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It’s easy to blame others. Or the circumstances.
Such as: there had been too much happening at that time. With Jack’s birthday plus the middle of the month with payroll to be taken care of, and between grocery shopping for ten-plus teenagers and convincing Jack that no, a sleepover is not happening, James was lucky to remember where he’d parked his car that day.
And: people move in and out all the time around here. New development, new children, divorces, kids moving out for college. Just across their street this one, okay, but—so much Mountain Dew. Pop-Tarts. Dad, Ellie is vegan, can we get an extra cake without lactose?
But, in the end, it is his fault. Like most of the horrible things that took place around him and crawled up to the ones he loved most. That pulled them under.
There never seems to be such a thing as ‘being done’ with these matters.
Castiel coughs. And he knows it won’t get him anywhere, but he stirs—forward, a weak scramble closer to the bannister and away from where he can’t see but where he can hear the steps closing in on him.
A boot to his throat. It bears down. Stays.
Castiel wheezes with his eyes closed.
Stay calm. Just breathe.
A click of a tongue from above. Shift of fabric, of the hammer in that hand. A tap, like a thumb to a phone display.
“So,” smacks Winchester, “it’s asking for your fingerprint.”
~
Lying isn’t the bad part about it. Castiel is good at lying. But Jack?
Jack never was supposed to be lied to.
“I don’t know why I fought them.” James cradles his wrist and holds back from wincing as Jack helps him with the sling. “But it worked? We won’t have to live on rice and beans for the near future.”
“This isn’t funny.” Even less relieved: “You could have died,” and all James can think is how much he loves his son. How he’s raised him all these years and kept him safe and how Jack is such a good child, such a good person. Righteous and smart and all these things Castiel believed he could never evoke in anyone, and yet, here is: Jack. James’ little Jack.
James says, “You are right,” and, “I am sorry, I really am,”
and Castiel is. He is.
~
James sees him at church, the next day. Lingering outside and Sister Helen leans in with a frown and inquires, “Do you know this man?” and James grits his teeth, and he washes up, and he has to get out there. Do what he has to do.
“Eyyy.”
“Leave. Now.”
“Wow. For one: rude,” and Dean frowns behind his sunglasses, pushes himself up from where he had idled on the overgrown stone fence. He adds, “Nice outfit,” and Cas rolls down his singular sleeve. The sun stings on his shiner. His frown stings worse.
“What do you want?”
“Seriously? A man of God? When did that happen?”
“It is none of your business.”
“Oh,” chimes Dean, and that smile. That goddamned smile. “I think it’s actually all of my fucking business.”
They walk out of immediate sight of the church doors. The shade of one of the old oak trees; a breeze that makes James aware of the cold sweat that settles in on his face, over the back of his neck. Dean gets his phone out and scrolls through it, holds it out for James to see.
“Adorable. Love that for you, really. Where’s the mom?”
“She died,” prompts James, and that’s not even a lie. But Dean must know that already.
Hums, “Hm,” and taps one picture from last year, back from their camping trip. Thumb and pointer and he zooms painfully close into Jack’s face. Quiet, honest, “He’s got your eyes,” and James can’t deny it. Can’t say anything at all.
~
Of course, James knew it would be hard to switch back to ‘reality’ after the party. That Jack would argue just like right now:
“But it was okay to have ten people over last week!”
James reminds, “That was different,” for the umpteenth time, and Jack might have extra sympathy for James’ injuries but even that begins to wear thin by now. “It was special. We had a deal, Jack.”
“I—yes, I know,” and Jack’s frown deepens, and he ultimately turns away. Inside himself. Gets up from the table and grabs his used dishes and announces, “I am taking a walk,” and James remains alone. Useless. Helpless.
He hears the front door and the birds in the backyard. He wipes his healthy hand across his face, avoids the sores and sighs, deep. Shields his eyes and hunches over, elbow on the table.
Castiel used to pray, thinks James.
~
“Does he know you know where I am?”
“If he did, you think either of us would still be breathing?”
Well, fair enough.
James does not flinch when Dean reaches out and taps his arm sling.
“How’s you?” he asks, like he’s clueless. Both elbows on James’ table, harmless-looking flannel and jeans and moussed-up hair, half a week’s worth of stubble. Charming. Yeah, Castiel remembers hearing about that, way back.
Sometime before he was gone, when he was already putting things in order, was lining up all those ducks. Maybe they had met in person, been introduced. Didn’t do a gig together; James knows that much. Those times are blurry, shoved aside too far for too long. Castiel has been ‘James’ for so many years now.
James goes with, “It could be worse,” and Dean smiles for real, teeth and wrinkles and everything.
Dean makes him show him around the house. James looks on as Dean installs the cameras. He points Dean to the ladder in the attic. Dean hauls it around himself.
James is numb. Like a limb, fallen asleep.
He insists on a first, “No,” when Dean lets himself into Jack’s room. Gets a raised eyebrow, a silent really, now? and the numbness makes way for nausea. James is gonna be sick.
Dean puts the ladder down to gesture into the room, around himself. “None of this belongs to you anymore. You got that, right?”
“He’s only a child.”
“Eighteen’s no kid to me,” and Dean scoffs and picks up the ladder and drops his duffle on Jack’s bed. “You can do porn at eighteen.” He looks around, scans shelves and corners for a safe spot. He finds one. Goes to work.
Dean makes him fix them some coffee, after. Sprawls in James’ chair and taps his finger on the backrest, takes in the living room. The details. The gifted and thrifted and collected decorations. The life James has crafted for his little family of two.
Dean sips his coffee, black, and nods along. Approval. Semi-serious, maybe.
“Not bad at all,” he says, and James can’t bring himself to move. To pick up his cup, even.
~
“He is an old friend. An acquaintance, really,” because every other option seems to boil down to a loan shark at best, and ‘James’ isn’t someone who’d get involved with this kind of people. Who would make the kind of decisions that would have him end up—right here. Right here.
Sister Hellen hums. The reply doesn’t soothe her heart. She keeps her frown, rubs at her chin. Proposes, carefully: “Maybe invite him to our service? That might do him good.” James promises he will try.
Dean Winchester has yet to show up at James’ workplace, but that is just a question of time. James is aware of this. Aware that Dean is aware that James is aware. Sleep has been a problem these last nights, which makes sense but doesn’t aid in—anything.
