[FIC]: The Silent Country (Dean/Jimmy, Adult)
Title: The Silent Country
Author: nyoka @ chocolate_muse
Characters/Pairing: Jimmy Novak, Dean Winchester [Dean/Jimmy], Claire Novak
Rating: NC-17
Count: ~9,950
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I own nothing and no one.
Warnings: language; sexuality.
Notes: This goes AU post-S5. A pinch hit written for janie_tangerine as part of spn_jimmynovak's Novakfest.
Summary: Something's missing. Every time Jimmy wakes up, he feels its loss.
*
"Where are we, daddy?" Claire asks, pressing her forehead and palms flat against the back window of the Impala.
Jimmy sits up in the backseat, pushing Claire's damp hair away from her cheek. "I don't know, sweetheart."
Jimmy turns to look out of the window, following his daughter's gaze toward the flat, empty landscape. They're parked on a barren strip of road not far from the main highway. The crumbling blacktop, flanked by scrub brush and yellow grass, sits silent below a naked blue sky.
They've been driving for hours, miles stretching by without notice. Claire yawns wide, and Jimmy eases her back down in the seat beside him. She turns to stare up at him, looking scared, an emotion Jimmy knows must be reflected on his own face. He squeezes her shoulder, tries to be reassuring even though he feels anything but at the moment.
Jimmy shuts his eyes, inhales a steadying breath as he rests his head back against the seat. They're in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization, miles from anything. Claire spent the morning counting the few passing cars, counting the black birds on the telephone wires. She's taking it all in: the long, winding roads, the steady change from hills to plains to desert to cornfields. She's doing better than he is when it come to accepting it all.
Jimmy knows he should get out of the car, stretch for a bit, maybe ask Dean where they are. But he senses that Claire needs for him to stay close today, so he's been reluctant to leave her side. Through the open window Jimmy can see Dean a few feet away, pacing in front of the car. He's still on the phone, arguing with someone in a low, rushed voice. Probably Bobby or Rufus, a couple of the hunters Jimmy knows Dean's been in contact with during the past week. Dean's still trying to find somewhere safe to stash them. Find a way to protect them.
Jimmy turns to glance at Claire, her head pressing against his shoulder as she dozes off. She's gotten so big; she's thirteen now, a teenager. Gone are her colorful butterfly barrettes, replaced now by rose-pink nail polish and pierced ears. Jimmy shakes his head. It's hard to believe. He's missed so much. Claire's wearing some of Dean's spare clothes today, her slim figure swimming in an oversized, worn band t-shirt, make-shift jean cut-offs, and scuffed boots. Her blond hair's pulled back into a small, messy bun, loose strands falling across her pale face, clinging to her damp forehead. She's knocked out, exhausted from another sleepless night.
Jimmy's gentle with her as he lowers her down onto the backseat. She curls in on herself, knees pressing to her belly, arms wrapping around her chest. Her eyelids flutter open, eyes widening as she turns to look up at him. "Daddy?"
"It's okay. I'm here," he says, placing one of their stolen motel pillows underneath her head before adding, "I'm not going anywhere. Not this time." She nods, her eyes already falling shut.
Jimmy sighs, his nerves rubbed raw. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and head in his hands. He's been in possession of his own body for two weeks now, and he still hasn't managed to feel in control. When Castiel returned to heaven after Lucifer was locked back in his cage, Jimmy had been fully restored, given his life back only to find out days later that Castiel's enemies were making plans to target his vessel and his vessel's bloodline. Raphael wanted to find a way to limit Castiel's power on earth. Castiel sent Dean to protect them, but it wasn't soon enough. Amelia was killed in the fray, and Claire and Jimmy barely made it out alive. They've been on the road ever since, zig-zagging across the country, running from safe house to safe house, moving from hunt to hunt.
Jimmy jumps, hands leaving his face as Dean opens up the car door. Dean's eyes meet his, hollowed-out and tired. "Hey, Jimmy. Sorry to startle you, man."
Jimmy inhales slow and deep, runs a hand through his messy hair. "It's alright."
Dean looks at him for a long moment, rubbing a hand over the back of his sunburnt neck. "Um, you two doing okay?"
Jimmy almost laughs, but manages not to. "We're surviving," he offers instead.
"Yeah," Dean nods, eyes running over Jimmy and Claire, like he's checking to see if Jimmy's really telling the truth.
"She's sleeping," Jimmy says, stating the obvious. Dean shuffles his boots in the dirt as he moves closer, reaching over Jimmy to examine Claire. He runs his thumb over the bandage on her temple, a nasty cut given to her by one of Raphael's followers.
Dean stills his fingers over her forehead, likely checking for fever. "She feeling any better? Kick that cold yet?"
"Yeah," Jimmy swallows, nodding quickly. "I think so. The medicine helped. Got rid of the fever. Got her to sleep."
"Good, good," Dean says, standing up quickly and placing his hand against the car door. "We'll pick her up some fresh clothes when we find a town with a decent Wal-Mart. I'm sure she's tired of my hand-me-downs."
"Thanks, Dean," Jimmy says, meaning it. "For everything." He doesn't know what he would have done without Dean's help these past two weeks.
Dean shrugs, turning away to eye the dusty road in front of them. "Hey," he says, smirking when he faces Jimmy again. "I got Claire a bag of jelly beans at the gas station when you were both out cold. Ben use to love them, so I figured Claire might like 'em too."
Jimmy looks up, smiling a bit as Dean digs into one of his back pockets, hands coming away with a small bag of candy, which he tosses to Jimmy. Jimmy catches it, remembering how much Claire use to like the orange-flavored ones. She would pick them all out of the bag before Jimmy or Amelia could get to them first.
Jimmy looks over at Claire. She hasn't spoken much since her mother's death. A few observations here and there, but she doesn't seem to want to say anything else, doesn't want to talk about what happened. Dean says it's normal; he didn't speak for a long time after his mother was killed. Sometimes there just aren't any words. Sometimes there's comfort in the silence.
Jimmy squeezes the bag in his hand, throat tightening. He takes a long, deep breath, looks up to see Dean watching him, worry and concern in his eyes. Dean's been really good with Claire. Jimmy's not surprised given everything he knows about the man, filtered down to him through Castiel over the years. A loyal brother, a protective father figure, a good man. Castiel trusted Dean more than anyone, and now Jimmy's beginning to understand why.
Jimmy meets Dean's gaze head on. Asks, "Everything okay?"
Dean shakes his head, looking almost embarrassed as he turns away. "Yeah, it's just weird. Sometimes I look at you and expect to see Cas."
Jimmy smiles, something inside feeling raw and tender. Empty. "You and me both. I look in the mirror some days and can't believe it's just me in here." He squints up at Dean. "Where are we anyway?" he asks.
Dean frowns, tongue running over his dry lips. "I think we're about fifty miles east of Las Vegas. Care to make a pit stop?"
Jimmy arches a brow. "Don't you think Claire's a little young for the casino?"
Dean laughs, slamming the car door closed before making his way to the driver's seat. "I was making a killing at blackjack at the ripe old age of five and a half."
Jimmy smiles at that, listens as Dean starts the Impala up. The old car growls loudly before Dean pulls it back onto the road, clouds of dust pluming beneath the wheels.
"Was that Bobby on the phone?" Jimmy asks, settling back in for another long drive.
"Yep," Dean says, hands steady on the wheel. "He put me in contact with some folks in Sacramento. Got a hunt needs looking into."
Jimmy lets that idea settle in, nodding his head. "What happens now? To me and Claire I mean?" he asks, turning to pull Dean's leather jacket over Claire's sleeping form. He runs a hand through her tangled hair. She's been having nightmares, and Jimmy's glad to see she's finally getting some decent shut eye.
"We drive," Dean says, meeting Jimmy's eyes through the rear-view mirror. "We'll figure out the rest along the way."
Jimmy nods, closing his eyes as he leans back in his seat. He holds the bag of jelly beans tight in his hand, listens to the hum of the engine, the miles slipping by underneath the belly of the car.
*
Something's missing. Every time Jimmy wakes up, he feels its loss. The absence is like a physical thing, a leaden weight in his guts. He remembers once feeling complete, feeling more than. Feeling something beyond the fragile flesh and bone of his own body. He remembers being so twisted up in movement, in sound, in flight itself. The memory of it all -- the pain, the blood, the light (there was always so much light) -- is there in the back of his mind; a reminder of what was, of what no longer is.
Sitting here now, he remembers the feeling of blood and sweat on his skin, the clean desert wind on his face, the lightning thrumming through his veins, the miles spreading beneath his feet. He remembers the power of Castiel's grace, filling him, completing him.
Jimmy remembers flying.
*
The small shotgun cottage sits empty, broken down by age and weather. All the house's ghosts have been put to rest, courtesy of Dean, a canister of lighter fluid, and a match. The surrounding swamp is big and dark and loud, a rich, green tapestry that spreads out for miles in all directions. The place smells like wet earth and molasses; its spicy taste is thick on Jimmy's tongue.
Jimmy watches Claire walk down by the bank of the murky bayou, her bare feet sinking into the red-clay mud. She says she's looking for bullfrogs. Dean showed her how to catch them earlier, and Claire's been at it for close to an hour, wanting to impress them.
Dean's sitting on the porch now, his bare chest glowing with sweat, smeared with streaks of mud. He's cleaning out his tackle box, humming an old bluesy tune as he works. After a while, Jimmy joins him, sitting down next to him and swinging his own legs off the edge of the porch. Jimmy watches the water, watches Claire, watches the world dappled in the golden evening light.
"She seems better," Dean comments quietly, untangling his fishing hooks.
Jimmy nods, turning to stare out at the water again, smiling when he notices Claire's feet and legs covered in mud and grass. "She likes being out in nature," he says, remembering how she was only three the first time they took a family camping trip together, how she loved every moment of it. Claire's always been fond of being outdoors, hiking through the woods, climbing trees, sitting in fields of long grass for hours at a time. She has a certain way of being in nature, of wanting to experience it fully. It's something Jimmy never really understood until Castiel showed him how to see the world through celestial eyes; showed him how everything is holy, wondrous.
The humidity lingers, presses against him like a slow, warm breath. He can hear Claire laughing, a sound so sweet compared to the riotous noise of the crickets, cicadas, and frogs. She's wearing her own clothes today, a yellow summer dress they found for her at a Good Will outside of Natchitoches. Earlier Claire pulled her hair into two thick, long blond braids that now trail down her back. Dean stuck a magnolia blossom in one braid, something that sent her blushing and smiling. She's got a crush.
The mossy Cypress trees around them seem to dance and whisper. Everything feels and looks different since his return. Or maybe Jimmy's just seeing it all differently. Two years of an angel using your eyes, and you never see the world in quite the same way.
For a moment Jimmy thinks about what his family's life could have been like without the angels, the demons, and their wars. Camping trips to Vermont in the summer, anniversaries spent on the Carolina coast. But he knows thinking like this is useless, needlessly painful. Without Castiel working with the Winchesters, there wouldn't have been a life for any of them. In saving the world, they all sacrificed; they all lost something.
Jimmy's jaw clenches, his eyes burn. He feels empty, hollow. He thinks of Claire, long braids and blushing cheeks. Crying at night for her mom. He thinks of Dean, smart-alec mouth and cheesy jokes. The lost look he gets when he talks about his brother, about the war. There's nothing left of the old world for any of them. They all have to make their own way from here. Somehow.
When Dean's fingers brush the edge of his t-shirt, Jimmy starts, turns to look over at him. "Yeah?"
"Nothing," Dean says, looking away quickly, eyes returning to his work.
In the distance, Jimmy sees Claire jumping up and down, holding a bullfrog up in the air. "I caught one!"
*
Jimmy's so hungry sometimes, his body revels in the taste of greasy diner food and stale coffee. In a bustling 24-hour joint in downtown Louisville, he downs his first two cheeseburgers in five minutes, sucking the grease off his fingers with messy zeal, savoring ever single bite.
Claire giggles at him, and Dean pauses in the middle of chewing his own food, fork stalled half-way to his mouth, his eyes fixated on Jimmy's emptying plate.
"What?" Jimmy asks, tongue darting out to lick mayo off of his bottom lip.
Dean cocks an eyebrow, clearly amused. "I never met anyone who loves to eat more than me. You're like a machine," he says, voice a little awed, before resuming his chewing and popping another piece of apple pie into his mouth.
