So I'm still not over this episode and the silly writing that shaped it. Here's a take on Sam's thoughts right after the incident, and the doubt he should have felt and acted on.
The lid closes with a bone-rattling clank that echoes through Sam's soul.
Dean slides the locks into place with callous little chinks. They shatter in Sam's ears.
Okay.
Sam can't shake Jack's serene little smile, his pristine expression of calm, from in front of his eyes.
He lied to him. He lied to his kid, straight to his face.
And Jack bought it. Of course he did. Sam's done nothing but tell him the truth, ever.
It was so easy to lock the most dangerous being in the universe away—because that being trusted Sam.
Okay.
In a way, Sam is glad Jack can't see his face anymore. He couldn't stand to look Jack in the eye for a second longer. Couldn't stand the faith there, the trust, the calm, the affection pouring out.
(Sam knows Jack isn't completely gone. Well, he thinks. He wants to think. He hopes. He didn't really get much of a chance to tell. One conversation isn't enough.)
He doesn't know what to think. Everything has happened so fast. Before he knew it, Jack was in the box with a smile on his face and Sam heard himself say the words Not long. Jack, we got this.
Okay.
Sam knows Jack's calm won't last forever. For most of his short life, Jack found his calm in Sam. Once he realizes Sam has abandoned him, Jack won't be so complacent anymore.
Not that it'll do him any good. The box is closed. Locked. Warded. He can't come out.
Still. Sam can't stand the thought of Jack's trust in Sam eroding, flaking away into dust on the bottom of that box—that coffin. Jack's coffin. This box is meant to be that boy's last resting place.
Sam lured him inside with false smiles and promises.
And Jack agreed with a soft Okay.
What kind of parent am I.
The room is too hot and too cold all at once. Accusations breathe down his neck like ghosts. The itch of what he's just done to Jack, to his kid, slithers through his bones, tingling his nerves.
Without a word to Dean, he turns and leaves the room. He can't stand to be in there.
.
.
.
But at the same time, he can't stand to be anywhere else.
While Dean drinks away his guilt (or maybe just his grief, Sam can't tell anymore) Sam makes his way back down to the bowels of the bunker, where they kept Nick, where they'll now keep Jack. Forever.
Shaking fingers undo the latch on the door. He steps back inside with more uncertainty than is rational.
The room is just as he left it. Less than ten minutes ago. Nothing has changed.
Except.
The box isn't soundproof. Sam can hear vague echoes of Jack's voice, pinging through the metal into his skull. Jack's saying something.
He isn't sure, but he thinks Jack might be saying Sam, Sam, Sam.
Jack's calling for him.
Such a simple realization crashes on Sam's shoulders like a yoke across his back. He stumbles to the box and falls to his knees beside it. He bows his head, forehead coming to rest just below the lip of the lid.
"Sam? Are you still out there? Sam?
"I don't think I like this."
It's happening already. Jack is losing courage. He won't be able to stay there for a day, let alone an eternity.
"Sam?"
There's a wall, a world, between them. Even so, Jack calls out for the person he trusts. The person he loves.
He wants Sam.
Sam's voice is so faint, so muted by uncertainty, by guilt, by years of doubting himself and his worth. "Jack." He's not even sure it carries enough for Jack to hear. "I'm still here."
"Sam. I'm scared."
The sweetness of being wanted, being sought after in moments of fear, is overshadowed by the acid of knowing he can't provide that comfort. He can't tell Jack everything will be all right. He can't open the box and let Jack go free. He can't tell Jack to sit tight for all the ages of the world to pass him by, and—
"I'm sorry."
He wants to reach his fingers through the metal, to hold his scared and vulnerable kid, to murmur enough apologies and platitudes to fill that box to the brim.
He whispers it over and over and over again "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryImsorryimsorryimsorry—"
In this furious chant, this prayer to the heavenly being he raised from birth, are the words he can't form. The words too heavy for his tongue.
I didn't want to. I didn't know what else to do. We aren't thinking clearly.
I'll find something. I'll get something else. A solution. A way to fix you. I won't leave you locked up in there forever. I won't do that to you. I can't.
Jack, please talk to me. Let me know you're okay.
His forehead anchors him to the box, to Jack. The cold metal against his forehead burns like a brand somehow.
Sam's fingers inch heedlessly up to the latches on the lid. One in each hand. All he has to do is flick his fingers, and he can undo this mess.
He can't. Dean would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.
But Jack.
As he kneels there, contemplating, agonizing, the metal warms under his hands. Not the warmth of his palms lingering there too long—no, this is unnatural. It's the whole box. The entire thing, cooking like it's on a stove.
Sam's head jerks upward, to look at the warding on the lid.
It's glowing.
Heat pulses through Sam's hands to his heart, and shoots out again as cold adrenaline. The box is shaking. Whatever Jack's doing inside, it's visible outside the box.
But this box was meant to be impenetrable.
"Jack," Sam breathes. His legs stumble backwards with stunned, tiny steps.
This box was for Michael. An archangel.
Jack's not an archangel.
Sam doesn't know what Jack is thinking. Is he scared? Angry? Completely soulless and ready to kill whatever gets in his way?
"Jack," he tries again hoarsely.
Jack's innocent, trusting face punches his mind's eye. Okay.
I love you.
And Sam can't keep himself paralyzed anymore.
He rushes forward. Panic smothers him, choking the words he tries to force from his mouth. He isn't sure if he even says them. Hold on I'll get you out Jack just calm down—
Fingers fumble with latches. He has to jerk them away—it's too hot to touch now.
Jack please hold on just—
He tastes ozone on his tongue and he knows.
The box disintegrates in a blinding flood of white.
.
.
.
Sam can't feel what hits his body. There's no pain, no burning, no blunted ache after impact. All he knows he's not on his feet anymore. He smells something charring. Something thick and liquid and metallic.
And he can't feel his body.
He drifts. Loses time. Loses sight. Color. Feeling. Sound.
The last thing that claws through is one word, in Jack's very small voice.
"Sam?"
I've been reading all of these glorious fix-its where Sam lets Jack out, and for my version I knew I had to do something different. Sorry?
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