“I told you no,” presses James, and Jack opens his mouth again to keep demanding what he knows his father can’t grant him, and James bellows, “How OFTEN do I have to REPEAT MYSELF?!” and it’s out before he can stop himself. Pleads, “Jack,” and, “wait,” but his pale child is already done staring in shock, already bolts out the room, the door.
James sinks against the kitchen counter and bows his head. Cradles a can of soup.
One of the grocery bags next to him tips over and spills its contents gently over the counter, into the sink.
“Tough age,” commiserates Winchester, later. Most of his belongings are still in boxes, the walls still blank. Whiskey, a brand-new three-seater. James knocks back two shots back to back, because why not. What even matters anymore? “You remember when we were that young, huh? Man.”
“I don’t,” mumbles James. Fishes for the bottle, but Dean’s got him; fills him up anew, generously. James downs that one, too. “I had already been involved for years. Finished my training and everything. Just—dirty work, most days, at that time.”
“Hell.”
“Yes. Pretty much.”
“Does he know?”
“Who, Jack? Lord, no. No,” James repeats, because he has to. Gets that glass back to his mouth, finishes it up. Pushes it away from himself, shakes his head when Dean picks up that bottle again. Covers his glass and says, “No,” and Dean doesn’t force him further. James has to give him that.
‘James’ doesn’t drink. Doesn’t whore around or father children or shoot up. Doesn’t know how to handle a gun or gut a man alive. Doesn’t even own a goddamn revolver. ‘James’ just isn’t like that.
James’ liver doesn’t remember. James’ head does, unfortunately.
“What’s the plan?” he asks, stupid, just because he can’t take the silence. Because maybe Winchester is enough of a sadist to elaborate just for the fun of it, to see James’ reaction.
But all James gets is an airy, “Oh, I dunno,” and he nods, and his head is heavy, and his injuries begin to throb with the onset of intoxication. Dean continues, “It’s a work in progress, really,” and James shoves at the boot that nudges against the cross of his legs on Dean’s floor, and he does it again when it’s right back, and he grunts,
“Stop it,”
and Dean’s kicked him in the stomach full-force before James even realizes he’s attempted to grab and twist that ankle so he can break it. James doubles over and retches, and Dean bangs James’ forehead to the wooden floor so sharp that James sees stars for a full moment.
James hauls for breath he can’t keep.
Hears Dean’s snarled, “We don’t fucking do that, Cas,” and gets his hair gripped, gets his head slammed to the floor again.
And again.
“I was gonna ask nicely—”
James’ head spins. Dean fumbles his pants open, yanks them down.
“—for that pretty mouth of yours, but—if you wanna be like that, I’ll just take that less cooperation-heavy option.”
James stirs, blinks. He tastes blood but at least the spike of a broken nose is missing. Dean, on top of him, the distant clatter of another belt, shuffle and groan and warm—
The pain in his head overpowers most of the first agonizing moments, until it doesn’t.
“Shh-shh-shh,” and James can’t breathe. Dean gets a hand around his throat from below to keep James still while he thuds into him, paced and rough. Reality drags James to a new low point. This is happening and you can’t stop it.
James is numb, sick. Doesn’t fight. His head is pounding. Dean grunts his breath above him, into James’ hair.
James can’t say how long it takes, but it does end. (Quietly, or his ears are just ringing that bad; doesn’t matter.) Dean climbs off him, pulls out of him. Sore and oddly wet and—don’t think. Just don’t think. Saliva before the bile. Dean tosses something at him from above.
“Clean yourself up,” he says, before he steps out to the patio to light himself a smoke.
~
This one is easier: I got drunk with an old friend and ran into a wall.
Not too out of character, really. ‘James’ can be a bit clumsy at times. Wouldn’t hold his liquor well. Jack looks more impressed than he looks worried (let alone doubtful).
Still, “You have to stop it with the face,” he grumbles, later, and Dean pouts at him. “It is too obvious.”
“Oh, but your face is my second-most favorite part of you!”
James calls in sick for a long weekend. To catch up on sleep, to—well, who is he kidding. There is no going back. But he needs to breathe. To pretend. Even if only for a couple of days.
Penguins, fish. Jack and his father reread the info, the Latin names and the foreign countries like their commutation tickets don’t exist.
Peace, quiet. Just Jack and him. His boy. James’ boy.
Echoes and whispers. Big child eyes, curious little hands. The blue dark, the glint of water on the walls. Jack always loved it here. James hopes that nothing will ever change that.
Jack has been on edge all day, but James is good at pretending. Pretending he doesn’t see, doesn’t notice. The glug of the aquarium lulls him in. Makes it better.
But finally, Jack whispers, “Can I tell you something?” and James has his eyes closed and that feels nice, and they’re just sitting and the stingrays slide through the light behind the fist-thick glass in front of them, and. James is here, but not really.
Tells his son, “Of course,” and, “anytime,” and he means it, and if Jack was smaller still, James would grasp his hand and keep it in his. Squeeze it and hold it and help ease the anxiety. But Jack doesn’t need that anymore, does he?
“I know I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” but he dropped his book so I picked it up and returned it and then we kinda started chatting? He seemed real nice, Dad, and James isn’t here. He simply isn’t here.
~
“If you hurt him, I swear—!”
“Hey, I’m not hurting anyone.” Dean raises his arms in mock-defeat (along with his eyebrows). He adds, “If he’s anything like his dad, he’ll come around all by himself. How’s that chicken wing, huh?” and James tugs himself backwards, out of that testing hand, and Dean just scoffs at him for it. Leers, follows.
“I don’t care what you do to me, but you stay away from my son.”
“Listen, we need to work on your dirty talk,” and James’ back meets the wall but he can still jerk his face away. Glares while Dean just steps up and right into his space, wedges one thigh between James’. Smiles like he’s sheepish. Like this is a game. “I’m just a simple guy,” he croons, and James snarls but gets his cheek cupped nevertheless, gets his healthy wrist grabbed and placed. The heel of James’ hand is made to knead down over Dean’s crotch. “But even those require some TLC every now and then, y’know. Some attention. Candles and wine…a nice bubble bath…”
James grits, “Screw you,” and Dean laughs, full and hearty and he shoves forward, then; switches his grip to around James’ throat and pushes up, and James splutters and his heels lift off the ground, and—
They’re close enough that James can feel every square inch of that sheer feral power. The threat of it is right in his face, in the lazy grin of this man. No rigmarole needs to be exchanged for both of them to know that James’ windpipe is at Dean’s mercy.
