[novakfest fic] "Illinois & Kansas"
Title: Illinois & Kansas
Author: a_carnal_mink
Recipient: janie_tangerine
Pairing/Characters: light Jimmy/Dean + Cas
Rating: PG13 for wartime violence, language
Warnings: small liberties taken with WWII history
Spoilers: AU, so none
Word Count: 6,760 words
Beta: the always ace cassiopeia7
Prompt(s): "WWII AU in which Dean and Jimmy end up fighting next to each other. Jimmy is positive they'll survive because angels will watch over them, Dean is a lot more sceptical."
Note(s): No disrespect intended toward the men of the 101st Airborne Division. Written for the 2011 Novakfest. This is my first attempt, in any fandom, at a full-on AU. I did it for you, Janie! :) I hope it's okay.
PDF: If you prefer a slightly more "authentic" diary aesthetic, there is a version presented in handwriting fonts. To download that version, click here.
Summary: With a pencil and an empty notebook, Jimmy Novak tries to make sense of some of the weirder things that have happened since Dean Winchester was transferred into his Company.
January 1945
Dearest Amelia,
I'm writing this in bed at the aid station behind the line at Mont. I've just written you a letter and the nurse has placed it with the rest of the home-going mail. So what's this I'm writing now? There's things I can't say in my letters. Things I can't really tell anyone about, outright. No, Ames, not even you. Trust me when I say that, were you to receive a letter from me detailing even half of what I'm going to write here, you would honestly believe your husband has lost his mind on the battlefield, half a world away, and you'd perhaps find yourself thinking everything might be better if he didn't come home when all this is over.
So. My letters tell you what I can. This? This is no letter. This isn't being sent off anywhere. I'll bring it home with me. I'll decide then if you and I will sit down and read it together (once you've seen for yourself that I'm fine), or maybe I'll hide it away somewhere in the attic and Claire will find it when she's older and read about what her daddy really got up to during the war. I don't know.
Bit of a luxury, I must say, having a entire blank notebook to write my thoughts down in. That's Dean's doing. Of course. He convinced a kid three beds down to give this up for a sparkling SS lapel badge that Dean's been carrying around since Holland. Most guys take souvenir Lugers or knives - and, sure, those items have great bartering value in the ranks - but Dean likes to travel light as possible, CERTAINLY doesn't want to carry anybody else's weapons but his own, and is damned smart. Trinkets like SS badges and other Nazi insignia don't take up hardly any space, and I've watched Dean swap them for everything from spare ammo in Bastogne to beer in Steensel. And now, an entire empty notebook here in a makeshift hospital in Belgium, so that his friend Jimmy can start trying to make sense of the last few months.
Dean says "Hi", by the way. He's leaning over from the next bed right now and reading what I'm writing. And getting his say in, of course… ("Naw, man, it's my brother that's the smart one!") ("Shit, you're not gonna start writing every word I say now, are you?") ("Jimmy, seriously?") ("C'mon!") ("Fuck you.")
So, my darling, where should I start with tying to tell you everything?
I've given it some thought and, crazy as it probably sounds, I'm going to start with the part that's more of a confession than anything else. Ames, honey, if you can stand to read me telling you this, then maybe you'll be able to handle me telling you the rest of it…
I've kissed someone else.
Wow. Just writing it down like that makes it seem so much more real than it's felt. Maybe the act of writing will have the same effect on the other stuff, too? This all feels so weird, and I'm sorry if my thoughts and words seem a little all over the place as I write here. Shrapnel in the leg, veins swimming with not-enough painkillers, and a freaky life seem to do that to a guy. I'm going to try and step back from it a bit, just tell you how it happened.
You know that it took a while for my place in the Company to be known. I told you about that in some of my first letters of the war. It wasn't that I was disliked or mistrusted, it wasn't that the other soldiers considered me a freak or anything like that. The rest of the guys liked me well enough, they just couldn't place where I fitted in their social order. It even took months before they could settle on a nickname for me (it'd been "Professor" for a short while, because I'd been to college, "Monk" for about a week, because I told myself grace before each meal, but nothing had stuck). I guess I was just one of those guys who was difficult to pigeon-hole, hard to pin down.
Then of course, Dean Winchester was transferred out of Baker Company (fighting with an officer - it should've been cooler time, or worse, but everyone agreed he was too valuable a soldier to be anywhere but shipping out). When Dean sauntered into barracks six days before the Division was dropped into Holland and threw his gear down next to me, everything suddenly fell into place.
I'm sure you feel like you practically know Dean by now, having read about him in my letters so often. How we just hit it off right from the get-go, from the moment we first said "Hi". I think the first 24 hours I knew Dean, I talked more than I had on any other day since joining the recruitment queue in Pontiac. He immediately struck me as a bit of a rogue, but even back then he already had a fearsome reputation throughout the Division as the best type of soldier. The kind of guy everyone wants beside them, you know?
Suddenly, my place in the Co. was secured. The rest of the guys, suddenly, all seemed to understand where I fit in the team. I was Dean's pal. I was one-half of "Dean'n'Jimmy". I was "Illinois" to his "Kansas" (and yeah, the geographical make-up of the Co. has remained as light on the mid-westerners as it was back then, too).
Dropping into Holland was like falling down the rabbit hole. Your boots hit the ground and your weapon's in your hand and it's run and go and keep going until you can't anymore. I'd made it through Normandy, sure, but fighting with Dean Winchester at your side is a whole other ball game. I'm not saying that I was a lousy soldier before, but having Dean there made me better than I thought I could possibly be. Just keeping up with the guy, for starters! Operation M.G. may've ended up counted as a failure, but as soldiers, as fighting men, Dean and I were hailed from one end of the Division to the other. Major Singer warned us about getting big heads. But he winked at us as he said it.
Soon after the retreat from the Rhine, two things happened close together. Dean got a letter from his kid brother and I was moping around because it was almost our wedding anniversary and I missed you like you wouldn't believe.
"How close is the Philippines to Japan?" Dean asked me, holding a bunch of letter pages.
"Close," I told him. "South."
"Like, just a few hundred clicks or something?"
"I don't know. More like a couple of thousand, maybe? Why?"
"My brother Sam's on some tin tub out there somewhere. Philippine Sea, he says."
I'd been reading about the battle just a few weeks earlier. "Yeah, the Marianas Turkey Shoot. We kicked Japan's ass there."
"Well of course we did. We've got a Winchester fighting there." Carefully, Dean was re-folding the pages of his brother's letter and putting it back in its well-travelled envelope. "Geography ain't my strongest suit," he was saying. "Only things I know about the Philippines… shit. The aswang. The wakwak. Fuckin' tikbalang demon horses. And the manananggal! Hell, if that isn't one scary fucking broad, I don't know WHAT is."
(and yes, I've had to get Dean to spell all of these things for me just now)
I laughed, of course. I thought he was making up silly words just to try and get a smile out of me, seeing as I was so much in the dumps that day. But no. He wasn't. These were all legitimate folk tales he was talking about. Mythological monsters of a country he didn't even know where to find on a map.
That night, Dean opened up to me about the Winchester family business, about the things that he and his brother and their father hunt. I won't betray his confidences here, of course.
("Not unless you want for me to break yer fingers, bud.")
But I will say that the things he told me were… fantastic. So fantastic, I almost thought he'd taken leave of his senses at first. I know better now, now that I've met - well. Now that I've met who I've met since then. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
In return of his confidence, I told Dean about our imminent anniversary. About how we celebrate it every year, the fancy restaurant and the slow dancing. About how our anniversary days have been the worst days of the war for me, because I miss you so damned intensely, because I miss that slow dance with you in my arms. Dean listened and sympathised and I don't think I'd ever been more grateful for his friendship than right then. Up to that point, that is.