Jimmy adds more ranch to his fries, stuffs three in his mouth. "I got a lot of catching up to do," he says, mouth full.
Dean laughs quietly. "Never could convince Cas to eat anything."
"Castiel truly didn't know what he was missing," Jimmy says before sipping noisily from his vanilla milkshake to underscore his point.
"Dad, you always ate a lot," Claire points out, working through her own plate full of pancakes and scrambled eggs. She likes breakfast for dinner; it's one thing that's never changed.
Jimmy taps the top of her head, smiles. "Your mom was a really good cook that's why."
"Yeah she was," Claire nods, using her fork to move her eggs absently across her plate. "I especially miss her meatball spaghetti."
"Me too, baby," Jimmy says, resting a comforting hand on her back. When he looks up, he sees Dean watching them, the soft lines of his mouth tilted downward.
There's an awkward silence. Claire drops her fork onto her plate. It clatters loudly. She then pushes her plate away, saying, "I gotta use the restroom. Excuse me."
Jimmy stands to let her out of the booth and watches as she make her way to the tiny restroom. They checked it out before they came in, lined it with salt and protection spells. They're extra-careful these days.
Jimmy sits back down, fingering the edge of his plate. "Isn't this where you tell me it gets easier?" he asks, turning to meet Dean's eyes.
Dean looks at him for a moment. Then he wipes his mouth with a napkin, leans back in the booth, and says, voice even, "I'd be lying to you if I said that."
"You're terrible at offering comfort," Jimmy says, grabbing Dean's fork and polishing off his pie for him.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean grunts, slapping Jimmy's hands away from his now-empty plate.
Jimmy sits back, licks his lips, and watches the waitresses scuttle around the diner, working through the dinner rush.
"How 'bout we take her to Disney World?" Dean asks, popping one of Jimmy's soggy fries into his mouth and smacking loudly.
Jimmy looks up, surprised. Dean's always surprising him. "Yeah, yeah. I think she'd really like that."
"Me too," Dean says, a quiet smile on his face.
They sit back, comfortable with each other after so many weeks together. The diner is crowded with the tired workers from the neighboring downtown. Most of them will order the pork roast and mashed potatoes Tuesday special, talk about last night's high-school football game, complain about the strike at the mill. It's all so normal in a world that no longer feels normal to Jimmy.
"Would you care for a refill, sugar?" Jimmy looks up to find their waitress smiling at Dean; they always do. Dean always smiles back, flirts, leaves generous tips.
This waitress is pretty, long brunette hair tied back in a pony tail. She's got a sweet smile, rose-colored lips, brown doe eyes. She reminds Jimmy a little of Amelia when they first started dating. Jimmy smiles, remembering the time they saw Titanic at the dollar cineplex, made out in the back row of the empty theater as the ship sank. Jimmy remembers how Amelia tasted of buttery popcorn, smelled of citrus shampoo. He remembers the needy sounds she made when he ran his hand under her shirt, cupped her breasts. The way she said his name, soft and breathless, when he discovered the heat between her legs.
Jimmy blinks away the memory, finds himself twisting his wedding band, which is burnished gold against his pale skin.
"How about you?" the waitress asks, smiling kindly down at him. Jimmy nods his head, watches as she tips the pot over his cup, filling it with the steaming dark brew. He brings the coffee to his lips, his eyes squeezing shut tight as he drinks.
"It gets easier," Dean tells him from over the top of his own coffee cup.
Jimmy looks up at him, smiles. He appreciates the lie.
*
The flash of light rips through him, bursting him open. Energy ripples under his skin: sliding, slicing, reshaping him. There's the taste of ozone on his tongue; there's a patchwork of voices whispering in the darkness, all calling his name.
Jimmy wakes, shivering. He can't breathe. He can't see. He's blinded.
"It's okay. Daddy, I've got you," Claire whispers.
Jimmy opens his eyes when Claire's small arms wrap around him. He's missed this, holding on to her like he use to do when she was little, when he was the one comforting her after bad dreams. But he clings to her now, tells her it's okay. He clings because she's still his baby girl.
"I'm sorry," Jimmy says, breathing coming easier. "For leaving you."
"It's okay," she whispers, placing a soothing hand in his own. "You helped to save the world."
Jimmy holds Claire's hand in his own hand, and it feels too small, too fragile. He wonders if she can feel him trembling; he wonders what the future holds for her. He wonders if she dreams of light.
*
The leaves are turning orange, red, and golden. The temperature is getting cooler, the days shorter. The world is changing. Some weeks it feels like Jimmy's living someone else's life, like he's been cast in a role he's unfamiliar with. But there are things he knows, things he recollects. It's strange to think about all the ways he knows Dean, how every interaction with him feels steeped in some sort of déjà vu. Jimmy knows Dean because Castiel knew Dean. Jimmy knows how Dean smells in the afternoon: the hint of leather from his jacket, engine grease from his car, gun powder from his weapons, aloe from his healing cuts. Something else that is soft and warm and musky; all Dean. Jimmy knows the things Castiel had begun to recognize as the comforting smells of friend, of family, of home.
Jimmy stands with Dean outside a motel room on a balcony that overlooks the foggy Bangor cityscape. They're both nursing Heinekens, and Jimmy's breathing deep, drinking in the familiar smell of Dean after a long day on the road.
Dean leans closer, mentions something about a song he heard Claire singing in the car. Something about Miley Cyrus and how it reminds him of Sam's shameful love of Disney movies. Dean says he use to put on The Little Mermaid for Sam when he was going through his grumpy pre-teen years; it always made the kid smile. Dean gets quiet then, always gets quiet when talking about Sam. But he stays close, warmth attracting warmth. He's close enough that Jimmy's inhaling big lungfuls of air, feeling overwhelmed and stretched tight enough to break.
Later that night, digging through his duffel in the motel bathroom, Jimmy takes a moment to touch his own things, the few items he was able to pack when they escaped. He fingers the silver chain crucifix his father gave him when he graduated college. His father, the honest Midwestern preacher, who raised a good family, a devout family. A family who believed in God's will, who kept their faith even in the darkest of times. A family destined by blood to be the vessels of angels. His father use to tell Jimmy that they were all chosen to do God's work in different ways; it was his father's place to spread the Gospel. When Castiel came for Jimmy, Jimmy had known it was his place to give his body, his life, to this war. His father, had he known, would have told Jimmy it was a blessing. He'd been chosen. They all had.
Jimmy puts on the crucifix, and it feels cool against his chest; foreign. He sits down on the cold linoleum of the bathroom floor, spreads his possessions all around him. He runs his hand over the leather-bound Bible that use to belong to his mother. He remembers reading her favorite highlighted passages at her hospital bedside when she was dying of cancer. Reading aloud had calmed him, calmed them both, made the soul-deep grieving something he could get through. The words were comforting, something he understood, something he needed.
Now he opens the Bible, finds one of his mother's favorite passages and reads:
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
*
These are the facts Jimmy remembers about himself. James David Novak was born August 6, 1976, the only child of David and Margaret Novak, both of Pontiac, Illinois. Jimmy was a model son: he made good grades, volunteered with the Christian youth ministry, ate all his vegetables. As an adult, he became an active member of the local church (his father's church), attended the local college, married a local girl who taught at the local elementary school. After college he went into business with his best friend, becoming an ad executive at their moderately-successful start-up marketing firm.
It all seems like another lifetime ago, another Jimmy. This Jimmy finds it harder and harder to figure out who he is now, what he wants, desires. He knows Castiel likes walking barefooted through the white sands of the Maldives islands, reveling in the feel of the tiny grains between his human toes. That Castiel loves to sit on the top of the Pantheon at sunrise, contemplating battle strategy and the will of his Father. He knows that Castiel found the poetry of Rumi soothing, and that for months after he raised Dean from hell, Castiel would visit Dean every night, easing his dreams, telling him stories.
But that's Castiel. What does Jimmy really know about himself now? After weeks on the run? Well, Jimmy knows he likes to dig through Dean's cassette tape collection, kept under the shotgun seat in a crumbling old shoebox. He likes The Stones more than Zeppelin. Cash more than Dylan. He likes reading the business section of the newspaper while Dean combs through the crime blotter and the obits. He likes salty fries dipped in a vanilla milkshake, his eggs over easy, and his steak rare. He likes boiled crabs from this hole-in-the-wall fish shack in Galveston. He likes milk and honey in his tea, and two spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee. He likes the West Coast better than the East Coast, and sunsets more than sunrises. He likes the road, something he'd never expected to get use to: the smell of asphalt in his clothes, the oil and dirt under his nails, and the look Dean flashes his way when he's speeding down an empty highway, nothing after them, nothing before them. Just earth and sky.
*
The motel room is cheap, rents by the hour. It smells of mold and dust and things too old to name. The carpet is a sickly grey, clashing nicely with the curlicue-pattered yellow wallpaper. A steady stream of car headlights splashes light into the room, creating a play of geometric designs against the back wall.
Jimmy tries to sleep. He closes his eyes to the sounds of cars passing over the rain-slicked freeway, Claire breathing in bed beside him, and Dean snoring softly in the neighboring double bed.
He doesn't move, fearing the noisy creaking of the bedsprings when he shifts his weight. So he lies perfectly still, breathes quietly. It's the middle of the night, and there are truths he can allow himself to recognize only during these times: there's something missing inside of him, a deep vacant hole he doesn't know how to fill.
Jimmy must eventually doze off because much later he wakes from a nightmare, the images of which begin to fade the minute he opens his eyes. There had been fire, he remembers, so much smoke and heat he couldn't breathe. He remembers screams that sounded like songs. Castiel shielded the worst of the battlefront from Jimmy, but sometimes Jimmy gets snatches of Castiel's memories, the bleed through from years of being woven together as one.
It's just barely light outside when he climbs out of bed. The dim desk lamp is on, and Jimmy sees Dean sitting, hunched over the desk, scribbling in his hunter's journal. Dean's wearing black boxers and a white undershirt; his hair is sleep-mussed, sticking up wildly like Jimmy's own. There's enough light that Jimmy can see the dark bruising on Dean's cheek caused by a nasty poltergeist three towns over.
Dean looks up from his journal when Jimmy approaches, tips his head in greeting. "Bad dreams?" he asks, sipping from a glass of whiskey.
Jimmy thinks of the heat of hellfire, the song-like cries of angels dying. "Yeah, you could say that," he says, voice rougher than usual. He yawns, rubbing the grit from his eyes as he sits down beside Dean at the small desk. He turns to look at Claire, still curled up in a ball in bed, blanket pulled up to her neck to fight off the chill. Moonlight edges in through the curtains, spills over her sleeping form.
"Can I ask you something, Jimmy?" Dean says, scratching at his stubbled chin.
Jimmy pours himself some of the whiskey, nodding his head. "Go ahead."
"What was being a vessel like?" Dean asks, face soft in the lamp light.
Jimmy has to take a drink at that; he lets the whiskey burn down his throat, bitter and raw. He looks at Dean for a long moment, takes in the sharp jut of his jaw, the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks, the warm glow of his eyes.
"To be honest, it was kinda like dying," Jimmy says finally, voice quiet. "Over and over again. Being ripped apart. An act of immolation."
Dean looks at him, eyes widening in shock, mouth gaping like he's about to say something, but closing just as fast.
"But," Jimmy continues, swishing his drink, trying to find the words. "It felt like living too. Like really, truly being alive."
"Ah," Dean breathes, shaking his head. He pours himself another drink, takes a long swallow. Jimmy watches Dean's throat work, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in the lamp light.
"You know," Jimmy adds, his mouth curving upward into a tired smile, "I use to imagine it was sort of like a star going supernova." He laughs softly, adding, "Mixed with the best sex of your life."
Dean snorts, running a finger along the spine of his journal. "All orgasms all the time?"
"Well," Jimmy grins, shrugging. "If orgasms came wrapped in massive atomic energy and light."
The desk chair squeaks as Dean shifts his body, turns to look at Jimmy head on. He cocks a brow, smirks. "Maybe some do."
Jimmy chuckles, sitting back in his own chair. "It's everything at once," he goes on, wanting to put more words to it. "Your birth, your death. Every emotion you've ever felt. Everything you've ever seen, touched, known. It's completion. Unity."