“Better.” Dean’s breath hits James’ right on the mouth. James’ nose wrinkles. “See, you can be pretty sexy. It’s a choice. C’mon,” and Dean works James’ hand for him again, nuzzles their cheeks together; the drag of his lips, the lack of oxygen. “C’mon, big guy, help me out here. Make it good for me.”
James hauls for air once he can. Fully back on the floor, the curtains and picture frames around him, the wallpaper he put up all those years ago when he bought the house, made it a home—Dean crowds their faces together and knocks James’ mouth open to kiss him right, and James’ face is still drawn tight and Dean keeps moving his hand for him, his arm.
James doesn’t have to be told what to do when Dean squeezes his wrist a last time, lets it go. Thumbs his belt open instead, the button, zipper.
“That’s it,” and more tongue, that hand back up around James’ throat, just below his jaw; a warning. Dean’s mouth twitches against him, for the tug-and-twist of James’ hand. “Yeah. Get it nice and ready for you, Cas.”
James swims. The goose egg on his forehead thuds absently. His whole body, just a—sore tooth, ever since. That first encounter, Dean in his doorstep and then inside and he must have had their schedules down by then already, must have known Jack would still be at his Boy Scout meeting and there’d be time. Plenty.
“Everyone always said how good you were at following orders. I’m starting to see why.”
“Shut up…!”
“What was that?”
“Shut your goddamn mouth,” but instead of strangling him again or anything, really, Dean just laughs this time. Drags his hand up-down James’ throat in mockery of what James is doing to him down low. James swallows, squints. Gets his mouth squished to a pout, gets it kissed. Gets his head shaken strict before Dean discards that in favor of the buttons of James’ shirt.
“Good little soldier Castiel…”
“Stop.”
“Eager and no questions asked… Punctual and clean… Always the choir boy, weren’t you? Even then?”
James hisses as he gets spun around, gets a hand wormed under his clothes and dragged over his skin and his sprained shoulder complains, pressed up against the wall. A struggle to distribute the weight, to find a spot to lean on that doesn’t—hurt. Hurts a little less than the others, at least.
Dean sucks on the back of James’ neck, reaches around to open James’ pants, rucks them down with James’ underwear and they tangle around his knees, leave him bare for—
Plastic; snap.
Squirt.
“I’m a fan of a good planning-ahead myself, y’know,” and James stares at nothing while his stomach turns, while hot-cold flashes down his spine, pools—somewhere. Sick. Cotton-ears. Slick noises from behind; Dean, working himself, spreading the lube—before he lines himself up, nudges in.
James’ feet get kicked apart further, so he steadies his stance. He thinks he does that.
It’s worse this time.
(Still raw from the other day, the cruelty of it—and the lack of distraction, the parallel pain only a phantom now, not nearly enough.) “Jesus,” grunts Dean, and, yeah.
Despite the clutch of his insides, James breaks open. No excessive force just because the lube helps things along, but the sensations are—James’ stomach cramps. Wave of saliva, of sweat—swallow, stutter for air, for anything.
Dean blankets him from behind, chest to back. Warm and solid and burying James against the wall, pushed up into him all the way with no room left to breathe, to fight for. Both hands wormed around James, holding him—gentle, for all it’s worth. A parody. Play-pretend.
James’ eyes are closed. Blind. He hears his own breath grunting out of him in tune with Dean rocking them together. Searing and insane but at least it’s wet, won’t rip him apart again. Dean’s sigh, Dean’s hands.
“You think he’ll be even tighter than that?” and James curls and groans, but he doesn’t cry.
~
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack.”
Jack insists, “Why?” and, “You haven’t even asked him yet, have you?” and James hands him another stack of bibles, and Jack halts for a dangerous moment of deciding whether or not he should just throw them back into his father’s face—looks like it, really. “You always taught me to be nice. And generous,” he lectures instead, and James turns to ignore him. Gathers papers, finds gum stuck under a pew. Focuses on that. Hears his kid behind him, fuming harder by the minute. But James can’t. He just can’t.
Pointed: “Dad!”
“Not right now, Jack,”
and Jack actually does put the scriptures down; and he doesn’t turn back from where he’s stomping off when they tumble and fall off the pew, thud to the ground and James demands,
“Jack!” and “You stop this nonsense this instant, young man!”
but he doesn’t get a grip on the kid until they’re already outside, and the summer is cruel and so is the sharpness in his son’s eyes, the accusations.
And James knows he’s wrong, but Jack’s never had to be taught that sometimes a wrong can be the only right thing to do.
“You are being very rude, Dad, for no reason at all! Even if he’s had a rough past like you said, doesn’t he deserve your respect?! Didn’t Jesus forgive all sins?!”
“Jack—”
“No!”
The boy yanks his arm out of James’ grip. Backs off, half-turns, almost past the church gates. Tense, broad shoulders and he’s flushed with his anger, and James’ suit is too warm for this weather and he just feels pale with exhaustion and pain and fear, and he won’t even be able to save his child. Not even that.
“I’ll ask him since you clearly won’t,” and there he goes. Off in long, angry steps, and James tumbles after but it’s no use. He stays behind.
Jack doesn’t come home for so long that James’ frantic brain short-circuits to the point of wondering if he should call the police. But alas: the key. The front door.
James pushes himself off his chair, exclaims, “Finally,” and Jack’s features morph to a glare for it. But James can’t care, can’t not leap into the corridor, to his son’s side. “What in the world were you doing? Do you know what time it is?!”
“Four thirty-seven,” says Jack. He slips his sneakers off and tosses them into the general direction of the empty space in the shoe rack. Blunt, “We talked,” and James wants to strangle him. “You know, like normal people do? Have conversations?”
“Jack Novak, you listen to me—”
“He will join Sunday Mass, by the way; do you have any idea how relieved he was that someone stepped up to ask him?”
“—you are grounded!” and Jack just
scoffs.