The following evening, the Co. was taking shelter in a small town near Liège. Most of the residents had long-since fled, taking whatever they could easily carry with them as the German front had bore down. Since we'd taken it back, a few families had returned, but for the most part the place was still pretty much a ghost town. Sentries were posted about the perimeter and the rest of us sought out some shelter for the night - fairly easy to come by, as shelling had been relatively light during the re-taking. Dean disappeared for a short while early on and when he came back, he quietly motioned for me to leave the rest of the guys and follow him.
Dean's just leaned over to see which part of my tale I'm up to. I do believe I just witnessed him blushing.
("This isn't a blush, dick-face, I'm running a fever!")
Dean took me to what had been, not too long ago, a nice little house. Most of the roof was missing which meant the upstairs wasn't much use for shelter, but downstairs was quite intact. In the tiny sitting room, Dean had set up a hurricane lantern he'd found and when he lit it, I immediately saw the old gramophone. Dean gave the player a good winding, set the stylus carefully onto the beginning of whatever record was on the turntable, and faced me. Crackling at first, the record soon offered up a slow refrain, mostly clarinet and saxophone, a low, swaying lilt.
"This was the slowest I could find," Dean said quietly. Took another step toward me. "It's been a while, so don't bitch at me if I mess this up now."
"If you mess what up?"
Dean answered my question by stepping closer. Putting one hand on my waist and held the other in the air at shoulder height, waiting for me to take it.
"I taught Sammy how to dance so he could ask girls out. I know how to follow." He waved the hand in the air slightly. "One-time-only offer, Jim. I'm about to turn 'n' run here if ya don't take this."
And that's how I got to slow dance on our anniversary, Ames. In combat boots. In a mortared house. To a song I didn't know. With a fellow soldier. With a man. With Dean.
He wasn't lying about being able to dance the woman's part. He followed my lead pretty darn well, all things considered. We hardly even stepped on each other's feet. By the middle of the song (and I wish I'd thought to check what it was called, because it was beautiful), I'll admit that I was having to battle tears. I missed you SO MUCH. I was so sick of this fucking war and not being home with you and our darling girl, and I felt the loss of you both just so acutely, it was like a pain in my chest. But Dean seemed to understand that. Held my hand a little tighter. Hummed a little along with the music in that deep voice of his. Then slowly raised his eyes up to meet mine.
I saw things in his eyes, Ames. I can't describe it. So much pain and life and loss and AGE. Like he'd lived decades longer than he really had. Like he was an old soul. But also… compassion. So much compassion. And I felt so deeply grateful to him, for giving me that moment and that music, that slow, strange dance, that feeling of being partnered to someone - even if just for a few short moments in the greater scheme of things, in that great chaos of destruction. Dean gave me that and I, I acted on my impulses in that moment.
Forgive me, Ames, but I kissed him.
It was fairly chaste, I assure you. Just… mouths pressing together, really. We both mumbled some half-hearted protest about stubble, but that didn't stop us moving in again for a little more. At some point, our arms moved properly around one another, but we continued to sway in something resembling time. We remained like that to the end of the song, standing together in that little room, holding each other and breathing together and kissing shyly like schoolkids.
("You really gonna let your wife read that?"
"Maybe. Depends how brave I feel when I get home.")
It's a bit bizarre, maybe, but that incident didn't change our friendship at all. I guess in war… some things that used to seem important just don't anymore. Back home, whether a man desires to kiss another man is pretty important to some folk. I'm sure Pastor Nelson would have a thing or two (or several!) to say about my behaviour. Likely, our entire parish would have some choice words they'd want to say about it. I can't care about that here and now, Ames. If nothing else, the futility and senselessness of war does at least help highlight what's truly important:
- friendships, loved ones
- being honest with your fellow man
- being emotionally transparent when the situation calls for it
- human touch, offered willingly and with generosity of spirit
- connecting with others
- finding joy in the moment
- accepting gestures of love with good grace, without judgment
Dean and I did not do any evil or wicked thing. We sought out comfort and connection in the midst of a warzone and gave it freely to each other. I've made my peace with this. I trust in God, who loves us all, to understand this. And I trust you, Ames, who I love with all my heart, to understand this, too.
I'm going to try to sleep for a while now. All this writing is exhausting! Will continue a little later.
Howdy, Amelia. Dean here. Dean Winchester. Jimmy's finally getting some shut-eye. Poor guy's pretty wiped. A lot's happened in the last few weeks and J's been looking a bit like he's been through a grinder. Good to see him sleeping properly. Peaceful.
So.
I hope you don't mind me writing you a few words here like this. I know full well what J told you about just before he took a break. That I kissed your husband. Sorry about that. Is it too stupid of me to try the old "It just happened" line? I ain't got any other excuse. I just wanted to do something nice for him, you know? Try and cheer him up a bit. It's not like I'm a fruit or nothing. I didn't plan for things to go the way they did. But it was nice. I mean, you probably know that anyway - you've kissed him heaps more than I have! Anyway. I just wanted to say sorry for taking that liberty. Certainly don't want to cause any friction for you guys. Hope we can all be o.k. about this thing.
I see Dean's been as respectful of my things as ever. - I'm smiling as I write that
("Hey! You share a foxhole with a guy for HOW fucking long? Respect takes on a whole new meaning.")
He does have a point there. - full on grinning as I write that
The day after our wedding anniversary, we were all on the march again, heading south-east and deeper into the Ardennes region. They're already referring to that fight as "The Battle of the Bulge". For those of us who were actually there, who were dug-in for that exploding wintry hell, it'll always just be "Bastogne". Or, in our more colourful moods, "The Bastard" - because, God, was it ever one of those. The longest, coldest, in every way WORST winter of my life. Of all our lives.
Dean and I did share a foxhole. Several foxholes, in fact. Sometimes with other guys, too, but a lot of the time just the two of us. And Dean's right - one's ideas about respect do indeed change. They have to, when you're living in what can't even be classed as "close quarters" anymore. It's beyond "close quarters". You can crawl into a foxhole having whatever ideas you want about personal space and privacy and all that, but those ideas will be changing before you crawl back out again. Even quicker, when that foxhole's in the dead of winter and you've barely even adequate winter supplies. Simply put, a friendless person would die out there. You're kept alive by the warmth of the man beside you.
("Lucky for you I'm as hot as I am!"
"I'm trying to write a legitimate war memoir here and you're just being crass."
"You know you love it!")
The conversations you find yourself having in a foxhole are beyond description. Some strange combination of catharsis and confession. The expression goes that there are no atheists in foxholes. Well, I don't know about that. But I do know that there's no falsity, no pretence. Just men's hearts and minds and souls laid bare. Your life might be over in the very next minute - do you really want to spend your last minute on Earth being false with your fellow man? With your friends and brothers?
Dean and I talked about many things, huddled in the cold ground. I'm only going to recount one conversation topic here, because it's relevant to what I next have to tell you. It was a conversation about angels and it went mostly like this:
D - "Get outta here. There's no such thing."
J - "You don't believe in angels?"
D - "You saying you do?"
J - "Of course I do. They do His work."
D - "You mean God?"
J - "Naturally. Hang on - you don't believe in God either?"
D - "I believe in what I can see."
J - "But… some of the things you told me about… the things you and your family hunt down…"
D - "Exactly. I've seen them. That's hard proof, you know? But angels and God… I'm sorry, Jim, but I just can't. I can't believe in a higher power or God or whatever. I've seen too much crap. There's just chaos and violence and random, unpredictable evil that comes out of nowhere and rips you to shreds. You want me to believe in this stuff? I'm going to need to see some hard proof. You got any?"
J - "It's faith, Dean, it doesn't work that way."
D - "So, what do you believe these angels do, huh?"
J - "They watch over us."
D - "Oh well, THAT'S helpful when the world's tearing itself apart like this. We should get them some popcorn to eat while they're enjoying Adolf's little screwball comedy here."
J - "How can something that doesn't exist eat popcorn?"
D - "Smartass."
The conversation wandered and we shared a cigarette, totally oblivious to the fact that we most likely were being Watched right that very moment.
Yes, Ames. WATCHED. Angelic implication fully intended.
