Chapter Text
"Autumn is like an old book:
Marred spines turn mean yellow,
staples rust red-orange.
Every stained page is stressed
by a splat of colour. Rough-red,
like an old tavern,
we become hungry birds
and prepare for fall."
--Mary Hamrick
2nd October, 1943
Dear Sam,
The worst has happened – I’m now officially in Britain. It’s not so bad, really. We got off the Queen Mary yesterday, landed in Scotland and then had to get straight on a train all the way down into England... because, apparently, we weren’t sick and tired enough of cramped quarters. It was only ten hours or so though – you’d barely get out of Kansas for that!
I'm not sure how I like it. Everything seems - small. Cute, too. You'd like it. Where we're gonna be billeted, it's straight out of a picture book, I swear, all rolling hills and little houses with thatched straw roofs. A lot of history too. I’m glad to be back on solid ground, though, even if everything stinks of horse manure here. That boat over was the single worst thing I’ve ever had to endure. Thousands of us, all crammed in as high as the ceiling, bunks upon bunks, and nothing to do. Gosh, Sammy, and there weren’t even any bookshelves for us!
No, you know I’m real proud of you, right? Don’t let anyone at school mess with you, or you tell them I’ll come back from Normandy with a bullet with their name on it. You can pretend I’m infantry. Don’t worry though, you’ll knock all those other kids dead. You’re the smartest I ever knew, that’s for sure. Good luck with your first day – I’m just sorry I can’t be there to see it. I’ll write again soon. Bitch.
T-4 Sergeant Winchester
91W1O, Company D, 104th Medical Regiment
29th Infantry Division
United States Army
2nd April, 1944
The polished metal of the copper stripe looks beautifully neat against the crisp starch of Castiel’s collar, if he says so himself. He smoothes his worn necktie against the front of his dress shirt, not out of habitual vanity, but because if tonight is going to be the first time he is seen wearing this pin, he’d like to at least look presentable.
There is a disruptive clatter against the bedroom door, followed by the creak of someone sticking their head in. “Hey, First Lieutenant Novak,” Inias says with deliberate emphasis on the new rank; Castiel can see Inias’ grin reflected in the small mirror. “Can we get out of here or are you still busy checking yourself out?”
“Do you want me to pull rank on you? Because I can do that now, you know.” Castiel glances one last time over his appearance before turning to face Inias, who is leaning casually against the doorjamb. Castiel holds his arms out a little awkwardly. “How do I look?”
“Like a perfectly handsome asshole. Now let’s hit the road, please,” Inias insists. He jabs a threatening finger in Castiel’s direction, eyes narrowing. “I swear to you, if all the pretty girls are gone, I’m going to make you dance with me – I refuse to have a repeat of Fort Blanding. I refuse.”
Castiel’s lips twitch near a nostalgic smile, but follows Inias down the rickety wooden staircase, calling a warm farewell to the owner of the house in which he is lodging, as he passes – a dowdy old woman who kindly remarks once again on what a dashing figure he makes before he gets to the front door – and then together he and Inias head down the narrow street towards the village green.
They’ve been in England just under eight months, and tonight the 2nd Battalion, as far as Castiel can tell, has got weekend-passes into Plymouth for what promises to be a couple of days of drunken rowdiness, bar fights, and sleazy attempts to make off with English girls. They’ve all been briefed to play nicely with the natives, as it were, but Castiel highly doubts that’ll be happening. Either way, he has a sinking feeling in his gut that the over-exuberance in handing out this many weekend passes can only mean one thing – a lot of gruelling training in the weeks to come.
“Nice digs, by the way,” Inias comments, as they walk down the road in the dimming light of dusk – in step, out of sheer habit – and he glances back over his shoulder at the little brick house where Castiel’s lodger is already drawing the black-out curtains, a good three hours before curfew. He shoots Castiel a teasing smirk. “How'd you end up with that?”
“I didn’t get it through entirely honest means,” Castiel admits. “Captain Milton handed it over as a reward for my promotion – said he wanted to be closer to nature.”
“Closer to nature?” Inias sighs. “That guy gets any closer to nature, he’ll turn into a goddamn tree.”
Castiel laughs a little at that, shaking his head. “That’s just what we need,” he says. “Then I’ll have to carry his roots around everywhere for him instead of just carrying his paperwork, his company...”
“His balls,” Inias chimes in, and they both have to hurriedly compose themselves to salute with the utmost sincerity as they catch sight of an unfamiliar Major striding down the street.
It’s a two-minute walk into town, where the rail station is already overcrowded with men of every shape and size, officers and enlisted men alike buzzing with anticipation – “shit, how much skirt d’you reckon there’s gonna be” and “Plymouth... is that like London?” and “I swear to god, if I see that guy again...” – and hopping impatiently to the edge of the platform to peer into the distance to see if the train is anywhere nearby.
Castiel and Inias weave their way through the crowd to find a place to stand, greeting members of their company with a wave, and members of their platoons with greater enthusiasm, as they pass by.
“Evening, sir!” a couple of the soldiers of one-platoon call, raising hands to make themselves known to their platoon commanders; one yells, “Hey, Lieutenant, you on the prowl tonight?” and it sounds like Fitzgerald, but Castiel couldn’t quite be sure. There are a couple of shouts of congratulations from those who either know about his promotion or have spotted the new pin, but, nice as it all is, Castiel is grateful when the train pulls in and kick-starts a new surge of excitement to distract them.
Castiel and Inias find Freddie Hester and Adrian Alistair have staked out a set of four seats in the first carriage, which are been fiercely defended on the grounds that ‘they’re officers-only seats’, but which Castiel and Inias take for themselves. There are a lot of soldiers trying to get onto a very small train, and as much as Castiel dislikes Lieutenants Hester’s and Alistair’s ideas about the special privileges of rank, he’s glad to have somewhere to sit.
“So is anyone else getting a distinct feeling that a whole-battalion weekend-pass can’t bode well for the future?” Inias says, grimacing as he leans back in his seat.
“I’m gonna call it right now and say that we’re gonna have to do another goddamn beach assault,” Alistair predicts, and he props up his feet on the edge of Castiel’s chair. “That’s my vote. Beach assault or bust.”
“No, I think we’ll be moving out,” Castiel says, looking out the window as the train begins to huff and puff ever louder, picking up speed through the low green hills. “Heading for a bigger town so they can start organising us. That’s my bet.”
“Beach assault,” Alistair insists, jabbing a finger in Castiel’s direction. His muddy boots shunt on Castiel’s seat, flaking dirt threateningly close to his dress pants; Castiel angles his legs away. “I’m telling you. Ten dollars, right now.”
“No thanks.” Castiel pushes his hands into his pockets, feels around for the crumpled lid of his tin cigarette case, flicks at the dented corners for something to focus on. He turns more pointedly away from Alistair.
“C’mon, Novak. Ten dollars.” Alistair stretches back, folding his arms lazily across his chest – the gesture shoves his boots more emphatically into Castiel’s chair, jolting him sideways, and on top of that, Castiel can now smell dog-shit caught in the rubber treads. Alistair cocks his head to one sided, taunting. “You got ten bucks, Novak. How much d’you wanna put on it?”
“I don’t want to put anything on it,” Castiel says, “except maybe putting your feet on the damn floor.”
Alistair’s eyebrows lift high and mocking to his hairline. “Alrighty, Missy.” He chuckles to himself, but obediently settles his boots back on the metal ridge of the train floor.
In his peripheral vision, Castiel sees Alistair’s eyes flicker over the First Lieutenant pin on Castiel’s collar – and thank God for it – before he turns to engage Hester in conversation. Inias joins in with some one-liner joke that has them all in stitches, easing the tension straight out of the carriage like a flattening tyre. Castiel keeps staring out the window.
It’s just under an hour’s train ride to Plymouth, a big city located in what some of the younger soldiers like to call the ass-crack of nowhere. It’s not so bad; it’s still bustling with life, even as the curfew draws nearer. As the train chortles and rattles on through the housing estates towards the station, Castiel can pick out a great deal of buildings that have been damaged by German air attacks, but it doesn’t seem to have dampened the spirits of the people he can see through the window. More to the delight of the other men, there is a certain part of town with a lot of fluorescent red lights on brick-wall building-sides.
The train pulls in; a whistle shrills; the men fight to be off first, jostling for position and slamming friends and colleagues against the rails of the platform as they get off, eager to be the first to get their hands on the best that British night-life has to offer. Castiel and Inias wait patiently in their seats to be let off, long after Hester and Alistair have disappeared in the crowd; they exchange a glance.
“Well, it ain’t Bedford,” is all Inias can say, and Castiel smiles.