Sneers at James and shakes his head like James is something sad, something laughable.
“How old do you think I am? Five?” and James follows him up the stairs, up to his room.
“Jack—”
“I’m not a KID anymore; you can’t TELL me what to do!”
and James pulls his hand back just in time to not get it crushed by the thrown-shut door.
James steps back. Stares at the door and trembles, boils; hears that key turn in that lock, hears Jack stomping further inside, into privacy. Castiel could handle this. Could kick down the door and make Jack cower and respect him and listen to him—but Castiel is dead. And James is all that is left.
James hides in his own bedroom; throws the door for good measure. Paces and clenches-uncleches his fist. Eyes the wall but ends up with one of the pillows, punches it over and over until he has to breathe again, until his still-healing shoulder sends a first and then second warning. James flings the pillow away, to the floor. Sits on his bed now and breathes, and stares—at nothing. There’s nothing.
His phone buzzes. James’ chest heaves with his panting, still, as he looks up, right into the camera in the air vent.
He mouths I WILL BEAT YOU TO DEATH, ASSHOLE and digs for his phone, unlocks the screen.
#1 dad award lol
04:39 PM ✓✓
aaaand it’s revoked
04:39 PM ✓✓
wow dude you kiss your kid goodnight with that mouth?
04:40 PM ✓✓
James waits for nightfall before he slips out. Goes through the back and around Mrs. Jenkins’ yard to circle all the way around, but if Jack is watching the street (and he might be, might know his dad is a freaking psycho like that) he can see him crossing said street, sees him walking up to Dean’s porch anyway. James is all out of fucks, though.
“Wowowow, HEY, you’re putting a fucking dent in that,” and James pushes past the bastard and inside that still-bare house, the whiskey-breath and the too-easy laughter. And then he just—stands. Clenched fists and heaving chest and that is all he has. But it’s what he’s got.
Dean tuts at him, resets the five locks on his door. Jeans, barefoot. No belt. T-shirt.
“That was all him, by the way. I didn’t ignite any of that teen spirit. Well—” He leers. “Not like that, at least.”
Rush and fist and, “BASTARD,” but Dean just laughs again, raises his arms in defeat but bumps James backwards easy with the leverage of his chest alone, walks after him, after the weak toss of James’ impotent arm.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he notes, still that smile but James knows, he knows just well enough. Turns his face away when Dean’s got him with his ass to the back of the couch, Dean’s arms still up; the bulge of his biceps presented in silent dominance and Dean’s mouth puckers for a kiss behind James’ ear, and James growls, shoulders into Dean, but. It doesn’t mean a thing. None of it.
Those arms lower while Dean kisses a line down James’ throat, into the crook of his neck. Shuddered, “Stop it,” but Dean tuts, crotch to crotch, flirts his arms around James’ waist to cradle him. Rucks his shirt out of his slacks for him to rub his lower back all bare, skin to skin. James flinches. Can’t do a thing.
“I’m no monster. I was gonna treat him right. Take him out. Make it good.”
James huffs; frowns. Gets squeezed at in a prompt to look at Dean and does that. Finds those eyes hooded, sweet. Freckles. Aftershave.
“But that’s a big two-way street, Jimbo. I thought we had an understanding, you and I.” Big hands. A caress; loving. Dean’s voice is low, tender. His eyes drag calmly back and forth between James’. “You know. Eye for an eye. Limb for a limb.”
“You can’t touch him.”
“Oh, I can.”
James presses, “No,” and gets his ass grabbed, hard. Gets Dean’s hand digging into his crack and holding firm, and Dean just blinks at him, sweet as a doe. Calm breath while James’ is close to a rattle again. The close plush of that lip, the spare light from that lonely pre-installed lamp.
James thinks, uselessly: not even curtains. Blinds.
“I appreciate the effort—your cute little game of hard to get? I really do. But you know you won’t tell me what I can and cannot do, right? That I could just as well bleed him like a pig and make you watch before I slit your throat and call it a day?”
“Don’t.”
“Yeah, I think you know all that. Friendly reminder, though: it’s all on you. Your choice, Cas.”
A last squeeze to James’ behind before Dean lets him go, steps back. He gives James a last measured glance before he rounds the couch, gets back to his drink, unmutes the TV.
He flings himself onto his back, fishes for his glass. “You should head back now,” recommends Dean. “We don’t want little Goldilocks to grow suspicious.”
James straightens himself, collects himself. Argues, “I told him you and I used to be friends.”
“Oh, good.” Dean toasts at him. “Me too.”
James thinks he nods. He doesn’t say goodbye.
~
Winchester…
Hadn’t there been two?
Dean and… Castiel cannot recall. So many years (a lifetime) ago.
James turns his eyes towards the alarm clock by his bed. Four-thirty AM. He exhales through his nose. Looks towards the window. A quiet night. Like all the nights are, out here.
James gets up for a run just before six. Damp outside, already growing bright. He is back home by six forty, is showered and dressed by six forty-eight. Coffee. Newspaper.
Jack comes downstairs at seven twelve and reciprocates his father’s good morning out of sheer habit. (You can tell by the little things—the fridge closing too snappy, the curt clatter of the bowl on the counter.) James tries, “Did you sleep okay?” but Jack’s not looking at him, not even when he’s done pouring his cereal and his milk and has sat down at the (farthest) end of the table. James attempts, “About yesterday,” which serves him nothing except that his son gets right back up again, up the stairs with his breakfast and James reminds, “No food upstairs!” but there is no reply but the bang of that door.
dude let him breathe
07:13 AM ✓✓
The car ride is quiet. James pulls up in the no parking zone like countless other parents do and isn’t looked at but he can’t help but tell Jack, “Take care,” and they’ve been here before; of course it’s been…difficult before. Jack, more inside his own world than anywhere else and so easily upset, soured. James used to be better at these things. Then again, Jack is correct: he has not been five years old for a while now.
Jack climbs out of the car with his backpack and doesn’t look back.
Another fifteen minutes. James clocks in at seven fifty-nine. He meets Chuck in the tea kitchen—that initial shock about the state of James’ face gets soothed with small talk, is Jamie okay, oh she is a handful as ever, you know how it is, you think we’ll hit the nineties any day now? James hasn’t thought of his injuries at all. Forgotten, pushed away. They don’t hurt anymore, they really don’t.