Just three days later, Dean and I were sent north along the line on an errand. Nothing terribly dangerous, except that the snow started driving down again on the return walk and we unwittingly veered off the path we'd been on.
Judging by their surprise, I'd wager the same thing had happened to the four Germans we ran into.
It's strange (and unsettling), the type of lightning-quick calculations you find myself making in situations like that…
…between the two of us we can definitely take three of them down, but the fourth one is surely going to kill one or both of us while we're doing it.
…can Dean get at his grenade while I open fire?
…do the other three care about this guy enough that they'll hold off firing on us if I put him at the end of my rifle?
…I've seen Dean talk his way out of a lot of sticky situations, but he knows exactly six words in German and five of them will only make all this worse.
The only comfort to be had is in knowing that similar strange and unsettling thoughts are streaking through the enemy's mind as well and they all boil down to only one thing. How Do My Friend(s) And I Walk Away From This One?
Amid a LOT of shouting and guns being waved around, I heard another voice. "Fear not," it said, and everyone but I seemed to wince in response. "You'll have to tell Dean to close his eyes, Jimmy," it continued, and one of the Germans let his rifle hang free on its strap so he could clap his gloved hands over his ears. "Dean can't bear my speech, he won't bear my visage." A quick glance to my left showed this to be true - Dean was clearly in pain when the voice spoke. Luckily, so were the Germans.
"Who are you?!" I demanded of nothing more than pale gray sky and falling snow.
The answer came, "I'm an angel of the Lord".
Two more Germans let go their weapons to protect their ears and I could tell that Dean wished dearly to be doing the same. Brave and stubborn as always though, he was trying to tough it out.
"Make Dean close his eyes," came the voice again. The fourth German and Dean couldn't take it any longer and wisely chose their ears over their guns.
I made my choice. Decided to trust what this otherworldly voice was telling me. "Close your eyes, Dean!" I shouted at him.
"What?! Are you crazy?! No!" Dean pressed his hands harder over his ears but defiantly shook his head at me. "What the fuck IS that thing?!"
"It's - " What on Earth could I tell him? That it said it was an angel? Our recent ecclesiastic debate was still fresh in my mind. I knew he wouldn't believe me. "I think it wants to help us. CLOSE YOUR EYES!"
It was a leap of faith on Dean's part, but he did as I said. "Keep them closed," I instructed him, feeling my own eyes widen in surprise as a large, brightly glowing form appeared to my right and began to take a vaguely human shape. "No matter what happens, Dean. Keep them closed."
One of the Germans, looking to his left to see what the light was doing, screamed in agony. I shudder to remember the sight, but his eyes caught on fire, Ames. Burning up in his skull right in front of me. Panicked, and with one hand trying to shield his eyes, another fired his rifle into the light. The remaining two grabbed the one with burning eyes and dragged him between themselves as they ran away as fast as the snow and their terror would allow. The shooting one, flailing in fear and pain, let his last bullet fly toward us then turned tail and ran after his comrades, dripping a red trail into the snow as his ears trickled blood.
We were alone. With the fiercely glowing thing that called itself an angel. And that last bullet fired was lodged firmly in Dean's lower abdomen.
Dean had fallen on impact and I dropped to my knees beside him then, all interest in the "angel" forgotten for a moment as my consciousness narrowed to the fact that Dean was shot, Dean was bleeding out. The snow was turning pink and crimson around him.
"Help him!" I shouted into the air, shouted at the glowing thing.
Looking for all the world as though it were merely curious, the angel approached closer to us. Close enough that, when I looked up, I could see it had facial features - face smooth like polished marble and eyes bluer than any in human nature. Dean twisted in my arms and I instinctively threw a hand over his eyes. He was already shot and bleeding, I wasn't going to allow a so-called angel of the Lord to burn his eyeballs right out of his head as well. I dragged the woollen scarf from around my neck and dropped it over his face, slid my hand out from under it and managed to fumble it tied about his head as a makeshift blindfold.
The angel was still peering over us, almost impassive, as if Dean bleeding into the snow was the most fascinating thing it had ever encountered.
"He's shot!" I screamed at the angel. "He's bleeding! You can help him! MIRACLE! NOW!"
Slowly, the angel tilted its head toward me. "I've been told not to interfere. Yet."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?! You've already interfered! You're here now, so help him. PLEASE."
Dean grabbed blindly for my hand, his own wet and tacky with his blood. "What the fuck is it, Jim? Just tell me what it is. I probably know a way to kill it."
Always up for a fight, Dean Winchester.
("Too fuckin' right, I am.")
The angel raised a hand a little way toward Dean but paused, as though mentally deliberating.
"PLEASE," I asked it again.
"I can… perhaps do a little." Which, to me, sounded profoundly better than nothing.
"A-anything," I stammered. "Just help him. He's a good man. He doesn't deserve this."
"I can remove the missile," the angel informed me. "And close the wound."
"Great! Excellent! Just do it!"
Bright blue eyes blinked slowly at me. "But he'll still be weak from blood loss. And I can do no more. You'll have to get him to safety, Jimmy."
"Fine! O.K. already! Just fucking do it!"
The angel did it. I watched the bullet slug jump clear out of Dean's body and plop into the red snow beside us. Watched the anguish on Dean's face subside some as his wound was mended and much of his pain eased.
"Your Division isn't far," said the angel. "The snow only fools you to think it further. Follow the edge of this clearing and you'll find them. Be safe."
"Safe?" I scoffed at it. "You are aware we're in the middle of a war here, right?"
"Be safe," it repeated. "You are chosen, Jimmy Novak, Dean Winchester. Now go seek your comrades."
And all the glowing and light was gone. Just like that. Leaving me and a very weak Dean kneeling and lying in the red-sodden slush. Son of a bitch could've at least helped me get the many-pounds-heavier-than-me guy up off the ground and onto my shoulders.
Still. I guess the good Lord created adrenaline for situations exactly like having to haul your stricken buddy out of a pool of his own blood and into a fireman's carry and then run/walk/stagger almost 900 feet in the fucking SNOW.
Dean recovered. Obviously.
("Obviously.")
The cryptic words "You are chosen" took up residence in my mind and my dreams and set about haunting me from that day on.
I don't know what you might think of me right now, Ames, reading this account of what I'm the first to admit is a downright crazy and bizarre thing. I'm just recording it. Just telling you what transpired.
I mean, it's not like I'm the first guy to ever claim he saw an angel on the battlefield. The Great War had tales of entire BATTALIONS of angels charging into battle ahead of the line. There were the angels of Mons and those at the battle near Béthune. An angel stood with Xavier in Goa in the middle ages. Angels helped fight the Turks at Lepanto. Even George Washington gave credit to his guardian angel. So… am I so crazy?
("You're letting your lunch go cold right now, so my vote would be a resounding 'Yes'.")
Dean spent about a week in the nearest field hospital, recovering from his blood loss. I ended up spending a day there, too, seeing as I collapsed as soon as my adrenaline rush wore off. After many long weeks on the line, it's kind of miraculous what a hot meal and a heavy blanket can achieve. We didn't even bother trying to come up with a story for the staff about how Dean's bullet wound had apparently closed itself over without stitches. To be honest, they hardly even asked about it. The things those people see on a daily basis… I guess they don't want to know too much of the gory details. Then it was back to the Co. for me, back to another foxhole.
It was almost possible, those few days, to convince myself the… situation in the forest had been some panic-induced hallucination. I was the only one who saw the thing, after all, or talked to it. Maybe I'd dug that bullet out of Dean's belly myself? Couldn't that be possible?
As soon as Dean walked back onto the line, I knew my "hallucination explanation" was crap. Dean had been there. And he KNEW. He still didn't believe it was an angel, of course, 'cause he had angels on his Bullcrap List. But he knew something had been there, something not of this world.
