"What'd she do to you?" Bradbury demanded.

It's not a woman, it's not like that, it's…

His mouth was open to speak before he quelled the words. The feeling of crushing loneliness settled heavily on his shoulders as it had while he'd sat for hours that morning waiting for Dean. There was nothing he could say, no one he could talk to.

I suggest you have a conversation with Hester…you might find it enlightening…

Gabriel's suggestion returned to him powerfully, as loud and explicit as if his brother had spoken, not merely committed them to paper.

"I have to talk to Hester," he said abruptly, turning on a heel. His vision swam as if the rain drops were obscuring his vision. He tried to remember when he'd last eaten, when he'd last had more than a half hours sleep at a time, but he drew a blank. A supportive arm wrapped James' shoulders – Bradbury was so much shorter than he, how had he never noticed before? – and Bradbury eased James into partially leaning against him.

"Great idea," Bradbury said, tone grim. "Let's go."

James didn't realize how unsteady he was until he attempted the enormous task of crossing the parade ground to Hester's large hospital tent. The camp was dreary. Any soldiers who didn't need to be out kept to their tents, escaping the bad weather as best they could. The 16th New York drilled, their commander Howland shouting out the orders; a group of teamsters unloaded the first of a long line of wagons into the dubious cover of a supply tent; and a company of soldiers worked to put the finishing touches onto the barracks. The Regimental commanders had been arguing for days over who would actually get to sleep in the barracks once it was completed. Turning to look at the progress, he teetered and collapsed against Bradbury, who caught him easily and put his free hand to James' forehead.

"You're running a fever, Major," he said. Somehow, Bradbury got James' arm over his shoulder and half-walked, half-carried him to the hospital tent. Though Bradbury appeared as wet as James felt, his body was warm. Instead of helping him feel better, Bradbury's heat and proximity only threw into relief that James was chilled through. His teeth chattered as they walked and despite his best efforts he couldn't find the any coherent words with which to protest the lieutenant's aid.

I'm not sick, I just miss Dean. It's not at all the same. Or maybe it is. I can't even tell any longer. Oh, Dean…

A tear ran down his cheek and he bit his lip against a sob.

"Come on, we're almost there," said Bradbury reassuringly.

The wide, high flap that led into the hospital tent was raised, rolled tight and tied in place with neat bows that spoke of Hester's competent hand. The warm glow of lamps within was welcoming. About half the beds were occupied, men asleep or sitting quietly, none severely ill enough to be in the throes of fever. In one corner, two cots bore men covered head to toe by blankets, the recently dead yet to be placed in boxes and shipped to their homes for burial. Hester no longer worked alone; she had a staff of five nurses, all older women. Though James hadn't been formerly introduced to any of them, he knew one to be the mother of a Captain in the 5th Maine, and another he'd heard was wife to a man who had died of sickness earlier in the winter, come in her grief to see if through her efforts she could prevent others from suffering as she and her husband had. Determined not to look a fool, James attempted to disentangle himself from Bradbury's hold but the boy held James firm and he couldn't shake free.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," a nurse greeted them. "Are you here to see Hester?"

Bradbury nodded. "This is her brother, he's major of the 27th. He's not well." Another of the nurses bustled to the far side of the tent. Bradbury unceremoniously dumped James onto a vacant cot and the nurse came over, removed his hat, clucked unhappily as she brushed his limp, wet hair from his forehead.

"Oh, dear," she said. "Poor thing! You shouldn't be shivering like that with a fever this high. Mrs. Barnes, will you fetch him something dry to wear? We have to get him out of these wet clothes."

Hands were on the buttons of his jacket. "I can undress myself!" he protested, swatting the nurse away.

"I'm sure you can, dear," she hummed, not stopping. Bradbury laughed.

"Lieutenant!"

"What, she's old enough to be my grandmother. I'm not arguing with her."

"Quit fussing," advised the nurse. "I have grandsons older than you, you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

Being undressed by a stranger in public was as mortifying an experience as James could recall, made worse because he truly didn't think he could prevent her from doing exactly as she wished. As miserable as he was about Dean, he hadn't realized how many other symptoms he had. Either he'd been growing ill for days and somehow hadn't noticed, or his morning spent waiting in the clearing had triggered some sudden and severe plague. At least Bradbury begged off and departed towards where James presumed Hester to be, cheeks pinking, rather than stare at James' brief nudity. At least the two nurses who helped him – Mrs. Marion was the older nurse and Mrs. Barnes was the widowed wife who brought him a change of clothing, slim and beautiful in a severe way, a veil of black covering her dark hair – acted professionally and didn't tease him, preferring to give him assessing, judging looks. Mrs. Marion's eyes lingered disapprovingly on his sunken stomach, hollowed out by not eating enough, and Mrs. Barnes' gaze lingered lower, making him blush. It took an embarrassingly long time for them to change him, but when he was wearing something dry and wrapped in a blanket, hunched slump-shouldered on a cot, some warmth returned to his body. Periodic shivers wracked him. With a pleasant smile, Mrs. Barnes finished her ministrations by toweling his hair dry with a square of cotton.

"There we go, isn't that better?" she said, giving him a motherly pat on the cheek.

"Cassie!" exclaimed Hester, hurrying to his side. She pressed a steaming tin cup on him, metal wrapped in cloth to protect his hands. Closing his eyes, he let the soothing smell of herbs envelop him and ease his frayed nerves. "What's happened? Bradbury says you need to speak with me? And that you're running a fever?"

"I do," he said. He took a sip of tea, light flavor of chamomile nearly subsumed by mint. Sweetness lingered pleasantly on his tongue. "It's private, though." Am I really going to tell her? "No one else can hear." I have to. I can't do this alone any longer. Gabriel is wonderful but he is so far away. He's not enough.

"It's fine," she said, giving him a gentle smile. "No one's near. What's the matter?"

"No, I mean it," insisted James. His hands trembled around the mug. "It's important – it's really important. If anyone else heard…" God, what wouldn't they think me? Spy, traitor, sodomite, each accusation as damning as the last. "Please, Hester." I must have someone I can talk to, someone I can trust.

"Very well," she nodded. Raising her voice, she called, "Lieutenant!" Bradbury must have been observing from nearby, for he instantly appeared. "I'd like to move my brother to my tent. Whatever ails him is obviously not the flux and as weak as he appears I'd rather not expose him tothe sicknesses of the others." Bradbury gave Hester a wry look, and Hester flicked a glance towards the nurses moving about the room. Nodding, Bradbury came over and easily hefted a James to his feet as Hester took the tin cup from his shaking hands.

Minutes later saw James installed in Hester's small tent, pitched alongside the hospital tent such that she needn't even step outside to go from one to the other. The accommodations were as modest as those used by the soldiers: two blankets, a lamp, a low chest for clothing and a few personal belongings the only decorations.

"Let me know if you need anything," Bradbury said, giving James a stern look and Hester a doting one.

"Wait," said James. His voice was hoarse, he'd scarce noticed it before. His lungs ached. Certainly, he'd not felt so ill the night before, it must be his long exposure to the weather. Bradbury paused, half-out the flap. "Lieutenant, if you're still available…you already know most…if I might impose, perhaps you would listen to the rest as well?"

Insanity, James, telling either of them! This cannot end well. Best to be vague, to speak in uncertain terms, to speak of the mysterious woman Bradbury already believes exists and leave it at that. No. I cannot bear all alone, not any longer. Dean already believes I've betrayed his secret to others. What does it matter now if I share more?

Wordlessly, Bradbury nodded, stepping back into the tent and untying the ribbons that held the flap open. There was little enough privacy to be found in the Fort but at least, within the close walls of the tent, there was the illusion of intimacy. A steady plop spoke of a drip through the tent canvas landing on the wood of Hester's trunk. Hester hastily rearranged her blankets around him, pressed the tea back into his hands, and settled back to sit cross-legged and wait patiently. Hesitantly, Bradbury eyed them both and then sat beside Hester, their legs pressed together. Hester placed a reassuring hand on the boy's knee and James colored to see the hint of their understanding.

I know their secret. It seems only fair that they know mine, that they actually know mine.

"You've been avoiding me all week," scolded Hester. James hid embarrassment by taking another sip of tea. If he didn't start speaking, he never would.

"Has Bradbury told you about my Wednesday mornings?" he asked. Hester shot Bradbury a look, got a sheepish one and a half-shrug in reply, and shook her head. Damn, that does make things harder, but…he took a deep breath, another fortifying sip, and said, "Bradbury has known since last November that, occasionally, I leave the Fort to meet someone outside of the fortress walls. Starting in December, those meetings became regular – every Wednesday morning."

God, what must Hester be thinking right now? She knows Anna, and now she knows I've been unfaithful, she'll tell Anna all, this is a disaster, it'll ruin everything…

…would it be so bad if Anna learned I had feelings for another? I'd be free. But I wouldn't have Dean back.

Staring hard into the pale, rippling surface of the tea, James continued, speaking quickly lest he choke on the words. "I haven't told the Lieutenant all. I allowed him to believe…" He closed his eyes against a rush of blind terror at the prospect of confessing. A cool hand wrapped around his and he opened his eyes to see Hester leaning towards him, pale eyes wide, expression sympathetic and concerned. "You have to understand, I wouldn't be here at all save that Gabriel thinks you will be able to help me." Please, help me! "What I've been doing…it's not…it's not right, it's not fair, I have abused Anna's trust in me, I…I…" He met her steady gaze, imploring her to understand, and for a wonder he thought perhaps she did, for she shifted to sit beside him, gently took the cup and passed it to Bradbury, placed an arm around James' shoulder and encouraged him with subtle touches to lean against her. With a shuddering sigh, he melted into the comforting contact. "It's a man, Hester," he whispered. "It's a man, and a Confederate soldier, and I think I love him, and he's left me." Closing his eyes against tears, he pressed against her, dread filling him as he expected her to pull away at any moment.

