Chapter 8

"And when the future hinges on the very next words that are said, Don't let logic interfere, believe your heart instead." –Philip Robison

James looked up from his notepad, slipping out his ear buds when Porthos snorted. The portly dog got up from his bed by James's desk, stretching with a wide yawn. He whined, wagging his tail at his boy before click-clacking to the bedroom door to be let out. James didn't need to hear the rumbling of the Impala's engine to know his father had made it home from Ohio.

"Don't worry, boy. He'll come to us."

It was a fatherly ritual when Dean Winchester was home, one James had found comforting as a kid. As a teenager, the nightly rounds elicited a mixture of indignation and annoyance. James didn't see the need to be checked up on by the warden like some juvenile delinquent. Only now, after the ordeal with Gentry and the realization that in a few short months he would no longer be living at the farm, did the prospect of having no one to make sure he was indeed safe and sound bring a rush of melancholy. James would miss his Dad worrying about him.

"It must be the speech." He sighed, putting down the pen he was using. James glanced at the clock, the glowing face mocking him with the fact that morning was only mere hours away. It was a good thing he had slept nearly the entire trip from Ohio the day before. Ben, healed and fully recharged from Castiel's angel mojo had insisted on driving the entire way. Even if he had not been a hundred percent, James was sure his brother's control freak side would have insisted on staying behind the wheel. It worked for James. Sleeping had the added benefit of avoiding any big brother chick flick moments about the events that had transpired.

James straightened in his chair, his heart kicking up a notch when he heard the telltale creak of the fourth step from the bottom. Ben was the one to figure out the old stairs were a landmine ridden give away if a guy was trying to sneak out quietly. His oldest brother had mapped the way around the worst alarms, but James had always opted for the safer bet of the oak tree outside his window. His father's quiet footsteps outside his door and Porthos's excited snorting brought an irrational desire to use the tried and true escape method, but it was too late.

"You're still awake."

His father hadn't bothered knocking, opening the door and entering before James had a chance to conjure a 'come in', let alone make a timely exit out his window. It was Dean Winchester's house after all, a fact James had been reminded of many times over the last few years when he disagreed with the lack of privacy or argued the unfairness of some rule.

"You're home way past lights out." James made a concentrated effort to slump in his chair, faking a stretch he hoped exuded sufficient indifference. The last thing he wanted to show was the anxiety that had been building over the last twenty-four hours. "Uncle Sam with you?"

"He crashed at Caleb's place with JT and Max." His father crossed the room, Porthos prancing at his feet for attention. James couldn't look at the dog, wondering if there wasn't some cosmic parallel between them. "Since your grandparents are staying here through graduation, he was afraid he'd have to take the couch."

"He could have always kicked Ben out of JT's room." James glanced to the closed door that led to the adjoining bedroom. He knew if he concentrated, he could hear his brother's snores over the soft roar of JT's sound machine. Ben reclaimed his old space anytime he was visiting-trumped only by Uncle Caleb who called first rights when he was there. That didn't happen as often since Caleb had built his own place just a few miles up the road. "You know the good doctor could sleep through a bomb blast standing up in a corner."

"Yeah, or Sam could have taken your bed seeing as how you're not using it."

"Uncle Sam knows this is sacred space. I had to wait years to get my own place." James returned his gaze to his dad, who had taken up residence on the corner of his desk. He didn't miss the strain under the lighthearted attempt at conversation. They didn't have many heart to heart talks these days. James often secretly wished they shared some common ground that could have carried over the threshold of his burgeoning adulthood like JT's love of baseball and Ben's knack with cars. Comic books and James's fascination with The Brotherhood had both waned around puberty, leaving Dean Winchester and his youngest son little to bond over. Still, James played along, hoping it was leading up to a quick goodnight. The dark shadows under his father's eyes, the two day's worth of stubble on his face told him The Guardian needed some sleep.

"Ah, the plight of the youngest brother. I've heard tale of it many times." His dad picked up the crystal paperweight of Trump Towers that Cullen had given James not long before his death at the ripe old age of 90. There was an engraving on the bottom- James Winchester, CEO.