"That's some pretty heavy shit," Dean says, turning to look at him again, something sad lingering in his gaze. Jimmy knows that Dean has nightmares as well. There are days when Dean gets too quiet, gets too drunk. Misses his brother and his family so much he gets lost inside himself for hours at a time. Jimmy and Claire give him space on those days, leave him alone to exorcise whichever demons he's trying to expel from his own body.
Jimmy exhales deeply, running his hand over his chest. There's a constant pain there most days, a hole in his heart where something use to be. He thinks it's strange, this feeling of incompleteness, emptiness. It's strange to feel so alone in his own skin. But looking at Dean now, Jimmy suspects the other man knows something about this feeling, the lingering ache of it. Dean wears his loneliness like a second coat, wraps himself in it. Sometimes Jimmy wants to reach out, touch.
"You miss him don't you?" Dean asks, his voice gentle, coaxing. The light makes his eyes look unnaturally bright, too understanding, too knowing.
"I shouldn't," Jimmy says, throat tightening. He knows it's wrong to miss something that held him captive for so long, something that nearly destroyed him. Dean's still watching him closely though, the light from the lamp highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the hard set of his jaw, the scratches above his brow.
Jimmy turns away from him, wipes his hand over his eyes and across his face. He thinks of the burning heat of Castiel, the feeling of losing himself in something unknowable. Belonging. Jimmy gulps down the last of his whiskey, savoring the burn.
*
Jimmy spent years in study, reading the Bible, learning the Word of God. Listening to his father's deep, gravely voice at the pulpit. On the porch swing during late evenings, he'd sit beside his father as he practiced his sermons, listening with rapt attention, holding on to his every note. He believed; he had faith.
In Tallahassee, there's a small, white-steepled Baptist church across the street from the motel. It doesn't look anything like his father's church, which was a towering, modern brick structure large enough to host a massive congregation. But there's something about this tiny beaten-down church, its tired white clapboard siding, its crumbling concrete steps leading up to the open front door.
On Sunday morning, Jimmy pauses outside the church to watch the families gather. He doesn't realize he's going to go inside until he's already there, seated in one of the back pews, fingers running over the hymnal.
The church is packed. The sermon is powerful. The gospel choir is joyous. And Jimmy sits in the last row and takes it all in, mouth dry and eyes wet, craving something he has no name for. When the preacher says, "Let us pray," for the first time in two years, Jimmy dips his own head, clasps his own hands, and prays.
*
Claire's running through the corn field, golden hair flying behind her, leaves slapping against her bare arms. She's running so fast Jimmy almost loses her in the tall rows, but he catches up with her when they both break through a clearing, the plants chopped down, leaves scattered over the dark soil.
Claire's breathing hard, arms stretched out on either side of her, face tilted toward the blue sky. She's spinning and spinning. "Flying," she says, laughing as she slides down onto the ground, dizzy and giddy.
Jimmy joins her there, and they both settle onto their backs, lying with their faces turned up toward the sun, tall fields on either side of them, hiding them from the world.
"I remember what Castiel felt like too," Claire says after a while, voice quiet like she's sharing a secret.
Jimmy blinks up at the sunlight, feels the heat on his face. He watches the clouds move across the afternoon sky, the golden stalks dance in the wind.
"Do you think he'll come back for us?" Claire asks, and there's something hopeful in her voice. Something that makes Jimmy's heart speed up, his vision blur.
Jimmy closes his eyes, feels the ground shift underneath him. There's a thrumming to the world these days, an energy he feels in everything, everyone. He doesn't remember noticing it before. Before Castiel, before the spill of grace into his body. But he notices it now. The song of the morning light as it moves across the water, the symphony of a bleeding sunset.
"One day," Jimmy says, and he knows it's the truth; he hears it in the wind.
*
Jimmy finds Dean leaning against the railing of the bridge, watching the rolling slide of the ink-black river below them, smoking a cigarette. Curls of smoke rise from the cigarette held between Dean's fingers, and the scent of tobacco haunts the chilly air.
Jimmy carefully walks over the bridge's old wooden planks, before sliding next to Dean at the rail. They're somewhere in Ohio, some town Jimmy's already forgotten the name to. He's glad to be back in the Midwest though, even if just for a couple of days. Glad to feel his feet on familiar ground, spend some time watching the trees lose their last leaves in the early frost. He spent the morning drowsing with Claire in his arms as they passed by miles of corn and wheat fields.
The night's long and dark, but the moon's huge and luminous. Jimmy tilts his head toward the river, taking in the churning rush of the current. He turns and watches as Dean brings the cigarette to his mouth again, inhaling deep.
Jimmy shakes his head. Says, soft, "Those things will kill you."
Dean smirks, a quirk of his mouth that draws his cigarette upward. He takes another long drag, letting the smoke curl out between his plush lips slowly. Then says, "Can't seem to stay dead anyway."
"Join the party," Jimmy huffs a smile, leaning forward, elbows on the railing. He looks out over the stretch of moonlit valley, at the snake-like curl of the river. Claire's safe in her own tent a few feet away; she's doing better these days. They both are.
Jimmy turns when Dean nudges his shoulder, holding out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. Jimmy chuckles and takes what's being offered. He pulls a cigarette from the pack, rests it loosely between his lips, and watches as Dean leans in to light it with his Zippo.
When Jimmy inhales, the bitter tang is like a tiny slice of heaven. He lets the smoke wind through his lungs, then watches the way it rises up from his mouth and dissipates in the air.
"You look like you know what you're doing," Dean teases, voice curling sweetly like the smoke.
"Yeah," Jimmy says, voice gone smoke rough. "I actually quit when Amelia got pregnant with Claire." He holds the cigarette between two fingers, watches the tip crackle and burn, the ash falling toward the river below.
"So," Dean says, words slightly muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. "You doing okay these days?"
Jimmy laughs around his own cigarette. "Hunky-dory," he murmurs.
"Huh," Dean exhales, blowing white smoke through his nose. "You were ridden by an angel for two years. So let me repeat myself: are you doing okay these days?"
Jimmy rolls his shoulders, moves his body like it's his own. "Yeah," he says after a moment, watching his cigarette spark and flicker with the light breeze. "I think so."
"Good," Dean nods, turning to regard the river. "I was thinking we could head south to Georgia soon. There's a couple hunter-warded old abandoned farms I know we can stay at for a while. Get Claire into school again.”
Jimmy takes one last drag on his cigarette and flicks it over the bridge. Exhales as he turns to stare at Dean. "Why?"
Dean eyes him curiously, leaning his back against the railing. "I just thought you both could use a rest."
"I mean," Jimmy says, nerves sparking, "Why are you doing this? Helping us at all?"
Dean's eyes are sharp as they meet Jimmy's. "Because you and Claire need my help," Dean says, voice calm. "You can stay with me as long as you need. I promised Cas I'd watch out for you until this whole civil war thing is over. Until Raphael is defeated. I keep my promises."
Jimmy's mouth curves slightly. "You sound like our babysitter."
"Well," Dean laughs, flicking ash onto the ground, "I was aiming for friend."
"You're a strange one," Jimmy says, tilting his head up toward the sky, sighing. The stars are bright tonight, the heavens full of angel fire. "Castiel spent so much time pondering you. Trying to understand you. You were like this puzzle he couldn't quite figure out."
"Do I confuse you?" Dean asks, voice curious. He stubs his cigarette out against the rail, meets Jimmy's eyes.
"You went to hell for your brother," Jimmy says, holding Dean's gaze. "That tells me a lot about the kind of man you are."
"Well, you gave up your life for your daughter," Dean says, quiet. "That tells me a lot about you. We gotta protect the people we care about."
They stare at each other, and the moment moves into something longer, weightier. Eventually Dean clears his throat, turns away. But Jimmy bites his bottom lip and keeps looking at Dean. Dean's hair is still damp from their swim in the river earlier; it curls against the back of his neck. Dean's jacket does little to hide the long line of tense muscle stretching over his broad shoulders, the graceful curve of his back as he leans forward over the rail.
Dean's beautiful, Jimmy thinks, in that same way he use to think about certain men throughout his life, but during that time he'd been too afraid to admit it to himself. Afraid thinking such thoughts meant he was sinning in the eyes of God. But one thing Jimmy's learned through all of the insanity of the last couple of years is that love is love and it's beautiful in all its forms; it's holy. Human love was something Castiel was eternally amazed by. The genders of the lovers never mattered to him; bodies are meaningless to heaven after all. It was the souls that were sacred to Castiel. Love, Castiel had said, is the expression of two souls merging, becoming one. Like vessel and angel, he'd explained. Union. Castiel once spent an entire day watching two women in Budapest hold hands and whisper sweet nothings to each other. Castiel had a way of finding beauty even as the world was ending.
Castiel had watched Dean often as well, thinking him beautiful. Jimmy leans closer to Dean now, instinctively running a hand over where he knows Castiel branded Dean when he raised him from hell. When Dean speaks again his voice is barely a whisper: "What are you thinking right now?"
"That I can't be Castiel for you," Jimmy admits.
Dean looks straight at him, brow creasing. There's a long moment of silence, and Jimmy's hand tightens on Dean's arm. With a quiet, self-conscious laugh, Dean shakes his head, says, "Dude, I'm not asking you to be."
"Good," Jimmy nods, moving his hand away. "Because I'm not him. I'm not your brother either. I'm just...me. I'm Jimmy. I'm not a hunter. I'm not an angel. I can't even sell you radio ad time anymore. I'm...nothing much these days."
"Come on now," Dean objects, shaking his head. "You're --"
"No," Jimmy interrupts, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling tired, needing Dean to get it. "I couldn't even protect my family. Amelia's gone. I failed her."
"But Claire's still here," Dean says, adamant.
Jimmy swallows hard, nods. "I know."
Dean meets his gaze levelly and adds, "That means you can still be a good dad to her."
"While on the run from angels?" Jimmy demands, low and heated. "While hunting monsters?"
"You do the best you can given the circumstances," Dean says, huffing a frustrated sigh. "You keep her safe. You protect your family."
"But I don't even know who or what I am anymore," Jimmy says, voice cracking. "When you look at me, what do you see?"
Dean eyes him, a slight smile playing across his mouth when he eventually answers: "A goofy looking dude in need of a hair cut."
"You're a real riot," Jimmy replies dryly, folding his arms across his chest.
Dean smirks, countering, "I try my best."
Jimmy eyes him for a beat, sighing deeply. "How do you even do it?" he asks.
Dean tilts his head, still smiling. "Do what? Look this good?"
"Keep going," Jimmy says, words catching in his throat, his voice suddenly gravel rough. "Lisa kicked you out. Your brother's in hell. Cas is busy playing rebel leader in heaven. And you're here on earth. Stuck trying to make sense of the world that's left. You have no one. Nothing. They took everything from you. You should hate them."
Dean looks at Jimmy for a moment, shifting his body, clearly uneasy. "Trust me, I do," is all he says. Dean steps back, releasing a deep exhale; his shoulders hunch forward as he leans over the railing.
Jimmy moves his head in a slow nod as he slides next to Dean again. They stand in silence for a long while, watching the river. After a time Dean turns to Jimmy again, offering him another cigarette. "I know who you are," Dean says, voice low.
Jimmy smiles, relaxing slightly. "I know who you are too."
*
In Fort Worth, Dean comes stumbling into their motel room after a hunt, clawed up by a black dog. He's bleeding from his belly and barely standing when Jimmy grabs him and brings him to the bed.
Dean has only taken Jimmy out with him on a couple of hunts -- the easy salt-and-burns -- and once to conduct interviews with grieving families. Dean prefers that Jimmy stick to the research and stay close to Claire, protected in their motel room by sigils and wards that keep out angels and monsters alike.
Jimmy should have insisted on following Dean this time though. The morgue full of torn-up teenagers was the first clue. And now, cutting Dean's shirt from his body, feeling his own heart jackhammer out of his chest, Jimmy's more sure than ever.
Fortunately, Claire's asleep in the next bed, dead to the world. Dean's not making a sound, biting down on a towel, not wanting to wake her up or alert the neighbors. The cuts aren't deep, just bleeding profusely. Jimmy's hands shake as he holds towels to the wounds, watches the blood soak through the cloth, ooze through his fingers.
Time slows as they work together. Minutes feel like hours. Dean sucks down several painkillers and antibiotics, then instructs Jimmy on how to clean out the wounds, stitch up the larger gashes, apply the bandages correctly. Just a scratch, Dean says. Nothing that won't heal.