Dean has this thing he can do, where his mouth is smiling this cocksure grin but his eyes are looking so deeply into yours that he's seeing clear beyond all of your bullshit. Comes in handy in his work, he says. And he laid that look on me that day when he swaggered back into camp. Plucked the cigarette he was smoking from between his lips and guided it into my mouth. Gave me that cocky grin and no-bullshit stare.
"I've seen a lot of crazy, Jim. And you're not it."
("You write me like I'm a movie star."
"That's because you act like one half the time.")
Dean's solid belief in me - and my sanity - bolstered me over the next few days. At night, hunkered down in our foxhole, we'd talk quietly about what our visitor might have meant about the two of us being "chosen". Chosen for what? By whom? But then word came through that we were being pulled off the line, and metaphysical conversations about our potential lofty destinies took a distinct second-place to the more immediate questions of how to get through the Division's attack on the German Panzerdivision at Noville Mageret.
Jimmy's gonna tell you about some incredibly hot heroics now.
Sorry about that. Dean's idea of a joke. Though that IS where I'm up to now, I guess. I'll give a little warning here and say that this might get a bit horrific. Yes, more so than Dean bleeding out in the snow or some poor German bastard getting his eyes burnt out of his head. I'll try not to let my descriptions get too bloody.
The town of Noville Mageret was a hard fight. I'm sure you've probably read about it in the papers by now. But we did it - we retook it from the Germans. Pushed them right back to where they'd started when we first came to Belgium.
Anyway. Our team ran into what a Brit officer would probably call "a spot of bother" when we were told to make a sweep through some industrial buildings. Long story short, we came across a unit of Germans in one of the cellar spaces. Any regular German unit and I don't think we'd have had a problem, but this crew had a Flammenwerfer. That's a flamethrower to you and me.
They heard us coming down the stairs, so they were able to give us a welcoming blast as we reached the doorway. We were O.K. though - it just drove us back for a moment. We regrouped and tried again. Joe got in an absolutely perfect shot, complete bullseye, to the head of the man with the flamethrower. Problem neutralized, for now. The building we were in was fairly large, with the cellars built in an interconnecting lay-out, and the rest of the German unit backed up into one of the corridors between, still firing at us as they retreated to the next cellar space. The placing of lights meant they would have sight of us for longer than we would of them, which in turn meant they now had the advantage.
Dean was already in the process of wrestling the Flammenwerfer from the back of its previous user.
These things are SCARY, Ames. Truly, a most terrifying weapon. And not just for those on the receiving end of them, either. Walking around - in a warzone, no less! - with a tank of fuel and propellant strapped to your body is no job for the faint hearted.
("Lucky for you guys I'm not that."
"Yeah and lucky for YOU you're not dead.")
Dean led, we followed, bullets were whipping about everywhere, it was hot, it was loud, it was like walking through goddamned HELL. The Germans, naturally, had the same idea about neutralizing the flamethrower problem as we'd had, and how Dean's head survived intact I think I'll just have to chalk up to a regular, garden-variety minor miracle.
What did happen though…
A bullet hit the tank, Ames. I don't want to describe this for you. God, I don't want to describe it for me either. I don't want to remember it or think about it.
("That makes two of us, buddy.")
I can safely say it was the single most horrific thing I've witnessed in the entirety of the war. My best friend on fire.
My hands are shaking. Dean's just handed me a smoke. I'm putting my pencil down for a minute or two here and pulling myself together.
There wasn't any way to mistake it for just more of the fire. This, this was blue. Blue light flashing into existence in the midst of all that horror, a comet plunging into our moment of Hell. It was IT again. The angel, whatever it was. It was back.
It reached an arm straight into the fire, just plunged right in there and grabbed hold of Dean's left shoulder. Dragged him free.
The fire blinked out in a heartbeat.
No one's eyes got burnt out this time. The Germans were already on the move again. The rest of our team was already after them. Dean's eyes were understandably already closed.
The angel, still holding Dean's shoulder, touched two fingers of its other hand gently to Dean's forehead. In an instant, right before my eyes, all of Dean's burns were healed. He was whole and beautiful and unscarred once more. Even his uniform mended itself.
Half in shock, but mostly in utter AWE, I dropped to my knees then and there. No doubt in my mind at all this time - I was in the presence of an angel of the Lord. God's love was made manifest right there in front of me. I tried to give my thanks but only sobs punched up out of my chest.
Dean cracked one eyelid open just the tiniest, tiniest way then shut it tight again. "You again, huh? We gonna get a name outta you this time?"
The angel tilted its head as it gazed at Dean, then slowly looked toward me. When it spoke, the sound was little more than a whisper in my head. I guess it was trying to spare Dean's ears this time. "I am Castiel."
"He, er - " Was it even a 'he'? Something made me feel like the pronoun was appropriate. "He says his name is Castiel."
Dean smiled. "Well. That's some pretty nice timing there, Cas."
The angel's too-blue eyes were back on Dean again, gazing at him with the same frank curiosity he'd shown in that snowy clearing near Bastogne.
From elsewhere in the rabbit-warren of cellars, we heard the voices of our team meandering their way back toward us.
"I must go," the angel said quietly. "I can't interfere in this conflict again. Be safe." He glanced briefly my way but then returned his gaze solidly onto Dean. "Both of you."
He was gone.
Dean sensed the lack of presence and cautiously opened his eyes again. "How do I look?"
"Perfect."
"Well yeah, but I mean - do I look O.K.?"
The rest of the guys got back to us to find Dean miraculously and inexplicably NOT burnt-to-a-crisp, and me on my knees on the cellar floor, laughing a rapture-induced laugh that was definitely verging over into hysterical territory.
We clambered out of that building just in time to have a mortar rip the house next door apart. Like I said earlier - it was a hard fight, Noville Mageret.
Yager took a chunk of shrapnel to the throat that just about took his head clear off. Poor bastard. Dean and Joe and I - being the lucky ones - all took some metal in the legs or arms.
("That big piece they dug outta your thigh? I'm gonna make me a key chain. Go to an engraver and get 'Chevrolet' written clear across it. Fucking thing's big enough for it to fit, too.")
When they brought us into the field hospital, what do you suppose they discovered on Dean's left shoulder?
It's a hand print, Ames. Raised up and angry-red, like a fresh burn - only his skin's hale and healthy. I feel a little funny when I look at it, to be honest. It's almost like feeling jealous. Like Dean and Castiel must share some sort of bond now. As if something profound happened between them when Cas pulled him from the flames. I'm the one who could talk to the angel, look upon his form while no one else could, but he never gazed at me the way he gazed at Dean. I have no physical reminder of his presence like Dean does. Like Dean will carry with him for the rest of his days. It's petty of me to feel such a childish emotion, but I almost feel "left out" in a sense. As if the angel liked Dean better than me.
("That's crap and you know it. You can TALK TO FUCKING ANGELS, Jim!"
"I thought you didn't believe in angels?"
"I told you, I believe what I see with my own eyes."
"But you couldn't see him."
"Yeah. But I can see this right here on my skin. Touch it, even. I said I'd be needing some hard proof. Well. This feels like proof to me.")
So there it all is, Ames. My fantastic story. I don't even know what it all means. Was there a lesson for me to learn somewhere in all this? Am I supposed to be ready now for… something?
Or was it all about Dean and proving to him that angels exist? Giving this man who's seen so much wonder in his life already, but who was without Faith, proof that there is GOOD beyond our natural world as well as all the evil?
Soon as we're mended (just another day or two, at most), we're rejoining the Division and marching into Germany. Maybe something is going to happen there that myself and Dean had to be saved for? Perhaps that's what all this has been about? I wish to God I knew.
Hang on a minute. Dean's asking for me to hand the notebook over…
O.K., how's about this for some big moral lesson or whatever?
Two guys can fool around a bit and not only do they NOT get smote down by your god, but they even get sent a goddamn ANGEL to help them when they land in a shitty situation?
Or what about this one: the good guys win. End of story.
Dean likes to give the impression he isn't a complicated man. Personally, I think it's mainly front.
I love you, Amelia. Kiss Claire for me. God Bless.