"Oh, James," she breathed, faintness rendering it impossible to read if her tone was condemning or angry or disgusted.

"I'm sorry I deceived you," he said miserably, trying to break free of Hester's hold on him before she could shove him away on her own. The wrapping of a second arm around him, pulling him closer, hugging him as if he were dear, was shocking and unexpected. "Hester—"

"Have you borne this alone all this time? Even as Crowley has worked you like a dog? No wonder you've seemed so out of sorts! Oh, brother, I'm so sorry!" With another shudder, he collapsed against her, tears falling silently, and she combed a hand gently through his drying hair.

"Hester…?" said Bradbury hesitantly. James stiffened instantly. He'd managed to forget the other man was there. Hester refused to loosen her hold, making indistinct soothing noises until James eased again.

"It's up to you," Hester said. For an instant, he was baffled until he realized she must be speaking to Bradbury. "He already knows that we are in a relationship. The other is your secret."

"It's ours," objected Bradbury. James turned so he could see the Lieutenant's face. He'd taken his hat off, his red hair dark with wetness, his expression earnest. "Anything I own is yours as well, and even were it not, I cannot tell of myself without revealing you."

"He's my brother. Of course I do not mind him knowing, especially in light of what he has just revealed," said Hester firmly. "I would tell him immediately save that I cannot do so without betraying your confidence."

"You know I can hear you, right?" he said hoarsely. Bradbury laughed. "Revealing my most mortifying sins does not require that you do the same. Please say nothing unless you are comfortable doing so." James couldn't see Hester's face, but Bradbury stared long and hard before finally nodding.

"You say you spoke to Gabriel?" Hester asked.

"We exchanged letters on the topic," James confirmed. "I told him of my interest in—" He barely choked the name back. "—in him, and Gabriel wrote me back a long reply about his own experiences and his advice. Not knowing what confidences he's shared with you, I'm loathe to reveal his secrets, but he suggested you'd be understanding, and you are, shockingly so. If nothing else I thought you'd condemn me for infidelity, I know you and Anna close."

"Mistake me not: you must tell Anna, and you must break things off with her," said Hester with some of the fire he'd expected from her at the start. "She's young – she'll recover her spirits in time. I've always thought she loved the idea of you more than the actual man anyway, but nonetheless maintaining an engagement to her when your feelings are engaged elsewhere is cruel to her, and to yourself as well."

"She is still one of my dearest friends…it would feel wrong to end things by letter…"

"Fair enough," she said. She took a deep breath that shifted James against her, exhaled it slowly. "I cannot imagine that Gabriel wrote you back without revealing some part of his own sexual history. Even if, inconceivably, he didn't say anything, I know he'd not mind my telling you at such a moment that he has had several dalliances with men that I am aware of, and likely numerous others that I am, thankfully, unaware of. For my part…" Bradbury gave an encouraging nod as Hester trailed off. "My interests are of an opposite nature. Have you never wondered why I've not wed, James? I do not like men – by which I mean specifically they hold no physical attraction for me. My pleasures come from the company of women of similar mindset." It took a long moment for her words to process, the concept was so alien, though in light of his own interests it should have been obvious that such women would exist. Continuing to watch Bradbury, who looked away and colored uncomfortably, the full meaning of Hester's words finally struck him.

"Lieutenant…?"

"My fiancée was surprisingly supportive of my decision to enlist," he – no, she – said with embarrassment. "In truth, I think he felt it spared him the need to do ought himself. He's a quiet sort, it's why I was willing to consider marriage to him despite my personal preferences. He's pleasant, kind, gentle – is it terrible that the most flattering thing I can think of to say about the man I intend to marry is that he is harmless? It seemed the best I could hope for, considering how contrary to my inclinations it is to wed any man. My intention was to pass my time in the army quietly. I didn't anticipate being elected an officer, and I was even more shocked to meet Hester, to find her intriguing, to find a woman of her stature and beauty and intelligence yet single. That, and her initial rebukes, confirmed my suspicions about her, and so I revealed my secret. Once she knew I was no man her attitude towards my advances warmed considerably."

"And to think I've thought you a mere boy all this time," he murmured. "I could hardly believe a man near 20 years Hester's junior could be of interest to her – but of course, you are small and high voiced and clean shaven because…"

"I'm your age, Novak," she said with a grin. Now that he knew, he could see it: in the delicateness of Bradbury's features, in her slimness and the turn of her eyes. He found himself tracing the femininity of every line, and she colored and looked away under his scrutiny.

The nerves that had held James silent for so long fell away. In learning their secrets, his need to keep his own fell away. Some part of him scoffed at the sudden feeling of freedom, blamed his sudden sanguineness on the sad truth that now, they reveal his secret he had the power to reveal theirs. That was unfair to himself, though; he knew in his heart it was because they were like him, familiar with keeping secrets, used to having to hide themselves. Hester, further, was his sister, and Bradbury had become an increasingly trusted friend and comrade, now confident. He was scarce surprised to find that his trust in her did not waver though he'd learned she'd been lying to him about her gender for nearly a year. In this tent, with the two of them, he was safe. He could be honest and tell all and know he'd not be blamed, that he'd be understood and comforted.

"You've met him," he mumbled, catching Bradbury's eye.

"You said he was a Confederate?" she said, baffled. "I've not met any—"

"You have, though you didn't know it." Dean's voice echoed through James' thoughts, furious that James' might share his secret, but James quelled it. If James was condemned for a thing, let it at least be a thing he had actually done. Licking his lips, James let the words come. "The man who brought Sam Winchester back from Bull Run – the man on the black horse who approached our camp in Washington." It felt like a lifetime ago. James could scarce believe how profoundly he'd changed from that day to this. He watched Bradbury as she looked askance, trying to remember.

"Good looking, plaid shirt, freckles?" she asked. James nodded, though that description could match many people. Even her simple sketched painted a clear image in James' mind of Dean's face, green eyes meeting his, defiant and confident, and James' heart felt like it compressed agonizingly.

"His name is Dean," James said. "He's Sam's older brother and a member of General Singer's staff. Though he's younger than me, he's known he's…like this…for a while, whereas what I feel for him – what I felt for him – is unlike anything I've experienced towards anyone previously. I had no idea…not the least idea…God, Hester, I love him – I love him so much – and he's gone! I cannot even go to him and attempt to reconcile. What am I to do?"

A sob burst from James though he tried to repress it, another, another, and he twisted in Hester's arms, his hands tangling feebly in the fabric of her dress. Hester held him close, stirring distant memories from his childhood when she'd done the same, when he'd been a child and she a teen, his eldest sister, someone he could go to when he knew his mother would tell him to stop behaving childishly. He'd not remembered that she'd once done that until he felt her familiar warmth, the distinct way she swept her hand down his back and cradled his head.

"Rest," she murmured gently into his ear. "Recover. Forgive yourself. You've made yourself ill with worry, it won't do. I cannot believe that you could come to care so deeply for someone who does not reciprocate, but while you are so broken down there is naught to be done about it. Things won't seem so bad when you've gotten some rest, had a good meal, and shook off this fever. Heal and give him time to do the same." Shaking, he allowed her to hold him, to comfort him though he couldn't believe that things would mend so easily as she suggested. Sing a wordless tune into his ear, Hester held him until he finally fell asleep.

---

Major James Novak, February 13th, 1862

This letter is being written on behalf of Dean Winchester. He says:

Hey, Cas. A friend said she'd write this out for me. In my last letter I said some stupid things I regret. Want you to know that I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. But if you don't mind an idiot for a friend, I'd like to go back to writing you regularly, if that's alright.

Novak, the written word is inadequate to show deep sentiment, especially when dealing with Dean, who struggles to say things like this. Thus, I feel that you should know that these impartial words were spoken while Dean was weeping and trying his best to hide it. I'm sure whatever he wrote you was stupid and aggravating – he has a knack for that – but I hope you'll consider his current sincerity as you debate whether to give him another chance. He is an idiot, but he's a good man and he deserves a good friend.

Hands shaking, James lowered the letter and carefully refolded it along crinkles so sharp the cheap paper was already beginning to split. James' vision splintered then refocused and he tried to get his breathing under control before his hasty gasps could trigger a coughing fit that would scour his aching throat and wrack his pained chest. He'd read the short letter repeatedly since it had arrived on Sunday, brought to him by Sam along with a pile of other correspondence. He wasn't well enough to hold a pen, but with Hester's help he'd written a few replies, quick notes to his parents and to Anna updating them, Anna's including the description of the review she had requested of him so earnestly. It had taken two days with long breaks while James was too unwell to sit up or too tired to keep track from the beginning of a sentence to the end what he intended to say. The letter from Dean went unanswered. There was no point in penning a reply – that had surely never been Dean's intention. James had to believe that beneath the obfuscation aimed at whoever had written the letter what Dean had been attempting to communicate was that he'd like to see James at their usual Wednesday time. As Tuesday night drifted slowly towards Wednesday morning, James' anxiety grew. He wasn't well enough and he risked his influenza growing more serious if he wasn't careful, but weighed against the possibility of seeing Dean, of apologizing to him, it was a chance he'd have to take. He'd kept Dean's letter a secret, not because he was ashamed of it or felt he had to, but because he knew if Hester or Bradbury found out, they'd instantly guess his intentions.

