"A what?"

"A nephil. Don't shout, Dean, you're right in my ear."

"Sorry."

Sam glanced behind him, at the little boy curled in the backseat of his car. He lay on his stomach, wings arched in the air above him. Sam's jacket still covered his torso and legs. One finger stroked the carpeted upholstery with a kind of listless wonder.

His eyes flickered up to meet Sam's. Sam flushed and turned back to face the road.

Getting the kid out of the facility hadn't been hard, exactly, rather just uncomfortable.

Every agent had stopped and stared as Sam walked past with a small, winged child in tow. Their frozen surprise only lasted until the trademark Letters professionalism kicked in, but Sam had still felt eyes pressing on him from every direction.

He was used to it.

Jack had kept his chin tucked tightly into his chest, walking with tiny, halting steps. He might've seemed unwilling to leave, except he clung to Sam's hand more fiercely with every step.

Dean's bewildered voice brought him back to the present. "Has there ever been a nephil before? Any record of one?"

"Not that I know of."

"It's been years since we tangled with celestials. I got a bunch of fun toys I never get to use."

Sam huffed a laugh. Dean's "toys" were top-of-the-line technological innovations designed to incapacitate all manner of supernatural creatures. He didn't find them all that fun, himself.

"When was that demon uprising?" Dean wondered. "When they tried to raise their evil angel overlord from his box."

"Nine, ten years ago?" Sam mused. "I'm not sure. Didn't have much to do with it." He was eternally thankful the Men of Letters and their adjacent hunters had handled that mess quickly.

"The devil," Dean scoffed. "Demons were nasty mothers back then." His voice remained light and conversational, but grew a hard undertone. "I still got the scars from when they nabbed me."

Sam swallowed. "Yeah. I know." His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

"So why'd they give you this kid, anyway? I thought they were taking everyone to containment before they got released."

Sam slowed his car to turn a corner without jostling Jack, who hadn't put on a seatbelt. Sam had figured he wouldn't like being restrained, even by something as small as a seatbelt. (How would the kid even know what it was, being raised in a lab his whole life?)

"Well, they didn't give him to me. I kind of…took him."

"You took him? You stole a kid?"

"I didn't steal him. I told staff I was taking him home, and they let me."

"Oh, right. Mr. Big-Muckety-Muck Man-of-Letters can do anything he wants."

"Shut up, Dean." The response was automatic after a lifetime of his brother's teasing. "He was scared and alone. He wouldn't even come out of his—" Sam lowered his voice before finishing the sentence— "cage. He was born and raised in that lab. Never knew anything else."

Dean swore softly, amazed and horrified just as Sam had been. "That's just…"

"I know."

"Sick. Evil."

"Yeah."

"No wonder he's freaked. Our guys can handle monsters all day, but a kid? I guess it's good they let you have him."

"None of them are monsters, Dean."

"I know, I know. But you know what he went through."

Sam braked just a little too hard, wincing as he and Jack lurched forward in their seats. "Yeah. I do."

And I really don't want to talk about it.

"Anyway. I'm bringing him home, so would you mind not stopping by for a few days? He's really jumpy."

"Oh." Dean sounded taken aback, and more than a little disappointed. "Okay. Sure."

Sam chuckled. "I'm not going to wither up and die. Just give me a week or so. You can still call."

"Nah. Phone sex isn't my thing."

Sam was eternally grateful he hadn't put the call on speaker. Dean's self-satisfied snickers echoed through the phone at his joke.

"Bye, Dean."

"Be careful, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes as he hung up. He focused on Jack in the rearview mirror with an amused smile. "See? My big brother thinks I'll go crazy without him."

Jack's pale eyes flickered up to the mirror to meet Sam's, just briefly. Then he dropped his gaze back down, staring intently at nothing.

Sam checked his GPS. The drive back home would take at least two more hours. He'd planned on staying in a hotel after inspecting the lab, rather than face the long trip twice in one day. But it was early yet—the inspection had been cut short, and his comfort wasn't the most important thing anymore.

Music didn't quite seem appropriate to fill the silence, so Sam began to talk. "You know, having a brother isn't all it's cracked up to be. Sometimes he makes me downright miserable. Once, when we were little, he got a hold of my shampoo, and…"

…

Sam had never been more thankful to live in a secluded location than today, the day he brought a kid with wings home. The neighbors would never have stopped talking about that.

His house, comfortably but not excessively large, was tucked in the back of a modest subdivision, surrounded by trees to the point of being hidden. To those who didn't know better, its driveway would appear to lead to an empty lot, as if plans to expand the neighborhood had stalled out of progress until the developer had all but forgotten about it.

Sam opened the back door of his unobtrusive black Charger and held out a hand, which Jack took cautiously. He folded his wings together to slide out of the car, still clutching Sam's suit jacket with one fist.