In the bathroom, James studies his reflection for the first time in days—really looks at himself. A stranger stares back at him. ‘James’ doesn’t look like ‘Castiel’, but he doesn’t look like ‘James’, either.
Fatigue, the nearly-healed bruises. It could be worse, he thinks. I could be worse.
James rejoins Chuck in their shared little space, the secluded office where they get enough peace for paperwork, where Chuck stores towers of books and some of the pot he pushes to the warehouse guys and their boss (and at least two people from customer service that James knows of). Coffee in witty mugs; Chuck gifted him one for his five-year ‘anniversary’ at the job. Chuck’s already been here for fifteen before James started. Childhood friends with their boss. A rumor that they’re siblings, but that is just very bad humor, James thinks.
“Your phone’s been going off,” notes Chuck, half a glance from where he’s typing semi-furiously (which means it’s manuscript time, not finances time). “Is Jack okay?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” says James, who rounds the table with a bit of sudden unease and who had nearly forgotten about his situation until he swipes his phone alive.
you guys like donuts?
09:26 AM ✓✓
Chuck presses, “And?” and James, as bad as it makes him feel right after the thought crosses his mind, might have preferred another peanut incident to this.
~
“Is he your boss? The—” Dean makes a corresponding gesture “—squirrelly one?”
“It is more of an insult to your intelligence than mine that you keep asking these useless questions.”
Dean scoffs; grins, grabs another donut.
“You probably know more about my workplace arrangement than I do myself.” James keeps his arms crossed, gives Dean a nasty look. “Do you intend to eat all of them?”
Around a whole mouthful: “Well, since you’re not helping…! They’re not spiked or nothing, see?”
“I am not hungry.”
“So? Since when are donuts hunger food?”
Dean wipes the lower half of his face with a paper napkin but the powdered sugar remains persistent. He ignores that, moves on to clean his fingers instead. Balls the napkin in his hand and tosses it onto the table. A sigh, a peer at the remaining two pastries.
A pout, a look at James.
James’ eyes roll. “Just eat them already.”
A smile, a shrug: “You’re the boss,” and so the box empties for good.
James watches, not-watches. Sits and stares, arms and legs crossed, leaned back in the chair. Ms. Shurley invested in the community room rather graciously a couple of years ago. People pace by the wide-open double doors every now and then and do a double-take before they keep walking just a little more confused (a little faster). The last company James entertained had been that social worker who really, really had been hellbent on making James consider sending Jack to therapy. Or at least put him on some type of medication.
Hard to say if Dean’s attire is his understanding of a simple civilian or his genuine taste—flannel again, jeans again. A concerningly macho jacket, old-looking and military-style and, just—it’s revolting, really. All of him.
“Did you quit?”
Dean snorts, wipes his face again.
“Then what are you doing here?” presses James, quiet but not too quiet, and Dean cocks his head and licks his still-messy thumb to drag it into the just-as-messy corner of his mouth but he just raises his eyebrows at James. Elbows on the table, crude-looking. “I never see you leave the house. So you’re not doing jobs on the side.”
“Jeez, Jimmy—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re a little obsessed with me.”
“Are you on hold? On vacation? Suspension?”
and Dean snaps his finger at him, then. Points at him.
Fixes him and those brows are high, still. The sugary smell on the table keeps James nauseous.
“Quit it. I’m not doing spoilers.”
James keeps thinking about it. Stares blankly at his PC screen and does some work-related calls he doesn’t remember as soon as he’s put the phone down, and just…it’s nonsense. All of it.
Crowley would know. Would know where Dean is in any which case, and that would blow Castiel’s cover right along.
The single hard data is that Dean is still part of the organization. Guys like Dean just don’t quit—not outside of a coffin, they don’t. After spending years convincing himself he was one of them, Castiel would know.
James wraps up at one PM like he does every Monday through Thursday. He goes over the mental grocery list he should have put down on paper instead, or at least his phone. Driving, idling. Easy traffic as always around this time. James taps his finger along to the radio without noticing the music.
When he unlocks his front door and steps into his house to take off his shoes and store away his purchases, Castiel flinches Jimmy’s hand to the side of their body Castiel used to carry his holster on—but there is nothing, and James’ shoulder still aches.
From James’ sofa, Dean hollers, “What’s for lunch?”
Scooby-Doo is on.
~
“Tell me how she died.”
James frowns.
“Yeah, I know,” helps Dean, “but I wanna hear it from you.”
James squints up at Dean. At the ghost of that slow drag of fingers in his peripheral, through his hair. Around James’ ear.
The only reason for James to startle for the too-tender love tap to his cheek is the progressed sleep deprivation.
“Stay with me,” prompts Dean, and James exhales, cringes. Kelly is even farther away than Castiel.
Thinking of her always feels like—stepping into a nail.
“It was a complicated birth. She didn’t make it.”
“That what the docs said?”
“I double-checked,” remembers James. “They couldn’t have saved her.”
Dean nods above him. Keeps carding through Cas’ hair. “Damn shame. A hot piece of ass, definitely. Little Jack surely could have used that additional nest warmth.”
“He has always been a very brave child. Considering the circumstances, he did extraordinarily.”
“You could have gone ahead and fixed him up with a new mom, y’know,” and James doesn’t even have to throw a look for Dean to note, “Oh,” and, “yeah, right—‘baggage’.”
James contributes, “It didn’t feel right,” and Dean just hums, and doesn’t say anything more.
James keeps laying on the floor. Watches Dean heft himself up, pull his jeans halfway on so he can make his way to the bathroom without falling over his own feet. James doesn’t think of anything. Doesn’t feel anything—except for the warmth of the late afternoon sun, bathing him. Despite the drawn curtains. Despite the half-decent A/C.
Dean emerges and the way his eyes dart right at James hint that, at least partly, he’d expected him to run for it. Or something. Like James would be that stupid. Like there was anywhere he could escape to.
A pleased smile on that mouth. A swagger to those hips, distant and playful and James thinks, in another setting, another life, this would be charming. Would Dean be charming.
“You’re such a dog,” the real, current Dean flirts, though, and nudges at James’ temple with his socked foot. James doesn’t respond. His hands and feet are numb. A faint throb in his middle, but even that is…peripheral. Unimportant.