The night passed agonizingly slowly. He was desperate to stay up, afraid each time he slept that he'd not wake in time. Despite his best efforts, James dozed off more than once, only to awaken with a start that strained sore muscles and inevitably triggered coughs. Unable to bear the suspense of waiting alone any longer, James rose from his nest of blankets and crouched out of Hester's tent. To protect him from the pall in the main hospital tent, she had allowed him privacy while she slept in a cot among the patients. It worried him greatly, mortified him more, that she should expose herself in order to spare him, but she'd replied to his protests by saying that he could take his place among the others if he could rise from his sickbed and walk the distance to a cot.

He'd yet to be able to pass that simple test.

It doesn't matter how sick I am, how much my body hurts. I must see Dean. If I were to not come to meet him after receiving such a letter, what would he think? He'd assume me bitter and angry, assume me unforgiving, assume me certain that he is in the wrong and I am in the right. None of that is true, nor can I bear that he might think it so. This might be my only chance. For my current peace of mind – for my future hope of happiness – for the chance for our relationship to follow a natural course and live or die as it will with the passage of the years – I must meet him.

"Get back to bed, Novak." Bradbury's light voice broke through James' thoughts. The Lieutenant sat on a cot not far from the entry to Hester's tent wrapped in a blanket. James hadn't even noticed her there. Struggling, doing his best to hide how difficult it was for him, James straightened and turned to her.

"I have to go," he said. "You know I have to go."

"I knew you'd want to go," she agreed. "That's why I've wasted a night guarding you, figured you couldn't be trusted to behave in your own best interest. I appreciate your situation but the weather is bitter cold, dry and windy. If you expose yourself to it for any amount of time I doubt we'll see you back in camp again. You're not well, Major, and there's no need for you to go anywhere. You know that."

"I don't know that." Reluctantly, James pulled out the letter from Dean and passed it to her. She took it, tired eyes skimming the contents. Wind puckered and sucked at the sides of the tent, and though scarce a draft penetrated the canvas James swore he could feel the wind on him, pushing him to and fro until the room swam sickeningly before his eyes.

"What does the writer mean, that they do not write themselves?"

"My correspondent is illiterate," said James.

"All this asks is that you write back," said Bradbury. "Why think it means otherwise?"

"Whoever helped in the writing of this cannot know the truth," James explained. "There'd be no point in my writing back and scarce means for me to return a letter, given the challenges involved." His head throbbed from concentrating on forming the thoughts, policing each word. "I'm expected this morning. I'm sure of it." The last words caught in his throat and he coughed and hacked, his eyes squeezed shut and tears leaking free. The ragged spasms ripped at his already torn throat. By the time the fit passed, he was doubled over, arms crossed over his chest as if that could somehow stop the involuntary convulsion of his lungs. Every breath hurt. "I have to go, Bradbury. I have to."

"God protect me from men made idiots by love," muttered Bradbury. "Novak, get back into bed before you fall on your face. A broken nose will only make breathing that much harder."

"No, I must—" Coughing interrupted him again, tearing at him until he lost all sense of the moment, and didn't pass until he came to himself hunched on his knees, weight leaning heavily on an empty cot. "Please, Bradbury, I need—" Coughing interrupted him again. Shame tore at his thoughts as surely as each fit tore at his body, that he was so ill, that after everything this was how weak he truly was.

"Stop troubling yourself," said Bradbury, her voice soothing and right in his ear. A hand ran along his back as if hoping with a gesture to ease his troubled breathing. "I'm going to help you back into the tent and get you some tea with honey to drink." Honey. Dean loves honey. I wish I could bring him some honeyed tea. It's so cold tonight, he'll be so cold in the clearing alone. I'm so sorry, my love, I can't go, I can't. Please forgive me. "Once we've eased your throat so you can get a sentence out, you can tell me where to go and I will tell your friend what has happened and why they should not expect you this evening."

"No!" exclaimed James, horrified at the prospect. With a burst of strength, he shook her off and managed to get his feet under him again. "You mustn't, he'll think I've betrayed him, he'll think I've told his secrets. I have done, he'd be right, he'll be furious." Each word was more broken than the one before, desperately forced out despite further coughs choking and clenching at his throat. "Please – please, help me..." More coughing, more pain. There was no way he could walk to the exit of the hospital tent, much less cover the scant half mile to the copse of trees. Finding enough voice for a whisper, he said, "Charles, I need him."

"It's Charlie, and I believe you – which is why you must trust me to go and speak on your behalf, trust me to find the words to mend what has been broken well enough that you will have another chance next week." She put an arm around him and helped him half walk, half collapse over the short distance to Hester's tent. "If you go like this, you will die. As stubborn and prone to martyrdom as you are, even you must see that."

"I do," he confessed, voice cracking. "God, I feel awful. Please tell him I'd have come if I could – please tell him how sorry I am to not be there – please tell him how much I miss him – but whatever you do, don't tell him I love him. I've not said it to him yet – I want to tell him myself, okay?" Nodding, Bradbury turned to go away. Worried she'd not understood, head aching, James snagged her wrist, pulled her back. "I've got to tell him that myself."

"Easy, Cassie," she murmured. James flushed, entire face growing so hot he couldn't believe he didn't burst out in sweat instantly. She took his hand gently, dislodging his grip as easily as if he were a child, and eased him back to the ground. "You're going to be fine. I won't spoil your surprise, okay? I'm just going to get him to understand that you had to tell someone, and that you'd be there if you could be. Are you ready for some tea?" He nodded dumbly. "I'll be back soon."

By the time Bradbury returned with his honeyed chamomile, hot enough to sear his tattered throat, James was crying against his knees in frustration. Heart and soul, all he wanted to do was to see Dean, to make Dean understand, to apologize, to have Dean be the one to wrap a blanket around his shoulders and hold the mug for him so he could drink. Bradbury was right, though. There was no way he could go, no way he could even move under his own power. It was maddening to be so trapped by his body, to be so helpless. She comforted him, reassured him, made him drink until his throat was smooth enough for him to explain where she should go to speak with Dean. She tried and failed to convince him to lie down and sleep. His insides were knotted up with worry and anger and self-condemnation. When he finally convinced her that her efforts were futile, she settled for wrapping him snuggly, pressing a fresh mug into his hands, and leaving him to his own miserable devices.

It was one of the longest, slowest, most wrenching nights of James' terrible way Dean might react to having a stranger appear in the clearing looped through James' imagination. Bradbury said to trust her, to leave it to her, but she hadn't seen how angry Dean had gotten two weeks before. Would Dean give her a chance to speak or would he turn and ride away immediately? Would Dean listen to her, give her words a chance to sway him? Would Dean forgive James for divulging his secret? Would Dean even show up? Round and round the questions went, keeping James awake despite how wretched he felt, driving him mad.

The tea he'd only partially drunk had gone cold hours before, the sickening sweetness a stark reminder of the last time the flavor of honey had danced on his lips. The blankets wrapped around him could scarce keep out the roaring wind that buckled the sides of the tent. The faint light of lamps danced and bobbed as two nurses worked overnight, flickering flames cast long, dim shadows over the small tent interior. James needed to use the bathroom but couldn't bring himself to use the pot again. Doing so was a mortifying admission that he wasn't even strong enough to walk to the privy. Of course he couldn't, he hadn't been able to for a week, but he felt such a pathetic wreck that he couldn't bear that further admission of weakness so instead he sat uncomfortably full.

This isn't going to work. Dean would have hated me if I hadn't showed up, but this will be worse. That I might have fixed by writing him or by finding a way to speak with him, but now he'll know I've told another all and he'll never forgive me. I should have stopped Bradbury. I should have gone myself.

Faint light brightened the sides of the tent fabric before anyone disturbed him, and then it was only Hester. She opened her mouth to speak, took one searching look at James' face, and said nothing. If he looked anything like how he felt, he could only imagine what a sight he must be. Instead, she took the tin cup from him and left him alone. Laying his head back on his knees, shaking uncontrollably with fatigue and sadness and illness, he squeezed his eyes shut and willed the minutes to pass more quickly.

It's dawn. They're meeting now. Assuming Bradbury went. Assuming Bradbury found the clearing. Assuming Dean came. Assuming Dean didn't turn and ride away on the instant. Assuming they can speak and reach an understanding. Assuming I didn't misunderstand the letter. Assuming the worst, always assuming the worst, it doesn't matter if this all works out, Dean and I are doomed anyway. There's no future in this. I'm such a fool.

I wonder when Bradbury will return?

Thought part of him longed for her to step into the tent to relieve the agony of not knowing, a greater part understood that if she were gone longer it boded better news. Unless it means Dean didn't appear at all. And with that thought the same loop began, the same thoughts over and over again, the same questions and worries and uncertainties and regrets.

"Wow, you look like death," marveled Bradbury. James' head snapped up and he swooned to one side as the world spun agonizingly.

"Bradbury—" The word snagged in his ravaged throat and James could have screamed in frustration if he wasn't so damn busy coughing himself to pieces.

Strong hands caught him, helped him to sit upright once more. "It's okay. That's the most important thing you need to know right now."

"Okay?" he said weakly, looking up, desperate to meet her eyes and read more in her expression than he could in her words. The only thing he could recognize on her face was concern, her eyes tight, her mouth compressed into a thin frown.