As they get off the train, they are thrust almost immediately into a concrete roundabout, signs pointing off in various directions, with a tired little park, half-hearted daffodils clinging to the last lukewarm remnants of spring. It’s a ten minute walk in any given direction to get to a bar, and so they set off in the wake of the other men’s screaming whoops.
They find a street not too far away, with several little wooden-fronted pubs with signs boasting ale and music and country heritage lining either side of the road. The yells of rowdy soldiers can already be heard from the few nearer to the station, and so Castiel and Inias stray a little further down the street to find somewhere quieter.
The place they choose is still fairly busy, but containing a healthy mix of Canadian and Belgian soldiers, as well as locals, rather than entirely occupied by a 2nd Battalion brawl. Castiel doesn’t recognise the music being played, but it’s fast and brassy and he likes it, and the alcohol prices aren’t too bad. It’ll do.
They order beer, reconciling themselves to the fact that it won’t be as good as the stuff back home, and find a small table to sit down at that isn’t too sticky. They sit for a few minutes, just enjoying the time away from HQ, sipping at the froth of their beers and digging in their pockets for a light for their cigarettes. The air inside the pub is already hazy with tobacco smoke; a few more fags won’t do any harm. There are girls flitting at the edge of the dance-floor, swaying in time with the music and chattering amongst themselves, and Inias is wasting no time in checking them out.
“See anything you like?” Castiel asks, sipping carefully at the froth at the top of his beer.
Inias looks back at him with a sly smile. “Do you?”
Castiel kicks him under the table.
There is the light sound of someone delicately clearing their throat, and Castiel looks up, startled, to see a young, pretty girl resting her fingertips on the edge of their table. “Now,” she says, her accent decidedly British, if her style of dress hadn’t been enough to give her away, “what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”
Castiel smiles. “I’m here with the rest of my battalion,” he says. “Weekend passes. I’m here to supervise my platoon and ensure that they don't do anything disreputable or--"
“What my buddy here is failing to say,” Inias interrupts sweetly, sliding an arm around Castiel’s shoulder with all the charm of a million-dollar celebrity, “is how do you do.”
Castiel looks over at him, at the easy tilt of his smile, and he realises - it was just a line. She wasn't actually interested in the whole story. Inias was somehow born with all these things engrained into his system, and Castiel can just feel the overwhelming sweetness of Inias’ smile. It’s times like these that Castiel is convinced they could just send Inias into Germany and he’d straight-up sweet-talk the Nazis out of Europe.
Inias releases his grip on Castiel and instead slides past to take one of the girl’s hands. “Second Lieutenant Inias Wallace, at your service.”
“Well, Lieutenant Wallace,” she says coyly. “Do you dance?”
“I don’t know what a dahnce is,” he says, mimicking the long smoothness of her BBC vowels all teasing shyness as he stands, turns, and starts leading her out into the middle of the floor, “but, honey, if you asked me to dance, we might be singing a whole other tune.”
Castiel can’t help but laugh into his beer, lifted halfway to his lips, as Inias and his latest catch swing out towards the centre of the room, light as the songs crackling from the victrola in the corner. The bar’s dim, and growing more crowded too, as the evening gets on. The soldiers – American, Canadians, Belgians, Dutch and Poles alike – now outnumber the Brits, who don’t look too happy with the newcomers seducing all their women, but that’s their problem.
To be perfectly honest, there are even a couple of young women a few tables over, eyeing Castiel over their cigarettes who, judging by the heavy looks they’re shooting him, wouldn’t mind a spin with him at all – but Castiel doesn’t dance. It’s his own business.
Dancing or no dancing, Castiel is perfectly content to sit at his own table in the midst of the chaos, doing nothing more than sipping watered-down Blitz-ration beer and eyeing the members of his battalion who have filtered into the bar, lest they misbehave, but apparently the universe has other plans for him. Some idiot drunkard crashes into the back of Castiel’s chair when he’s just lifting his beer, and so Castiel is slammed painfully forwards into the edge of his table, where he has just slopped most of his beer.
“Shit,” exclaims the asshole behind Castiel. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t see you there—”
Castiel twists around in his seat, eyes narrowing, and that’s when the asshole – tall, freckled, Red Cross stamped on his sleeve – finally looks down and sees who he’s bumped into. His eyes widen, and then his face cracks into a grin.
“Aw, crap,” he says, rolling a hand over his jaw like the whole damn situation is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Man, I dunno where sweetheart came from, I just..." He suddenly trails off, and it’s no coincidence that his loss of heart is perfectly timed to the moment when he notices the pin on Castiel’s collar. “Sir. Shit. Sorry. I thought you were—”
“Enlisted?” Castiel guesses. “Or a woman?”
The smallest of smiles twists the soldier’s mouth, like he can’t even hold it back, and it’s not cute and it’s certainly not respectful, that’s damn clear – and then he says, “A bit of both, to be honest,” all tipsy bravado and boyish cheek, and that is just all Castiel can stand.
He pushes his chair back from the table, stands, and turns. The asshole soldier is inches taller than Castiel is, built more heavily, drunker, but Castiel is settling straight-spined into the patented officer posture of don’t-fuck-with-me and he’s been reliably informed that he could take up a whole career in making jackasses wish they’d never been born.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his tone indicating anything but apology, “but what did you say your name was, Sergeant?” He makes a point of letting his eyes fall to the pin on the soldier’s collar, showing him how easy it is to make note of rank before you speak.
“Dean Winchester, sir.” The sergeant draws himself up to full height, as though he’s at attention, which would be appropriate – except that he sways like a hurricane, because he’s at least a whole beer keg over the limit, and still smirking like he’s pretty fucking pleased with himself.
Castiel looks him dead in the eye. “Sergeant Winchester,” he says, “you owe me a drink.” And with that, he pushes his mostly-empty beer glass into Dean’s chest – ignores the way it bounces off muscle, ignores the thin line of moisture it leaves on the fabric of his shirt – and he tips his head a little, expectantly. “Get to it, Sergeant. I’m thirsty.”
That’s when the problem really starts. Castiel can feel the anticipation of it swelling in his gut – the way Dean grins wider, tugs his teeth across his lower lip like he’s biting back a laugh, rocks on his heels so he’s bigger, moving, threatening. He’s drunk. He’s teetering, dangerous. And he’s over-confident.
Dean chuckles once. Tilts his head to the side, arrogantly contemplative. “Sure thing. You want a sherry, darling?”
Castiel almost flinches. The sheer audacity of it is like a slap in the face; Castiel won over the respect and good humour of the majority of his company early and has, in some ways, been spoilt by not having to deal with cocky little dipshits too frequently since they started out two years ago. Castiel, to his own credit, doesn’t flinch, but the ever-useless words of someone who has just lost all his authority – the words “Excuse me?” – slip out of his mouth before he can stop them.
That shit-eating grin only spreads wider. “Or are you more a gin-‘n’-tonic kinda girl?”
“Listen closely,” Castiel is suddenly saying, barely noting the words coming past his lips but feeling the venomous weight of them, “because I’m only going to say this once.” He takes a step closer until they are barely inches apart. His voice is low, barely audible in the noise of the bar, and cutting. “I don’t care who the hell you think you were or might still be, but when you put on that uniform, you give yourself over to the command of the United States Army, and, by extension, to those who command and outrank you – Sergeant.”
Castiel holds Dean's eyes and leans in closer – just enough to make him uncomfortable – and he lifts his eyebrows. He lowers his voice, and he can feel the way Dean has to strain a little closer to hear him.
“I’ve noted your unit, rank, and name, and I’m still considering whether I should speak to your commanding officer about this, but I think I’ve decided that it’s all just a big drunken misunderstanding... and I would recommend that you don’t give me any reason to change my mind.” Still holding Dean’s eyes, Castiel tilts closer still and he lifts his eyebrows. He lowers his voice further still, and he can feel the way Dean has to strain a little closer to hear him. “Do I make myself clear?”
Dean’s jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, at the hinge, as he realises that he’s lost. “Crystal.”
“Crystal?”
“Crystal, sir.”
Dean Winchester’s eyes are green. Unblinking.
Castiel takes a step back, satisfied. “Apology accepted, sweetheart,” he says, his voice dangerously light and saccharine. He lifts his glass in one hand and shakes it a little so that the small amount of beer still foaming at the bottom sloshes from side to side. “And I’m still thirsty.”
Without further ado, Dean takes the glass from Castiel’s hand. Oddly, there is no hostility or resentment in his eyes; more unsettlingly still, there is an evenness to them, like glass, or like he’s come to some conclusion about Castiel already and is prepared to stand by it. “You want another drink, Lieutenant?” he drawls.
“Yes, please. Whatever beer’s on tap.”