"Obviously not a burden an older brother could ever understand." James folded his arms over his chest to hide his disquiet. He studied his father, trying to quell the nervous twitches in his stomach. He had no trouble snowing anyone, except the person he wanted to impress the most.

"Are you kidding me?" His dad put the paperweight back in place. "I pretty much shared a room with Sammy until I was thirty. Most of the time Caleb was there, too."

"Right." James rolled his eyes. "Back in the days when cell phones were the size of small dog and CD's were still around."

"And here your mom was all worried because you were acting out of character?" His dad arched a brow. "Seems like the same smart ass James Murphy we all know and love is well and intact."

"Mom's worried? Because I finished all the chores on her list?" James allowed Porthos to jump up in his lap, the dog turning a few circles before curling in a neat, warm ball against his ribs. It was another routine James would miss. The dogs brought James comfort, but bringing Porthos to the city, taking him away from Aramis and Athos didn't seem right. Unconditional love should work both ways, there was no room for selfishness.

"That and the fact you willingly helped your cousin and Josie with party favors, something you would usually find far beneath your talents. Not to mention, she said you hugged your grandfather-twice."

"You're always on me to do my fair share, to be nice to the girls." James hadn't mucked the barn stalls and weeded Miss Emma's rose beds out of a sense of responsibility. It had given him a reason to avoid Mac's subtle invitations to talk about what Gentry had forced James to do, to duck the concerned looks that his mom and Esme kept giving him. "And since when is buttering up Mac a crime? Graduation gifts are pending, you know."

"I think tuition to Columbia was your graduation gift, Son."

"What's a hundred grand here or there between family?" James ran a hand over Porthos's ear, causing the dog to twitch with delight. He tried not to take his father's statement out of context, hearing the underlying accusation that both JT and Ben had gotten full rides to their respective colleges of choice. He hoped it didn't open the familiar dialogue on how most kids did not have a grandfather or a godfather with millions of dollars at their disposal. James couldn't help it if he'd hit the extended family lottery. "I can still hope for that new ride I've had my eye on."

"I wouldn't get my hopes up too high, Kiddo."

"Meaning you put a cap on my gift quota." It was a typical Dad move. Dean Winchester only allowed indulgences on birthdays and at Christmas.

"If I don't rein Damien in early he gets a little carried away. Dogs, horses, Lamborghinis."

"Like giving JT a beach house and Max a brownstone in Greenwich Village. Compared to those gifts a new car is the equivalent to a nice tie." James hadn't come out and asked for a car, but he'd made a point to leave hints for his uncle.

His father made a face, the one that said no amount of arguing was going to change his mind. "I didn't come up here to talk about graduations gifts, Jimmy."

"Then what did you want to talk about, Dad?" James was content to dance around the real reason his father was here even if it meant arguing over his right for outrageous graduation booty.

"How about we start with why you're still up at this hour," his dad turned the clock so he could see it. "It's half past three. You have a long day tomorrow."

"Which is precisely why I'm up." James tapped the notepad. "I'm working on my speech. I wouldn't want to embarrass myself in front of an auditorium of graduates and their families."

"You've had that speech done for months. Your Uncle Sam proofed it over spring break."

"He told you?"

"I asked." His Dad tapped the notepad. "I wanted to make sure you didn't embarrass yourself in front of an auditorium of graduates and their families."

James should have learned by now that there were no secrets between The Triad. "Well, that was the old speech. This is a new and improved one."

"For a new James?" The Guardian's hand rested on the yellow paper.

James swallowed hard, wondering not for the first time how his father could so quickly see past his bullshit. "Something like that."

"You know what happened with Max is part of the job? You did the only thing you could in the moment…you survived and kept your brothers and Max alive until help could get there."

"You mean, until you showed up and saved the day?" James didn't mean it to come out with such a snarl. The anger was a surprise too. His father had saved his life and this was the thanks he was showing him.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner."

"You're apologizing…to me?" The sincere, quiet tone robbed James of his irrational ire.

"I didn't protect you. That's my job."