"If I tell you 'you've got nothing to worry about and I'll tell you all about it when you've gotten some rest,' you're going to sit here and make yourself even more ill, aren't you?" she asked rhetorically.

"Tell me he's alright," James begged.

"As far as I can see? He's a damn sight from being alright – I've never seen a man get more tongue-tied or slip so quickly into being angry because he couldn't find any other way to get out everything he was feeling," she rolled her eyes. "He's not going to make your life any easier, that's for sure, but he's pretty enough I can see why you'd bother."

"Don't call him that," said James automatically. She blinked at him and he colored and looked away. "Handsome. He's handsome." He's gorgeous, God, I can see every perfect line of his face whenever I close my eyes. He's going to haunt me forever.

"Basically, he was annoyed that you sent someone in your place but he softened when I got him to actually listen to me. When he found out how sick you are he was quite upset," she reported. The knot of tension binding James' chest eased and he drew a shallow breath, the most he could manage without triggering a fit of coughing. "There were a few times I thought he'd storm the camp to come check on you. If you've been worried whether he cares about you or not? I think I can set that to rest. He cares. A lot. I'd bet he cares as much for you as you do for him, in his own way."

Dean loves me? James' eyes filled with tears. No, that's far too much to ask, far more than I deserve, far more than Dean, as hurt as he is, can give right now. He took a sip of tea to cover how upset he was, spilling drops down his chin as his hands trembled.

"He wanted you to know that he's sorry for what he said last time he saw you, and that he'll be back next week."

"Thank God," James whispered. Allowing his eyes to slip shut, relief washed over him and eased every aching muscle, soothed the pain in his head. "Or, more appropriately, thank you, Bradbury."

"You can call me God if you really want," she said with a laugh. "Though I do believe that counts as blasphemy."

With the loss of his anxiety, exhaustion crashed in. Something scalded the skin of his hand – the tea is spilling, he realized, but he was powerless to fix the problem; a moment later the tea was taken from him, a gentle shove at his shoulder easily knocked him on to his back, and he was asleep before his head hit the balled up dress that he was using as a pillow.

---

Dear Anna, February 23rd, 1862

I'm pleased to report I am finally well enough to write myself and tell of my condition. My fever broke on Friday, my coughs have largely ceased, leaving an aching throat as a lingering unhappy reminder, and while hard tack is still impossibly rough for me to consume, we fortunately are well supplied with fresher foods. I believe I've consumed my body weight in Ms. Moseley's hearty stew. The fatigue remains, and I spend much of my time asleep, but I am elsewise on the road to recovery and expect to return to duty by Wednesday.

As I've scarce stirred from my sick bed in two weeks, I've little to say. The army has not moved, obviously, nor do I hear that we intend to. It is only in the past few days that I have been well enough to receive visitors other than Hester and Lieutenant Bradbury. Corporal Winchester came yesterday and read to me extensively from the newspaper, such that I am now well-informed on the cabinet, the president, the machinations of congress, the celebration over the fall of Roanoke, the destruction of the Confederate fleet at Elizabeth City, and General Burnside's subsequent advances along the Carolina coast. There is rampant celebration over the fall of Fort Donelson to Ulysses Grant; every single person who has sat with me has quoted verbatim "no terms except unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted!" while chortling and smiling as if we ourselves had won the victory. Alfie informs me that the troops are in agreement that his initials U.S. do not stand for Ulysses Simpson, as they are supposed to, nor for Uncle Sam, as apparently his friends call him, but for Unconditional Surrender. It is a nickname that I suspect will follow him long – at least provided he continue to win battles. Everyone is excited at the prospect that we will imminently march and earn the chance to add our names to the list of those growing famous for their deeds of valor. The feeling is contagious. We have been still for so long – since September, six months now! – that we all itch for action. This stagnation is pointless: if we do not engage the enemy, the war will never end. I hope we march soon, if not our Brigade, at least the army as a whole.

I hope that you are well and have not been too anxious on my behalf. It was merely a flu, I was not in great danger. Your letters have been a comfort, have helped me pass the long days of frustrating inactivity. I've missed you these weeks. It saddens me to know that likely only now, as I write, are you first receiving the first letters that speak of my dire situation, and that this reassurance that all danger is passed will not reach you for that much longer. I will see if I can arrange a telegram sent to you so that you do not worry overmuch, since there is no cause for it.

J.C. Novak

---

Dean froze as James stepped into the clearing, wide-eyed and paralyzed like a wild animal caught unawares. The sight of him was breathtaking, jacket open to show the plaid beneath, green sash untied, hands in his torn pockets. The knees of his pants were out and the thighs looked like they would be next to go; he could scarce have made a shabbier show of being a soldier. James thought him the most handsome, heartening sight he had ever seen. No words came; instead, his feet carried him across the clearing without him consciously forming the thought and James wrapped his arms around Dean. A wounded sound died in Dean's throat and he continued stock still for an instant before he returned the embrace fiercely, his breathes loud in James' ear, one hand nestled in the small of James' back, the other wrapping around James' head to pull him yet closer. Tears pooled in James' eyes and his fingers scrambled against Dean's jacket, seeking to hold him even nearer, seeking to have no barrier between them, slipping his hands underneath so that only the thin flannel of Dean's shirt separated his hands from Dean's hot skin.

"You okay, Billy?" Dean murmured in his ear.

"Dean," James breathed, clutching at him. It felt so nice to have Dean near, to touch him, to feel the matching urgency in Dean's hold on him. Words of affection had so rarely fallen from Dean's mouth but his touch betrayed his feelings. After nearly a month with only Dean's angry words echoing through James' head, Dean's embrace spoke as loudly as a declaration would have. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I never meant to behave in a way that led you to think I'd been anything other than forthright. I never meant to deceive you, to cause you to feel betrayed."

"Damn, Cas…" muttered Dean. "Don't apologize. Don't owe me an apology for nothin'. I'm an ass. I don't deserve you bein' here, much less sayin' how sorry you are. I'm sorry I'm such an idiot."

A flare of anger leant James strengthened, forced a grunt from Dean as James' arms tightened around him. "Don't say that."

"Don't say 'I'm sorry?' " asked Dean incredulously.

"You're not an idiot," said James drawing away. Dean refused to meet his eye. Annoyed, James put a thumb on Dean's chin, a hand against his palate, and forced his head up. "You're not an ass, either. Blaming what happened on supposed fallacies of your nature is no way to apologize, nor does it give me any sense of what upset you or what you truly rue. Something specific caused you to grow angry, to say those things to me, and whatever that was, that's what you should apologize for." Dean stared at him, expression unreadable. "Further, I do owe you my apology. I cannot pretend that my discussion of you with Sam was innocuous. I wanted to know more about you and instead of coming to you and asking, I was concerned that you'd not tell me, concerned that I would make you uncomfortable, so instead I pushed him to speak to me of you. That was wrong of me."

The longer James spoke, the more Dean's expression grew strained, his eyes fixed anywhere but on James' face. It worried him, but James pushed his fears away. They had to have this conversation, had to learn to have conversations like this, or else they'd have the same kinds of arguments over and over again until their anger at each other overcame their attraction, until they had nothing left but rancor. If they were to have anything together that might last even the duration of the war, they would have to learn to communicate clearly. "Dean, you told me that I could ask you anything. If I'd trusted you as I ought, I'd have asked you – respected if you said that you did not wish to speak of your affairs – allowed you to tell what you would, as you would. For that, I'm sorry."

"I don't know what you want me to say," said Dean, tone simultaneously belligerent and desperate. "I messed up. I'm sorry."

"But what do you actually think you did wrong, Dean?" James said

"What didn't I do wrong, Cas?" Dean snapped, letting James go. The sudden burst of cold air sent a shiver through James, the loss of the support of Dean's body reminding him of his fatigue and lingering weakness. "I stink at this crap, I don't know what the heck I'm doin'. I told you, I ain't smart like you are. If you can't accept that about me, I don't know why I'm even here."

"No," James said, mustering every ounce of authority he could muster. "Stop, Dean." Dean froze again, his back to James. "I'm not going to stand here and watch you grow angry with me again because I've suggested that you show vulnerability. Considering the extent to which you have exposed yourself to me and demonstrated that you are willing to trust me with your person, it is absurd that you refuse to show me equal vulnerability as concerns your thoughts. I'll not demand it of you, but if you cannot reveal yourself, at least stop this juvenile show of aggression. Tell me you cannot say, as you did when I asked you why you couldn't share what makes you uncomfortable sexually, and I will accept that. Do not claim that these problems are due to inherent character flaws, though, because that is not true. There is nothing wrong with your nature, Dean. Regardless of how the people in your life have treated you previously, I cannot believe you'd trust me if you didn't understand that I am not those people."

Breathing hard, James wiped across his brow as if he could wipe away the heated flush to his cheeks, the rasp of air over his throat ached at the long speech. Anger seethed in his breast, at those in Dean's life who had left him so defensive, at Dean for stubbornly refusing to examine his own feelings, at himself for not being able to keep calm.

"I know you're not them," said Dean softly, not turning around. James had to strain to hear him. "Why d'ya think I came back?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

The only movement in the clear was the branches swaying in the breeze, the loose fabric of Dean's clothing matching the movement. Finally, Dean turned around. His eyes were closed; he took a deep breath and released it slowly before opening his eyes. The vulnerability in that gorgeous green-eyed gaze was breath-taking. "Because I am sorry, even if I'm shit at sayin' why. Because not seein' you was like havin' my heart cut out. 'Cause I do believe you and I do trust you and if you say you didn't know that I knew Harvelle and the others, I'll take your word for it. I don't need no other proof. 'Cause I've felt terrible for two weeks yet it eased the instant I saw you. 'Cause last week, Bradbury told me that you were sick enough to die of it and I swear I've never been more scared in my whole damn life. I'm glad you're alright, Cas."