Dean nods once. He looks down at the glass in his hand, still containing a fair measure of beer at the bottom. He stands motionless for such a long time, strangely at odds with the whirl and bustle of dancers behind him, that Castiel is about to ask if everything is alright. Before Castiel has even opened his mouth, however, Dean’s eyes flicker up to fix upon Castiel’s, and then he lifts Castiel’s rejected glass to his lips to drain it.
Castiel is speechless watching the beer slide into his open wetness of his mouth, the sleek pull of the muscles in his throat - and then it’s over and Dean hands the glass back. The glass glitters damply where his lips were.
“Yes, sir,” Dean says smoothly, arching an eyebrow as though daring Castiel to reprimand him, and then he turns away. Castiel sees him digging in his pocket for cash or change, and after that he is lost amongst the crowd of others waiting for a drink at the bar.
Numbly, Castiel sits down.
“What the hell was all that about?” Inias’ voice comes from behind Castiel, sounding slightly blurry with his first drink and rough with tobacco smoke.
Castiel turns back on his chair to look at Inias, who is flushed from the heat of dancing, and who frowns at him like he’s attempted to rob the bar. “What?” he says distractedly.
Inias rolls his eyes. He leans across the table and taps some of the ash from the end of his cigarette. “Word to the wise,” he says conspiratorially, “try not to get on the wrong side of the ones who’ll be stitching us back together in the future.”
Grumbling, Castiel reaches into his pocket for his own cigarette tin. He’d already seen that Dean was a combat medic from when he took note of his regiment, but it hardly excused his behaviour. “I think I’d rather bleed out than let him sew me up,” Castiel says sourly, picking a cigarette out of the tin. “Do you have a light?”
Inias’ pretty girl swings back over as he passes over the lighter; she drums her fingers lightly on his shoulders, peeks around at him and says coyly, “Goodness, are you tired of dancing already? I thought I’d always heard that you Yanks had stamina.”
The look that Inias throws Castiel is something along the lines of I’ve got my hands full with this one, but he doesn’t look all that aggrieved by it. “Keep that for now,” he tells Castiel with the twist of a smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Sheltering the flickering flame in cupped hands, Castiel lights his cigarette and watches Inias dip and twist through the crowd. The record has changed; it’s slower now, and they dance close together. Castiel snaps the lighter shut, and tucks both it and his tin into the pocket of his dress pants.
A weight of presence nearby and a long shadow alerts Castiel that there’s someone behind him; he turns to see Dean standing over him, bearing a tall glass of beer. Here, from this angle, the insignia of the medical red cross is more clearly visible on his upper arm.
Dean leans past and sets the glass down on the table. “Enjoy.”
“I’m sure I will.” Castiel picks it up and takes a long drink. He is bizarrely conscious of Dean’s fingerprints left in the condensation on the glass. “Thank you.”
“’Welcome,” Dean grunts. He folds his arms across his chest. For a few seconds he says nothing, rocking a little where he stands, and scowling, but then he says, “That was the last of this month’s wages. I was gonna spend it on some girl.”
Castiel eyes him. “Some girl?”
“Any girl.” There’s that twisting start of a smile again, flash of teeth over his lower lip. He shrugs, and his eyes drift to the occupants of the dance-floor, presumably seeking out a partner. Out of the blue, and without ever looking away from the dance-floor, he asks, “Do you dance?”
Castiel stares, not entirely sure what’s being asked of him. “No.”
“Huh.” Dean nods in the direction of the dancing. “There’s a couple dolls in the corner who look like they wouldn’t say no to a dance even if you couldn’t buy them a drink,” he says, seemingly to himself, but he looks down a second later, catches Castiel’s eye. “You sure?”
“I don’t dance,” Castiel says flatly.
Dean pulls a face, like there’s no pleasing some people, and doesn’t waste another second leaving to go find some pretty thing to spin around the room. Lifting the cigarette back to his lips, Castiel watches him – out of boredom, curiosity maybe – and sees that he’s successful in his pursuits. After a short buzz and a hum, the victrola has picked out the next song on the record, and this one is faster, toe-tapping. A girl with curled hair and a pink dress blushes sweetly from the side of the room but can’t resist the invitation of Dean’s extended hand; she takes it and follows him.
Castiel exhales smoke, slowly. He can hear Inias’ chatter somewhere nearby, the words unclear under the swell of the music, but the charm in it evident. Castiel can’t find him in the crowd, although that could be because he doesn’t really try. He’s watching Dean’s fingers curl into the girl’s hand, guiding her back into the throng of people, twirl her out and back in. He’s watching them laugh about something he’s whispered in her ear.
It looks like fun, Castiel will admit. It’s almost a shame he doesn’t join in, but he really, really does not dance.
His eyes fall to the shape of Dean’s lips singing along to the music, the solid breadth of his calloused hands on the girl’s waist as he twists her from one side to the other, the taut stretch of his shirt over his shoulders as he moves. Castiel tears his eyes away, lifts his cigarette the last few inches to his lips and takes a long pull, letting the sharp sting of it in his throat wash over him.
Like he said – it’s his own business.
3rd April 1944
Reveille next morning is oh-six-hundred hours, much to the displeasure of the majority of 2nd Battalion, having been trying to squeeze as much alcohol as possible into the meagre hours between supper and curfew – particularly in Inias’ case, who has been designated with the role of ensuring that all the men get up on time, and who probably drank more than the rest of the regiment put together. Fortunately, Castiel only drank one pint of watered-down ration beer – one and a half, if you include the one that Sergeant Winchester threw all across the table – and so he’s washed, shaved, and uniformed by ten to six, and able to do so without having to pray for the love of the Almighty to help him through it, either.
His elderly lodger offers him bread and dripping for breakfast, which he accepts, and a cup of tea, which he graciously refuses, and he runs into Antony Milton on road down to battalion HQ.
“Captain,” Castiel greets, snapping into a salute.
“Morning, Novak. You heading to HQ?” Milton says airily, returning the gesture and then waving a hand to invite Castiel to walk with him.
“Yes, sir.” They fall into step on the narrow road out of town and Castiel feels that he need to make some awkward attempt at small-talk. He clears his throat. “Did you have a weekend pass, sir?”
“No, I had to discuss some regimental rearrangements with Captain Everett.”
“Ah.”
They walk in silence. Shorn sheep huddle together unhappily in the light morning rain; a distribution truck roars past them, laden with what looks like enough K-rations to end world poverty.
“It rains a lot here, doesn’t it?” Castiel comments, looking up at the heavy sky and dark clouds.
Milton ignores him. “Captain Everett was thinking of splitting up a few companies of the 104th Medical, spreading them across the infantry divisions. Apparently they’re allowing for Operation Neptune to rake in a lot of casualties.”
“Okay,” Castiel says hesitantly, unsure where he comes into this – because he must come into this somewhere, since Milton is hardly the type to share and care for the sake of it. “Will I...?”
“Baker’s getting five new medics – four ninety-one-whiskeys, one ninety-one-victor. Your platoon will be getting one new man.”
“Yes, sir. Any names I’ll need to familiarise myself with?”
“None that I know yet. Everett’s still trying to work out the logistics of it. A few companies will need to be completely reorganised, although we should be fine.” By this time, they’re coming to the rows of battered corrugated buildings of battalion HQ, the gravel parade-ground and the neat rows of soldiers already in their places. Milton pauses. “I promise that as soon as I know, you’ll know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Milton tugs on the fore-facing peak of his garrison cap with one hand, smoothes one side of it with the other. “I had a briefing last night which implied that today we might be moving out to a new base along the coast, somewhere with a port,” he says. “I’ll speak to our superiors about it. If you take the company for calisthenics – nothing too messy – then I’ll be back by oh-nine-hundred hours to brief you further about the battalion’s movements. We may need to pack up altogether.”
“Yes, sir.”
Attention-snap-salute, and Milton is gone.
Damnit. When Castiel was discussing the meaning of the whole-battalion weekend pass with the other lieutenants on the train, he hadn’t actually hoped that he’d be right. They’re already on the coastline for intensive assault training in preparation for Operation Neptune, and moving somewhere bigger, with more boat-holding capacity, can only mean that the deadline for the Operation in question is closer than ever before.
He turns to see his company hurrying down to meet him, groaning amongst themselves and trying to arrange themselves into some form of sobriety.
“Morning, gents,” he says as they fall into parade formation. He glances back along the path into Slapton, where he can see Inias, plus Lieutenant Hester and First Sergeant Milligan, all nursing their hangovers. Castiel returns to face the men in front of him. “Did you all have a good night out?”
“Oh yeah,” laughs Private Gallagher, throwing some of his friends a knowing look. “Ask Alfie what he got up to, sir – he’ll tell you he, uh, lost something real precious.”
Private Wilson flushes bright red in the first row, but grins sheepishly. “What can I say, sir?” he says. “The British girls like me better than they did back home.”