Signing off for now,
your Jimmy.
Author: a_carnal_mink
Recipient: janie_tangerine
Pairing/Characters: light Jimmy/Dean + Cas
Rating: PG13 for wartime violence, language
Warnings: small liberties taken with WWII history
Spoilers: AU, so none
Word Count: 6,760 words
Beta: the always ace cassiopeia7
Prompt(s): "WWII AU in which Dean and Jimmy end up fighting next to each other. Jimmy is positive they'll survive because angels will watch over them, Dean is a lot more sceptical."
Note(s): No disrespect intended toward the men of the 101st Airborne Division. Written for the 2011 Novakfest. This is my first attempt, in any fandom, at a full-on AU. I did it for you, Janie! :) I hope it's okay.
PDF: If you prefer a slightly more "authentic" diary aesthetic, there is a version presented in handwriting fonts. To download that version, click here.
Summary: With a pencil and an empty notebook, Jimmy Novak tries to make sense of some of the weirder things that have happened since Dean Winchester was transferred into his Company.
January 1945
Dearest Amelia,
I'm writing this in bed at the aid station behind the line at Mont. I've just written you a letter and the nurse has placed it with the rest of the home-going mail. So what's this I'm writing now? There's things I can't say in my letters. Things I can't really tell anyone about, outright. No, Ames, not even you. Trust me when I say that, were you to receive a letter from me detailing even half of what I'm going to write here, you would honestly believe your husband has lost his mind on the battlefield, half a world away, and you'd perhaps find yourself thinking everything might be better if he didn't come home when all this is over.
So. My letters tell you what I can. This? This is no letter. This isn't being sent off anywhere. I'll bring it home with me. I'll decide then if you and I will sit down and read it together (once you've seen for yourself that I'm fine), or maybe I'll hide it away somewhere in the attic and Claire will find it when she's older and read about what her daddy really got up to during the war. I don't know.
Bit of a luxury, I must say, having a entire blank notebook to write my thoughts down in. That's Dean's doing. Of course. He convinced a kid three beds down to give this up for a sparkling SS lapel badge that Dean's been carrying around since Holland. Most guys take souvenir Lugers or knives - and, sure, those items have great bartering value in the ranks - but Dean likes to travel light as possible, CERTAINLY doesn't want to carry anybody else's weapons but his own, and is damned smart. Trinkets like SS badges and other Nazi insignia don't take up hardly any space, and I've watched Dean swap them for everything from spare ammo in Bastogne to beer in Steensel. And now, an entire empty notebook here in a makeshift hospital in Belgium, so that his friend Jimmy can start trying to make sense of the last few months.
Dean says "Hi", by the way. He's leaning over from the next bed right now and reading what I'm writing. And getting his say in, of course… ("Naw, man, it's my brother that's the smart one!") ("Shit, you're not gonna start writing every word I say now, are you?") ("Jimmy, seriously?") ("C'mon!") ("Fuck you.")
So, my darling, where should I start with tying to tell you everything?
I've given it some thought and, crazy as it probably sounds, I'm going to start with the part that's more of a confession than anything else. Ames, honey, if you can stand to read me telling you this, then maybe you'll be able to handle me telling you the rest of it…
I've kissed someone else.
Wow. Just writing it down like that makes it seem so much more real than it's felt. Maybe the act of writing will have the same effect on the other stuff, too? This all feels so weird, and I'm sorry if my thoughts and words seem a little all over the place as I write here. Shrapnel in the leg, veins swimming with not-enough painkillers, and a freaky life seem to do that to a guy. I'm going to try and step back from it a bit, just tell you how it happened.
You know that it took a while for my place in the Company to be known. I told you about that in some of my first letters of the war. It wasn't that I was disliked or mistrusted, it wasn't that the other soldiers considered me a freak or anything like that. The rest of the guys liked me well enough, they just couldn't place where I fitted in their social order. It even took months before they could settle on a nickname for me (it'd been "Professor" for a short while, because I'd been to college, "Monk" for about a week, because I told myself grace before each meal, but nothing had stuck). I guess I was just one of those guys who was difficult to pigeon-hole, hard to pin down.
Then of course, Dean Winchester was transferred out of Baker Company (fighting with an officer - it should've been cooler time, or worse, but everyone agreed he was too valuable a soldier to be anywhere but shipping out). When Dean sauntered into barracks six days before the Division was dropped into Holland and threw his gear down next to me, everything suddenly fell into place.
I'm sure you feel like you practically know Dean by now, having read about him in my letters so often. How we just hit it off right from the get-go, from the moment we first said "Hi". I think the first 24 hours I knew Dean, I talked more than I had on any other day since joining the recruitment queue in Pontiac. He immediately struck me as a bit of a rogue, but even back then he already had a fearsome reputation throughout the Division as the best type of soldier. The kind of guy everyone wants beside them, you know?
Suddenly, my place in the Co. was secured. The rest of the guys, suddenly, all seemed to understand where I fit in the team. I was Dean's pal. I was one-half of "Dean'n'Jimmy". I was "Illinois" to his "Kansas" (and yeah, the geographical make-up of the Co. has remained as light on the mid-westerners as it was back then, too).
Dropping into Holland was like falling down the rabbit hole. Your boots hit the ground and your weapon's in your hand and it's run and go and keep going until you can't anymore. I'd made it through Normandy, sure, but fighting with Dean Winchester at your side is a whole other ball game. I'm not saying that I was a lousy soldier before, but having Dean there made me better than I thought I could possibly be. Just keeping up with the guy, for starters! Operation M.G. may've ended up counted as a failure, but as soldiers, as fighting men, Dean and I were hailed from one end of the Division to the other. Major Singer warned us about getting big heads. But he winked at us as he said it.
Soon after the retreat from the Rhine, two things happened close together. Dean got a letter from his kid brother and I was moping around because it was almost our wedding anniversary and I missed you like you wouldn't believe.
"How close is the Philippines to Japan?" Dean asked me, holding a bunch of letter pages.
"Close," I told him. "South."
"Like, just a few hundred clicks or something?"
"I don't know. More like a couple of thousand, maybe? Why?"
"My brother Sam's on some tin tub out there somewhere. Philippine Sea, he says."
I'd been reading about the battle just a few weeks earlier. "Yeah, the Marianas Turkey Shoot. We kicked Japan's ass there."
"Well of course we did. We've got a Winchester fighting there." Carefully, Dean was re-folding the pages of his brother's letter and putting it back in its well-travelled envelope. "Geography ain't my strongest suit," he was saying. "Only things I know about the Philippines… shit. The aswang. The wakwak. Fuckin' tikbalang demon horses. And the manananggal! Hell, if that isn't one scary fucking broad, I don't know WHAT is."
(and yes, I've had to get Dean to spell all of these things for me just now)
I laughed, of course. I thought he was making up silly words just to try and get a smile out of me, seeing as I was so much in the dumps that day. But no. He wasn't. These were all legitimate folk tales he was talking about. Mythological monsters of a country he didn't even know where to find on a map.
That night, Dean opened up to me about the Winchester family business, about the things that he and his brother and their father hunt. I won't betray his confidences here, of course.
("Not unless you want for me to break yer fingers, bud.")
But I will say that the things he told me were… fantastic. So fantastic, I almost thought he'd taken leave of his senses at first. I know better now, now that I've met - well. Now that I've met who I've met since then. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
In return of his confidence, I told Dean about our imminent anniversary. About how we celebrate it every year, the fancy restaurant and the slow dancing. About how our anniversary days have been the worst days of the war for me, because I miss you so damned intensely, because I miss that slow dance with you in my arms. Dean listened and sympathised and I don't think I'd ever been more grateful for his friendship than right then. Up to that point, that is.
The following evening, the Co. was taking shelter in a small town near Liège. Most of the residents had long-since fled, taking whatever they could easily carry with them as the German front had bore down. Since we'd taken it back, a few families had returned, but for the most part the place was still pretty much a ghost town. Sentries were posted about the perimeter and the rest of us sought out some shelter for the night - fairly easy to come by, as shelling had been relatively light during the re-taking. Dean disappeared for a short while early on and when he came back, he quietly motioned for me to leave the rest of the guys and follow him.