James had no awareness of crossing the space between them. In one moment, they stood feet apart; the next he was crushing Dean's body to his own, kissing Dean as if starving for a taste of musk and wood smoke, rubbing up and down Dean's back, rutting against his front. Dean opened to him without hesitation, green eyes slipping shut, kissing him back fervently. "I haven't forgiven you yet," James breathed, words escaping between kisses, body growing heavy with desire. God, I love you. "I still consider an apology in which no actual blame is accepted to be empty." He nipped at Dean's lower lip, catching it in his teeth, and Dean whimpered. Emboldened, James caught the lip again, bit harder, and Dean groaned. The sound flared electric through James' body, heated him through, thickened his arousal. "If you cannot claim responsibility for an actual, specific error, than you've not apologized." Putting space between them, as little as he could get away with, James placed a hand to Dean's crotch, palmed his half-hard cock through the rough fabric, pressed hard against the sensitive flesh. Dean moaned, leaning back against James' encircling arm, rutting up against James' hand.

"Don' understan'," gasped Dean. "Wha—"

"If you can't apologize properly, then I will have to extract satisfaction elsewise," James growled. All the ideas he'd that had stirred in his darker fantasies tried to intrude into the front of his thoughts at once – deny him, hurt him, bind him, tease him, God, I want to hear him beg me for forgiveness – and his vision flashed white for an instant, his body so aroused he thought a touch might burn him to a cinder.

"Gonna punish me, Cas?"

The pure, unadulterated desire in Dean's voice provided the spark to the tinder of James' desire, and heat burst through him, strengthened him, pushed away every thought but the need to punish Dean, the need to dominate him and control him, the need to extract restitution until the wounds to both of them healed, the need to hold Dean close and reward him afterwards, the need to demonstrate with affection that all was forgiven. James channeled his aggressive need into catching Dean's sacks against the abrasive wool of his pants and kneading them roughly to the accompaniment of Dean's whimpers.

"Yes," James snarled. As abruptly as James had begun his touches, he stopped, stepped away. Without James to support him, Dean collapsed to his knees, gasping, eyes flashing open to show green enveloped in deep black pupils. "Get up, Dean." Dean stared at him, slack-jawed, chest fluttering with rapid breaths. "I said get up." Movements ungainly, Dean tottered to his feet. "Go to the tree – face the trunk – hands against the bark – I want your back to me, Dean, I want you bent forward at the waist, I want your ass sticking out. If you're going to apologize like a child, I'm going to punish you like a child."

There was a beat of hesitation, Dean wavering on his feet and staring at James as if he'd never seen him before, and James felt a flash of terror that threatened to drown his arousal – I've pushed too far, I've said too much, he doesn't actually want this, he thinks I'm out of my mind – and then Dean was moving, Dean was obeying, and James' heart raced, his breath came in pants, as Dean positioned himself precisely as James had described, adding an extra wiggle of his shapely butt before stilling. Dean's breath rushed in and out loudly as he waited with a semblance of patience.

The moment stretched out as James struggled to get control of himself, his breathing, his heart rate, his erection. James suspected he'd hurt himself if he attempted to walk right away, either tangling his erection and sensitive balls between his legs or, more absurdly, tripping and falling on his face when his weakened knees gave way. Between the lingering after-effects of his illness and the shocking intensity of his arousal, it was all he could do to keep himself upright. The longer James waited, the greater tension he saw bunch in Dean's shoulders, but Dean didn't turn; he had one arm folded against the tree, his forehead and eyes leaning against the forearm, his other hand braced against the trunk. The only movement in Dean's taut body was the rise and fall of his back with each breath. The urge to praise Dean's obedience rose, to ease Dean's stress by telling him how good he was, how well he was waiting, but James repressed the instinct, reminding himself that this was about punishing Dean. The thought triggered a shiver of anticipation.

What sounds will he make when I strike him? Will he speak? Will he cry? Will he beg me to stop? Will he beg me to continue? I have no idea but I know, whatever it is, I'll be proud of him. Dean will never let me down.

One careful step at a time brought James alongside Dean. With his eyes buried in his forearm, there was no way Dean could see him, but nonetheless there was a hitch as Dean's breathing sped up. Gently, James placed one hand flat on the top of Dean's back, lay it over his spine, and Dean started and choked back a sound.

"As always, Dean, I want to hear you," James scolded. Dean nodded and shook his shoulders out. Laying his other hand on Dean's belly so he could feel the flutter of every inhalation and swallow, James brushed down Dean's spine, ran his hand over the pilled fabric of Dean's uniform jacket to soothe the tightness beneath. James could feel the folds of Dean's undershirt, the thicker fabric of Dean's suspenders; his fingers found the button that attached the suspenders to Dean's pants and James hitched the jacket up and undid it. Starting at the top of Dean's back again, James repeated the motion, reveling in how Dean's breaths grew vocal, each exhale accompanied by a deep note that echoed in Dean's chest, that James could feel rumble through the hand he had pressed to Dean's belly.

With the second button undone, Dean's over-sized pants slid down his ass, revealing the neatly sewn bottom edge of his gingham shirt and several inches of startling pale skin, such a contrast to the deep brown tan of Dean's face and hands. James' third caress started at the small of Dean's back and he pet down the sharp curve of Dean's lower back, hooked a thumb in the waist band of Dean's pants and dragged them down to expose the half-moons of Dean's ass, firm and curved and undefinably alluring. Unable to resist, James cupped each cheek in turn, caressed, felt Dean's belly flutter in reply, his breath gasp out. Glancing to Dean's front, James saw him lick his lips, couldn't help but stare at the tented fabric of Dean's pants. Relief flooded James, followed immediately by desire, as he continued to pet the swell Dean's butt.

He does want this, he does find it arousing, oh, thank God, it's not just me. If I'm strange, if I'm somehow broken, at least he's strange the same way. So long as we both want this, there is nothing wrong with doing it.

James gave Dean a warning pat over his cheeks and Dean spread his legs wider to brace himself, body tensing again. Raising his hand, James gave Dean a sharp slap on one cheek. There was a crack of skin hitting skin. Dean grunted. James felt the blow as a tingle in his hand, a jerk in his elbow, a twitch in his cock. Alternating cheeks, James hit Dean again, again, raising a rosy hue on Dean's pale skin.

"Harder," urged Dean.

Only a bitten lip kept James from groaning at the demand in Dean's tone. Drawing his hand back, he obliged, hitting Dean forcefully across his crack. Dean's knees shook, his breath whooshed out. The thwack of James hand over Dean's skin sounded once more as James tried again, putting even more strength behind the blow, a third, a fourth as hard he could. Dean panted, belly surging beneath James' hand, an edge of distress audible in every breath, but there was no sign his erection was flagging, no sign he was weakening, nothing to suggest to James he should stop, nothing to say that Dean wasn't enjoying this despite the pain.

Good, I don't want to stop, I want to hit him til he crumples to his knees, I want him to sob, I want him to beg me to forgive him for how badly he hurt me.

What the hell is the matter with me?

At the seventh hard spank Dean groaned, trembling. A strange sound caught James' attention and he looked up to see Dean's fingernails digging into the bark of the tree. James leaned forward, intentionally offering Dean the reassurance of James' warmth, intentionally rewarding him with the brush of James' lips over Dean's ear as he whispered, "Take my hand, Dean." A shudder ran through Dean's whole body as he obeyed, calloused fingers enveloping James' hand. James gave Dean time to recover, left his other hand gently resting on Dean's butt so that Dean could be sure that another blow wasn't about to come. When he thought Dean sufficiently recovered, James drew back, let the tension build, and then hit him his hardest blow yet, the force of it whipping through James' elbow, resounding up his arm. Dean groaned again, writhed against James' comforting hand, fingernails digging harshly into James' flesh. With that faint pain came sudden awareness of James' own physical state. He'd been so absorbed in assessing Dean's reaction that he hadn't realized how quick his breathing had become, how rapid his heartbeat, how flushed his cheeks had grown, how incredibly hard his cock was. As usual, as always, Dean was perfect, and it was utterly spectacular and profoundly arousing.

"You're doing great," James said encouragingly. James' voice had grown so low, so rough, so gravelly, that James hardly recognized it. Dean moaned, the bulge in Dean's pants bucked, Dean's palm rubbed against the back of James' hand, and James drew back for another hard spank.

I wonder if he would come just from my doing this?

I don't only want to hurt him; I only want to extract enough from him that he feels his sins exculpated, until he feels he has suffered enough to accept my forgiveness. Then I want to hold him, I want to pet him, I want to soothe him, I want to make him feel so damn good.

I suspect nothing is the matter with me. I suspect everyone feels a similar impulse, to punish those who hurt them, to act out a fantasy. The only difference here is that Dean and I are finding a means for channeling that, for acting on it.

God is he gorgeous like this. So good for me, Dean, so strong, so determined to show me how obedient you can be…

One more blow, two more, three more, and then Dean burst out, "I'm sorry!" The words fractured and cracked around held-back sobs and frantic breaths.

"For what, Dean?" James barked, genuine anger behind the words.

I shouldn't have to punish him, I shouldn't have to hurt him, if only he could examine himself, if only he could be honest with me.