When they're done, Jimmy's relief feels like a solid weight off his chest. He doesn't even realize how scared he's been until he's standing at the sink, washing Dean's blood off of his hands, shaking like a twig in the wind.
Later, Dean's tucked in bed, flipping through the channels on the muted TV. He's pale and his eyes are heavy-lidded, but he's alive, safe. Jimmy finishes cleaning up the first-aid supplies, and turns to look at Dean, brow arched. "You really gonna be okay?"
"I'm fine," Dean says, voice rough like sand paper. "I'm still good to go. I promise I won't let anything happen to you or Claire."
"You're an idiot," Jimmy says, suddenly very tired. He reaches out a shaky hand to touch Dean's forehead. Runs a slow, tentative finger across his fevered temple.
Dean holds his gaze, offers up a weak smile. "You did good back there," he says. "We did good."
Jimmy bites his bottom lip, looks away. His hands are still shaking when he climbs into his own bed that night.
*
"Do you think I'm pretty?" Claire asks Dean.
Jimmy looks up from the laundry he's loading into the washer. Claire's sitting with Dean on top of the folding table, looking up at him expectantly. The dingy laundromat's completely empty this time of night, no one to send questioning looks their way as Dean scrubs the blood out of his clothes.
Dean pauses in sorting his dirty clothes, whites thrown into a rolling basket, darks placed on the counter. "Um," he says, shooting Jimmy a panicked look. But Jimmy just winks at him, laughing quietly, giving him silent permission to charm his daughter.
Dean seems to man up then, standing to his full height and putting on one of his most endearing, roguish smiles as he turns to look Claire straight on. "Sweetheart, you are absolutely gorgeous. Those High School Musical girls got nothing on you."
Claire beams, and Jimmy huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he closes the washer and adds quarters to start the cycle.
"Hey."
Jimmy looks up to see Dean coming closer, dropping his duffel bag full of laundry on top of the neighboring washer.
"Hey," Jimmy says, glancing over to where Claire's gone back to folding her clothes, a big smile plastered on her face. "Thanks for that," he tells Dean.
"She's a good kid," Dean says, reaching around Jimmy for the detergent. The warm clean scent of Dean hits Jimmy, and he finds himself leaning even closer to the other man.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" Dean asks when they're only an inch apart.
"What?" Jimmy asks, flushing as he pulls back.
Dean laughs softly, eyes dancing with mirth. Like he knows what Jimmy's been thinking, like this is all perfectly okay. Jimmy starts to laugh too, thinking maybe, just maybe, it is.
*
Claire's standing by the side of the highway, a tiny speck of dust against the melting horizon. She's carrying one of Dean's extra army duffels and a backpack full of borrowed library books. When she turns to face the road, her full profile suddenly reminds Jimmy of Amelia, of one of the last times he saw her standing by the driveway, waving goodbye to him before he left for work.
Jimmy runs his finger along his wedding band, twists it around his finger, once, twice, thrice; his chest aches, burns with every breath. For a moment there's just the pain. His pain. One of the only things he can still call his own.
Jimmy tries to remember what it was like to be a family. He tries to remember Amelia, what it was like to love her. The warmth of her touch, her full lips curved into a smile, the lock of hair she'd curl behind her ears out of habit. The soft look she'd throw Jimmy's way when he stumbled home late from work, falling asleep on the couch in his suit and tie.
Jimmy furrows his brow, wanting to remember more. Needing to. But so much of it is hard to recall, blurred by time and war and circumstance. He brings his hand forward, twisting the golden wedding band he still wears. The ring gleams in the sunlight. Jimmy pulls it off, squeezing it in his palm for a long moment. It's hot in his hand, heavy; a solid piece of Jimmy Novak's history. Jimmy lets out a long exhale, and then he places the ring in the pocket of his jeans. He lets go.
When Jimmy looks up, he sees Claire running toward him. He kneels down, reaches out, and she hugs him tight, her arms looping around his back and her head tucking against his shoulder. He breathes deeply, holding her close.
"We're going to be okay," he says, talking into her hair. For the first time in a long while, Jimmy believes. Jimmy has faith.
*
The ocean and the sky are the same shade of dark grey. When Jimmy's toes sink into the sand, he thinks of Castiel, thinks of journeys without end. The cold saltwater runs over Jimmy's feet as he watches Claire play in the waves. His daughter's laughter is wild and untamed, her long hair splashing across her face as she runs out of the water. There's joy here; there's peace.
There are also ghosts in the lighthouse and a storm on the horizon, but for now they're safe, nothing around them for miles and miles. For a while they sit together around the fire, drying off, listening to the ebb and flow of the tide. Dean adds more logs to feed the flames, throwing a shower of sparks high into the air.
Jimmy feels the heat of the fire against his cheeks, feels the heat of Dean's shoulder pressed against his own. Claire has fallen asleep in Dean's arms, sea-salt clinging to her sunburnt skin. When Dean turns to look at Jimmy, his smile is slow and sure and deep as the night sky. He's asking something Jimmy's not sure he's ready to answer. But in this moment, Jimmy feels so present in his body, so full of heat and life. Jimmy feels almost human.
*
They're standing in the middle of the supermarket, comparing the merits of Fruits Loops versus Cocoa Puffs, the first time Jimmy kisses Dean.
It's an accident really. Dean's driving him crazy, holding up both boxes of cereal and going on and on about how it's awesome when the milk turns chocolate, and Jimmy just tells him to shut up, places his hand on Dean's cheek, leans in, and kisses him. Right there in the middle of the Piggly Wiggly.
It's not even really a kiss. It's more a brushing of dry lips against dry lips, too quick to even time, too gentle to even last. But when Jimmy pulls away, he keeps his hand on Dean's face, stroking his thumb over the line of his strong jaw, feeling the rough hint of stubble there.
Dean doesn't say anything; he simply stares at Jimmy, green eyes gone inhumanly bright in the artificial light of the cereal aisle.
"Um," Jimmy clears his throat, rubs his hand across the back of his neck as he steps away, feeling all over hot, foolish.
Dean studies him for a long, tense moment before his face splits into a wide, wicked grin. "Fruit Loops it is then," he announces, tossing the box into the basket.
Jimmy's still laughing even after he retrieves Claire from the frozen foods department.
*
In the end, it's Dean who asks. In a motel parking lot off of Highway 51, the sky purple dark, and the moon fat and full. The night's quiet, sleep-heavy and forgotten by everyone but them. Claire's safe in the motel room. Dean and Jimmy are safe in the Impala. They're all as safe as they can be until this war is over.
"Jimmy," Dean says, voice thick and rough. "You gotta be sure. Just be sure."
Jimmy breathes in, out. Closes his eyes. Counts to five. The smell of Dean is so thick here in the warm car, in the warm night. "Yeah," he says, his hands suddenly fisting in Dean's shirt, his nose pressing against Dean's neck. "I'm sure."
When he pulls back, Dean's smiling down at him, like he wasn't sure Jimmy would say yes, like he's been waiting for Jimmy to let him know it's okay. Like he's relieved. "I want this," Jimmy confesses, voice steadier than he's feeling. No, he needs this. Dean's hands are everywhere then, thumbs pressing along Jimmy's hips, skimming around his back, until they're in his hair, grabbing on as he brings his lips to Jimmy's throat. His wet, hot breath caresses Jimmy's skin.
It's just the slip-slide of bodies in the dark, but it feels different than anything Jimmy's ever done with a woman: harder, rougher, greedier. The flex of tight muscle, the burn of stubble against stubble, the warmth of Dean's callused palm. Jimmy had thought he'd feel too guilty to take this; he'd thought this would feel too much like a betrayal. Of Amelia. Of Castiel. But it feels so necessary, so inevitable; he can feel Dean's heart pounding wildly against his own, two birds trapped in a cage trying to get free.
"It's okay. This is okay," Dean whispers into Jimmy's flushed skin, hands grazing along his thigh. "Just let me know what you need."
"Everything," Jimmy says, sliding back against the black vinyl of the backseat, pulling Dean closer to him as he guides Dean's hand between his legs. Jimmy knows Dean can feel how hard he is through his jeans, how hard they both are. So he lets himself go, getting lost in the motion, in the moment, in the feel of Dean pressing him down into the seat, sliding their hips together, grinding slow and perfect. Jimmy feels so full, ready to burst. He holds Dean's flank tight, gets lost in the fevered warmth of Dean, in the grip of his hands, in the weight of his body.
Dean's mouth is hot and wet, tongue parting Jimmy's lips, seeking, teasing, claiming. The kiss lasts longer this time; there's nothing brief about open mouths and teeth and tongue, the intimacy of sharing saliva and breath. Jimmy kisses Dean, soft and deep, kisses full of everything neither has been able to say.
It's Dean who finally pulls off their clothes until they're both naked. For a while it's just lips and hands meeting, slipping against each other, lingering and exploring. This is new, but Dean touches Jimmy with hands that are familiar, known. It's strange that Jimmy knows Dean's body so well, knows all the ways Dean was made whole again by Castiel's touch. Dean makes a sound like he’s dying when Jimmy takes his cock in his hand, stroking and tugging and twisting. Jimmy watches Dean's face to record his every reaction.
Later, when Jimmy's spreading Dean's ass cheeks, kissing into the dip of his spine, and pressing lube-slick fingers inside of him, he thinks about how it's been so long for the both of them, months of hiding and running, both having lost so much in the end. Lost the things that made them feel whole. He thinks of how this too was something they had feared taking because taking means risking losing again.
Jimmy watches his cock slide against Dean's slick hole, feeling helpless with need, with want. There are no words for what he feels when he finally pushes home, when Dean's warm body pulls him inside, welcoming him. He watches the shift of Dean's back, the arch of his spine, the slide of muscles under his smooth, sweat-slicked skin. Jimmy pulls out the full length of his cock, and then pushes back harder, thrusting until he's sinking deeper, pulled further into Dean's tight heat. He's so far inside Dean; they're so joined together, Jimmy can't tell where he ends and Dean begins. A union.
"Yeah," Dean's panting, breathless, twisting himself back onto Jimmy's cock as they begin to fuck in earnest, setting a forceful rhythm that rocks the car. Jimmy grabs a tighter hold on Dean's hips to pull them even closer together, fingers biting into Dean's hipbone. He's trying to hold onto Dean, hold onto this for as long as he can.
When Jimmy comes, he sees light, sharp and brilliant. He fucks Dean faster, filling Dean up with spurt after spurt of his come, shaking with the effort, burning with the heat of the blaze he sees behind his lids. In this moment, Jimmy remembers Castiel, the beating of massive wings, the feel of taking flight, of light so bright he's gone blind.
"I know who you are," Dean says in the moments after, when they've both settled into some sort of semi-comfortable position in the backseat. It's warm in the car; it’s overwhelming: the smell of Dean, of the two of them together.
Jimmy's fingers trace along Dean's hip, hand settling there in the dip. He tilts his head up so that he can see Dean watching him, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "I know who you are too," Jimmy says. He always has.
*
Jimmy leans against the car and watches as Claire uses her finger to write her name in the dusty film covering the passenger-side window of the Impala. Claire Novak was here, written in cursive with a flower drawn beneath it. Marking her territory. Jimmy moves forward, drawing a set of small Enochian sigils below her name: the signs for safety and protection and home.
Claire smiles up at him, and Jimmy smiles back, feeling the sort of ease he hasn't felt in a long time. He looks up to see Dean loading their bags into the trunk, whistling.
"What happens now?" Jimmy asks him.
The sun's setting over the hills, painting the entire valley in a mix of orange and gold. Dean slams the trunk closed, but doesn't answer. He simply winks at Jimmy and climbs into the driver's seat. Jimmy takes shotgun, and Claire spreads out in the back, surrounded by the entire Harry Potter book series, which Dean and Jimmy bought for her at the local Salvation Army for her fourteenth birthday.
There's a deafening roar as Dean presses down on the gas, clouds of dust spinning up from the Impala's tires as they take to the highway. Jimmy watches the last town disappear in the rear-view mirror, watches the sun sink behind them. He looks over at Dean, and Dean looks over at him.
"We drive," Dean says, grinning.
Jimmy smiles, sits back. They'll figure out the rest along the way.