Dean's just leaned over to see which part of my tale I'm up to. I do believe I just witnessed him blushing.
("This isn't a blush, dick-face, I'm running a fever!")
Dean took me to what had been, not too long ago, a nice little house. Most of the roof was missing which meant the upstairs wasn't much use for shelter, but downstairs was quite intact. In the tiny sitting room, Dean had set up a hurricane lantern he'd found and when he lit it, I immediately saw the old gramophone. Dean gave the player a good winding, set the stylus carefully onto the beginning of whatever record was on the turntable, and faced me. Crackling at first, the record soon offered up a slow refrain, mostly clarinet and saxophone, a low, swaying lilt.
"This was the slowest I could find," Dean said quietly. Took another step toward me. "It's been a while, so don't bitch at me if I mess this up now."
"If you mess what up?"
Dean answered my question by stepping closer. Putting one hand on my waist and held the other in the air at shoulder height, waiting for me to take it.
"I taught Sammy how to dance so he could ask girls out. I know how to follow." He waved the hand in the air slightly. "One-time-only offer, Jim. I'm about to turn 'n' run here if ya don't take this."
And that's how I got to slow dance on our anniversary, Ames. In combat boots. In a mortared house. To a song I didn't know. With a fellow soldier. With a man. With Dean.
He wasn't lying about being able to dance the woman's part. He followed my lead pretty darn well, all things considered. We hardly even stepped on each other's feet. By the middle of the song (and I wish I'd thought to check what it was called, because it was beautiful), I'll admit that I was having to battle tears. I missed you SO MUCH. I was so sick of this fucking war and not being home with you and our darling girl, and I felt the loss of you both just so acutely, it was like a pain in my chest. But Dean seemed to understand that. Held my hand a little tighter. Hummed a little along with the music in that deep voice of his. Then slowly raised his eyes up to meet mine.
I saw things in his eyes, Ames. I can't describe it. So much pain and life and loss and AGE. Like he'd lived decades longer than he really had. Like he was an old soul. But also… compassion. So much compassion. And I felt so deeply grateful to him, for giving me that moment and that music, that slow, strange dance, that feeling of being partnered to someone - even if just for a few short moments in the greater scheme of things, in that great chaos of destruction. Dean gave me that and I, I acted on my impulses in that moment.
Forgive me, Ames, but I kissed him.
It was fairly chaste, I assure you. Just… mouths pressing together, really. We both mumbled some half-hearted protest about stubble, but that didn't stop us moving in again for a little more. At some point, our arms moved properly around one another, but we continued to sway in something resembling time. We remained like that to the end of the song, standing together in that little room, holding each other and breathing together and kissing shyly like schoolkids.
("You really gonna let your wife read that?"
"Maybe. Depends how brave I feel when I get home.")
It's a bit bizarre, maybe, but that incident didn't change our friendship at all. I guess in war… some things that used to seem important just don't anymore. Back home, whether a man desires to kiss another man is pretty important to some folk. I'm sure Pastor Nelson would have a thing or two (or several!) to say about my behaviour. Likely, our entire parish would have some choice words they'd want to say about it. I can't care about that here and now, Ames. If nothing else, the futility and senselessness of war does at least help highlight what's truly important:
- friendships, loved ones
- being honest with your fellow man
- being emotionally transparent when the situation calls for it
- human touch, offered willingly and with generosity of spirit
- connecting with others
- finding joy in the moment
- accepting gestures of love with good grace, without judgment
Dean and I did not do any evil or wicked thing. We sought out comfort and connection in the midst of a warzone and gave it freely to each other. I've made my peace with this. I trust in God, who loves us all, to understand this. And I trust you, Ames, who I love with all my heart, to understand this, too.
I'm going to try to sleep for a while now. All this writing is exhausting! Will continue a little later.
Howdy, Amelia. Dean here. Dean Winchester. Jimmy's finally getting some shut-eye. Poor guy's pretty wiped. A lot's happened in the last few weeks and J's been looking a bit like he's been through a grinder. Good to see him sleeping properly. Peaceful.
So.
I hope you don't mind me writing you a few words here like this. I know full well what J told you about just before he took a break. That I kissed your husband. Sorry about that. Is it too stupid of me to try the old "It just happened" line? I ain't got any other excuse. I just wanted to do something nice for him, you know? Try and cheer him up a bit. It's not like I'm a fruit or nothing. I didn't plan for things to go the way they did. But it was nice. I mean, you probably know that anyway - you've kissed him heaps more than I have! Anyway. I just wanted to say sorry for taking that liberty. Certainly don't want to cause any friction for you guys. Hope we can all be o.k. about this thing.
I see Dean's been as respectful of my things as ever. - I'm smiling as I write that
("Hey! You share a foxhole with a guy for HOW fucking long? Respect takes on a whole new meaning.")
He does have a point there. - full on grinning as I write that
The day after our wedding anniversary, we were all on the march again, heading south-east and deeper into the Ardennes region. They're already referring to that fight as "The Battle of the Bulge". For those of us who were actually there, who were dug-in for that exploding wintry hell, it'll always just be "Bastogne". Or, in our more colourful moods, "The Bastard" - because, God, was it ever one of those. The longest, coldest, in every way WORST winter of my life. Of all our lives.
Dean and I did share a foxhole. Several foxholes, in fact. Sometimes with other guys, too, but a lot of the time just the two of us. And Dean's right - one's ideas about respect do indeed change. They have to, when you're living in what can't even be classed as "close quarters" anymore. It's beyond "close quarters". You can crawl into a foxhole having whatever ideas you want about personal space and privacy and all that, but those ideas will be changing before you crawl back out again. Even quicker, when that foxhole's in the dead of winter and you've barely even adequate winter supplies. Simply put, a friendless person would die out there. You're kept alive by the warmth of the man beside you.
("Lucky for you I'm as hot as I am!"
"I'm trying to write a legitimate war memoir here and you're just being crass."
"You know you love it!")
The conversations you find yourself having in a foxhole are beyond description. Some strange combination of catharsis and confession. The expression goes that there are no atheists in foxholes. Well, I don't know about that. But I do know that there's no falsity, no pretence. Just men's hearts and minds and souls laid bare. Your life might be over in the very next minute - do you really want to spend your last minute on Earth being false with your fellow man? With your friends and brothers?
Dean and I talked about many things, huddled in the cold ground. I'm only going to recount one conversation topic here, because it's relevant to what I next have to tell you. It was a conversation about angels and it went mostly like this:
D - "Get outta here. There's no such thing."
J - "You don't believe in angels?"
D - "You saying you do?"
J - "Of course I do. They do His work."
D - "You mean God?"
J - "Naturally. Hang on - you don't believe in God either?"
D - "I believe in what I can see."
J - "But… some of the things you told me about… the things you and your family hunt down…"
D - "Exactly. I've seen them. That's hard proof, you know? But angels and God… I'm sorry, Jim, but I just can't. I can't believe in a higher power or God or whatever. I've seen too much crap. There's just chaos and violence and random, unpredictable evil that comes out of nowhere and rips you to shreds. You want me to believe in this stuff? I'm going to need to see some hard proof. You got any?"
J - "It's faith, Dean, it doesn't work that way."
D - "So, what do you believe these angels do, huh?"
J - "They watch over us."
D - "Oh well, THAT'S helpful when the world's tearing itself apart like this. We should get them some popcorn to eat while they're enjoying Adolf's little screwball comedy here."
J - "How can something that doesn't exist eat popcorn?"
D - "Smartass."
The conversation wandered and we shared a cigarette, totally oblivious to the fact that we most likely were being Watched right that very moment.
Yes, Ames. WATCHED. Angelic implication fully intended.