Before Dean could answer, James slammed into him with another blow. Dean's whole body swayed, his knees buckled but he locked them to keep his balance.

"I'm sorry…I'm an idiot…" Dean gasped out.

"No," roared James. Smack. "You're not an idiot, Dean." Smack. "Idiots do not survive on the Kansas frontier." Smack. "Idiots do not have nuanced views on the socio-political impact of John Brown's raid." Smack. "Idiots do not get selected to do solo reconnaissance and surveying for the army that employs them." Smack. "You're not an idiot." Smack. "Whoever convinced you that you are lied to you." Smack. "Why are you sorry, Dean?" Smack. "What were you so angry at me for?" Smack. "Tell me!"

" 'm scared!" Dean cried brokenly. James barely stayed his hand before the next blow landed, he stopped himself, trembling, fingertips brushing Dean's skin. With a ragged sob, Dean's legs crumpled from under him, he collapsed to the ground and curled in on himself.

"Oh, Dean!" James was beside him instantly, gathering Dean against him, slipping his hands beneath Dean's jacket and shirt so that James' arms rested on Dean's over-heated flesh. Crying uncontrollably, Dean wrapped his arms around James' neck, sobbed against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, meetin' you is the best thing that's ever happened to me and I'm so damn scared all the damn time. I can't lose you, Cas, I can't, but I know one a' these days you're gonna look and see what everyone else sees when they look at me and then you're gonna leave and I…I can't, don't you understand? I can't do that, I can't keep sittin' 'round and waitin' for you to see me."

"I see you," James murmured steadily in Dean's ear. Hands scrambled at James' back, trying to draw them closer together, and James did what he could to adjust himself so that Dean could find solace in the press of hot bodies. "God, I see you so much more clearly than you see yourself." He carded his fingers through Dean's hair, rubbed the other hand down the ridges of Dean's spine. "You're handsome and strong and brave and brilliant and so much better than you believe yourself to be." Dean melted against him, shaking and shuddering, armor shorn away to reveal the injured young man beneath. A brush of hardness against James' leg startled him, Dean's arousal persistent despite the circumstances, and fired James' blood and renewed his flagging erection.

"Cas…"

"Listen to me, Dean – I need you to listen," James directed. When Dean didn't respond, James traced the curve of Dean's skull around to his cheek, cupped his face, urged him to look up. Blinking, Dean obeyed, his face streaked red, his eyelashes beaded with tears. "I know others haven't treated you well, have pushed you into things you did not wish, have abused your trust, have hurt you. I can't promise I will never do the same, but I can promise I will do my absolute best to do nothing that you don't wish, to respect you, to remind you of how splendid you are every time you wander down the dark pathways of memory that cause you to forget." James guided Dean's face closer, leaned in and brushed their lips together. A shiver coursed through Dean from head to toe and he pressed eagerly into the kiss, licking at James' lips. James let him, supported him, parted his lips to allow Dean's tongue into his mouth. Dean's desperation was palpable, kiss so full of need and fear and desire and affection that it was heart-breaking. They broke apart with a wet smack, both breathing hard.

"I love you, Dean," James burst out, the words refusing to be restrained any longer. Dean's eyes went saucer-wide, white surrounding beautiful green and deep black.

"You…you don't…" stammered Dean.

"I do," James insisted. "So much I can hardly stand it sometimes, God, so much I think I might explode from it. I love you, Dean!"

"Cas!"

James brought their mouths together again, and despite the incredulity in Dean's protests, Dean made no resistance, kissed James back with even more desperation, even more urgency, hands fumbling over James' back, his chest, fingers working at the buttons of James' coat, his vest, seeking access to the skin beneath. "I love you." James longed to surge forward, to press Dean against the hard ground, to rut their bodies together until both were overcome, but he didn't want to hurt Dean, didn't want to abrade the skin James had exposed and beaten bright red. Instead, James lay back, drew Dean with him, over him, encouraged Dean to straddle his hips, traced the contours of Dean's body with his hands. Dean's tears subsided completely, his kisses grew increasingly enthusiastic, his hard cock pressed against the soft curve of James' belly, James' wool-bound erection slotted against the exposed skin of Dean's ass. Quick, tantalizing kisses gave way to long, drawn out ones, their lips working together, their eyes slipping shut. Dean arched over James, his hands planted on the ground on either side of James' body, James' arms encircling Dean's back. Dean undulated over him at the same rate as their mouths met and caressed and came apart, Dean's whole body involved in the kisses, his ass rutting against James' hardness in a way that drove him crazy.

"Want you," Dean breathed in a momentary gap before he seized another kiss and rubbed himself over James' cock once more.

"Anything," James' voice was harsh to his own ears; his eyes opened to show him Dean staring at him, gaze dark with lust, cheeks flushed, lips parted against desperate breaths. "Tell me what you want and it's yours."

"Want you inside me." Dean accompanied the words by grinding back against James' cock and groaning. "Need you to fill me, damn, I want you, want you so badly, please, Castiel…"

"Okay," muttered James distractedly as the pressure against him burst pleasure behind his eyelids, left him breathless. "If that's what you want…" Nodding, Dean edged down James' body, tugged his shirt up to expose the skin of James' belly, leaned down to kiss James' flesh as his hands awkwardly undid the buttons of James' pants and freed his leaking cock to the cool air of the morning. It was shocking to James that of all the ways Dean could have chosen for James to pleasure him, this was what Dean wanted most, but James adored the feel of Dean's lips on him and was not about to protest.

Dean feathered kisses over James' lower ribs, across the shallow curve of James' belly, fingers brushing through the release at James' tip, smearing it down James' length. Every touch was intoxicating until the only thoughts James could retain were how wonderful Dean was, how obedient, how giving, how delicious, how tempting. Dean started to creep back up James' body, but James stopped him with both hands on Dean's hand, tangled his fingers in Dean's hair, pushed him back towards James' crotch. Eager, God, so spectacularly eager, Dean's lips parted to kiss the tip of James' cock, sucking at the head, licking his slit, and James groaned.

Images of the morning crowded James' thoughts, Dean's enthusiasm to be punished, the perseverance with which Dean had sustained every hit, the glorious sound of Dean's voice when, pained and upset, he'd found the words to tell James what troubled him, the desperate press of Dean's hands and body and lips as James held him afterwards. Tensing his fingers against Dean's scalp, James forced Dean's head down, easing himself deeper and deeper into the wet heat of Dean's mouth. There was a moment's resistance and then Dean's muscles went liquid, his eyes slipped shut and he slipped down until his lips were spread vulgarly wide around the thick base of James' cock, the dark curly hairs brushing at Dean's skin. Dean had never taken all of him, James had never felt the tight clench of Dean's throat against his head, never felt Dean's lips weakly working at his root, never seen the obscene way Dean's mouth stretched around him. Eyes rolling back in delirious pleasure, James couldn't stop himself rocking against Dean's face. He nearly climaxed instantly to the feel of Dean's throat fluttering and gagging around him.

"Oh, Dean," he groaned. "Oh..." It was a wrench to use his grip to lift Dean's head up and away. Dean stuttered a cough, suppressed it, and resumed licking and sucking at James' cock. Dean's reaction was a relief, confirmation that James hadn't hurt him unintentionally, that he was onboard with this. With that last constraint removed, James let himself go, let his mind drift in an ocean of bliss. He wasn't sure if he was moving Dean, if Dean was moving on his own, if they moved together. All he knew was that it felt amazing, better than the other times Dean had sucked James down. They had both been driven to unbelievable heights by James' confession and by all the tantalizing, alluring, perfect features that added up to Dean. Moans echoed through James' body, his own and Dean's mingling together. Dean's hands worked against James' sides, squeezing him painfully hard, the pressure a strangely wonderful counterpoint to the working of Dean's mouth. Up and down, sometimes thrusting hard, sometimes easing his way in slow; sometimes sinking himself all the way in, sometimes whimpering with combined deprivation and euphoria as Dean licked and scattered kisses over his cock as if worshipping him, used his tongue to manipulate James' foreskin, tug at it, guide it up and down to massage the shaft beneath.

"Dean," he panted urgently. "Dean, you're so..." The words wouldn't come. Nothing exceptional enough sprang to mind. Without any encouragement, Dean took James deep into his throat and swallowed and bliss exploded through James mind. Dean swallowed again, again, and before James could stutter out a warning he was climaxing, releasing a burst of semen down Dean's throat. "Sorry – I'm so—" James' broke off with another groan as Dean gagged, swallowed again and James' pleasure crested a second time and he spurted a second time as Dean's lips caressed him and Dean's hands kneaded at the soft dip of his belly. Dean lifted himself up, sucking along James' length as he pulled himself free, gave one last kiss to his softening cock and collapsed forward atop James. His eyes fluttered open and closed, showing James glimpses of abstracted green. Dean looked so lost that James would have been worried if he wasn't so sure that Dean was enjoying himself, if Dean hadn't treated James so tenderly, if Dean weren't urgently rutting his hardness against James' thigh.

"Cas..." Dean moaned, lips smearing sloppily against James' belly. "Castiel, please..."