-fin-
Author: nyoka @ chocolate_muse
Characters/Pairing: Jimmy Novak, Dean Winchester [Dean/Jimmy], Claire Novak
Rating: NC-17
Count: ~9,950
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I own nothing and no one.
Warnings: language; sexuality.
Notes: This goes AU post-S5. A pinch hit written for janie_tangerine as part of spn_jimmynovak's Novakfest.
Summary: Something's missing. Every time Jimmy wakes up, he feels its loss.
*
"Where are we, daddy?" Claire asks, pressing her forehead and palms flat against the back window of the Impala.
Jimmy sits up in the backseat, pushing Claire's damp hair away from her cheek. "I don't know, sweetheart."
Jimmy turns to look out of the window, following his daughter's gaze toward the flat, empty landscape. They're parked on a barren strip of road not far from the main highway. The crumbling blacktop, flanked by scrub brush and yellow grass, sits silent below a naked blue sky.
They've been driving for hours, miles stretching by without notice. Claire yawns wide, and Jimmy eases her back down in the seat beside him. She turns to stare up at him, looking scared, an emotion Jimmy knows must be reflected on his own face. He squeezes her shoulder, tries to be reassuring even though he feels anything but at the moment.
Jimmy shuts his eyes, inhales a steadying breath as he rests his head back against the seat. They're in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization, miles from anything. Claire spent the morning counting the few passing cars, counting the black birds on the telephone wires. She's taking it all in: the long, winding roads, the steady change from hills to plains to desert to cornfields. She's doing better than he is when it come to accepting it all.
Jimmy knows he should get out of the car, stretch for a bit, maybe ask Dean where they are. But he senses that Claire needs for him to stay close today, so he's been reluctant to leave her side. Through the open window Jimmy can see Dean a few feet away, pacing in front of the car. He's still on the phone, arguing with someone in a low, rushed voice. Probably Bobby or Rufus, a couple of the hunters Jimmy knows Dean's been in contact with during the past week. Dean's still trying to find somewhere safe to stash them. Find a way to protect them.
Jimmy turns to glance at Claire, her head pressing against his shoulder as she dozes off. She's gotten so big; she's thirteen now, a teenager. Gone are her colorful butterfly barrettes, replaced now by rose-pink nail polish and pierced ears. Jimmy shakes his head. It's hard to believe. He's missed so much. Claire's wearing some of Dean's spare clothes today, her slim figure swimming in an oversized, worn band t-shirt, make-shift jean cut-offs, and scuffed boots. Her blond hair's pulled back into a small, messy bun, loose strands falling across her pale face, clinging to her damp forehead. She's knocked out, exhausted from another sleepless night.
Jimmy's gentle with her as he lowers her down onto the backseat. She curls in on herself, knees pressing to her belly, arms wrapping around her chest. Her eyelids flutter open, eyes widening as she turns to look up at him. "Daddy?"
"It's okay. I'm here," he says, placing one of their stolen motel pillows underneath her head before adding, "I'm not going anywhere. Not this time." She nods, her eyes already falling shut.
Jimmy sighs, his nerves rubbed raw. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and head in his hands. He's been in possession of his own body for two weeks now, and he still hasn't managed to feel in control. When Castiel returned to heaven after Lucifer was locked back in his cage, Jimmy had been fully restored, given his life back only to find out days later that Castiel's enemies were making plans to target his vessel and his vessel's bloodline. Raphael wanted to find a way to limit Castiel's power on earth. Castiel sent Dean to protect them, but it wasn't soon enough. Amelia was killed in the fray, and Claire and Jimmy barely made it out alive. They've been on the road ever since, zig-zagging across the country, running from safe house to safe house, moving from hunt to hunt.
Jimmy jumps, hands leaving his face as Dean opens up the car door. Dean's eyes meet his, hollowed-out and tired. "Hey, Jimmy. Sorry to startle you, man."
Jimmy inhales slow and deep, runs a hand through his messy hair. "It's alright."
Dean looks at him for a long moment, rubbing a hand over the back of his sunburnt neck. "Um, you two doing okay?"
Jimmy almost laughs, but manages not to. "We're surviving," he offers instead.
"Yeah," Dean nods, eyes running over Jimmy and Claire, like he's checking to see if Jimmy's really telling the truth.
"She's sleeping," Jimmy says, stating the obvious. Dean shuffles his boots in the dirt as he moves closer, reaching over Jimmy to examine Claire. He runs his thumb over the bandage on her temple, a nasty cut given to her by one of Raphael's followers.
Dean stills his fingers over her forehead, likely checking for fever. "She feeling any better? Kick that cold yet?"
"Yeah," Jimmy swallows, nodding quickly. "I think so. The medicine helped. Got rid of the fever. Got her to sleep."
"Good, good," Dean says, standing up quickly and placing his hand against the car door. "We'll pick her up some fresh clothes when we find a town with a decent Wal-Mart. I'm sure she's tired of my hand-me-downs."
"Thanks, Dean," Jimmy says, meaning it. "For everything." He doesn't know what he would have done without Dean's help these past two weeks.
Dean shrugs, turning away to eye the dusty road in front of them. "Hey," he says, smirking when he faces Jimmy again. "I got Claire a bag of jelly beans at the gas station when you were both out cold. Ben use to love them, so I figured Claire might like 'em too."
Jimmy looks up, smiling a bit as Dean digs into one of his back pockets, hands coming away with a small bag of candy, which he tosses to Jimmy. Jimmy catches it, remembering how much Claire use to like the orange-flavored ones. She would pick them all out of the bag before Jimmy or Amelia could get to them first.
Jimmy looks over at Claire. She hasn't spoken much since her mother's death. A few observations here and there, but she doesn't seem to want to say anything else, doesn't want to talk about what happened. Dean says it's normal; he didn't speak for a long time after his mother was killed. Sometimes there just aren't any words. Sometimes there's comfort in the silence.
Jimmy squeezes the bag in his hand, throat tightening. He takes a long, deep breath, looks up to see Dean watching him, worry and concern in his eyes. Dean's been really good with Claire. Jimmy's not surprised given everything he knows about the man, filtered down to him through Castiel over the years. A loyal brother, a protective father figure, a good man. Castiel trusted Dean more than anyone, and now Jimmy's beginning to understand why.
Jimmy meets Dean's gaze head on. Asks, "Everything okay?"
Dean shakes his head, looking almost embarrassed as he turns away. "Yeah, it's just weird. Sometimes I look at you and expect to see Cas."
Jimmy smiles, something inside feeling raw and tender. Empty. "You and me both. I look in the mirror some days and can't believe it's just me in here." He squints up at Dean. "Where are we anyway?" he asks.
Dean frowns, tongue running over his dry lips. "I think we're about fifty miles east of Las Vegas. Care to make a pit stop?"
Jimmy arches a brow. "Don't you think Claire's a little young for the casino?"
Dean laughs, slamming the car door closed before making his way to the driver's seat. "I was making a killing at blackjack at the ripe old age of five and a half."
Jimmy smiles at that, listens as Dean starts the Impala up. The old car growls loudly before Dean pulls it back onto the road, clouds of dust pluming beneath the wheels.
"Was that Bobby on the phone?" Jimmy asks, settling back in for another long drive.
"Yep," Dean says, hands steady on the wheel. "He put me in contact with some folks in Sacramento. Got a hunt needs looking into."
Jimmy lets that idea settle in, nodding his head. "What happens now? To me and Claire I mean?" he asks, turning to pull Dean's leather jacket over Claire's sleeping form. He runs a hand through her tangled hair. She's been having nightmares, and Jimmy's glad to see she's finally getting some decent shut eye.
"We drive," Dean says, meeting Jimmy's eyes through the rear-view mirror. "We'll figure out the rest along the way."
Jimmy nods, closing his eyes as he leans back in his seat. He holds the bag of jelly beans tight in his hand, listens to the hum of the engine, the miles slipping by underneath the belly of the car.
*
Something's missing. Every time Jimmy wakes up, he feels its loss. The absence is like a physical thing, a leaden weight in his guts. He remembers once feeling complete, feeling more than. Feeling something beyond the fragile flesh and bone of his own body. He remembers being so twisted up in movement, in sound, in flight itself. The memory of it all -- the pain, the blood, the light (there was always so much light) -- is there in the back of his mind; a reminder of what was, of what no longer is.
Sitting here now, he remembers the feeling of blood and sweat on his skin, the clean desert wind on his face, the lightning thrumming through his veins, the miles spreading beneath his feet. He remembers the power of Castiel's grace, filling him, completing him.
Jimmy remembers flying.
*
The small shotgun cottage sits empty, broken down by age and weather. All the house's ghosts have been put to rest, courtesy of Dean, a canister of lighter fluid, and a match. The surrounding swamp is big and dark and loud, a rich, green tapestry that spreads out for miles in all directions. The place smells like wet earth and molasses; its spicy taste is thick on Jimmy's tongue.
Jimmy watches Claire walk down by the bank of the murky bayou, her bare feet sinking into the red-clay mud. She says she's looking for bullfrogs. Dean showed her how to catch them earlier, and Claire's been at it for close to an hour, wanting to impress them.
Dean's sitting on the porch now, his bare chest glowing with sweat, smeared with streaks of mud. He's cleaning out his tackle box, humming an old bluesy tune as he works. After a while, Jimmy joins him, sitting down next to him and swinging his own legs off the edge of the porch. Jimmy watches the water, watches Claire, watches the world dappled in the golden evening light.
"She seems better," Dean comments quietly, untangling his fishing hooks.
Jimmy nods, turning to stare out at the water again, smiling when he notices Claire's feet and legs covered in mud and grass. "She likes being out in nature," he says, remembering how she was only three the first time they took a family camping trip together, how she loved every moment of it. Claire's always been fond of being outdoors, hiking through the woods, climbing trees, sitting in fields of long grass for hours at a time. She has a certain way of being in nature, of wanting to experience it fully. It's something Jimmy never really understood until Castiel showed him how to see the world through celestial eyes; showed him how everything is holy, wondrous.
The humidity lingers, presses against him like a slow, warm breath. He can hear Claire laughing, a sound so sweet compared to the riotous noise of the crickets, cicadas, and frogs. She's wearing her own clothes today, a yellow summer dress they found for her at a Good Will outside of Natchitoches. Earlier Claire pulled her hair into two thick, long blond braids that now trail down her back. Dean stuck a magnolia blossom in one braid, something that sent her blushing and smiling. She's got a crush.
The mossy Cypress trees around them seem to dance and whisper. Everything feels and looks different since his return. Or maybe Jimmy's just seeing it all differently. Two years of an angel using your eyes, and you never see the world in quite the same way.
For a moment Jimmy thinks about what his family's life could have been like without the angels, the demons, and their wars. Camping trips to Vermont in the summer, anniversaries spent on the Carolina coast. But he knows thinking like this is useless, needlessly painful. Without Castiel working with the Winchesters, there wouldn't have been a life for any of them. In saving the world, they all sacrificed; they all lost something.
Jimmy's jaw clenches, his eyes burn. He feels empty, hollow. He thinks of Claire, long braids and blushing cheeks. Crying at night for her mom. He thinks of Dean, smart-alec mouth and cheesy jokes. The lost look he gets when he talks about his brother, about the war. There's nothing left of the old world for any of them. They all have to make their own way from here. Somehow.
When Dean's fingers brush the edge of his t-shirt, Jimmy starts, turns to look over at him. "Yeah?"
"Nothing," Dean says, looking away quickly, eyes returning to his work.
In the distance, Jimmy sees Claire jumping up and down, holding a bullfrog up in the air. "I caught one!"
*
Jimmy's so hungry sometimes, his body revels in the taste of greasy diner food and stale coffee. In a bustling 24-hour joint in downtown Louisville, he downs his first two cheeseburgers in five minutes, sucking the grease off his fingers with messy zeal, savoring ever single bite.
Claire giggles at him, and Dean pauses in the middle of chewing his own food, fork stalled half-way to his mouth, his eyes fixated on Jimmy's emptying plate.
"What?" Jimmy asks, tongue darting out to lick mayo off of his bottom lip.
Dean cocks an eyebrow, clearly amused. "I never met anyone who loves to eat more than me. You're like a machine," he says, voice a little awed, before resuming his chewing and popping another piece of apple pie into his mouth.