Dean often ribbed him about the "plastic piece of crap" he drove, but Sam simply reminded him, smugly, how little he paid for gas—unlike the gas guzzler Dean had inherited from Dad.

Jack took in his surroundings, eyes darting nervously back and forth as if he were expecting assailants to leap from behind the trees.

"It's okay." Sam smiled down at him. "This is where I live. My home."

He'd talked enough to Jack on the long drive that he hoped the kid would be accustomed to the sound of his voice. He'd tried to keep the topics light, telling Jack stories about his family, his job—human stuff. No monsters, no sadness.

Jack's fingers tightened around Sam's hand as he surveyed the house with huge eyes. His wings twitched, still drawn in close to his back.

"Come on. I'll give you a tour."

He led Jack in, making sure not to lock the door behind him. He didn't want to give Jack any notions of this being another cage.

Sam's house was spacious, furnished with utilitarian pieces. Dean had gotten excited at the idea of Spartan decor, until Sam informed him that he did not, in fact, intend to decorate his house with ancient Greek weaponry.

"I didn't even know you saw 300."

"Good fight scenes. Bad historical accuracy. And that's not even what Spartan means."

The memory brought a smile to Sam's face. He spread his arm, displaying the front room. "Look around all you want."

Jack stood stock-still. He no longer clung to Sam's hand, but he was planted firmly behind Sam, eyes still wide and on alert.

Clearly he had no plans to go anywhere on his own.

Sam chuckled. "Okay. C'mon." He headed for the back rooms, glancing back to make sure the kid followed. He did, never straying farther than a foot behind Sam.

Sam led Jack on a brief tour of the house, fumbling through explanations of each room. "Kitchen. Where I make my food. Don't do a lot of cooking myself. I'm not a great cook."

"Bathroom. Uh…where you do your business. And shower."

"My office. I can work from home if I need to." (He'd probably need to, in the coming days.)

"My bedroom. Where I sleep." (The realization that Jack had probably never had a bed before turned his stomach.)

"Spare bedroom. Dean sleeps here whenever he stays over. He only lives about five minutes away, but…he likes to be close."

The spare bedroom was also equipped with a television, at Dean's request. He scoffed at the idea of no screentime half an hour before sleep. "I'm a hunter, Sammy. Something out there is gonna kill me before bad eyesight."

"Your bad eyesight will be what kills you out there, idiot."

"Whatever. Just put in the d*mn TV."

"I…" Sam breathed deeply. "I guess this is where you'll be staying for now, Jack." He'd washed the bedsheets and cleaned since Dean's last stay—they'd stayed up far too late eating pizza and bad movie snacks, binging terrible action movies.

Jack took in the bedroom wordlessly. His lips parted slightly, revealing the gap in his teeth and amplifying his short, sharp breaths.

"This is your room," Sam repeated, watching the kid's face carefully to make sure he understood.

Jack's brows lifted, pinching together plaintively in the middle.

"You sleep here. This is your space. When we get you some things, you can keep them in here. And," Sam paused, placing a hand conspicuously on the door. "Whenever you want, you can close the door so no one can come in. Not even me. You get to stay in here by yourself."

Jack turned to Sam at that, eyes huge and possibly a little glassy.

The meaning couldn't have been clearer. Really?

"I mean it," Sam said firmly. "You can go wherever you want in this house. But this room—you're in charge here."

He really did mean it. He knew how important it was for kids—especially this kid—to have autonomy in his space. Jack needed assurance that no one would burst into this room and drag him out on a whim. He'd had too much of that in his short lifetime already.

Jack exhaled. His shoulders collapsed in what might have been a release of tension, wings drooping toward the floor.

Sam winced as the featherless wing skin scraped against the rough carpet. He couldn't imagine the pain this kid had gone through. How much would it hurt to have feathers ripped out of your skin? It had to be at least as painful as having hair ripped out from the roots. A bully had done that once to Sam, at school.

Jack rubbed the sleeve of Sam's coat up and down his arm, as if something there itched.

Of course. His arms—and legs and entire body—were streaked with unidentifiable grime. How long had it been since he'd had a bath?

"Hey, Jack. C'mere. Let's get you cleaned up. Okay? You'll feel better." He held out a hand encouragingly.

Jack tensed again, his wings retracting to his back, as if he were preparing to fly away. (Could he fly? Sam filed the curiosity away for another time.) He made no protest, though. He squared his shoulders and followed Sam down the hall to the bathroom.

Sam opened the door to his walk-in shower and gestured for Jack to step in. He wasn't sure if Jack felt comfortable stripping naked yet—he wouldn't force him.