Someone near the back lets out a cough that sounds suspiciously like Fort Blanding – Inias, who has only just arrived, frowns unhappily, and is received by teasing pats on the shoulder and patronising apologies.
“What happens in Florida stays in Florida,” Corporal Ash Lowell says mock-gravely, bowing his head as though to respect the dead – the death of Inias’ dignity, maybe – and some privates nearby cackle amongst themselves.
“Alright, calm down,” Castiel says. “You’re standing at ease, not back at the bar. Sort yourselves out.”
The men of Baker Company fall quiet and apologetically shuffle into more military positions, bracing their hands behind their back, and listen quietly for their next instructions.
“I’m not going to stand you to attention because I need speed in getting you all back up to the town,” Castiel tells them, his eyes flickering across them all. “You’d best all be holding sweetly onto last night’s memories – your stomachs, too. Three hours calisthenics drill. I want you all back here in combats, with rifles and webbing, in ten minutes. Any questions?”
No questions; just some moans of complaint from the men feeling bold enough to gripe in the absence of Captain Milton. When dismissed, they turn on their heels to run back up to their lodgings – Inias pausing at the front first to tease, “ooh, Lieutenant, I love it when you get all bossy” – and then Castiel, too, must double back to his house to get changed.
The last eight months in England have been tough but fun, as the men smoked like chimneys, drank like sailors, and slept around like the world is ending – which, hell, maybe it is – and it’s been enjoyable, at least. However, as Castiel runs up the stairs to find his boots and combats, he is gripped with the distinct sense that the fun is over now.
10th April 1944
Seven days a week, Baker Company have physical training, map-reading, close combat drills, weapons cleaning, and simulation exercises of every scenario possible. Some days they’re fighting through forests, other days through villages (accidentally terrorising the local townspeople when they take a wrong turn), and one day they have to get an artillery platoon over a fast-moving river, which ends... badly, to say the least. The only consolation to be taken is that at least the company has trained together long enough to be able to work together through every crisis that is thrown at them, be it Corporal Campbell’s shitty attempts at navigation or the goddamned boggy British countryside. Castiel, Inias and the other platoon commanders know their men and how to work them, and a lead-by-example methodology ensures cooperation and understanding; there are fuck-ups, of course, but none so drastic that they can’t be resolved with a few sharp words and the threat of latrine duty – or so Castiel thinks.
They are just oiling their weapons and packing in preparation for a night navigation exercise when Captain Milton is called aside by regimental S-1. Castiel watches their conversation in the distance, and then, later, watches them walk off together, still deep in discussion.
“What do you think is going on?” Inias asks, following Castiel’s gaze.
“Probably something to do with the medical transfers, I’d guess,” Castiel says. “Pass the rag, will you?”
“What medical transfers?” Joe Harvelle noses in, handing over a grubby scrap of cloth before Inias can, as his way into the conversation.
“It’s not officially any of your business yet, Corporal,” Castiel says pointedly, but he takes the rag and carefully gets to wiping down the greasy housing mechanism of his rifle, and continues with calculated diplomacy, “but if you were to find out that part of the 104th Medicals is being split up and spread between the infantry, you’d didn’t hear it from me.”
“Wait, so how many new medics do you think we’ll get?” Private Gallagher joins in.
Castiel frowns. “Didn’t any of your mothers teach you not to eavesdrop?”
“No, sir,” Private Wilson chips in from the far side of the group, not even looking up from readjusting the contents of his haversack.
Inias just laughs, shaking his head, and Castiel opens his mouth to dismiss the topic with the age-old need-to-know-basis-and-you-don’t line, when he hears Milton yelling for platoon commanders.
Castiel gets up, moving the disjointed parts of his rifle off his own combat jacket onto someone else’s, so that he can shrug into the rest of his uniform before he and Inias jog over to Milton.
“Captain?” Castiel asks, saluting, and then falls silent when he notices the rows of uniformed men lined up behind his commanding officer – all of them adorned with the red cross of a combat medic. “Are these the new transfers, sir?”
Milton makes a point of ignoring him and instead looks towards the other platoon leaders still hurrying in their direction. Lieutenants Freddie Hester and Adrian Alistair jog up, salute, and stand at attention beside Castiel, and only then does Milton speak.
“At ease, Lieutenants,” he says, folding his hands behind his back, and he waits until they have changed into the more comfortable position before addressing them. “Baker Company has been assigned five new medics. Three-platoon will be getting two medics – Hester, you’ll have a ninety-one-victor as well as a ninety-one-whiskey; the rest of your platoons will be assigned one each. So – Lieutenant Hester, you’ll be assigned one Private Nolan and a Lance Corporal du Mort—”
Castiel tunes out momentarily, because in the midst of all the combat medics being attached to their division, he can pick out the five already bearing the grey and blue insignia of the 116th, standing closest behind Captain Milton, and – motherfucker –
“—but it shouldn’t be any hassle... and Lieutenant Novak, you’re being assigned one—”
“Sergeant Winchester,” Castiel says flatly.
The asshole is even taller, even broader, somehow, in daylight, and he has this arrogant little twist of a smile on his lips, despite being at attention. Something like a shiver traces its fingertips up Castiel’s spine.
“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” Milton asks, his tone cold and clipped, unhappy with having been interrupted.
“No, sir.” Castiel straightens, remembering himself. “We’ve met, is all.”
“Then he should make an easy addition to your platoon,” Milton says pointedly – meaning, this is beyond your control, Novak, so you’d better just deal with it.
Castiel swallows and sets his jaw.
Milton then goes on to explain that the medics will have their own separate training, of course, but that much of time, they’ll be accompanying their new companies on training exercises in order to try and integrate – starting with the night navigation exercise.
Great. Just when Castiel’s platoon has reached a stage where they can work together like clockwork, fluid in light or dark, responding to silhouettes and signals almost by instinctual understanding... and now they’ve got to fit in this rude, disruptive hillbilly.
Castiel doesn’t voice any of that, however. He remains rigid and obedient until dismissed, and then his eyes flash only briefly over to meet Sergeant Winchester’s before he turns to head back to his platoon.
Footsteps fall heavy behind him, catching up, and then – “Hey, sweetheart! Fancy seeing you here!”
Castiel spins back to face him fast, eyes narrowed, and doesn’t let himself flinch back when he finds he’s accidentally put himself in much closer proximity to Dean than he had ever intended. Dean, on the other hand, recoils back a little at suddenly finding their faces four inches apart; his eyes widen with surprise, and in the low, grey light of a cloudy afternoon, they look greener than ever.
“Winchester, right?” Castiel challenges.
“Yes, sir.”
Dean’s tongue darts out nervously to wet his lips. Something in Castiel is now aware that his own lips are very dry; he itches to mimic the movement, but he doesn’t.
“Winchester, it goes against all my instincts, but I’m going to give you a chance here,” Castiel says, his expression hard. “I can promise you right now, though, that if you really fuck with me, I will personally make sure that the only way you ever see Normandy is as a shit-stain on the bottom of my boot. Understood?”
“Sir, I was drunk, and I’m sorry for any—”
“Are you still drunk?” Castiel interrupts.
Dean frowns. “No, sir—”
“Then stop calling me sweetheart.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows; his eyes flicker uncertainly over Castiel’s face. “Yes, sir.”
Satisfied that he has put the fear of God into him, Castiel gives a short nod. “You’re walking a very thin line, Winchester,” Castiel tells him firmly, holding his gaze. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Then Castiel lets his gaze drop from Dean’s face, taking in the neatness of his shirt, the press of his combat pants, the weight of his clothes on his soldiers, the shadow of the bulk underneath... he’s tidy; well-turned out. Castiel cannot find a single thing to fault. Somehow, his eyes snagging on the stretch of cotton over his chest, the freckled divot of his throat just above his collar, Castiel finds his way back to Dean’s eyes.
Castiel tilts his chin up. “Welcome to one-platoon, sergeant.”
15th April 1944
Much to Castiel’s disappointment, Dean Winchester fits almost effortlessly in with the others. He’s in good shape, keeping up easily on company runs and marches, and never once whines about the weight of the battlefield medical kit on his back, even when some of the other combat medics do; he talks constantly, and at length, about his little brother back home; he’s charming and he full-body laughs like a tidal wave, winning most of the men over with jokes so obscene that Castiel can feel himself go red listening to them; most surprisingly, however, is that Dean listens. In any drill, Castiel only has to twist back and call Dean’s name, as an afterthought, mid-breath through an onslaught of orders, and he’s there, ready to simulate field operations or a cas-evac – whatever’s needed.
On-duty, Dean is fast, smart, sharp, has an intuitive understanding of what is needed at any given time, and is easily one of the best medics that Castiel has ever worked with.