Jimmy adds more ranch to his fries, stuffs three in his mouth. "I got a lot of catching up to do," he says, mouth full.
Dean laughs quietly. "Never could convince Cas to eat anything."
"Castiel truly didn't know what he was missing," Jimmy says before sipping noisily from his vanilla milkshake to underscore his point.
"Dad, you always ate a lot," Claire points out, working through her own plate full of pancakes and scrambled eggs. She likes breakfast for dinner; it's one thing that's never changed.
Jimmy taps the top of her head, smiles. "Your mom was a really good cook that's why."
"Yeah she was," Claire nods, using her fork to move her eggs absently across her plate. "I especially miss her meatball spaghetti."
"Me too, baby," Jimmy says, resting a comforting hand on her back. When he looks up, he sees Dean watching them, the soft lines of his mouth tilted downward.
There's an awkward silence. Claire drops her fork onto her plate. It clatters loudly. She then pushes her plate away, saying, "I gotta use the restroom. Excuse me."
Jimmy stands to let her out of the booth and watches as she make her way to the tiny restroom. They checked it out before they came in, lined it with salt and protection spells. They're extra-careful these days.
Jimmy sits back down, fingering the edge of his plate. "Isn't this where you tell me it gets easier?" he asks, turning to meet Dean's eyes.
Dean looks at him for a moment. Then he wipes his mouth with a napkin, leans back in the booth, and says, voice even, "I'd be lying to you if I said that."
"You're terrible at offering comfort," Jimmy says, grabbing Dean's fork and polishing off his pie for him.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean grunts, slapping Jimmy's hands away from his now-empty plate.
Jimmy sits back, licks his lips, and watches the waitresses scuttle around the diner, working through the dinner rush.
"How 'bout we take her to Disney World?" Dean asks, popping one of Jimmy's soggy fries into his mouth and smacking loudly.
Jimmy looks up, surprised. Dean's always surprising him. "Yeah, yeah. I think she'd really like that."
"Me too," Dean says, a quiet smile on his face.
They sit back, comfortable with each other after so many weeks together. The diner is crowded with the tired workers from the neighboring downtown. Most of them will order the pork roast and mashed potatoes Tuesday special, talk about last night's high-school football game, complain about the strike at the mill. It's all so normal in a world that no longer feels normal to Jimmy.
"Would you care for a refill, sugar?" Jimmy looks up to find their waitress smiling at Dean; they always do. Dean always smiles back, flirts, leaves generous tips.
This waitress is pretty, long brunette hair tied back in a pony tail. She's got a sweet smile, rose-colored lips, brown doe eyes. She reminds Jimmy a little of Amelia when they first started dating. Jimmy smiles, remembering the time they saw Titanic at the dollar cineplex, made out in the back row of the empty theater as the ship sank. Jimmy remembers how Amelia tasted of buttery popcorn, smelled of citrus shampoo. He remembers the needy sounds she made when he ran his hand under her shirt, cupped her breasts. The way she said his name, soft and breathless, when he discovered the heat between her legs.
Jimmy blinks away the memory, finds himself twisting his wedding band, which is burnished gold against his pale skin.
"How about you?" the waitress asks, smiling kindly down at him. Jimmy nods his head, watches as she tips the pot over his cup, filling it with the steaming dark brew. He brings the coffee to his lips, his eyes squeezing shut tight as he drinks.
"It gets easier," Dean tells him from over the top of his own coffee cup.
Jimmy looks up at him, smiles. He appreciates the lie.
*
The flash of light rips through him, bursting him open. Energy ripples under his skin: sliding, slicing, reshaping him. There's the taste of ozone on his tongue; there's a patchwork of voices whispering in the darkness, all calling his name.
Jimmy wakes, shivering. He can't breathe. He can't see. He's blinded.
"It's okay. Daddy, I've got you," Claire whispers.
Jimmy opens his eyes when Claire's small arms wrap around him. He's missed this, holding on to her like he use to do when she was little, when he was the one comforting her after bad dreams. But he clings to her now, tells her it's okay. He clings because she's still his baby girl.
"I'm sorry," Jimmy says, breathing coming easier. "For leaving you."
"It's okay," she whispers, placing a soothing hand in his own. "You helped to save the world."
Jimmy holds Claire's hand in his own hand, and it feels too small, too fragile. He wonders if she can feel him trembling; he wonders what the future holds for her. He wonders if she dreams of light.
*
The leaves are turning orange, red, and golden. The temperature is getting cooler, the days shorter. The world is changing. Some weeks it feels like Jimmy's living someone else's life, like he's been cast in a role he's unfamiliar with. But there are things he knows, things he recollects. It's strange to think about all the ways he knows Dean, how every interaction with him feels steeped in some sort of déjà vu. Jimmy knows Dean because Castiel knew Dean. Jimmy knows how Dean smells in the afternoon: the hint of leather from his jacket, engine grease from his car, gun powder from his weapons, aloe from his healing cuts. Something else that is soft and warm and musky; all Dean. Jimmy knows the things Castiel had begun to recognize as the comforting smells of friend, of family, of home.
Jimmy stands with Dean outside a motel room on a balcony that overlooks the foggy Bangor cityscape. They're both nursing Heinekens, and Jimmy's breathing deep, drinking in the familiar smell of Dean after a long day on the road.
Dean leans closer, mentions something about a song he heard Claire singing in the car. Something about Miley Cyrus and how it reminds him of Sam's shameful love of Disney movies. Dean says he use to put on The Little Mermaid for Sam when he was going through his grumpy pre-teen years; it always made the kid smile. Dean gets quiet then, always gets quiet when talking about Sam. But he stays close, warmth attracting warmth. He's close enough that Jimmy's inhaling big lungfuls of air, feeling overwhelmed and stretched tight enough to break.
Later that night, digging through his duffel in the motel bathroom, Jimmy takes a moment to touch his own things, the few items he was able to pack when they escaped. He fingers the silver chain crucifix his father gave him when he graduated college. His father, the honest Midwestern preacher, who raised a good family, a devout family. A family who believed in God's will, who kept their faith even in the darkest of times. A family destined by blood to be the vessels of angels. His father use to tell Jimmy that they were all chosen to do God's work in different ways; it was his father's place to spread the Gospel. When Castiel came for Jimmy, Jimmy had known it was his place to give his body, his life, to this war. His father, had he known, would have told Jimmy it was a blessing. He'd been chosen. They all had.
Jimmy puts on the crucifix, and it feels cool against his chest; foreign. He sits down on the cold linoleum of the bathroom floor, spreads his possessions all around him. He runs his hand over the leather-bound Bible that use to belong to his mother. He remembers reading her favorite highlighted passages at her hospital bedside when she was dying of cancer. Reading aloud had calmed him, calmed them both, made the soul-deep grieving something he could get through. The words were comforting, something he understood, something he needed.
Now he opens the Bible, finds one of his mother's favorite passages and reads:
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."
*
These are the facts Jimmy remembers about himself. James David Novak was born August 6, 1976, the only child of David and Margaret Novak, both of Pontiac, Illinois. Jimmy was a model son: he made good grades, volunteered with the Christian youth ministry, ate all his vegetables. As an adult, he became an active member of the local church (his father's church), attended the local college, married a local girl who taught at the local elementary school. After college he went into business with his best friend, becoming an ad executive at their moderately-successful start-up marketing firm.
It all seems like another lifetime ago, another Jimmy. This Jimmy finds it harder and harder to figure out who he is now, what he wants, desires. He knows Castiel likes walking barefooted through the white sands of the Maldives islands, reveling in the feel of the tiny grains between his human toes. That Castiel loves to sit on the top of the Pantheon at sunrise, contemplating battle strategy and the will of his Father. He knows that Castiel found the poetry of Rumi soothing, and that for months after he raised Dean from hell, Castiel would visit Dean every night, easing his dreams, telling him stories.
But that's Castiel. What does Jimmy really know about himself now? After weeks on the run? Well, Jimmy knows he likes to dig through Dean's cassette tape collection, kept under the shotgun seat in a crumbling old shoebox. He likes The Stones more than Zeppelin. Cash more than Dylan. He likes reading the business section of the newspaper while Dean combs through the crime blotter and the obits. He likes salty fries dipped in a vanilla milkshake, his eggs over easy, and his steak rare. He likes boiled crabs from this hole-in-the-wall fish shack in Galveston. He likes milk and honey in his tea, and two spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee. He likes the West Coast better than the East Coast, and sunsets more than sunrises. He likes the road, something he'd never expected to get use to: the smell of asphalt in his clothes, the oil and dirt under his nails, and the look Dean flashes his way when he's speeding down an empty highway, nothing after them, nothing before them. Just earth and sky.
*
The motel room is cheap, rents by the hour. It smells of mold and dust and things too old to name. The carpet is a sickly grey, clashing nicely with the curlicue-pattered yellow wallpaper. A steady stream of car headlights splashes light into the room, creating a play of geometric designs against the back wall.
Jimmy tries to sleep. He closes his eyes to the sounds of cars passing over the rain-slicked freeway, Claire breathing in bed beside him, and Dean snoring softly in the neighboring double bed.
He doesn't move, fearing the noisy creaking of the bedsprings when he shifts his weight. So he lies perfectly still, breathes quietly. It's the middle of the night, and there are truths he can allow himself to recognize only during these times: there's something missing inside of him, a deep vacant hole he doesn't know how to fill.
Jimmy must eventually doze off because much later he wakes from a nightmare, the images of which begin to fade the minute he opens his eyes. There had been fire, he remembers, so much smoke and heat he couldn't breathe. He remembers screams that sounded like songs. Castiel shielded the worst of the battlefront from Jimmy, but sometimes Jimmy gets snatches of Castiel's memories, the bleed through from years of being woven together as one.
It's just barely light outside when he climbs out of bed. The dim desk lamp is on, and Jimmy sees Dean sitting, hunched over the desk, scribbling in his hunter's journal. Dean's wearing black boxers and a white undershirt; his hair is sleep-mussed, sticking up wildly like Jimmy's own. There's enough light that Jimmy can see the dark bruising on Dean's cheek caused by a nasty poltergeist three towns over.
Dean looks up from his journal when Jimmy approaches, tips his head in greeting. "Bad dreams?" he asks, sipping from a glass of whiskey.
Jimmy thinks of the heat of hellfire, the song-like cries of angels dying. "Yeah, you could say that," he says, voice rougher than usual. He yawns, rubbing the grit from his eyes as he sits down beside Dean at the small desk. He turns to look at Claire, still curled up in a ball in bed, blanket pulled up to her neck to fight off the chill. Moonlight edges in through the curtains, spills over her sleeping form.
"Can I ask you something, Jimmy?" Dean says, scratching at his stubbled chin.
Jimmy pours himself some of the whiskey, nodding his head. "Go ahead."
"What was being a vessel like?" Dean asks, face soft in the lamp light.
Jimmy has to take a drink at that; he lets the whiskey burn down his throat, bitter and raw. He looks at Dean for a long moment, takes in the sharp jut of his jaw, the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks, the warm glow of his eyes.
"To be honest, it was kinda like dying," Jimmy says finally, voice quiet. "Over and over again. Being ripped apart. An act of immolation."
Dean looks at him, eyes widening in shock, mouth gaping like he's about to say something, but closing just as fast.
"But," Jimmy continues, swishing his drink, trying to find the words. "It felt like living too. Like really, truly being alive."
"Ah," Dean breathes, shaking his head. He pours himself another drink, takes a long swallow. Jimmy watches Dean's throat work, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in the lamp light.
"You know," Jimmy adds, his mouth curving upward into a tired smile, "I use to imagine it was sort of like a star going supernova." He laughs softly, adding, "Mixed with the best sex of your life."
Dean snorts, running a finger along the spine of his journal. "All orgasms all the time?"
"Well," Jimmy grins, shrugging. "If orgasms came wrapped in massive atomic energy and light."
The desk chair squeaks as Dean shifts his body, turns to look at Jimmy head on. He cocks a brow, smirks. "Maybe some do."
Jimmy chuckles, sitting back in his own chair. "It's everything at once," he goes on, wanting to put more words to it. "Your birth, your death. Every emotion you've ever felt. Everything you've ever seen, touched, known. It's completion. Unity."
