This first chapter takes place between 14x07 and 14x08.
Sam is exhausted. Jack has been growing weaker for days, almost a week now. They're terrified to leave him alone for even a minute; he looks like he could slip away at any time.
Sam spends every second he can at his side. Trying, scrabbling with his fingernails, for any moment of substance left with him. Jack. His kid.
It's like trying to hold water in his hand. The tighter he squeezes, the faster it spills from his fist.
After pulling nineteen hours straight with Jack, Sam's so tired he can barely hold his head up. As he stands to leave, Jack reaches for him weakly. "Sam." His voice rasps through the single syllable. Hearing that pain so evident cuts like a rusty knife.
Sam sits again immediately, hurriedly. "Yeah. What is it?"
"I want to...can you take me outside in the morning?"
Sam's brow wrinkles in confusion. It's been days since Jack was able to even sit up without help. "Outside? Why?"
"I just…" Jack's breath chokes, and he forces out a few weak coughs. "I just want to see...one last sunrise. One more pretty thing."
"Jack…" Sam swallows. "I...I don't know if that's a good idea. It's getting cold out, and you...you…" Jack's eyes are sunken, the skin around them pale gray. You look half-dead already.
Jack's hand finds Sam's. His skin is covered in cold, clammy sweat. "Please?" And his eyes, oh g*d his face, is still as open and trusting as the freaking day he was born.
Sam pushes down the lump rising in his throat and pastes on a halfhearted smile. "I'll think about it, okay? Try to get some sleep." He lays Jack's hand on his chest, gentle, so gentle, because the kid's bones feel like they're made of glass. "I'll have Cas come sit with you for a while."
"'Kay." Jack's voice is so faint, so hoarse. It's even quieter than his labored breathing, those wheezing gasps in and out.
Sam ducks his head as he leaves the room, too ashamed that he can't give this kid, his kid, his last dying wish. He just can't risk it, not when Jack is so fragile—like a puff of wind might tear the breath from his lungs.
He stays in the library for at least another hour after that, searching, reading, trying to just find something.
If he thinks about it too long, his head might explode. Lucifer's dead, Dean came back to them, Mom is finding happiness—he hopes—with Bobby. Everything was going right.
Figures there'd be a downside to all these wins.
Sam's not praying exactly—that's hard nowadays, knowing who's out there. He's just throwing out pleas in his head, on the off chance someone will hear.
Jack doesn't deserve this. He's not even two, and he's gonna be ripped from the people he loves, who love him, just because his psychotic father wanted power more than a child. Please let there be something that can save him.
Sam's head is drooping over a fifth-century tome when Dean shakes him awake, prods him into his bedroom just get some sleep, Sam, for once, okay?
He collapses in his bed without even setting an alarm.
…
Something's wrong when he wakes.
He instinctively knows it's morning, somehow. Early morning.
He can also tell he's alone in the bunker.
Sam shoots out of bed, disturbed by the hazy stillness that has settled over their home while he's slept.
Jack's room seems much farther away than normal. The hall seems to stretch on forever as he makes his way to the door. It stands slightly ajar, the bedside lamp still burning.
A framed picture of Kelly sits on the table by the lamp—he'd asked for that a few days ago, if he could have her with him all the time. Sam knows he talks to her when he thinks no one's listening.
But Jack's bed is empty.
Sam calls his name. His voice doesn't seem to make any sound, but he can hear his cry echo throughout the bunker, somehow.
He's alone—he just knows.
Jack's shoes are missing. His old ones, the Velcro ones. No doubt shoelaces were too much for his shaky, unsteady fingers.
Sam feels like he's floating. No matter how fast he runs, he can't move fast enough. He races to the war room, calls Jack's name again, calls for Dean, for Cas. No one hears. No one answers.
The sun isn't up yet. Sam steps outside into a gray, predawn haze. He shivers in just his long sleeved shirt.
Jack. Where's Jack.
Sam floats around the land outside the bunker, searching for any clue as to where his kid has gone. He doesn't remember how he got there, or even have a clear idea of where he is—but suddenly the fog has cleared and he's standing over Jack's prone body.
His body.
Time stops.
Jack lies on his back, hands loosely folded on his stomach. His face is peaceful. His eyes stare emptily at the sky above him.
He looks like his mother. When Sam found her body in almost the exact same position, her face was peaceful. Almost happy.
He's clad in just his pajama pants and t-shirt. Sam can't tell if exposure had anything to do with his death, or if he simply...expired.
He doesn't particularly care.