"We've learned you can't protect me from everything." For months after his abilities appeared, James kept expecting his father to fix the problem, to make it all better. He would ask on a weekly basis, and not just of his father, but his uncles, too. They were The Triad. They could do anything, had accomplished the impossible to save the world several times over. Surely, they could save James.

His father's green gaze hardened; and for a moment James thought the anger might be directed at him. He was deserving after the low blow, but in typical Winchester form the wrath was directed inward. "Gentry was my mistake. Those who wear a ring are under my commission. I should have realized the shape he was in. No man with his background is going to let his son go without a fight."

"He was crazy." James had a hard time reconciling the Hank Gentry he had come to know with one in the ranks of The Brotherhood. "You tell us all the time that people are far harder to predict than the supernatural."

"I knew he was desperate."

"Not much of a difference from where I was sitting. He was the reason Ben was shot, Max was stabbed. Even his own kid couldn't reach him." James wasn't about to voice his fears Gentry wasn't completely at fault in any of those instances, but his dad seemed to be the psychic one in the family tonight, using James's logic against him.

"Precisely why nothing you could have done would have changed any of that. Fear will make a man do almost anything to keep what is his."

"You think Gentry was afraid?" James could conjure an SAT study manual full of appropriate words to describe Hank, but fearful was not one of them.

"I know he was." His father seemed certain. "You can't watch someone you love face death and not be."

James looked up at his dad. "Would you have done what Gentry tried?"

"I think we both know I've done worse."

James respected the truthful answer, but it didn't help to dissolve the hard lump that had lodged in the back of his throat. It was hard to admit that the parent you saw as a superhero for most of your life was in actuality only a super human being, that there wasn't some cosmic great divide between him and you. It was like that imaginary gap most people believed existed between the world of the living and the realm of the dead. The gap was in actuality diminutive, as thin as a veil. "I guess we do."

"So can I read it?"

James blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. His father tapped the notepad, the heavy conversation dropped like the proverbial hot potato. "I don't have a fancy college degree, but I got better grades in high school English than anyone else in this room."

James rolled his eyes at the jab at his less than stellar performance in a subject he actually enjoyed. "You sure you don't want to wait and get the full effect tomorrow along with everyone else?"

"I'll act surprised."

James pushed the notepad forward. It would be easier to admit the truth with a stage and podium in between them, but there was something about his father being first reader this time around that seemed paramount. James leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. "Suit yourself, but be warned it's a rough draft."

The first speech had taken James weeks, hours of meticulous scrutiny over which infamous stories to share, what outlandish tales to recant from his four years in high school. This latest version was compiled in only a night, flowing from a place that didn't require such analysis. For the first time James understood what his English teacher had once said about writing with truth. The only thing required is that the author slit his wrists and bleed upon the page. It hadn't been literal, but James had suffered to pen the words he would confess to his classmates. Saying them out loud would be much harder.

He would start by explaining his speech would be very different from that of the Valedictorian's, probably to the encouraging hoots and whistles of his soccer team. They would be expecting the likes of the first speech, the written equivalent of letting the bird fly. This new speech however, would not be filled with anecdotes, testimony to the things James had done and gotten away with. It was a eulogy for the things James didn't do.

James would begin by addressing one of their fellow classmates, one who never actually had a chance to go to their high school, a girl who didn't even leave her mark in the form of a rose in an empty seat. Carrie Beth Fillers, having been murdered by her stepfather in the sixth grade, was not officially a member of their class, but she profoundly affected the years James Winchester spent in their hallowed halls. It was not only his first experience of death, but his first encounter with a spirit. It wasn't like he could talk about the specific circumstances of how they occurred; instead James would speak to Carrie Beth's untimely demise, her stolen chance, as a contrast to all the chances he had wasted.

James would talk about the lack of effort he put into his classes, the times he didn't listen to a teacher as they tried to impart their knowledge. He would admit to disregarding the advice of men and women far wiser than he, blowing off opportunities that might have led to places he would now never know. James would apologize for not taking soccer as seriously as he should, failing his team by ignoring practices when he could and not tapping into all that potential the coach was constantly insisting James possessed. He would confess to slacking in his role as president of the class, and in all the other club offices he held in title alone. Popularity had given James privilege he had not earned, nor appreciated until it was too late.