"That's some pretty heavy shit," Dean says, turning to look at him again, something sad lingering in his gaze. Jimmy knows that Dean has nightmares as well. There are days when Dean gets too quiet, gets too drunk. Misses his brother and his family so much he gets lost inside himself for hours at a time. Jimmy and Claire give him space on those days, leave him alone to exorcise whichever demons he's trying to expel from his own body.
Jimmy exhales deeply, running his hand over his chest. There's a constant pain there most days, a hole in his heart where something use to be. He thinks it's strange, this feeling of incompleteness, emptiness. It's strange to feel so alone in his own skin. But looking at Dean now, Jimmy suspects the other man knows something about this feeling, the lingering ache of it. Dean wears his loneliness like a second coat, wraps himself in it. Sometimes Jimmy wants to reach out, touch.
"You miss him don't you?" Dean asks, his voice gentle, coaxing. The light makes his eyes look unnaturally bright, too understanding, too knowing.
"I shouldn't," Jimmy says, throat tightening. He knows it's wrong to miss something that held him captive for so long, something that nearly destroyed him. Dean's still watching him closely though, the light from the lamp highlighting the sharp angles of his face, the hard set of his jaw, the scratches above his brow.
Jimmy turns away from him, wipes his hand over his eyes and across his face. He thinks of the burning heat of Castiel, the feeling of losing himself in something unknowable. Belonging. Jimmy gulps down the last of his whiskey, savoring the burn.
*
Jimmy spent years in study, reading the Bible, learning the Word of God. Listening to his father's deep, gravely voice at the pulpit. On the porch swing during late evenings, he'd sit beside his father as he practiced his sermons, listening with rapt attention, holding on to his every note. He believed; he had faith.
In Tallahassee, there's a small, white-steepled Baptist church across the street from the motel. It doesn't look anything like his father's church, which was a towering, modern brick structure large enough to host a massive congregation. But there's something about this tiny beaten-down church, its tired white clapboard siding, its crumbling concrete steps leading up to the open front door.
On Sunday morning, Jimmy pauses outside the church to watch the families gather. He doesn't realize he's going to go inside until he's already there, seated in one of the back pews, fingers running over the hymnal.
The church is packed. The sermon is powerful. The gospel choir is joyous. And Jimmy sits in the last row and takes it all in, mouth dry and eyes wet, craving something he has no name for. When the preacher says, "Let us pray," for the first time in two years, Jimmy dips his own head, clasps his own hands, and prays.
*
Claire's running through the corn field, golden hair flying behind her, leaves slapping against her bare arms. She's running so fast Jimmy almost loses her in the tall rows, but he catches up with her when they both break through a clearing, the plants chopped down, leaves scattered over the dark soil.
Claire's breathing hard, arms stretched out on either side of her, face tilted toward the blue sky. She's spinning and spinning. "Flying," she says, laughing as she slides down onto the ground, dizzy and giddy.
Jimmy joins her there, and they both settle onto their backs, lying with their faces turned up toward the sun, tall fields on either side of them, hiding them from the world.
"I remember what Castiel felt like too," Claire says after a while, voice quiet like she's sharing a secret.
Jimmy blinks up at the sunlight, feels the heat on his face. He watches the clouds move across the afternoon sky, the golden stalks dance in the wind.
"Do you think he'll come back for us?" Claire asks, and there's something hopeful in her voice. Something that makes Jimmy's heart speed up, his vision blur.
Jimmy closes his eyes, feels the ground shift underneath him. There's a thrumming to the world these days, an energy he feels in everything, everyone. He doesn't remember noticing it before. Before Castiel, before the spill of grace into his body. But he notices it now. The song of the morning light as it moves across the water, the symphony of a bleeding sunset.
"One day," Jimmy says, and he knows it's the truth; he hears it in the wind.
*
Jimmy finds Dean leaning against the railing of the bridge, watching the rolling slide of the ink-black river below them, smoking a cigarette. Curls of smoke rise from the cigarette held between Dean's fingers, and the scent of tobacco haunts the chilly air.
Jimmy carefully walks over the bridge's old wooden planks, before sliding next to Dean at the rail. They're somewhere in Ohio, some town Jimmy's already forgotten the name to. He's glad to be back in the Midwest though, even if just for a couple of days. Glad to feel his feet on familiar ground, spend some time watching the trees lose their last leaves in the early frost. He spent the morning drowsing with Claire in his arms as they passed by miles of corn and wheat fields.
The night's long and dark, but the moon's huge and luminous. Jimmy tilts his head toward the river, taking in the churning rush of the current. He turns and watches as Dean brings the cigarette to his mouth again, inhaling deep.
Jimmy shakes his head. Says, soft, "Those things will kill you."
Dean smirks, a quirk of his mouth that draws his cigarette upward. He takes another long drag, letting the smoke curl out between his plush lips slowly. Then says, "Can't seem to stay dead anyway."
"Join the party," Jimmy huffs a smile, leaning forward, elbows on the railing. He looks out over the stretch of moonlit valley, at the snake-like curl of the river. Claire's safe in her own tent a few feet away; she's doing better these days. They both are.
Jimmy turns when Dean nudges his shoulder, holding out a crumpled pack of Marlboros. Jimmy chuckles and takes what's being offered. He pulls a cigarette from the pack, rests it loosely between his lips, and watches as Dean leans in to light it with his Zippo.
When Jimmy inhales, the bitter tang is like a tiny slice of heaven. He lets the smoke wind through his lungs, then watches the way it rises up from his mouth and dissipates in the air.
"You look like you know what you're doing," Dean teases, voice curling sweetly like the smoke.
"Yeah," Jimmy says, voice gone smoke rough. "I actually quit when Amelia got pregnant with Claire." He holds the cigarette between two fingers, watches the tip crackle and burn, the ash falling toward the river below.
"So," Dean says, words slightly muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. "You doing okay these days?"
Jimmy laughs around his own cigarette. "Hunky-dory," he murmurs.
"Huh," Dean exhales, blowing white smoke through his nose. "You were ridden by an angel for two years. So let me repeat myself: are you doing okay these days?"
Jimmy rolls his shoulders, moves his body like it's his own. "Yeah," he says after a moment, watching his cigarette spark and flicker with the light breeze. "I think so."
"Good," Dean nods, turning to regard the river. "I was thinking we could head south to Georgia soon. There's a couple hunter-warded old abandoned farms I know we can stay at for a while. Get Claire into school again.”
Jimmy takes one last drag on his cigarette and flicks it over the bridge. Exhales as he turns to stare at Dean. "Why?"
Dean eyes him curiously, leaning his back against the railing. "I just thought you both could use a rest."
"I mean," Jimmy says, nerves sparking, "Why are you doing this? Helping us at all?"
Dean's eyes are sharp as they meet Jimmy's. "Because you and Claire need my help," Dean says, voice calm. "You can stay with me as long as you need. I promised Cas I'd watch out for you until this whole civil war thing is over. Until Raphael is defeated. I keep my promises."
Jimmy's mouth curves slightly. "You sound like our babysitter."
"Well," Dean laughs, flicking ash onto the ground, "I was aiming for friend."
"You're a strange one," Jimmy says, tilting his head up toward the sky, sighing. The stars are bright tonight, the heavens full of angel fire. "Castiel spent so much time pondering you. Trying to understand you. You were like this puzzle he couldn't quite figure out."
"Do I confuse you?" Dean asks, voice curious. He stubs his cigarette out against the rail, meets Jimmy's eyes.
"You went to hell for your brother," Jimmy says, holding Dean's gaze. "That tells me a lot about the kind of man you are."
"Well, you gave up your life for your daughter," Dean says, quiet. "That tells me a lot about you. We gotta protect the people we care about."
They stare at each other, and the moment moves into something longer, weightier. Eventually Dean clears his throat, turns away. But Jimmy bites his bottom lip and keeps looking at Dean. Dean's hair is still damp from their swim in the river earlier; it curls against the back of his neck. Dean's jacket does little to hide the long line of tense muscle stretching over his broad shoulders, the graceful curve of his back as he leans forward over the rail.
Dean's beautiful, Jimmy thinks, in that same way he use to think about certain men throughout his life, but during that time he'd been too afraid to admit it to himself. Afraid thinking such thoughts meant he was sinning in the eyes of God. But one thing Jimmy's learned through all of the insanity of the last couple of years is that love is love and it's beautiful in all its forms; it's holy. Human love was something Castiel was eternally amazed by. The genders of the lovers never mattered to him; bodies are meaningless to heaven after all. It was the souls that were sacred to Castiel. Love, Castiel had said, is the expression of two souls merging, becoming one. Like vessel and angel, he'd explained. Union. Castiel once spent an entire day watching two women in Budapest hold hands and whisper sweet nothings to each other. Castiel had a way of finding beauty even as the world was ending.
Castiel had watched Dean often as well, thinking him beautiful. Jimmy leans closer to Dean now, instinctively running a hand over where he knows Castiel branded Dean when he raised him from hell. When Dean speaks again his voice is barely a whisper: "What are you thinking right now?"
"That I can't be Castiel for you," Jimmy admits.
Dean looks straight at him, brow creasing. There's a long moment of silence, and Jimmy's hand tightens on Dean's arm. With a quiet, self-conscious laugh, Dean shakes his head, says, "Dude, I'm not asking you to be."
"Good," Jimmy nods, moving his hand away. "Because I'm not him. I'm not your brother either. I'm just...me. I'm Jimmy. I'm not a hunter. I'm not an angel. I can't even sell you radio ad time anymore. I'm...nothing much these days."
"Come on now," Dean objects, shaking his head. "You're --"
"No," Jimmy interrupts, rubbing a hand over his face, feeling tired, needing Dean to get it. "I couldn't even protect my family. Amelia's gone. I failed her."
"But Claire's still here," Dean says, adamant.
Jimmy swallows hard, nods. "I know."
Dean meets his gaze levelly and adds, "That means you can still be a good dad to her."
"While on the run from angels?" Jimmy demands, low and heated. "While hunting monsters?"
"You do the best you can given the circumstances," Dean says, huffing a frustrated sigh. "You keep her safe. You protect your family."
"But I don't even know who or what I am anymore," Jimmy says, voice cracking. "When you look at me, what do you see?"
Dean eyes him, a slight smile playing across his mouth when he eventually answers: "A goofy looking dude in need of a hair cut."
"You're a real riot," Jimmy replies dryly, folding his arms across his chest.
Dean smirks, countering, "I try my best."
Jimmy eyes him for a beat, sighing deeply. "How do you even do it?" he asks.
Dean tilts his head, still smiling. "Do what? Look this good?"
"Keep going," Jimmy says, words catching in his throat, his voice suddenly gravel rough. "Lisa kicked you out. Your brother's in hell. Cas is busy playing rebel leader in heaven. And you're here on earth. Stuck trying to make sense of the world that's left. You have no one. Nothing. They took everything from you. You should hate them."
Dean looks at Jimmy for a moment, shifting his body, clearly uneasy. "Trust me, I do," is all he says. Dean steps back, releasing a deep exhale; his shoulders hunch forward as he leans over the railing.
Jimmy moves his head in a slow nod as he slides next to Dean again. They stand in silence for a long while, watching the river. After a time Dean turns to Jimmy again, offering him another cigarette. "I know who you are," Dean says, voice low.
Jimmy smiles, relaxing slightly. "I know who you are too."
*
In Fort Worth, Dean comes stumbling into their motel room after a hunt, clawed up by a black dog. He's bleeding from his belly and barely standing when Jimmy grabs him and brings him to the bed.
Dean has only taken Jimmy out with him on a couple of hunts -- the easy salt-and-burns -- and once to conduct interviews with grieving families. Dean prefers that Jimmy stick to the research and stay close to Claire, protected in their motel room by sigils and wards that keep out angels and monsters alike.
Jimmy should have insisted on following Dean this time though. The morgue full of torn-up teenagers was the first clue. And now, cutting Dean's shirt from his body, feeling his own heart jackhammer out of his chest, Jimmy's more sure than ever.
Fortunately, Claire's asleep in the next bed, dead to the world. Dean's not making a sound, biting down on a towel, not wanting to wake her up or alert the neighbors. The cuts aren't deep, just bleeding profusely. Jimmy's hands shake as he holds towels to the wounds, watches the blood soak through the cloth, ooze through his fingers.
Time slows as they work together. Minutes feel like hours. Dean sucks down several painkillers and antibiotics, then instructs Jimmy on how to clean out the wounds, stitch up the larger gashes, apply the bandages correctly. Just a scratch, Dean says. Nothing that won't heal.