He kneels by his kid's head—falls, collapses, something. In a painfully familiar gesture, he slides Jack's eyes closed with gentle, shaking fingers. His hand lingers on his face, the face that made him appear so much older than he was, but could never hide the openness, the optimism, the purity of such a young soul.
Disjointed thoughts swim around in Sam's skull, knocking against the edges and breaking off into little pieces. Have to bring him home. Have to tell Dean. And Cas.
The story pieces itself together in Sam's head. Their kid had wandered outside, in the early morning dark, to see a sunrise he was afraid his caretakers wouldn't let him see. He'd died alone, cold and shivering and probably in pain.
Had he cried for help? Called their names? Sam can almost picture it: Jack's bloodless lips mouthing in desperation. Struggling, screaming to be heard.
And no one had come.
Guilt falls over him like a sheet. These feelings, he knows, will settle deep. Ache in his bones for the rest of his life.
Light blooms over Jack's still face. Illuminating his pale blue lips, the stiff set of his mouth, the ashy tinge in his cheeks.
The sunrise he never got to see.
Sam glances up at the sky, turning pink and orange with the new day. Looks down at his kid, who wears the faintest hint of a smile on his dead face.
The world spins, and Sam is crying. Gasping, screaming, tearing—
…
He wakes in a tangle of blankets.
He gasps himself down from a hazy panic. Dream. Dreaming. Not real.
He scrubs the hot tears from his face, realizing he'd been silently crying in his sleep. He doesn't remember doing this since the time his brother disappeared in an explosion of black goo. More than five years ago now.
Just a dream. It was just a dream. Sam takes deep, steadying breaths. Calming himself. It's okay. Everything is okay.
Not everything. But…
Jack's sickly face swims into view. His small, hoarse voice making one request. Sam. Please?
Sam checks his bedside clock. Still early. Before dawn. He throws the covers off and dresses in a rush. Remembering, he dresses warmly.
The path to Jack's room is much shorter and clearer this time. No more dreamlike mazes of halls. (They no doubt signify his helplessness in the face of Jack's condition.)
Jack is fine—as fine as he was the night before. He's in his bed. Still alive. Still breathing.
Cas doesn't appear to have moved since last night. He's seated in the chair by Jack's bedside exactly as Sam left him several hours ago.
Sam touches his shoulder lightly. "Hey. Can I…" He motions vaguely to Jack, who does seem to finally be sleeping.
Cas rises without question. "Of course."
As Cas leaves, Sam sits on the edge of the mattress. "Hey, Jack. Hey, buddy." He shakes Jack's shoulder gently, delicately.
He gasps awake with weak coughing, bringing up a tiny spray of blood to paint his lips. The fact that this is now common, even expected, hurts Sam someplace deep inside.
Sam rubs his back with a soothing hand. "Hey. You okay?"
Still straining for air, the kid nods jerkily. He rubs at his eyes, pasted shut with sleep.
"It's morning. Still dark out." Sam lets his words hang in the air. "If you wanna go outside, you gotta bundle up."
Jack looks up at Sam, hope flickering in his eyes. He nods again, with much more vigor this time. "Okay."
Sam helps him sit up, put on a parka and warm pants. A hat. Makes sure he wears his newest shoes, not the Velcro sneakers from the nightmare. For good measure, Sam drapes the bedspread over his shoulders.
"Can you walk? Stand?" A quick trial run reveals he cannot. "Okay. Hold on tight."
Sam hoists Jack in his arms like a child. One arm under his back, and one arm under his legs. Jack clasps his arms loosely around Sam's neck. His head rests just below Sam's shoulder.
The kid is so light, so weak, that it almost makes Sam sick. He can feel Jack's soft, wheezing breaths where their bodies are touching, and he clutches Jack tighter to his chest.
Sam carries him through the bunker, up the stairs and out into the cold morning air. He's timed it well, and the sky is just turning pink.
"Ohh," Jack breathes. He leans back against Sam, reveling in the beauty of what he sees. His face is rapt. Filled with pure, unadulterated awe.
Sam barely sees the sun break the horizon—his eyes are on Jack the whole time. Jack's smile is bigger than it has been in days, and for a second Sam can forget what's happening to him.
Then he starts to cough again, face screwing up in pain. Sam quickly turns around and heads back toward the bunker, cradling his kid to his chest.
He's afraid that if he doesn't hold on tight enough, Jack will slip right through his fingers and melt away.
As he settles him back in bed, Jack's fingers lock around Sam's sleeve. "Thank you," he chokes out, and it's all Sam can do not to curl up beside Jack and die along with him.