Dean’s belt keeps him from swallowing right but he forgot it’s there and tries nevertheless; cringes but lets Dean toe his mouth open to get said toe inside. James doesn’t fight. Doesn’t complain. James’ mouth was dry even without the cotton on his tongue and he just doesn’t think.
A chuckle from above. Not teasing, just…amused.
Castiel’s ears are familiar with the click-and-flick of a knife.
The movements of Dean’s hands (and breath, and legs) have such a distinct melody to them.
~
“You are—” but James’ voice dies in his throat when, behind his kid, Dean slips through his door. “Late,” he finishes and places the other oven mitten on the TV console in sheer heedlessness. “I didn’t expect you.”
“I said it was fine,” pipes Jack, confident and only slightly scared around the corners of his mouth, and James fixes the sleek grin on Dean’s horrible face as the man bends over behind Jack to take his shoes off, put them with theirs. “You always cook extra for service tomorrow anyway, so I figured we would have more than enough to share.”
“Sorry, man,” joins in Dean, waves like they haven’t seen each other for a while. Like he is polite and aware he is intruding and uncomfortable with that. “Sorry, just—you know my car’s still not done and Doordash flaked out on me—if it’s really okay, though,” and James hopes he looks about as menacing as he feels like. (Judging by the warning glare in his son’s face, he might be.) Dean offers, helpless: “I’ll pay you back once I can.”
Mostly vegetables, potatoes. Filling and warm though with a bit of cream here and good broth there.
Dean offers, mid-meal, “How ’bout steaks, once I get my paycheck, huh? On me,” and Jack’s eyes go big and hopeful and towards James instantly, just about as instantly as James implies:
“Do you have any idea how big of a role red meat plays in our current climate crisis, Dean?”
“Dad…!”
“Very unhealthy, too,” he adds, firm, and pierces another chunk of cauliflower with his fork. “If you consulted your health care professional, I bet they would give you their piece of mind about it.”
Dean laughs. “About one little steak?”
“You fund the entire industry by participating, so, yes—every single ‘little’ steak, Dean.”
Quiet at the table. It doesn’t feel like a victory. James keeps eating just for the sake of it.
“Well,” smacks Dean eventually. “How about Micky D’s then?”
After dinner, James has to elbow the man rather roughly with the dirty dishes still in his hands, and Dean just oompfs soft but chuckles,
“Easy,” and, “kiddo’s taking a leak,” and just grabs back at James’ dick through James’ pants. Keeps his other arm curled around James’ middle and James grunts, attempts to elbow him again.
A kiss to the side of James’ neck and James warns, “Don’t,” but Dean just snickers and kneads at him, and James lines a plate next to the already-there glasses in the dishwasher tray on accident. A flash of hot and wrong but it’s gone as soon as it came, and with it goes Dean, and there’s the flush of the toilet, the tap coming on down the hall.
Dean strolls back to the table, Jack’s homework. Leaves James with the chores, the ill-placed proof of his defocus. James plucks that plate back out, shoves the tray in too enthusiastically; yanks the bottom one out, crams the damn thing into its correct place.
Hears Jack coming back, sitting down with Dean. That little jitter in his voice when he’s excited, when his brain wants to talk faster than his mouth can handle. Dean doesn’t belittle. Doesn’t mention.
Calm little notes and, “Can you repeat that?” when Jack’s speech would stumble, and they just—talk. About the Arab Spring, its timeline and the overlaps and the muddled details of it all, and it’s mostly Jack asking for things his assignment obviously wouldn’t have to cover to such an extent, but that’s how he is, always has been, and Dean entertains it. Has his phone out and they look up what he doesn’t know off the top of his head (not a lot, astoundingly) and by the time James leaves to the upstairs, they’re deeply invested in some form of traditional music instruments and hunched over Dean’s phone, both of them.
James, for the lack of anything better to do that makes him not think, drops to his bedroom floor to do push-ups. He manages twenty. Sit-ups—fifty.
It won’t help him fall asleep.
~
“Dad?”
James keeps looking ahead.
Careful, doubtful: “Am I really grounded?”
James stares ahead. Decides, after a moment, “No,” and pulls them over. Sets the handbreak and turns towards his Jack, and Jack doesn’t—well, doesn’t bolt off right away, at least. James confides, “I am very sorry for yelling at you. Can you forgive me?” and Jack thinks for a moment, has his lips pressed thin like he’s holding back on something.
But he ends up telling James, “Yes,” and, “I forgive you,” and James pats at that shoulder, squeezes it.
“Thank you.”
“You like him too, don’t you?” (James opens his mouth, but thankfully, Jack keeps blabbering.) “I think he was very nice yesterday. Very polite. He even prayed with us. I think you should reconsider the friendship. You really should.” Jack opens the passenger door, then. Undoes his seatbelt and swoops one leg out and James notices a spot on the white crisp of that uniform shirt the washer missed, but it’s too late to turn back now, isn’t it? “I think you two can be very good friends all over again as long as you can let the past be the past, Dad.”
James nods, stupid. Jack takes off and his backpack looks heavy. Too big for him. For anyone, really.
~
“You’re not half bad at this.”
James glares up and into the phone camera. Into Dean’s smug face right above it.
“I get the feeling you’ve done this before.”
James is in no position to reply. He focuses on breathing whenever Dean pulls out of his throat long enough (far enough) and not choking on his own spit. His shoulder hurts with the pull on his tied-behind-the-table-leg arms; the zip ties bite into his wrists. He could kick Dean if he wanted. Alas, it wouldn’t cut any of this short.
“Everyone was always speculating, you know. With a face like yours…! Even if I told them about your dead little girl, I doubt anyone would believe me. Aw, look at you. I mean—”
James is let up, coughs up some of the mess. Gets his hair grabbed, his throat bared. He shows his teeth as a reminder but Dean just pats his cheek, thumbs at the corner of his mouth. Dean’s sole focus is on the camera feedback, still. Two fingers in, three.
“—can you blame ’em?”
James brushes his teeth, uses mouthwash. It doesn’t help.
Pride had always been Castiel’s weak spot. Dignity, of course, was a liberal concept. There are things Castiel did that James will carry to their grave. And that is okay. He can do that. ‘James’ is someone who can do that.