Off-duty, Dean is a royal pain in the ass. He’s brash, loud, disrespectful, and seems to take a perverse joy in embarrassing Castiel.
One day, after training, Castiel overhears Dean wagering ‘a special Lieutenant Novak strip-tease’ in a poker game in place of actual money, and when Castiel heads straight over to tear him a new one, Dean just blinks innocently at him and says, “But, sir, it’s my birthday”, much to the amusement of the men he was playing with. Another time, Dean wolf-whistles as the company is lining up in the mess hall, and Castiel stumbles; this time, when Castiel angrily lays into him, Dean just stares arrogantly back at him, waiting out the storm.
“He is the rudest, most frustrating person I have ever had to deal with,” Castiel rages to Inias on a near-daily basis, and hates Dean even more the day when he breezes past at precisely the right moment to hear this and add, “Damn handsome, though.” Inias snorts into his spaghetti at this, and then quickly rearranges his expression into something grave and disapproving when Castiel glares at him.
Thankfully, they keep very busy and there’s little time for conversation – or arguments, for that matter. As well as training in field maintenance, basic survival, familiarisation with landing crafts, hand-to-hand combat, and weapons handling, they also find themselves being loaded onto battleships at least once a week for what Milton wittily calls ‘invasion dress rehearsal’ – by which he means that they throw themselves into the ocean, haul themselves out and pretend to attack the beach... and then do it all over again.
It’s exhausting, but Castiel’s superiors promise that it’s realistic, and that it will help them incalculably when the time comes to actually attack Normandy... whenever that is.
“I can't do it,” Alfie Wilson exclaims melodramatically, throwing himself down heavily onto the shingles after the last mock-invasion of the day. “I just can't do it anymore.”
“Aw, come on, there’s no need for that,” Corporal Mills says, although he also drops down to sit cross-legged on the sand and picks disdainfully at the sweat-sticky material of his combats. “We haven’t even crossed the freakin’ Channel yet.”
“Yeah, exactly my point,” Alfie groans, his voice muffled where he’s hidden under his arm, slung over his face. “Jesus, after all of this, combat can’t even be that bad.”
“At least we’ll only have to assault the actual beach once instead of over and over again,” Gallagher joins in.
“Hey, I’ve got a joke for you guys,” Castiel says, from where he is unlacing his boots one at a time to shake the water out. “What did the infantryman in Normandy say to the guy who wouldn’t quit whining during training?” He tips his boot upside, watches the water slosh out, and then looks pointedly at the privates around him who are waiting for the punch line. “Nothing, because whiners don’t get to go to Normandy.”
Johnny Mills gives a short, sarcastic laugh, ha-ha. “That was hilarious, sir,” he says dryly. “You should have your own show.”
“Would that I could, Corporal, but unfortunately I have to command this little group of whiny infantrymen,” Castiel says lightly, and he smiles as the platoon groan their offense and injury at the comment. “Right,” he says, fastening his boots and standing. “Up you get. We’ve got to be back at HQ in ten minutes for Everett’s briefing on beach terrain.”
“I bet I can call it right now,” Dean says, shrugging out of his combat jacket to shake the dirt off. He drapes it gracelessly over one arm, and starts ticking off his fingers. “Water. Sand. Rocks. Grass. Germans.” He holds his arms out akimbo. “There. Briefing over.”
Castiel throws him a disparaging look. “And you should be so lucky to get it in that order, Winchester.”
The grin slides slowly from Dean’s face, his features instead collecting into an expression of disgruntled resignation. “This briefing is a be-there-or-be-square kinda deal, isn’t it?” he asks.
“No.” Castiel stares at him. “Be there.”
Someone to Castiel’s other side chuckles to themselves; apparently the constant battles between Castiel and Dean Winchester have proved entertaining. That’s all well and good for them, Castiel thinks as he re-shoulders his rifle, but they don’t have to deal first-hand with Dean’s dogged determination to undermine their every action.
“Right, let’s go.” Castiel jerks his head in the direction of the path back up to regimental HQ for his platoon to follow. “Ten minutes, everyone.”
As he goes to leave, he gets a glimpse Dean shrugging back into his jacket, stretching to twist his arms back into the sleeves – the ruck and lift of his shirt where it’s come untucked from his pants, the flash of his stomach, sweat glinting shiny in the cut of his hipbones – and it catches him off-balance, solid punch to the gut of all the things he’s not allowed to feel.
Castiel turns away dry-mouthed, heart pounding, and he realises that Dean Winchester’s arrogance might actually be the least of his problems.
21st April 1944
Orders to move out for Falmouth, Cornwall, are set for the third of May, moving the whole division west by truck and train. Until then, Baker Company throw themselves into obstacle courses, infantry demolition ranges, field training exercises, and endless re-runs of the beach assault. They run until their legs shake with every step; they march further. They go on night-time combat operations, Castiel and Lieutenant Virgil huddling together in the darkness trying to make sense of their missions, and Captain Milton leads them through house-to-house attacks on small towns. They dig more foxholes than they’d ever care to dig, and Private Gallagher’s partiality to tuneless renditions of Hi-Ho It’s Off To Work We Go as they work sets off a trend that spreads through the company far faster than Castiel would have liked – as does the joke that Castiel would, logically, be the Snow White to their dwarves. They all vehemently deny any knowledge of who started the joke, but safe bets are on Winchester.
Things are starting to fit together. Having been individually trained and polished for war, the men spend their time working fluidly as a company now, as a regiment, and, finally, as a whole division. Their superiors have been impressed with them so far, and now it’s just time to fit them into the bigger picture.
They’ve been training as a division for several days, advancing slowly along the fields of Somerset and pretending to capture individual villages as they pass through. It’s nearing six P.M and they are prepared to stage an attack on a tree-line on the far side of an open field, with the 116th on point and Baker Company leading.
They’re just splitting off into platoons for advancing manoeuvres when Alfie Wilson twists his ankle.
The moment is absolute chaos, fast-paced and frenetic, heart-slamming – orders have already been given for suppressive artillery fire on the tree-line and Castiel is sprinting flat-out for the scream and scatter of mortar shells. The rattle of gunfire is deafening even with blank rounds; Castiel can feel his pulse inside his skull and in his helmet as an echo, and his mouth feels stuffed with dead leaves for all he can speak or swallow. He’s coming up to the place where Captain Milton instructed him to split the platoon, lay down machine-gunners just back from the tree-line to cover the assault squad – he skids to a stop, drops to one knee and looks back to see his men coming up behind him – and that’s when he sees Wilson go down.
He is running along between Corporal Mills and Private Spencer, and his foot just rolls over onto the side, and his whole leg goes out. He lets out a stifled cry and hits the ground hard, his rifle flying out of his hands and yanking at his neck when the sling pulls up short. As Castiel watches, waiting breathless for his machine-gunners to catch up, Wilson struggles to his feet. He successfully stands and manages to put some weight on his bad foot, but as he tries to run he nearly crumples again, and can only stagger forwards very haltingly.
This is an assault to familiarise the soldiers with having heavy artillery support even on small-scale attacks. This is not a low-level training exercise; no injuries are planned in and the medics tagged onto the end of each platoon are only going through the motions. By all estimations, it isn’t a serious injury anyway – Wilson will just have to hobble until he can be given medical care after the exercise is over.
Dean has other plans.
As soon as Dean hears Wilson’s shout, he stops and looks backwards for the source. He then immediately ditches the plan, so extensively explained by Castiel before the assault began, and runs back. He takes Wilson’s rifle and haversack – positioning himself carefully so that the majority of Wilson’s body is blocked from view by Dean’s bulk – and then wraps an arm around Wilson’s waist to help him walk.
Castiel’s expression falls darkly. “Winchester! Get back here,” he yells after him. Fucking hell, he doesn’t have time for this. “Winchester!”
No response. Dean curls his arm a little more snugly around Wilson, hoists him a little higher to take most of the weight off his injured ankle, and walks him away. Faintly, he can be heard speaking – “it’s okay, it’s not even that bad, it’s okay” – as they hobble away together, painfully slow for what is supposed to be a goddamned battle scenario.
“Jesus,” Castiel mutters. That’s all the time he can spare to watch Dean’s disobedience. By then his gunners have taken up their positions and are hard at work, and he has to concentrate as the assault squad run on to flank the non-existent enemy.
From there it’s easy, as there isn’t actually any enemy to overcome and there’s no real question of the outcome. It’s a simple matter of paying attention to their movement so that Castiel can get Private Gallagher to radio into Captain Milton to avert the artillery fire. It’s the last assault of the last day of an extended field exercise, and everyone is relieved by the prospect of heading back to Slapton for warm food and showers.