"I've got you, Dean." It was difficult to force himself through his post-orgasmic haze but James made himself, for Dean's sake, lifting Dean, pulling Dean up the length of his body. He paused when their faces were lined up, kissed Dean tenderly but hardly got any response, Dean was gone, mumbling Cas over and over, body limp. The taste of himself on Dean's lips was bitter and a poignant reminder of how much Dean had just done for him. "I'm so proud of you," James breathed, trying to figure out how best to position the other man for what James intended. "I never thought you'd find it in yourself to apologize like that. I would have forgiven you regardless, but God that was amazing to watch, to hear, to participate in." As if moving someone asleep, James got Dean's elbows on the ground, encouraged Dean to get his knees under him to support his weight. Dean accepted the guidance, surrendered to it, until he was raised enough over James that James could shimmy down the length of his body, undo Dean's pants and free Dean's cock to James' waiting lips. His length was flushed crimson and James could swear he saw the flesh pulse in time to Dean's heart beating.

"Please, Cas," Dean whimpered. James wrapped his hands around Dean's buttocks carefully, clutching at each raw cheek, prompting a profound groan that sounded simultaneously pained and pleasured. "Please...please..." Dean's voice cracked into a pathetic mewl as James wrapped his lips around the head of Dean's cock and sucked. James was still learning how to use his mouth as well as Dean did, but he got better every time. He worked eagerly, determined to pleasure Dean as he deserved, taking Dean as deeply as he could – he didn't know how to take all of Dean as Dean had done, his throat seized when he tried – drawing away, sucking, kissing, licking, teasing and caressing with his mouth. At the same time, he kneaded at Dean's ass gently, petting him, soothing him, using his hands to give the silent praise. Dean's broken pleas, whimpers, moans, were so beautifully vulnerable, so sweet.

I love you, Dean.

James couldn't speak with Dean's cock thick in his mouth, the sour taste of it stinging his eyes, but he could try to communicate his sentiments with every lap of his tongue, every rub of his fingers, every reassuring sound that died in James' throat and vibrated through Dean's sensitive arousal. The longer James worked, the more Dean shook, the more shattered Dean sounded, the more sweet liquid leaked onto James' tongue.

"Cas…Castiel…I...I...I lo...I need you. Need you…"

Dean's declaration hit James in the gut, the intent clear even if Dean couldn't say the words. He loves me too. Oh, Dean... Straining up from the ground, James sucked Dean into him, tilted his head, tried to find a way to take Dean deeper, to give Dean everything that Dean had given James. Every failed attempt hit the head of Dean's cock against the side of James' mouth, his cheek, the back of his throat, and each time Dean moaned, his hips rolling. Abruptly, Dean's knees gave out, his feel heavily onto James' face, driving so deeply into James' mouth that pain burst behind James' eyes and he choked at the thickness. A low cry, almost a scream, ripped from Dean as he released and James tried desperately to hold panic at bay, to keep control of the part of his mind that screamed that he couldn't breathe, that he needed air, that Dean was going to kill him with the semen clogging the back of James' throat. It was only James' instincts on overdrive, James knew it was in his head and that he'd be fine, and the sounds Dean made were too perfect, too clearly indicated the rapturous heights to which Dean had been driven. When James could hold out no longer, he turned his head aside, coughing and spluttering, splattering the ground before his face with flecks of white, releasing Dean to the cold air. As soon as James was out of the way, Dean collapsed, partially resting on the ground, partially on James' body, squirming and shaking.

Enfolding Dean in his arms, James held him close and skimmed his hands over Dean's skin and murmuring praise in his ear as Dean writhed and moaned through the aftershocks of his orgasm. James skimmed. They enjoyed a long, rewarding embrace that soothed every worry that had filled James' head for the past weeks. The feel of Dean calming against him, his breathing steady, his grip on James tight, his legs twined with James, was wonderfully tangible evidence of Dean's trust and comfort with James. James had been anxious about trying punishment with Dean but Dean had risen to the occasion beyond James' wildest dreams, and how Dean eased now was vindication of everything James had wanted and longed for.

"How do you feel, Dean?" James was loathe to break the silence, but they couldn't stay together forever – Dean was going to have to swallow his pain and mount Impala and ride miles on his sore butt, a thought that made James wince and gave him a spike of guilt accompanied by an unruly surge of arousal and possessiveness.

"Great...I feel great..." mumbled Dean vaguely, words steamy against James' skin. "But that…that wasn't what I meant."

"Hmm?"

"When I asked you to…to fill me…what you did…I mean, what you did was great…but that wasn't what I was asking. At first I thought you were punishing me, but then I realized…you genuinely didn't understand, did you?"

"I love when you're candid with me. I can honestly say I have no idea what you're talking about, so yes, it's safe to say that I didn't understand," James grinned, still euphoric on emotion and release, and Dean blushed irresistibly, prompting James to brush a kiss over his forehead. "I'm sorry that I failed to pleasure you as you wished. My error was entirely unintentional. You took your punishment and are completely forgiven. All I wished was to reward you in the way you most desired. Next week, you're going to show me exactly what you did mean, and I will rectify my mistake. You'd like that, right?"

"God, yes," Dean leaned in and kissed him. "I'd…I'd love that." James colored a shade he suspected matched Dean's, his grin breaking into a shy smile. Dean reached up, flicked hair from his forehead, and in a single breath-taking moment James saw him, took in every detail in a way he rarely did in the course of their normal interactions. His eyes were bright and gentle and affectionate, his smile boyish, his cheeks delicately pinked and dusted with freckles. The streaks from crying had faded, leaving him fresh-faced, and his tension was gone, replaced with ease, replaced with happiness. Simultaneously, they each leaned in for another kiss.

I wonder what it would be like to be able to hold him like this every day, every night; to wake up to that vision of perfection every morning like my fondest dreams come true.

Impossible. But what is the purpose of dreams if not to wish for the impossible?

"I love you," James whispered, hoping the forlorn note was only audible to his own ear.

"Next time," Dean murmured in his ear contentedly. James embraced him tightly, sealing the promise even though he wasn't sure what he was agreeing to. "Next time."

---

Interlude

The night was frigidly cold, the wind cutting through Dean's thin layers and chilling him to the bone as he rode Impala hard across the frozen Virginia landscape. Normally, he wouldn't dream of pushing her so hard. She was a great horse but the work he'd subjected her to this past year, and especially this winter, were telling. She'd lost weight, her coat had lost its luster and her hooves were worn despite her shoes. He'd give anything to give her a week or a month in a fine pasture to eat her fill and rest and recover, but there was no time for either of them to rest. Dean worked his mittened fingers against the reins to keep them from freezing and pushed her faster. Counterintuitively, cantering helped keep the cold at bay, her body generating heat that protected both of them, and their rapid pace kept him from surrendering to the voice that flogged him to turn around and return to Centreville.

Castiel won't come tonight. Even if he got the letter Jo wrote – even if she wrote what I asked her to – he won't come. He knows what an idiot I am now. He'll never forgive me. I can't blame him. I wouldn't forgive me. I haven't forgiven myself. This is a waste of time.

A sharp gust whipped Dean's hat off but he couldn't be bothered to stop and retrieve it. If he stopped riding, his demons would catch him. They were in close pursuit. Dean was irrationally afraid to look over his shoulder, some part of him convinced that should he glance back he'd actually be able to see his father, hear him speak the flogging words that rattled around in Dean's mind.

Find yourself a wife, boy. Make sure she's good 'n strong. Don't matter if she's lousy at her womanly responsibilities, you can do all the things she ought 'cept spread your legs and bear children. Why are you worried if you like her, what's that got to do with anything?

'Course I loved your mother, but I had plenty to offer a worthwhile woman. Not like you.

Don't you get it, Dean? The more she gets to know you, the less shot you've got. You're pretty, that you should be enough for some bitch to take you without askin' too many questions, without findin' out what a stupid sissy you are, 'specially if she thinks you can protect her from the rougher kinds wanderin' the plains. If she finds out how useless you are, son, it's all over.

The miles passed quickly, Impala's lungs working like a bellows, filling the air with thick clouds of white mist every time she exhaled hot.

That's not what Cas thinks. He don't think I'm pretty; he thinks I'm handsome. He thinks I'm skilled, thinks I'm smart, thinks I'm brave, thinks I'm good for something other than cookin' and cleanin' and lookin' after Sammy and doin' all of mama's chores. Cas treats me like a man. Even when he orders me around, even when he teases me and taunts me and makes me beg, he always treats me like a man. Not like dad, determined to make me into mama in every way but sharin' his bed, not like Benny and the others, happy to touch me and screw me as long as they could pretend I had curves and breasts and a cunt. Cas don't see me that way. Cas calls me Dean, tells me when I screw up and when I do good, wants to touch my cock, acts like he really believes all that shit he spews 'bout me.

He's such a fool. Such a gorgeous, wonderful, brilliant fool.

What will I do if he's not there?

The thicket made a dark clump against the night sky, yet miles away, though he was able to pick it out easily to the right of the high hill topped by the stark, sheer silhouette of the fortress walls. Dawn cast dim shadows, light obscured such that only a lesser darkness heralded the rising of the sun. Dean was early, he knew he was, but he hadn't been able to wait in Washington any longer, he was so cold, so exhausted, so terrified.

What I don't get, son, is why you think anyone would care 'bout you. It's all that nonsense Mary filled your head with. That was a mother's job; with her gone, ain't no one else gonna coddle you and pretend you're anything better'n what you are. The sooner you let go of those pipedreams she stuffed your head full of and accept yourself as you are, the happier you'll be.

Oh, you don't want to? Who gives a damn what you want, boy? I gave you an order! The first woman that'll have you, gets you. Do you understand? I said – do you understand me, Dean? You answer me when I speak to you, and you say 'yes sir,' and you do what I tell you, or you'd better start runnin' and not stop, cause I will find you, and there'll be hell to pay.