Jack is merry. Hums and babbles and lets James be a part of his thoughts again. James cradles his umpteenth herbal tea and listens and nods and supports. Just a snippet of peace is enough. Of normalcy. No more fighting. As long as James can have these moments, when he can be sure his son is happy and well—it’s all he can ask for.
“Mr. Winchester got his kitchen delivered today—I don’t know if you saw,” and James nods and drinks, and it’s a mellow afternoon, and his shoulder is finally starting to calm down again. “So I thought, and I asked if he was okay with it, of course, but—that we’d basically christen the new oven? I was thinking a pie, maybe; there were a couple of empty pie boxes around the house…”
James sits in their living room. The TV is on for distraction but he hasn’t looked at it in hours. Can only stare—through the window, across the street. Still no curtains, no blinds. A dare, really. Mockery.
Jack looks happy. Not scared or intimidated. He has such a good sense of reading other people, usually. But he is not to blame. Someone like Dean, of course a kid like Jack would be…blinded. James had blinded Jack, too.
There are easy, red blinking buttons all over the kid, begging to be pressed. An adult, new and shiny and mysterious and of course he is well-read, of course he likes the kind of music James would never allow in his house, of course he drives a car that oozes machoism and everything a young boy could possibly adore about a vehicle. James thinks, if Jack hadn’t been told his father and this man used to be friends, he would have been more cautious. Then again…James had been aware that he was slowly but surely losing his grip on the kid over the years. And that is only natural, he understands that; he doesn’t welcome it, though.
Winchester. A poisonous thorn that wedges itself into their lives. Jokes and toys around with James’ kid, and in weaker hours, James considers if this really is the more humane way. If, given the choice, Jack would prefer this over—death.
If it wasn’t for Jack, James’ choice would be easy.
The two wrap up in the kitchen and head to the living room, out of James’ sight. James blinks and swallows around the void in his chest. His tea has long gone cold.
Jack brings a slice of pie home.
~
“He is very nice.” Jack keeps repeating that. James feels sick. “Do you know there’s a band called Black Sabbath?”
“You shouldn’t talk about these things in the house of the holy, Jack.”
“Sorry.” Jack wipes the altar. “Do you know most classic rock is not about satanism at all?”
They catch up with Dean, outside. A squeeze for Jack’s shoulder while James pretends not to see it. Dean tries, “So, pancakes?” and they both look at James like he has any authority anymore.
Pancakes. The cozy little breakfast place Jack’s never even been interested in but he is elated, now, with the classic décor and the bright colors and Dean insists it’s on him, get whatever you want, and James thinks: he has sheltered this child too much.
Jack listens to Dean’s recommendation of what to get and he copies how he’s dousing his stacked plate with syrup. James can hold back on the corn syrup comment but he reprimands, “Jack,” when the boy picks up a piece of bacon with his bare fingers with his sole focus glued to how Dean does it. “Cutlery, please.”
Jack opens his mouth to start a but as Dean overrides him: “Dude, relax. Nobody gives a shit.”
“Would you not curse at the table?”
Dean snorts. Mumbles a sorry around the new mouthful of bacon he pops into his mouth, and Jack looks back and forth between the two men in front of him. As no other complaint arises, he proceeds to put his food into his mouth as well.
His guilt visibly struggles with bliss. And victory.
“Chris has two dads,” contemplates Jack, back at home and his good tie is splattered with syrup and his face is flushed with all the sugar. “It’s normal. Two guys can raise a child.”
“Dean is not your father.”
“I know that.” Jack lets James help him out of his suit jacket, leaves it with him to hang up correctly. “Chris calls them ‘Dad’ and ‘Papa’. Or just by their first names.”
It takes the poor child nearly two hours of pointless hems and haws until he finally dares to ask, fiddling with his fingers and the cuff of his pants and with James helpless over their family finances:
“Dad, why didn’t you ever have another girlfriend? After Mom?”
and it would be easy to brush it off, to smother that ember with a curt but effective not now like all the other times before, but—how many more moments like this will they even have?
James puts his pen down with a sigh. His face feels—off, and. They truly never talked about this, did they?
James begins, “I,” and pauses again right away. Notices Jack’s surprise, how he turns on the sofa to look at his father stammering, not pushing him away immediately. James hesitates. James’ answers are so close to ‘Castiel’. “I loved your mother very, very much, Jack.”
His son reminds: “Even though you didn’t marry her.”
“Yes. Sometimes—sometimes, marriage can be intimidating. We were very young. I didn’t feel ready to make this kind of promise to someone.”
“But you made me.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe, if you wanted,” and Jack is careful about how he says it, and James is aware of it, and it’s as adorable as it is heartbreaking, “if you tried, you might find someone new? Maybe you are ready to make that kind of promise to someone now?”
“I have thought of it. But it didn’t feel right. I still miss her,” and Jack doesn’t nod but James sees it in that face. “It wouldn’t be fair to…have someone else take her place. A partner should not be a replacement. Ever.”
“Okay,” says the kid who still obviously reels, is obviously overwhelmed. Nods, taken aback, and curls closer around his pulled-up knees. Stares back at the TV, his own hands. “That makes sense…I guess.”
James goes out for a run after a too-late lunch. Sluggish and lightheaded and the food is a rock in his middle. Like his body denies breaking anything down even the small amounts he can force himself to ingest. James throws up into the bushes halfway down his track.
Shower, nap. Or whatever his system lets pass as a nap, out in the backyard, one of the two lounge chairs. Sun. Sun is good.
Something gets tossed at him. He startles somewhat upright.
“Skin cancer is real. Don’t orphan your boy,” and Dean has his shades on again, switched into a short-sleeved shirt and those familiar jeans. James squints up at him, against the sun. Dean gestures up front, towards the house. “We’re grabbing milkshakes. You want anything?”
James grumbles, “You are killing his pancreas.”
“Yeah, yeah. So, that’s a no?”
James places the unwanted bottle of sunscreen on the ground, sets his chair upright and stands up. “I will accompany you.”
“Cockblock.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Yeah, whatever. Sure.”
In the doorway to the living room, with Jack focused on struggling with his sneakers and the cruel dip of his blood sugar levels, Dean presses up against James from behind.