Just three days later, Dean and I were sent north along the line on an errand. Nothing terribly dangerous, except that the snow started driving down again on the return walk and we unwittingly veered off the path we'd been on.
Judging by their surprise, I'd wager the same thing had happened to the four Germans we ran into.
It's strange (and unsettling), the type of lightning-quick calculations you find myself making in situations like that…
…between the two of us we can definitely take three of them down, but the fourth one is surely going to kill one or both of us while we're doing it.
…can Dean get at his grenade while I open fire?
…do the other three care about this guy enough that they'll hold off firing on us if I put him at the end of my rifle?
…I've seen Dean talk his way out of a lot of sticky situations, but he knows exactly six words in German and five of them will only make all this worse.
The only comfort to be had is in knowing that similar strange and unsettling thoughts are streaking through the enemy's mind as well and they all boil down to only one thing. How Do My Friend(s) And I Walk Away From This One?
Amid a LOT of shouting and guns being waved around, I heard another voice. "Fear not," it said, and everyone but I seemed to wince in response. "You'll have to tell Dean to close his eyes, Jimmy," it continued, and one of the Germans let his rifle hang free on its strap so he could clap his gloved hands over his ears. "Dean can't bear my speech, he won't bear my visage." A quick glance to my left showed this to be true - Dean was clearly in pain when the voice spoke. Luckily, so were the Germans.
"Who are you?!" I demanded of nothing more than pale gray sky and falling snow.
The answer came, "I'm an angel of the Lord".
Two more Germans let go their weapons to protect their ears and I could tell that Dean wished dearly to be doing the same. Brave and stubborn as always though, he was trying to tough it out.
"Make Dean close his eyes," came the voice again. The fourth German and Dean couldn't take it any longer and wisely chose their ears over their guns.
I made my choice. Decided to trust what this otherworldly voice was telling me. "Close your eyes, Dean!" I shouted at him.
"What?! Are you crazy?! No!" Dean pressed his hands harder over his ears but defiantly shook his head at me. "What the fuck IS that thing?!"
"It's - " What on Earth could I tell him? That it said it was an angel? Our recent ecclesiastic debate was still fresh in my mind. I knew he wouldn't believe me. "I think it wants to help us. CLOSE YOUR EYES!"
It was a leap of faith on Dean's part, but he did as I said. "Keep them closed," I instructed him, feeling my own eyes widen in surprise as a large, brightly glowing form appeared to my right and began to take a vaguely human shape. "No matter what happens, Dean. Keep them closed."
One of the Germans, looking to his left to see what the light was doing, screamed in agony. I shudder to remember the sight, but his eyes caught on fire, Ames. Burning up in his skull right in front of me. Panicked, and with one hand trying to shield his eyes, another fired his rifle into the light. The remaining two grabbed the one with burning eyes and dragged him between themselves as they ran away as fast as the snow and their terror would allow. The shooting one, flailing in fear and pain, let his last bullet fly toward us then turned tail and ran after his comrades, dripping a red trail into the snow as his ears trickled blood.
We were alone. With the fiercely glowing thing that called itself an angel. And that last bullet fired was lodged firmly in Dean's lower abdomen.
Dean had fallen on impact and I dropped to my knees beside him then, all interest in the "angel" forgotten for a moment as my consciousness narrowed to the fact that Dean was shot, Dean was bleeding out. The snow was turning pink and crimson around him.
"Help him!" I shouted into the air, shouted at the glowing thing.
Looking for all the world as though it were merely curious, the angel approached closer to us. Close enough that, when I looked up, I could see it had facial features - face smooth like polished marble and eyes bluer than any in human nature. Dean twisted in my arms and I instinctively threw a hand over his eyes. He was already shot and bleeding, I wasn't going to allow a so-called angel of the Lord to burn his eyeballs right out of his head as well. I dragged the woollen scarf from around my neck and dropped it over his face, slid my hand out from under it and managed to fumble it tied about his head as a makeshift blindfold.
The angel was still peering over us, almost impassive, as if Dean bleeding into the snow was the most fascinating thing it had ever encountered.
"He's shot!" I screamed at the angel. "He's bleeding! You can help him! MIRACLE! NOW!"
Slowly, the angel tilted its head toward me. "I've been told not to interfere. Yet."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?! You've already interfered! You're here now, so help him. PLEASE."
Dean grabbed blindly for my hand, his own wet and tacky with his blood. "What the fuck is it, Jim? Just tell me what it is. I probably know a way to kill it."
Always up for a fight, Dean Winchester.
("Too fuckin' right, I am.")
The angel raised a hand a little way toward Dean but paused, as though mentally deliberating.
"PLEASE," I asked it again.
"I can… perhaps do a little." Which, to me, sounded profoundly better than nothing.
"A-anything," I stammered. "Just help him. He's a good man. He doesn't deserve this."
"I can remove the missile," the angel informed me. "And close the wound."
"Great! Excellent! Just do it!"
Bright blue eyes blinked slowly at me. "But he'll still be weak from blood loss. And I can do no more. You'll have to get him to safety, Jimmy."
"Fine! O.K. already! Just fucking do it!"
The angel did it. I watched the bullet slug jump clear out of Dean's body and plop into the red snow beside us. Watched the anguish on Dean's face subside some as his wound was mended and much of his pain eased.
"Your Division isn't far," said the angel. "The snow only fools you to think it further. Follow the edge of this clearing and you'll find them. Be safe."
"Safe?" I scoffed at it. "You are aware we're in the middle of a war here, right?"
"Be safe," it repeated. "You are chosen, Jimmy Novak, Dean Winchester. Now go seek your comrades."
And all the glowing and light was gone. Just like that. Leaving me and a very weak Dean kneeling and lying in the red-sodden slush. Son of a bitch could've at least helped me get the many-pounds-heavier-than-me guy up off the ground and onto my shoulders.
Still. I guess the good Lord created adrenaline for situations exactly like having to haul your stricken buddy out of a pool of his own blood and into a fireman's carry and then run/walk/stagger almost 900 feet in the fucking SNOW.
Dean recovered. Obviously.
("Obviously.")
The cryptic words "You are chosen" took up residence in my mind and my dreams and set about haunting me from that day on.
I don't know what you might think of me right now, Ames, reading this account of what I'm the first to admit is a downright crazy and bizarre thing. I'm just recording it. Just telling you what transpired.
I mean, it's not like I'm the first guy to ever claim he saw an angel on the battlefield. The Great War had tales of entire BATTALIONS of angels charging into battle ahead of the line. There were the angels of Mons and those at the battle near Béthune. An angel stood with Xavier in Goa in the middle ages. Angels helped fight the Turks at Lepanto. Even George Washington gave credit to his guardian angel. So… am I so crazy?
("You're letting your lunch go cold right now, so my vote would be a resounding 'Yes'.")
Dean spent about a week in the nearest field hospital, recovering from his blood loss. I ended up spending a day there, too, seeing as I collapsed as soon as my adrenaline rush wore off. After many long weeks on the line, it's kind of miraculous what a hot meal and a heavy blanket can achieve. We didn't even bother trying to come up with a story for the staff about how Dean's bullet wound had apparently closed itself over without stitches. To be honest, they hardly even asked about it. The things those people see on a daily basis… I guess they don't want to know too much of the gory details. Then it was back to the Co. for me, back to another foxhole.
It was almost possible, those few days, to convince myself the… situation in the forest had been some panic-induced hallucination. I was the only one who saw the thing, after all, or talked to it. Maybe I'd dug that bullet out of Dean's belly myself? Couldn't that be possible?
As soon as Dean walked back onto the line, I knew my "hallucination explanation" was crap. Dean had been there. And he KNEW. He still didn't believe it was an angel, of course, 'cause he had angels on his Bullcrap List. But he knew something had been there, something not of this world.
Dean has this thing he can do, where his mouth is smiling this cocksure grin but his eyes are looking so deeply into yours that he's seeing clear beyond all of your bullshit. Comes in handy in his work, he says. And he laid that look on me that day when he swaggered back into camp. Plucked the cigarette he was smoking from between his lips and guided it into my mouth. Gave me that cocky grin and no-bullshit stare.