Fuckin' stop, dad, stop, when have I ever done anything other than what you've told me? Why don't you trust me? I've got so little of my own, so little you haven't staked a claim to, so little left of what mama tried so hard to give me, why do ya have to take all that I've got left?

I'm not losin' Cas cause of you, dad. I'm not losin' Cas cause I'm stupid enough to believe all the shit you said to me. You don't get to take him away from me when you ain't even here. Cas don't know all that, Cas still might think I'm worth a damn, if I didn't screw it all up, if he ever wants to see me again after what I said to him last time.

Dean knew something was wrong as soon as he passed through the outer-most screen of trees. A warm glow of lamp light suffused the clearing. It was already too late to make a clean escape, Impala's hoofs snapped through twigs and brushed through leaves, betraying his arrival. In all likelihood, it was only a camper. It wasn't the first time that Dean arrived to find someone using the clearing as a place to spend the night. He wanted desperately to believe that was the explanation this evening, but even the most miserly person would ride to Alexandria on a night like this. Sleeping outside alone in this kind of cold would kill. Nervous, Dean stayed mounted and walked Impala down the familiar path, considering escape routes should the worst happen.

Of course the worst will happen. Cas will never forgive me. He knows I'm a surveyor, thinks I'm a spy, he's sent people to arrest me now that he no longer cares for me, he's...

There was a single person in the clearing, a young man in Union blue, a forager cap mostly covering brilliant red hair the gleamed like the sunrise in the lamp light. The man held a lantern aloft with a gloved hand, body enveloped in a great coat that made him look even smaller than he actually was, staring towards the path down which Dean arrived with wide, fear-filled eyes.

Neither moved or spoke, frozen in mutual surprise, and then the boy licked his lips and said, "Are you Dean Winchester?"

Fear, panic and fury simultaneously assaulted Dean. Everything he'd feared was true, after how hard he'd tried to convince himself to trust Cas, to give Cas the benefit of the doubt, to believe in all the things that Cas had said with that charming air of honesty. With a snarl, Dean jerked Impala's head around to ride for the other path leading from the clearing, but the horse betrayed him just as Castiel had done. Instead of rising to the challenge and riding away, she snorted, shuddered, and refused to lift a foot.

"What the fuck?" he snapped, kicking at her flanks ineffectually.

Dean meant the exclamation for the horse, but the stranger replied. "My name is Bradbury – Lieutenant Charles Bradbury, Company B, 27th New York Infantry. James Novak sent me."

"That son of a bitch." Dean wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but he couldn't, he never could, so instead he shouted at her and tugged hard on the reins.

"Hey," roared Bradbury, voice surprisingly rich and strong. With wide strides, he crossed the clearing, took the reins below Impala's chin and held them still. The horse's eyes rolled but she didn't struggle, too tired to push further. "That man was prepared to kill himself to come down here tonight. I thought I was going to have to tie him down to keep him away. So you're going to calm the hell down and listen to what I have to say."

"No, it's not okay," Dean seethed with frustration, so choked on his emotions he couldn't figure out what to say, what to do, but he knew he had to do something, had to move. Furious, he leapt from the saddle and paced the length of the clearing, kicking leaves at every step. "He told you? About me? About us? What gives him the right..." Trailing off, Dean finally registered what Bradbury had said to him. "What do you mean, 'prepared to kill himself?' "

"He's sick, Winchester." Bradbury stood calmly, spoke slowly and clearly, projected an impressive air of icy calm. "He's very, very sick. He ran himself into the ground working for our ass of a Colonel, and then he worked in the cold and rain for hours last week and he nearly did himself in." He was waiting for me last Wednesday, in the rain, even after the things I said two weeks back. He really is a fool, throwing away all that loyalty and trust and faith on me. "Even so, he was determined to come this morning, absolutely certain that the letter he'd received meant you'd come, and obviously anxious what you'd think if you arrived and he wasn't here. The only way to get him to stay put, wrapped up warm and snug as he should be, was to tell him I'd come myself."

"Oh, yeah? And what's all this to you? Who the hell are you? Why'd he tell you? He promised me – he promised – that he'd only share his part of our secret with his brother and his sister and that he'd say nothin' of who I am. So why'd he tell you? Why'd he lie to me? Why'd he betray me again?" He's sick. I did that to him. If I wasn't such a coward, if I hadn't lost my temper, if I had come last week instead of havin' Harvelle send a letter...what if he dies? Dean was breathing. He'd been shouting, he realized, and Bradbury was still staring at him impassively as if watching the antics of a child. "Damn it, tell me." Bradbury blinked deliberately and didn't budge. All the wind went out of Dean's sails; he raked a mittened hand through his hair and turned away to hide the tears pooled in his eyes. He gave me these mittens, even when he's not here he looks after me, and I nearly killed him, might yet, damn, I don't deserve him. Getting angry with Bradbury was pointless, he was only a messenger. Getting angry with Cas was just as pointless, Dean's concerns were petty when compared to the possibility that Cas might die. "Is he going to be okay?"

"We think he'll recover," Bradbury said. There was a smug edge to his high voice, momentarily flaring more anger in Dean's breast. The words were so clearly sincere, so clearly true, and Dean deserved that hint of derision. He was blustering like a belligerent fool.

I might never see him again, I might never hear his voice again, I might never feel his touch on me again, I...I can't. I can't! Let everyone, everyone, know, if that's what must be, but I cannot lose him. This isn't like Benny, this isn't like Lisa, this isn't even like Sammy or my father. I need Castiel. I need him.

"He's been running a high fever, his throat is wrecked, and he's weak – so weak he can hardly stand," Bradbury said, sympathy growing in his voice. "He whispers your name when he's delirious with fever, it's the saddest damn thing I've ever heard." Dean's shoulders tensed, he could feel Bradbury staring at him, judging him, finding him as guilty as he found himself. "As to your other concerns, when you hurt him, he told his sister and I about you. He was my Captain before his promotion and we've gotten to be friends. I've known he had a clandestine lover for months and have helped ensure that no one thinks anything of his absence on Wednesday mornings. Perhaps more to the point, he was aware that his sister and I are lovers, and so I presume he thought telling both of us would spare her having to keep his secret from me. That's why I'm here. Hester – his sister – has been caring for him, but she needed to rest or else I expect she'd have come herself."

"Can I see him?" Dean implored, spinning on a heal. What if he's lying, what if Cas said all of that in order to... Bradbury was giving him a sad smile, his eyes gentle. ...in order to what, exactly, Winchester? I'm such an idiot. What possible reason would there be to lie about something like this? We're not in Kansas anymore, no one here sets traps that deep...do they? If Blaine is around, if Kormos is around...no, but it's different, Castiel is different, I know he is, but I have to hear it from him, I have to... "It's still pretty dark...the fort..."

"You're wearing a Confederate uniform, Winchester," Bradbury sighed. "You could get both of you killed. I can't imagine it's easy to trust in your situation, and I know you don't know me from Adam, but if you trust Novak at all please trust me as his messenger. He'll be here next week. I doubt anything could keep him away if he thinks you'll be here."

"I will be..." Dean took a deep breath, the cold air burning his lungs and throat. If he's sick, if he'd come out on this dry, frozen night...thank God he didn't come... "I'll be here, but if you've lied to me, if he's lied to me, don't expect me to take this lyin' down, ya hear?"

"That's exactly what I'd expect from you," said Bradbury with a wry smile. Dean had no damn clue what that meant and didn't care. Surging back across the clearing, he mounted Impala easily, took the reins once more, and had the horse moving as Bradbury barely skipped out of the way. The young man rolled his eyes. "I'll tell him you said so – that you'd be here next week, I mean, not that you bluster worse than my ten year old nephew. Be careful yourself – this weather is brutal and if something happens to you I think it'd break Novak. I don't give much of a damn what happens to you, but the Major is my friend and is dear to the woman I love. I won't see him hurt if I can prevent it."

"Good," Dean said, stopping Impala. "He needs folks to watch after him. He's not got a lick of sense." And even if I was there, I couldn't protect him. I can't protect anybody I care about. "Tell him...tell him I'll see him next week."

"I will. He'll be relieved to hear it. Thinking that you don't care for him, that you don't want to see him again, hurt him as badly as his illness. Fix this, Winchester. You've got a good man there. Don't mess it up."

Turning Impala from the clearing, Dean rode away in to the gray light of dawn, making no answer even as his thoughts roil.

Of course I will mess this up. I mess up everything I touch. But maybe, if any of this was real, if Cas is real, I can find a way to fix it enough that we have at least a little longer. I can't lose him, not yet.

I don't want to lose him ever.

---

End Note: ...see, I didn't break their relationship for long! Sorry you all had to wait for this reassurance, the chapter just got so darn wordy it took forever.

By the way, in case you're wondering, Cas had a bad case of strep throat. Poor boy...

So, was the timing on the interlude clear? I knew this was the scene I wanted to show in the interlude, and that I wanted it at the end of the chapter, but I really debated how to make it clear. I'm sorry if it was confusing (the interlude scene actually takes place in, like, the middle of this chapter...). Did it work that I did it this way? Or was it too weird/confusing/disorienting? I have other times in the future I might mess with when exactly the Dean PoV interludes happen in relation to the Cas PoV main chapter, so I'm trying to get a sense of if y'all thought this chapter was okay in this sense...if not I'll handle things differently in the future. Thanks!

...and onward! :) The next chapter contains a scene I have literally been plotting for, like, two and a half months, I'm sooooo excited to finally get to it. :)