Reminds, low, “You can’t protect him forever,”
and James knows that. He knows.
~
Reality is so far away when James floats. When he is disconnected from his body and it doesn’t matter how and if and where he hurts. What is happening.
So disconnected that for a moment, it feels good. That he doesn’t realize Dean’s touching him, tugs on his cock for him and blurts, “Jesus Christ, you’re hard?” and James comes back, then, with spinning wheels.
Reels and pales and the pain is back and he grunts, “Don’t,” but of course Dean doesn’t, of course he keeps fondling where James is wilting nearly immediately. Tugs and coaxes and laughs, high on it, on James’ humiliation. Keeps churning into him, pumping lazy and oversated and,
“You like it?”
and James tucks his face away as far as he can so Dean at least doesn’t see him.
Dean finishes inside of him again. James is halfway aware that he should get an STD check or something, maybe. That he might have to see a doctor. Make up more lies.
Dean croons, “Fuck,” and, “you’re so open,” and James flinches for the fingers probing too deep too soon, feeling him out inside. “Such a good wife, Cas. Good little pet.”
Dean crooks his fingers and drags them up, in. Cas cringes. Hides his face against the floor again.
“Haven’t seen you get off yet. Not even in the shower,” and Cas huffs. Feels the unwanted curl of pleasure building low in his spine, his balls. “You ever even done it since Kelly? Or doesn’t that little stick of yours work right anymore?” Another reach-and-tug. “Don’t feel broken to me.”
“Don’t—!”
Dean laughs. Into Cas’ shoulder where the heat of his lips press over right after, behind Cas’ ear. “C’mon. Just let it go. It’s okay.”
Between his bound arms and Dean straddling him from behind, Cas doesn’t have much chance to move. Stripped bare and bleeding, somewhere, the still-there phantom of Dean’s body satisfying itself has Cas boneless, still, paralyzed with the—filth of it, the shame. The thick squelch of Dean’s come where those fingers work Cas’ ass, the embarrassing shift of skin on skin where Dean’s stroking Cas’ mostly-limp dick for him in the little room available between Cas and the floor. Cas’ legs drawn up and bent, down on his front on the floor. Panting into the laminate. Tasting his own sweat.
Again, “Don’t,” but Dean just tuts at him. Keeps going.
Soothing, “There he is,” when Cas’ body reacts. Delayed, but—helpless, greedy with neglect. For too long, Castiel guesses. He doesn’t remember the last time Jimmy enjoyed himself in this way.
A sore tooth. Debilitating, tugging at him to—let go. Let it happen.
Weak, “No,”
but Dean chuckles, “Definitely.”
Castiel’s back seizes. He might groan out loud; he doesn’t (want to) remember. Just Dean, keeping it up, swiveling his hand tight and good and milking Cas’ prostate from inside, making it count. Cas trembles, can’t.
“Jesus Christ. You needed that.”
Cas gets James’ ear kissed. James’ shoulder. A coarse, “Get off me.”
A snort. The sun is about to set. “You’re welcome.”
~
It’s the little things.
Like Dean hanging around their house more, and Jack being over at Dean’s for longer stretches at a time. Jack getting quiet about what Dean and him get up to, and quieter in general.
Cas thinks about slipping a box of condoms into Jack’s nightstand. His rucksack. Somewhere. But that would mean accepting what is happening, and he can’t do that.
Over dinner, just the two of them: “Dad, have you ever kissed another boy?”
James hasn’t, so James says no. When Jack keeps insistent on the topic James has to snap, “This is not something you talk about with your parents,” and it’s a dread that it might shun Jack from ever bringing it up with him again as much as it is a desperate hope.
James goes on runs and he works out. Castiel slips into his thoughts. Castiel’s mindset of steeled focus. Survival. James doesn’t eat a lot. James drops a few pounds.
Dean’s eyes and hands and his smile and, “Look more like back then. With us. Remember? I remember.”
The scent of him, and James imagines Jack in there, somewhere. In Dean’s mouth. Against Dean’s lips.
Just Dean and him and Dean’s brought the ice pack to bed because his own hand is killing me, man, and one of James’ ribs might be cracked and his finger definitely is. Is crooked weird and James doesn’t think about it, doesn’t have to with Dean forcing into him and telling him, “He’s so sweet, you even know? You think he’s ever had a secret little girlfriend? A boyfriend?” and, “He kisses like a preteen,” and James isn’t—here.
It’s the little things. Like catching Jack smiling, lost in thought, over his homework.
The quirk of his mouth when he picks up his phone to read the message he just got. James will have to learn that Dean taught him how to break the parental control James had installed. Jack, locking himself in his room more and more often. James has thought of confiscating the key. The entire door. What difference would it make?
That video, full-length—the timestamp forces James to remember where he was that day, that time.
Jack, Jack’s room. Dean with him, on Jack’s bed, murmuring sweet nonsense until he leans in, and Jack lets him.
Behind James: “Keep watching.”
James is numb. Sick. His knee feels displaced. His throat burns.
Dean’s hands on James’ son, grabbing sweet between those legs. Jack squirms into it. Reciprocates it.
Dean’s zipper comes down on-screen and James looks away. Dean’s knife meets his cheek and digs forward, up.
Dean tuts, clicks his tongue.
James faces the screen again. The knife stays and flirts along his cheek, his browbone.
Jack works Dean with his hand. They keep kissing until Dean parts them, drags his legs open further and suggests you wanna try with your mouth again? and Dean is facing the camera and Jack isn’t, and James is free to see his kid nodding, bowing down. To hear Dean’s sigh of bliss before he looks up, into the hidden camera, and winks. Laces his fingers into Jack’s hair and praises, “That’s it, bud,” and Castiel is nothing but an animal with its leg caught in a beartrap.
Killing Dean would mean blowing James’ cover. It was hard enough to disappear with a newborn in tow, but now? Jack is nearly done with high school, wants to go to college. He has a life, a home, friends—all of it would be gone. He wouldn’t understand. James would lose him.
It’s Dean or the organization.
Both Dean and he know that Dean is—against all evidence—the lesser evil.
It’s all that keeps James from ripping the guy’s throat out with his bare teeth right now.
“You know, you were right: he is a fast learner.”