"I've seen a lot of crazy, Jim. And you're not it."
("You write me like I'm a movie star."
"That's because you act like one half the time.")
Dean's solid belief in me - and my sanity - bolstered me over the next few days. At night, hunkered down in our foxhole, we'd talk quietly about what our visitor might have meant about the two of us being "chosen". Chosen for what? By whom? But then word came through that we were being pulled off the line, and metaphysical conversations about our potential lofty destinies took a distinct second-place to the more immediate questions of how to get through the Division's attack on the German Panzerdivision at Noville Mageret.
Jimmy's gonna tell you about some incredibly hot heroics now.
Sorry about that. Dean's idea of a joke. Though that IS where I'm up to now, I guess. I'll give a little warning here and say that this might get a bit horrific. Yes, more so than Dean bleeding out in the snow or some poor German bastard getting his eyes burnt out of his head. I'll try not to let my descriptions get too bloody.
The town of Noville Mageret was a hard fight. I'm sure you've probably read about it in the papers by now. But we did it - we retook it from the Germans. Pushed them right back to where they'd started when we first came to Belgium.
Anyway. Our team ran into what a Brit officer would probably call "a spot of bother" when we were told to make a sweep through some industrial buildings. Long story short, we came across a unit of Germans in one of the cellar spaces. Any regular German unit and I don't think we'd have had a problem, but this crew had a Flammenwerfer. That's a flamethrower to you and me.
They heard us coming down the stairs, so they were able to give us a welcoming blast as we reached the doorway. We were O.K. though - it just drove us back for a moment. We regrouped and tried again. Joe got in an absolutely perfect shot, complete bullseye, to the head of the man with the flamethrower. Problem neutralized, for now. The building we were in was fairly large, with the cellars built in an interconnecting lay-out, and the rest of the German unit backed up into one of the corridors between, still firing at us as they retreated to the next cellar space. The placing of lights meant they would have sight of us for longer than we would of them, which in turn meant they now had the advantage.
Dean was already in the process of wrestling the Flammenwerfer from the back of its previous user.
These things are SCARY, Ames. Truly, a most terrifying weapon. And not just for those on the receiving end of them, either. Walking around - in a warzone, no less! - with a tank of fuel and propellant strapped to your body is no job for the faint hearted.
("Lucky for you guys I'm not that."
"Yeah and lucky for YOU you're not dead.")
Dean led, we followed, bullets were whipping about everywhere, it was hot, it was loud, it was like walking through goddamned HELL. The Germans, naturally, had the same idea about neutralizing the flamethrower problem as we'd had, and how Dean's head survived intact I think I'll just have to chalk up to a regular, garden-variety minor miracle.
What did happen though…
A bullet hit the tank, Ames. I don't want to describe this for you. God, I don't want to describe it for me either. I don't want to remember it or think about it.
("That makes two of us, buddy.")
I can safely say it was the single most horrific thing I've witnessed in the entirety of the war. My best friend on fire.
My hands are shaking. Dean's just handed me a smoke. I'm putting my pencil down for a minute or two here and pulling myself together.
There wasn't any way to mistake it for just more of the fire. This, this was blue. Blue light flashing into existence in the midst of all that horror, a comet plunging into our moment of Hell. It was IT again. The angel, whatever it was. It was back.
It reached an arm straight into the fire, just plunged right in there and grabbed hold of Dean's left shoulder. Dragged him free.
The fire blinked out in a heartbeat.
No one's eyes got burnt out this time. The Germans were already on the move again. The rest of our team was already after them. Dean's eyes were understandably already closed.
The angel, still holding Dean's shoulder, touched two fingers of its other hand gently to Dean's forehead. In an instant, right before my eyes, all of Dean's burns were healed. He was whole and beautiful and unscarred once more. Even his uniform mended itself.
Half in shock, but mostly in utter AWE, I dropped to my knees then and there. No doubt in my mind at all this time - I was in the presence of an angel of the Lord. God's love was made manifest right there in front of me. I tried to give my thanks but only sobs punched up out of my chest.
Dean cracked one eyelid open just the tiniest, tiniest way then shut it tight again. "You again, huh? We gonna get a name outta you this time?"
The angel tilted its head as it gazed at Dean, then slowly looked toward me. When it spoke, the sound was little more than a whisper in my head. I guess it was trying to spare Dean's ears this time. "I am Castiel."
"He, er - " Was it even a 'he'? Something made me feel like the pronoun was appropriate. "He says his name is Castiel."
Dean smiled. "Well. That's some pretty nice timing there, Cas."
The angel's too-blue eyes were back on Dean again, gazing at him with the same frank curiosity he'd shown in that snowy clearing near Bastogne.
From elsewhere in the rabbit-warren of cellars, we heard the voices of our team meandering their way back toward us.
"I must go," the angel said quietly. "I can't interfere in this conflict again. Be safe." He glanced briefly my way but then returned his gaze solidly onto Dean. "Both of you."
He was gone.
Dean sensed the lack of presence and cautiously opened his eyes again. "How do I look?"
"Perfect."
"Well yeah, but I mean - do I look O.K.?"
The rest of the guys got back to us to find Dean miraculously and inexplicably NOT burnt-to-a-crisp, and me on my knees on the cellar floor, laughing a rapture-induced laugh that was definitely verging over into hysterical territory.
We clambered out of that building just in time to have a mortar rip the house next door apart. Like I said earlier - it was a hard fight, Noville Mageret.
Yager took a chunk of shrapnel to the throat that just about took his head clear off. Poor bastard. Dean and Joe and I - being the lucky ones - all took some metal in the legs or arms.
("That big piece they dug outta your thigh? I'm gonna make me a key chain. Go to an engraver and get 'Chevrolet' written clear across it. Fucking thing's big enough for it to fit, too.")
When they brought us into the field hospital, what do you suppose they discovered on Dean's left shoulder?
It's a hand print, Ames. Raised up and angry-red, like a fresh burn - only his skin's hale and healthy. I feel a little funny when I look at it, to be honest. It's almost like feeling jealous. Like Dean and Castiel must share some sort of bond now. As if something profound happened between them when Cas pulled him from the flames. I'm the one who could talk to the angel, look upon his form while no one else could, but he never gazed at me the way he gazed at Dean. I have no physical reminder of his presence like Dean does. Like Dean will carry with him for the rest of his days. It's petty of me to feel such a childish emotion, but I almost feel "left out" in a sense. As if the angel liked Dean better than me.
("That's crap and you know it. You can TALK TO FUCKING ANGELS, Jim!"
"I thought you didn't believe in angels?"
"I told you, I believe what I see with my own eyes."
"But you couldn't see him."
"Yeah. But I can see this right here on my skin. Touch it, even. I said I'd be needing some hard proof. Well. This feels like proof to me.")
So there it all is, Ames. My fantastic story. I don't even know what it all means. Was there a lesson for me to learn somewhere in all this? Am I supposed to be ready now for… something?
Or was it all about Dean and proving to him that angels exist? Giving this man who's seen so much wonder in his life already, but who was without Faith, proof that there is GOOD beyond our natural world as well as all the evil?
Soon as we're mended (just another day or two, at most), we're rejoining the Division and marching into Germany. Maybe something is going to happen there that myself and Dean had to be saved for? Perhaps that's what all this has been about? I wish to God I knew.
Hang on a minute. Dean's asking for me to hand the notebook over…
O.K., how's about this for some big moral lesson or whatever?
Two guys can fool around a bit and not only do they NOT get smote down by your god, but they even get sent a goddamn ANGEL to help them when they land in a shitty situation?
Or what about this one: the good guys win. End of story.
Dean likes to give the impression he isn't a complicated man. Personally, I think it's mainly front.
I love you, Amelia. Kiss Claire for me. God Bless.
Signing off for now,
your Jimmy.