The most important folly James would concede was twofold. One, James had not listened to his mother when she warned him that a heart, much like a bone, could be broken and even though it might mend, it would never be exactly the same. The traces of that injury would oftentimes outlast the life of the person. James had played fast and loose with feelings. He had been reckless not only with his education, but with relationships. He might have had lots of girlfriends, and a band of buddies, but he had not been a very good friend, and in just reward was not sure he could count one classmate in his corner if the chips were down.

Two, his father had always instilled in his sons a sense of responsibility, a belief in the idea that everyone had a duty to help their fellow man, to do good whenever possible. James had not taken on responsibility for anything, or anyone, least of all for himself or his actions. He had fun whenever possible, everyone else be damned. He had taken life for granted, and that thought would bring him to his final point, one in which he would once again speak about a student who would not be graduating. Cyril Gentry's tragedy could not be talked about in full disclosure. He would be a faceless stranger to most in the auditorium, but James would speak to the teen's unyielding spirit, generous nature and the fact Cy knew how to put others before himself up until the very end.

Cyril Gentry's possibilities were cut short before they could flourish into something great, but James would not allow the same to be said of him. He would no longer let his fear of death and disappointments keep him from living the fullest life. James would close by asking his fellow classmates, teachers and most importantly his family for their forgiveness. He would encourage them to learn from his mistakes, using Cyril's last words to Hank to illustrate his hopes for their futures.

"I like this one much better than the original." His father's declaration brought James from his thoughts of tomorrow. He glanced up, ready with a kneejerk action to dismiss the heartfelt speech with a snide joke. His dad's watery gaze stopped him, kept him silent. "It sounds much more like kid I used to know."

"I doubt anyone else will feel that way, Dad. My friends will think I've lost my mind."

"The people who matter will see it for what it is. Proof that you really are growing up, becoming a good man." His father squeezed his shoulder.

James looked down to his hand. "Is that why you told Uncle Sam to give me my ring?"

"Actually I wasn't sure I made the right choice about that until this very moment."

"I'm not ready to wear it." James spread his fingers wide. He did not know when he would feel like he could.

His father nodded. "The Scholar mentioned that."

"And The Guardian's okay with that?"

"Your Dad's okay with it." His father tapped his shoulder twice.

"That's all I need to know." His uncle had told him he had not worn his ring until he became part of the Triad. He wasn't going to wait that long, not wanting JT to have to order him.

"You almost finished with this?" His father lifted the notebook.

"I know, I know its way past lights out." He didn't know if he could sleep tonight.

"Actually, I was going to ask if you wanted to join me downstairs for some leftovers."

The mention of food gave James an idea. "Esme made a special trip to Hell's Kitchen for her favorite grandson."

"Pie?" His Dad's eyes lit up and James embraced one thing he and his dad would always have in common. "Tell me she went to Little Pie Company."

"She brought our favorite-peach." Caleb had started The Guardian's love affair with the Little Pie Company when he introduced his best friend to the delights of the quaint bakery nestled in the belly of mid-town New York. James's father had in turn taken him there when he discovered James's shared love of anything flaky, buttery and stuffed with bubbling fruit. The best thing about it was James knew for a fact his father had never taken either of his brothers.

"What are we waiting for?" His father bobbed his brows. "If I know your mom, she's probably hidden a couple in her secret hiding place."

"In the pantry, behind the healthy cereal no one ever touches." James scooted Porthos off his lap and stood.

"Yachtzee." His Dad put the speech back on the desk. "That quote you used at the end…the one about being braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. Was that Sun Tzu?"

"Close." James laughed. "It's from Winnie the Pooh."

"I don't think I'd mention that, Kiddo."

"And embarrass myself in front of a whole auditorium of my classmates, friends and families-no way." James had already planned on crediting A.A. Milne. Changed man or not, James Murphy Winchester still had a reputation to protect.

THE END