It takes some time to clear up and clear out, hundreds of men scattered all over the place, but eventually they are all assembled and ready to form up in column to march back. Just as Castiel is rounding up the last of his platoon from where they’d dispersed to have some of the rations from their webbing, he catches sight of Dean talking to a senior medical officer.
Castiel pauses just where he knows Dean will be able to see him out of the corner of his eye and waits until they finish talking. Then, once the other officer has left to pack up the temporary aid station, Castiel approaches him and asks, “What’s going on?”
Dean doesn’t look towards him. He points over at one of the trucks being packed up. “I asked if Alfie could get a ride back to base, keep the weight off his ankle. It doesn’t make much sense to push him so hard in training that he won’t be able to do the real thing, right?” he says, and at last glances over. “That march back would wreck him for sure.”
Castiel hums in distracted agreement. “How is he?” he asks after a beat of hesitation.
“He’ll be okay,” Dean says. “It’s pretty badly twisted but if we take him out of training for a week or so, let the swelling go down, then he should be fighting fit in no time.”
For a few seconds they don’t speak. They stand side by side, arm to arm, with Dean’s head turned slightly so that he can look at Castiel’s face, which Castiel pretends not to notice.
Dean studies Castiel for a good minute or so before he breathes a heavy sigh, twists away to look into the distance, where the last of the aid trucks are rattling their engines into motion. “I disobeyed a direct order, didn’t I?” he asks, resigned.
Castiel’s brow scrunches up in the middle, trying to find the right words. “Yeah, you did,” is eventually what he settles with; it isn’t beautiful, but it’s true. “You disobeyed quite a few orders, actually.”
“I’m sorry it happened.”
Not sorry that he did it, Castiel notes. Casting off the blame as though it was something that simply couldn’t be controlled – as though he had no choice but to help Wilson. Irresponsible – but then again, that’s just Dean down to a tee, isn’t it?
Castiel turns to face Dean, his eyes hard. “You don’t get any bonus points for being a hero, Winchester,” he tells him sharply.
Still facing forwards, Dean only shrugs and tilts his head a little to one side – the side closer to Castiel – when he says, “I’m a medic. Here I was thinking hero was part of the job description.” He looks sideways over his shoulder at Castiel, that small smile starting quietly because he thinks he’s so damn smart.
Unblinking, Castiel stares straight back. “It isn’t.” He does not smile. “You die, and that’s it.”
Dean’s eyes drop to the ground in front of Castiel, the dry dirt and crushed grass curling. Then, very slowly, he turns his head back to face the front, in profile to Castiel. His jaw is a tight line. He doesn’t say anything else.
In the silence that follows, Castiel is struck by the strangest feeling that he might have finally won something over Dean Winchester – but that it might have been the wrong victory to ask for. There is nothing more to be said in that moment; Castiel gives a short nod, straightens up, falls back into the role he’s meant for.
“Form up, sergeant,” he says, and the words are hollow on his tongue. Dean doesn’t even look over. “We’re marching out in five.”
25th April 1944
Whole-company calisthenics is led by Lieutenant Alistair, and he relishes the role.
Push-ups: forty. Two minutes. Sit-ups: seventy. Two minutes. Suicide sprints: six minutes, non-stop, over an increasing distance. Star-jumps – because Alistair is an asshole with a sadistic sense of humour. Two-mile run, full combat gear: under fourteen minutes or march back to the start and begin again. Repeat.
They’re the fittest they’ve ever been; they’re ready.
Every man is in his own world, but Castiel breaks. Tightening his stomach muscles to pull up forwards, he glances sideways. To his left is Staff Sergeant Milligan, then Private Fitzgerald; beyond that is Dean – squinting a little in the sun, brighter today than usual. Tongue just poking out between his lips in concentration. Sweat collecting on his temples, shiny below his jawline. As Castiel watches, a single droplet beads on the surface of his skin, shakes free with the motion of the sit-ups, and slides, almost painfully slowly, down the thick line of the tendon in his neck.
Castiel realise he’s fallen out of time.
“—fifty-six – fifty-seven – fifty-eight—”
He tears his eyes away, swallowing hard, and throws himself back into the exercise. He clenches his stomach tighter; shouts a little louder.
26th April 1944
There’s a routine safety check for all soldiers – enlisted, officers, and non-fighting alike. Dean’s are fluid and confident on the weapons he won’t need to use. Long fingers, deft movements – safety catch, bolt handle, drag and click – thumb sweeping over metal on the way down to the trigger, fire off the action, safety and dust cover. He has freckles on his knuckles.
Dean lowers the barrel and looks expectantly across at Castiel, waiting for commendation or criticism.
Castiel looks up from Dean’s hands – now curled loosely around the stock – and clears his throat, tilting his chin up authoritatively. “It’ll do.”
With a short huff of satisfaction, Dean skims a hand along the length of the forestock to check the safety one last time before passing it over. Castiel’s eyes fall to the lazily slide of Dean’s fingers over wood, something dry and uncomfortable thickening in his throat, and almost doesn’t notice the way that their hands brush when he is given the rifle. Almost. There’s still the electric burn sizzling all under his skin.
Castiel looks away to the soldiers in his platoon still left in line to be checked. “Next?”
29th April 1944
It’s the last weekend before the regiment is moved out to Falmouth, and Companies Able, Baker and HQ have been allowed passes into the city. Despite the number of men being reduced drastically, the chaos on the journey over on the six o’clock train is just as bad – crammed into small carriages stinking of sweat and tobacco, chattering loudly, over-excited shouting and the first hurled insults for what promises to be resolved by a brawl later.
Castiel and Inias huddle together at the far back of the train, not having found seats this time, and cling to bars to desperately try and keep themselves upright as the train jolts and judders through the countryside. They discuss the imminent move west and what it will mean.
Castiel grimaces. “It means it’s time to sharpen our bayonets.”
Inias looks down his nose at Castiel, pulling into full-force his best impression of Captain Milton’s disapproval. “Oh, but Lieutenant, your bayonet should already be sharpened,” he says, his voice a disappointed whine. Then his expression flickers a little, his mockery breaking up as a smirk twists across his face. "Then again," he goes on, his voice dropping low, "you might enjoy stabbing someone with a blunt, uh, bayonet."
There is nothing Castiel can say in response to that. He looks disparagingly at Inias – in response to which, Inias just arches one comical eyebrow – and Castiel can only shake his head. "Shut the fuck up, Wallace," he says, even as he cracks into a reluctant smile.
“Oh, babe, I’ll get you one day,” Inias chides him, reaching up to pat his cheek fondly.
Castiel swats him away, retorting he’ll do no such thing, and the train swings into the Plymouth railway station shortly afterwards. A bell rings and the men start to flow out of the carriages like a solid wave of bodies and noise. Inias and Castiel tag along at the end and set off on the now-familiar walk to the nearest pubs. The night is still early, the sky pale in its reds and purples, and the sound of evening vibrancy is already spilling out front doors with welcoming squares of the light inside.
They try a new pub this time, somewhere smaller, but it boasts a two-for-one offer on drinks and Glen Miller is playing inside, so it looks as good as anywhere else they’ve tried. They head in, weaving through the crowd gathered at the bar, and try to find a table. There’s a small group of young men and women dancing in the far corner of the room, closest to the victrola – few enough that there shouldn’t be any rowdy behaviour, but enough for Inias to dip his toes in the local water.
There is a loud uproar from the men standing at the bar, interspersed with laughter and drunken exclamations, and Inias looks over at Castiel. “Looks like we’re the only sober men here, Cas,” he says. He smiles, his face full of the sort of soft innocence that instantly wins over pretty girls and their stoic mothers, but Castiel knows the truth, the sly curve to it. “We’d better get to catching up.”
Upon Inias’ eager-faced insistence, Castiel reluctantly links arms with Inias and downs the first beer. They try a repeat with their second ones, but without great success; Castiel catches a glimpse of the scrunched-up expression of severe concentration on Inias’ face and bursts out laughing, spraying beer everywhere.
They sip the dregs, buy one more and then settle. They light up cigarettes, one after another, and smoke spirals loosely up from their mouths as they talk.
The time is twenty-hundred-hours.
“—but that wasn’t even how it happened,” Inias is saying, his voice thick with alcohol as he speaks, “but you know Hester, the pressure gets to him and bam - he’s all up in arms and thinking the only way to solve the problem is to scream himself hoarse, and there’s no arguing with him once he starts.” He heaves a sigh, and picks up his glass of beer to take a long sip. “Swear to god, that guy’s gonna be the death of me.”
“You may be more right than you think,” Castiel answers. He’s faring better than Inias for sobriety – still on his third glass to Inias’ fourth, and taking it slowly. He raises his cigarette to his lips, takes a deep pull. The smoke ghosts over his lips as he continues. “Apparently he’s going to be 2IC on the beach assault.”