When they're done, Jimmy's relief feels like a solid weight off his chest. He doesn't even realize how scared he's been until he's standing at the sink, washing Dean's blood off of his hands, shaking like a twig in the wind.
Later, Dean's tucked in bed, flipping through the channels on the muted TV. He's pale and his eyes are heavy-lidded, but he's alive, safe. Jimmy finishes cleaning up the first-aid supplies, and turns to look at Dean, brow arched. "You really gonna be okay?"
"I'm fine," Dean says, voice rough like sand paper. "I'm still good to go. I promise I won't let anything happen to you or Claire."
"You're an idiot," Jimmy says, suddenly very tired. He reaches out a shaky hand to touch Dean's forehead. Runs a slow, tentative finger across his fevered temple.
Dean holds his gaze, offers up a weak smile. "You did good back there," he says. "We did good."
Jimmy bites his bottom lip, looks away. His hands are still shaking when he climbs into his own bed that night.
*
"Do you think I'm pretty?" Claire asks Dean.
Jimmy looks up from the laundry he's loading into the washer. Claire's sitting with Dean on top of the folding table, looking up at him expectantly. The dingy laundromat's completely empty this time of night, no one to send questioning looks their way as Dean scrubs the blood out of his clothes.
Dean pauses in sorting his dirty clothes, whites thrown into a rolling basket, darks placed on the counter. "Um," he says, shooting Jimmy a panicked look. But Jimmy just winks at him, laughing quietly, giving him silent permission to charm his daughter.
Dean seems to man up then, standing to his full height and putting on one of his most endearing, roguish smiles as he turns to look Claire straight on. "Sweetheart, you are absolutely gorgeous. Those High School Musical girls got nothing on you."
Claire beams, and Jimmy huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he closes the washer and adds quarters to start the cycle.
"Hey."
Jimmy looks up to see Dean coming closer, dropping his duffel bag full of laundry on top of the neighboring washer.
"Hey," Jimmy says, glancing over to where Claire's gone back to folding her clothes, a big smile plastered on her face. "Thanks for that," he tells Dean.
"She's a good kid," Dean says, reaching around Jimmy for the detergent. The warm clean scent of Dean hits Jimmy, and he finds himself leaning even closer to the other man.
"Do you think I'm pretty?" Dean asks when they're only an inch apart.
"What?" Jimmy asks, flushing as he pulls back.
Dean laughs softly, eyes dancing with mirth. Like he knows what Jimmy's been thinking, like this is all perfectly okay. Jimmy starts to laugh too, thinking maybe, just maybe, it is.
*
Claire's standing by the side of the highway, a tiny speck of dust against the melting horizon. She's carrying one of Dean's extra army duffels and a backpack full of borrowed library books. When she turns to face the road, her full profile suddenly reminds Jimmy of Amelia, of one of the last times he saw her standing by the driveway, waving goodbye to him before he left for work.
Jimmy runs his finger along his wedding band, twists it around his finger, once, twice, thrice; his chest aches, burns with every breath. For a moment there's just the pain. His pain. One of the only things he can still call his own.
Jimmy tries to remember what it was like to be a family. He tries to remember Amelia, what it was like to love her. The warmth of her touch, her full lips curved into a smile, the lock of hair she'd curl behind her ears out of habit. The soft look she'd throw Jimmy's way when he stumbled home late from work, falling asleep on the couch in his suit and tie.
Jimmy furrows his brow, wanting to remember more. Needing to. But so much of it is hard to recall, blurred by time and war and circumstance. He brings his hand forward, twisting the golden wedding band he still wears. The ring gleams in the sunlight. Jimmy pulls it off, squeezing it in his palm for a long moment. It's hot in his hand, heavy; a solid piece of Jimmy Novak's history. Jimmy lets out a long exhale, and then he places the ring in the pocket of his jeans. He lets go.
When Jimmy looks up, he sees Claire running toward him. He kneels down, reaches out, and she hugs him tight, her arms looping around his back and her head tucking against his shoulder. He breathes deeply, holding her close.
"We're going to be okay," he says, talking into her hair. For the first time in a long while, Jimmy believes. Jimmy has faith.
*
The ocean and the sky are the same shade of dark grey. When Jimmy's toes sink into the sand, he thinks of Castiel, thinks of journeys without end. The cold saltwater runs over Jimmy's feet as he watches Claire play in the waves. His daughter's laughter is wild and untamed, her long hair splashing across her face as she runs out of the water. There's joy here; there's peace.
There are also ghosts in the lighthouse and a storm on the horizon, but for now they're safe, nothing around them for miles and miles. For a while they sit together around the fire, drying off, listening to the ebb and flow of the tide. Dean adds more logs to feed the flames, throwing a shower of sparks high into the air.
Jimmy feels the heat of the fire against his cheeks, feels the heat of Dean's shoulder pressed against his own. Claire has fallen asleep in Dean's arms, sea-salt clinging to her sunburnt skin. When Dean turns to look at Jimmy, his smile is slow and sure and deep as the night sky. He's asking something Jimmy's not sure he's ready to answer. But in this moment, Jimmy feels so present in his body, so full of heat and life. Jimmy feels almost human.
*
They're standing in the middle of the supermarket, comparing the merits of Fruits Loops versus Cocoa Puffs, the first time Jimmy kisses Dean.
It's an accident really. Dean's driving him crazy, holding up both boxes of cereal and going on and on about how it's awesome when the milk turns chocolate, and Jimmy just tells him to shut up, places his hand on Dean's cheek, leans in, and kisses him. Right there in the middle of the Piggly Wiggly.
It's not even really a kiss. It's more a brushing of dry lips against dry lips, too quick to even time, too gentle to even last. But when Jimmy pulls away, he keeps his hand on Dean's face, stroking his thumb over the line of his strong jaw, feeling the rough hint of stubble there.
Dean doesn't say anything; he simply stares at Jimmy, green eyes gone inhumanly bright in the artificial light of the cereal aisle.
"Um," Jimmy clears his throat, rubs his hand across the back of his neck as he steps away, feeling all over hot, foolish.
Dean studies him for a long, tense moment before his face splits into a wide, wicked grin. "Fruit Loops it is then," he announces, tossing the box into the basket.
Jimmy's still laughing even after he retrieves Claire from the frozen foods department.
*
In the end, it's Dean who asks. In a motel parking lot off of Highway 51, the sky purple dark, and the moon fat and full. The night's quiet, sleep-heavy and forgotten by everyone but them. Claire's safe in the motel room. Dean and Jimmy are safe in the Impala. They're all as safe as they can be until this war is over.
"Jimmy," Dean says, voice thick and rough. "You gotta be sure. Just be sure."
Jimmy breathes in, out. Closes his eyes. Counts to five. The smell of Dean is so thick here in the warm car, in the warm night. "Yeah," he says, his hands suddenly fisting in Dean's shirt, his nose pressing against Dean's neck. "I'm sure."
When he pulls back, Dean's smiling down at him, like he wasn't sure Jimmy would say yes, like he's been waiting for Jimmy to let him know it's okay. Like he's relieved. "I want this," Jimmy confesses, voice steadier than he's feeling. No, he needs this. Dean's hands are everywhere then, thumbs pressing along Jimmy's hips, skimming around his back, until they're in his hair, grabbing on as he brings his lips to Jimmy's throat. His wet, hot breath caresses Jimmy's skin.
It's just the slip-slide of bodies in the dark, but it feels different than anything Jimmy's ever done with a woman: harder, rougher, greedier. The flex of tight muscle, the burn of stubble against stubble, the warmth of Dean's callused palm. Jimmy had thought he'd feel too guilty to take this; he'd thought this would feel too much like a betrayal. Of Amelia. Of Castiel. But it feels so necessary, so inevitable; he can feel Dean's heart pounding wildly against his own, two birds trapped in a cage trying to get free.
"It's okay. This is okay," Dean whispers into Jimmy's flushed skin, hands grazing along his thigh. "Just let me know what you need."
"Everything," Jimmy says, sliding back against the black vinyl of the backseat, pulling Dean closer to him as he guides Dean's hand between his legs. Jimmy knows Dean can feel how hard he is through his jeans, how hard they both are. So he lets himself go, getting lost in the motion, in the moment, in the feel of Dean pressing him down into the seat, sliding their hips together, grinding slow and perfect. Jimmy feels so full, ready to burst. He holds Dean's flank tight, gets lost in the fevered warmth of Dean, in the grip of his hands, in the weight of his body.
Dean's mouth is hot and wet, tongue parting Jimmy's lips, seeking, teasing, claiming. The kiss lasts longer this time; there's nothing brief about open mouths and teeth and tongue, the intimacy of sharing saliva and breath. Jimmy kisses Dean, soft and deep, kisses full of everything neither has been able to say.
It's Dean who finally pulls off their clothes until they're both naked. For a while it's just lips and hands meeting, slipping against each other, lingering and exploring. This is new, but Dean touches Jimmy with hands that are familiar, known. It's strange that Jimmy knows Dean's body so well, knows all the ways Dean was made whole again by Castiel's touch. Dean makes a sound like he’s dying when Jimmy takes his cock in his hand, stroking and tugging and twisting. Jimmy watches Dean's face to record his every reaction.
Later, when Jimmy's spreading Dean's ass cheeks, kissing into the dip of his spine, and pressing lube-slick fingers inside of him, he thinks about how it's been so long for the both of them, months of hiding and running, both having lost so much in the end. Lost the things that made them feel whole. He thinks of how this too was something they had feared taking because taking means risking losing again.
Jimmy watches his cock slide against Dean's slick hole, feeling helpless with need, with want. There are no words for what he feels when he finally pushes home, when Dean's warm body pulls him inside, welcoming him. He watches the shift of Dean's back, the arch of his spine, the slide of muscles under his smooth, sweat-slicked skin. Jimmy pulls out the full length of his cock, and then pushes back harder, thrusting until he's sinking deeper, pulled further into Dean's tight heat. He's so far inside Dean; they're so joined together, Jimmy can't tell where he ends and Dean begins. A union.
"Yeah," Dean's panting, breathless, twisting himself back onto Jimmy's cock as they begin to fuck in earnest, setting a forceful rhythm that rocks the car. Jimmy grabs a tighter hold on Dean's hips to pull them even closer together, fingers biting into Dean's hipbone. He's trying to hold onto Dean, hold onto this for as long as he can.
When Jimmy comes, he sees light, sharp and brilliant. He fucks Dean faster, filling Dean up with spurt after spurt of his come, shaking with the effort, burning with the heat of the blaze he sees behind his lids. In this moment, Jimmy remembers Castiel, the beating of massive wings, the feel of taking flight, of light so bright he's gone blind.
"I know who you are," Dean says in the moments after, when they've both settled into some sort of semi-comfortable position in the backseat. It's warm in the car; it’s overwhelming: the smell of Dean, of the two of them together.
Jimmy's fingers trace along Dean's hip, hand settling there in the dip. He tilts his head up so that he can see Dean watching him, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "I know who you are too," Jimmy says. He always has.
*
Jimmy leans against the car and watches as Claire uses her finger to write her name in the dusty film covering the passenger-side window of the Impala. Claire Novak was here, written in cursive with a flower drawn beneath it. Marking her territory. Jimmy moves forward, drawing a set of small Enochian sigils below her name: the signs for safety and protection and home.
Claire smiles up at him, and Jimmy smiles back, feeling the sort of ease he hasn't felt in a long time. He looks up to see Dean loading their bags into the trunk, whistling.
"What happens now?" Jimmy asks him.
The sun's setting over the hills, painting the entire valley in a mix of orange and gold. Dean slams the trunk closed, but doesn't answer. He simply winks at Jimmy and climbs into the driver's seat. Jimmy takes shotgun, and Claire spreads out in the back, surrounded by the entire Harry Potter book series, which Dean and Jimmy bought for her at the local Salvation Army for her fourteenth birthday.
There's a deafening roar as Dean presses down on the gas, clouds of dust spinning up from the Impala's tires as they take to the highway. Jimmy watches the last town disappear in the rear-view mirror, watches the sun sink behind them. He looks over at Dean, and Dean looks over at him.
"We drive," Dean says, grinning.
Jimmy smiles, sits back. They'll figure out the rest along the way.
-fin-