Inias’ eyes widen over his glass. “No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “He’ll get us all killed. Over my dead body is he leading me anywhere.”
“Over Milton’s, more like,” Castiel says.
“Yeah.” Inias rolls his eyes and then gives a rueful smile. “I guess we’ll just have to look after the Cap real carefully.”
A short chuckle bursts out Castiel, because neither of them are particularly close to Captain Milton either, but at least Milton’s competent. He mumbles an ‘amen to that’, lifts his drink and takes another gulp. Inias needs no persuasion in taking a mouthful of agreement.
At that moment, there comes a distraction in the form of a loud, familiar voice drawling, “Evening, lieutenants” – and, without giving any further warning, Dean swings around the table to drop down onto an available stool at their table.
“Good evening,” Inias says pleasantly, and he lifts his glass in Dean’s direction as a further greeting.
Castiel, on the other hand, just stares at him, waiting. Dean doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest; he grins like he’s the happiest guy alive and drums his fingertips on the table-top along with the music. Eventually, when Castiel realises that Dean is not going to go away on the force of prayers alone, he lifts his eyebrows and asks, “Can I help you?”
Dean looks over at Castiel, mouth falling slightly open as though offended. “What?” he says, sounding so hurt by the question that it can only be an act. “Aww, come on. Am I not allowed to come over and hang out with my two best buddies?”
Castiel blinks at him, slowly, like the sight before him is physically painful. “We’re not your buddies,” he says. “Now what do you want?”
Sighing heavily, Dean holds his hands up in defeat. “Alright, you caught me,” he admits, and he overbalances on his stool, leaning over sideways so that his face is suddenly close enough to Castiel’s that the smell of cheap soap and tobacco smoke can be caught warmly on his skin. Castiel sets his jaw stubbornly against the easy allure of it; Dean’s languid smile stretches a little wider. “See, sir, I was wondering if I could maybe call in that drink you owe me?”
Castiel frowns. “I don’t owe you a drink.”
Dean leans back, clapping his hands together. “Sure you do,” he exclaims, on the border of a laugh. “I bought you one last time.”
Right. Castiel exhales through his teeth. “Winchester,” he says emphatically, as though he’s speaking to a very small child, “you bought me a drink because you knocked mine over. Remember?”
“Oh.” The grin slides from Dean’s face; his brow crumples as the memory comes back to him. “Yeah. Damn.” Then he’s back, all crinkly-eyed boyish charm, smiling with just the tip of his tongue stuck between his teeth. “Any chance you feel like buying me a drink anyway?”
“No.” A thought comes to Castiel, and he tilts in his stool to better face Dean head-on. “What’s wrong with your own money? You got your wages yesterday.”
Dean shrugs. “Sent ‘em back to my brother. I usually keep some for me, but he needs some new textbooks, so...”
Castiel sighs. “Christ.”
Swivelling in his stool to look Castiel dead in the eye, Dean grins. “C’mon, lieutenant. You’re Catholic, right?” he says persuasively, and if he notices the way Castiel tenses at the mention of his religion, he doesn’t take any heed to respecting it. He continues, “Don't you think God’d want you to be a good Samaritan? Help a fella out?”
Castiel fixes Dean with his most disparaging stare. “I think God would want you to be independent and quit scrounging off others,” he says flatly.
“I think God would consider us all equals,” Dean goes on, louder now and drowning out Castiel’s attempts at protest. He settles his elbows on the edge of the table, arms folded over, and rocks forwards into Castiel’s personal space. “Including poor people.” His smile is two-parts challenging, one-part just plain dumb, and altogether an unsettling combination of arrogance and comfortable familiarity that sends shivers under Castiel’s skin.
Forcibly tearing his eyes away from the pink line where Dean’s teeth nudge at his bottom lip, Castiel heaves a heavy sigh. “Jesus. If I buy you a drink, will you go away?” he asks wearily.
Dean’s smile stretches wider, warmer. He cocks his head to one side and winks. “Temporarily. Maybe.”
Castiel squints at him. “Fine,” he bites out, not sure if he has just won or lost this round.
“Thank you, sir,” Dean says happily – the glee in his tone suggesting that Castiel probably lost – and then suddenly the music creaking out of victrola changes its tune and he sits bolt upright. “Aw, I love this song!” he exclaims, and in an instant he’s scrambling off his stool in the direction of the open floor where he can pick off some poor young thing to dance with – but not before he reaches out for Castiel. “Oh,” Dean says as an afterthought – his hand catches on the side of Castiel’s arm, glides loosely over his shoulder blades, fingers tracing featherlight trenches over his shirt; barely touching him, but the sensation is still enough to raise goosebumps on the skin underneath. “And I’ll have a beer!”
Inias bursts out laughing so hard his drink slops around dangerously in his glass, and when Castiel shoots him a deadly glare, he only exclaims, “What? I like him.”
Great. Castiel rolls his eyes. He is now totally outnumbered with regards to the people who see Dean as the epitome of hilarity and charm. He doesn’t bother to answer that; he focuses instead on digging his pocket for his cigarette tin.
“C’mon, admit it – you like him too,” Inias teases.
Castiel, still caught like an old record player on the bump and graze of Dean’s fingers over his back, struggles to get enough purchase on a fingernail to pry the tin open. “Do not.”
As Inias regards Castiel, something in his expression suddenly changes. The smile that lifts on his face is new and mischievous. He sets his glass of beer down. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, and he sits back in his chair as though struck by revelation. “You actually do. You like him.”
“Huh?” Castiel is distracted by the sight, in the distance, of Dean’s hand on the narrow waist of some young dark-haired girl, his fingers intertwined through hers as they hop and slide giddily across the floor. Castiel’s fingernail finally finds the metal crease of his tin, and, already exerting more persuasive force than needed, the tin is flipped wildly open, the contents nearly scattering everywhere. He fumbles to snatch it back, and, once his cigarettes are safe, he shoots Inias a frown.
Inias tucks his tongue into the side of his mouth, shaking his head. “I don’t believe this,” he says, and he drops his voice low, leaning further across the table. “You’re stuck on the Winchester kid.”
Castiel recoils, his face scrunching up like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “What?” he exclaims. “No. No way.” He traps a cigarette between his lips and huffs an incredulous laugh around it. “I’m not stuck on anyone, Inias, and if I were, it sure as hell wouldn’t be Dean fucking Winchester.”
“You know, you could get into a lot of trouble for that.”
Not really thinking about the words coming out of his mouth or the meaning of them, Castiel says on a resigned exhalation of smoke, “Yeah, I know.”
“So you are stuck on him!” Inias concludes triumphantly, smirking. He rocks onto the back two legs of his stool. “I knew it.” Castiel gives him a withering look and doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Inias, however, is completely unfazed by Castiel’s silence. “Not that I blame you,” he continues. “He’s pretty handsome.”
“I’m not talking to you,” Castiel tells him bluntly.
“He’s got big hands, too.” Inias sips at his beer and makes eyes at Castiel over the rim of it, eyebrows quirking up. “You know what that means, huh?”
“Jesus, Inias—”
“Okay, okay...” Inias only smiles into his beer like he thinks he’s the funniest thing since the Marx Brothers, but he’s pretty drunk; Castiel just rolls his eyes again and settles for concentrating on his cigarette, in the hopes that perhaps if he smokes hard and fast enough, the tobacco smog will cover the anxious flush rising low on his neck.
He tries to stay focused, he really does – but Inias has fallen into a hush, content to sway from side to side with the brassy lull of the music as he drinks, and Castiel is offered no other distraction except to let his eyes fall again on Dean. The easy swing and rock of his hips. His narrow waist twisting, the girl’s hands on him surely able to feel the pull and flex of muscle as he moves. His shoulders shifting with his steps, the green cotton of his dress shirt stretched taut. His ass – god, but he has a nice ass – and long, long legs. The warm, hungry shape of a grin on his lips when he looks at her; mouth soft, eyes sharp, intent clear. The way he looks at her, hot and fierce, like he’s enjoying what he sees and he wants to know it better, wants to take it apart piece by piece and see what’s underneath—
It’s not too different from the way he looks at Castiel.
Jesus Christ. The bar is suddenly far too hot, too crowded, too claustrophobic, and Castiel can feel heat searing up under his skin, burning a flustered claim on his throat and cheeks. He’s got to get outside; it’s stuffy and he’s feeling dizzy like his own legs might not even support him, and Dean Winchester is not a homosexual, but Castiel’s never been more of the thought that he might be able to change his mind about that.
“Inias, I,” Castiel starts, his voice low and rough as he starts collecting up his lighter and cigarette tin from the table to stash back into his pockets, “I’m going to – go outside. Just – I need some fresh air. I’ll be back.”
“Wait, what?” Inias looks up at him, a bewildered frown pulling down between his eyebrows. “Whoa – Cas. What’s up?” He reaches across the table, snatches at Castiel’s sleeve before he can disappear, and holds him fast. “You’re not gonna throw up, are you?”
Castiel shakes his head. “No – look, I’m fine. I just need to get out of here for a second.” He gently pries Inias’ hands from his arm, pats one hand when he sets it back down on the table. “Swear to god, I’m fine. I’ll be right back.”
Seeming appeased by this, Inias nods – and then barely waits until Castiel’s back is turned before slyly finishing the remainder of his drink, so Castiel guesses he won’t be too aggrieved by his absence. At worst, Inias can go find some girl to dance with.
Castiel pushes through the thick of people to get to the door and near-enough stumbles out onto the street when he finds it, much to the amusement of some middle-aged men clustered around the doorway. The chill night air on his skin is an instant relief; he just takes a second to breathe it in before reaching around to pull his folded garrison cap from his belt-loops and adjust it on his head, cigarette smouldering between his lips. He breathes and tries to think of other things. The hundreds of maps he’s been studying for the assault. His physical training – sits-ups, press-ups, fast as he can punch them out – where are they going to do their five-mile run when they move out to Falmouth?
He sighs. He’s going to miss this town. Baker Company have spent every weekend pass at their disposal on this place, emptying the pubs and sweetening the girls, and for a lot of men, in the last months, it’s started to feel a little like home. The old buildings, tall and elegant in all their brickwork despite the chips and charcoal smears where German bombs landed too close; the straight-ruled tram-lines cutting through; the cluttered sky, all rain-clouds and industrial smog-darkness – it’s comforting. He takes his cigarette from his mouth, exhales slowly. He wanders a little way down the sidewalk so that he’s out of the way of the door, but not so far that he can’t hear the music from inside, and leans back against the cool brickwork to smoke.
It could have been five minutes out there, or half an hour – Castiel isn’t keeping track of the time – but his cigarette has long since burnt out to a blackened stub underneath his foot by the time he is eventually interrupted.
Dean swings out through the pub’s front door, one hand on the wooden frame, just as drunk as he was when Castiel last saw him. He’s grinning wide, his face lit up; his top button is undone. “Well,” he says, drawing the word out long, slow and southern, “fancy seeing you out here, lieutenant.”
Castiel arches his eyebrows at him. “Lieutenant Wallace told you, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” Dean answers shamelessly, and he strides over to drop back against the brick wall beside Castiel. “He was worried. Did you throw up?”
“No!” Castiel sighs. “Jesus. No, I didn’t throw up. I’m okay.” He can feel his hands and ears coming up hot, and he hopes to hell that Dean won’t pursue the topic any further, because the real answeris floating tantalisingly around in his head. I had to come outside because I was starting to feel faint watching you dance. Because I think I could turn you queer if I were given the chance. He tries to push the thought away.
“So what, then?”
“None of your damn business, that’s what,” Castiel says, but he glances over at Dean on his left with no real resentment, lets him know he’s not actually angry.
Dean looks back at him, disappointed, creased brow and a mockery of a pout; however, he doesn’t push the question any further.
There’s a creaking scratch as the record on the victrola comes to its trumpet-fanfare conclusion, and then a long moment of a silence before the next one comes on. It’s Sinatra, and even from out here, Castiel can hear the squeals of girls from inside the bar. It’s a slow one - dreamy, even – and Castiel is just about to comment derisively when he notices Dean shifting excitedly.
Castiel eyes him with more than a trace of suspicion. “What?”
“Nothing, I just—” Dean grins, shrugging. “I just love this song.”
Eyebrows lifting incredulously, Castiel can only stare at him. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?” Dean says defensively. “You don’t like this song?”
“No, because I’m not a fucking bobby-soxer,” Castiel retorts, and he’s arguing, putting Dean down, but he likes the way Dean rears back up, that grin half-jaded, finger-pointing.
Pushing himself off the wall by the shoulders, hips-first and the rest of his body following after, Dean wheels around to stand in front of Castiel. “Hey,” he says, voice low like he’s trying to pretend he’s pissed off, but he’s smiling too wide for that. “Don’t be rude. Sinatra’s good.”
There’s a flashfire-rush in Castiel’s veins, and he’s still more than a little drunk, so he ignores the dizzy flush under his skin and challenges, “Yeah, if you’re a fairy, maybe.” He’s still leaning back against the wall, one foot tucked behind the other and both propped out in front of him, his hips a lazy diagonal to the sidewalk.
Dean lets out a laugh . “C’mon, seriously? This doesn’t make you wanna dance even a little?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Bullshit.”
Castiel lifts his eyes heavenwards as if seeking help, his brow screwing up in disbelief, but it’s with amusement that he comes back to ask, “Why are you so desperate to dance with me?”
“I don’t want to dance with you—”
“Then stop asking me if I know how,” Castiel says, raising his eyebrows pointedly.
Dean drags a hand over his mouth, still chuckling to himself. “That ain’t why I’m asking you – Jesus.” He shakes his head but he’s smiling broad as ever.
Castiel tilts his head to the side, almost enjoying this. “Really? But then, what if I told you I could dance?” he asks, and he pushes himself up off the wall – swaying unexpectedly close to Dean as his body catches up to his feet, less than a yard from Dean’s. Castiel can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, his sight alcohol-blurred at the edges, but the thrill is in the way Dean’s eyes crease with laughter at the corners, fall to flicker over Castiel’s face like he’s memorising every inch. Castiel tips his chin up defiantly. “What then?”
“I’d say prove it.” Dean is arrogant, self-assured, teeth flashing in the lamplight. Castiel decides to knock him down a peg.
Without further ado, except maybe for the emboldened look he throws Dean, he spreads his arms wide for balance, waits for the lull in the music to anticipate the crescendo... and then he knocks out the best few steps he can remember from embarrassing high school dances – an easy, boring, one-two-three-one-two-three waltz, and then, just to fuck with him, a swinging Charleston step he remembers his mother doing with her friends in the kitchen when he was young – but that sort of thing was never his forte, and he trips.
Dean laughs out loud, head thrown backwards and whole body arching. Thankfully, though, he’s not so busy making fun of Castiel that he can’t reach out a hand to steady him, fingers curling capably around Castiel’s upper arm.
For a few seconds, Dean is too busy laughing to say anything, but as Castiel straightens up and attempts to fight down the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks, he says, “Well, damn, sir, but you’re pretty good.”
Castiel throws his head back as if it was all intentional, and he meets Dean’s gaze unabashed. “Sergeant, you flatter me,” he says, and nothing can pin back the smallest curve of a smile on his lips.
Dean’s mouth twists slyly. “Well, someone has to.”
Castiel guesses he walked right into that one. He shakes his head. “Winchester, have I ever told you that you’re a pain in my ass?”
“Every day, sir.” Dean’s lopsided smirk breaks out into a full-grin. He rocks back on his heels, and it’s only when he rocks back forwards that Castiel realises they are still standing close enough together to breathe the same air, Dean’s hand still curved around Castiel’s bicep. At this distance, Castiel can pick out the details; the small cluster of freckles to one side of his nose, especially dense so that they merge together; the crisp corner of his garrison cap, sitting arrogantly low on his brow; the colour of his eyes in the lamplight.
Castiel swallows, the sound a dull click in the absence of words between them, and - even though just the thought of it seems impossible, even though his every inch aches to be nearer still - he steps back from Dean. Loose fingers fall from Castiel’s arm, but if they flex at Dean’s side like they’re faced with an unsettling emptiness now, then Castiel very determinedly does not notice.
“So,” he starts, ignoring the nervous way his voice creaks a little at the edges, “it’s coming up to twenty-one-hundred about now, and we’re going to have to head back soon. You still thirsty for that drink?”
“Oh, hell yes,” Dean says, clapping his hands together enthusiastically, and wastes no time in following Castiel back into bar for one last drink.
As they weave back through the crowd to reach the bar, Dean reaches out and rests the tips of his fingers on the middle of Castiel’s back, but it’s to keep from losing him in the midst of all the people. Castiel doesn’t feel his cheeks burn hot at the light and easy pressure of it. He doesn’t feel a shiver trace its path up his spine from the place where they touch. He certainly doesn’t glance back over his shoulder as he walks to meet Dean’s eyes, reassure himself that he’s still there, wordlessly echo the near-invisible dip and quirk of his smile.
He doesn’t.
But if he does, it’s only to make sure that the insistent press of Dean’s hand is without any real intent – because that would be unprofessional.
May 3rd 1944
Baker Company packs up its bags – weapons and all – and climbs aboard trains and trucks for the journey west for Falmouth. They’re moving out.