To his surprise, though, Jack removed his filthy shorts with no prompting. He'd already dropped Sam's jacket to the floor, which had seemed to function as his safety blanket. He walked past Sam into the shower, his expression oddly grim.

Before Sam could start the water, Jack fixed himself to the rear wall, exposing his back. He tucked his head into his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut.

Waiting.

Sam's confusion crumbled into sick realization. He thought back to his foray into the lab, the glimpses he'd caught…

The rooms outfitted with drains and hoses, the water pressure nearly equal to that of a fire hydrant.

As a lab specimen, Jack had been subject to those "baths" his entire life.

Sam's grip on the shower door slipped. He fumbled to catch it before it slammed shut, sealing Jack inside and terrifying him further.

This he did know. The sting of hoses on bare, sensitive skin. Washing away coated-on filth and grime as if he were a middle-class man's backyard deck.

"Jack. Come on out of there. I'm sorry. I—not like that. We'll clean you up a different way."

His voice shook.

Jack slowly uncurled from his rigid pose, his eyes opening one at a time.

In another scenario, it would have been adorably comical. In this moment, though, all Sam could think about was the bruises still smeared across Jack's arms and legs and torso.

He had been expecting Sam to add to the collection.

Even after Sam had won his trust, been nothing but gentle with him, brought him home, Jack expected pain from his new caretaker.

It stung Sam, but not in a self-righteous way. More a reminder of the work ahead of him, to undo the damage inflicted on this boy.

…

Sam almost never used the large, jacuzzi-style tub in his downstairs bathroom. He'd almost had the thing removed, when he first moved in—but Dean had talked him into keeping it. He'd "tested it out," helping himself to a beer while Sam moved boxes in from the U-Haul. "You never know, you could bring home a girl who's into that." (He'd been right, but Sam had never told him so.)

It was currently covered in dust from disuse. Sam quickly scrubbed it out with a wet towel, mentally cursing himself for never covering it.

Once it was sufficiently clean, he began filling it with water. Not hot enough to scald, but comfortably warm.

He gestured to Jack. "You can get in. It doesn't hurt."

Jack approached cautiously, wings curled around the front of his body like a shield. A handy way to stay modest, Sam noted.

He dipped one foot in, then let his leg slide in with what sounded like a sigh of pleasure.

"Feels good, doesn't it? Nice and warm."

Jack didn't reply—Sam didn't expect him to at this point—but stepped in with his other leg and sank down into the water.

His eyes closed, and he breathed deeply in and out. Soaking in the sensation.

Simple contact with the warm water had loosed some of the dirt and grime, slipping away from Jack to muddy the bath. Some of it, though, stuck to his skin stubbornly. It could've been there for days—weeks.

Sam handed Jack a washcloth. "Here. You can clean yourself off."

After realizing Jack was still waiting for Sam to hurt him somehow, Sam didn't think it was a good idea for him to touch Jack too much. The kid could do it himself. His comfort was more important than a thorough cleaning.

Jack took the cloth and wiped his arms and legs, dispelling most of the dirt. He scrubbed at his face with his hands and dumped handfuls of water in his hair rather than submerging his head.

He rubbed the increasingly dirty cloth over his chest, shoulders and torso. His wings he opted to simply soak in the bath water. He didn't clean his back, and he did not look to Sam for help with the parts he couldn't reach.

Sam accepted that.

He helped Jack out of the bath, the water now a sullen, swirling gray, and wrapped him in a towel.

Only then did it strike him—he had no clothes for this boy. The filthy shorts he'd come here in were surely beyond saving.

Sam cursed under his breath. He was not good at this childcare thing. "Stay here, Jack. I'll be right back, okay?" He headed for the upstairs, pausing at the door to make sure Jack understood.

He apparently did, standing stock-still where Sam had left him. The towel wrapped around him engulfed him, making him look even smaller than usual. His hair dripped onto his cheeks and shoulders, giving him the plaintive look of a lost, wet puppy.

Wings poked out around the bottom of the towel like a strange, sparsely feathered skirt.

Sam gave him a strained smile of reassurance before racing upstairs to his room.

He had no clothes in Jack's size, but after pawing through the back of his dresser drawers, he found an old pair of boxer shorts with a drawstring.

He brought them down to Jack, who put them on with relative ease. They were comically large, nearly reaching his knees, but with a little help from Sam, who tied the drawstring with cautious, careful fingers, they appeared to fit. At least, they wouldn't fall off him when he began to walk.

Sam wasn't sure if he should offer Jack a shirt. Had he ever worn one? Would he find it confining? How would the wings fit?

He decided to leave the shirt off for now.

His own clothes were speckled with water and dirt. He headed back upstairs to change, hearing the soft rustle of Jack following quietly behind him.

Sam stripped off his dress pants and shirt, donning jeans and a t-shirt instead. He slipped on a plaid flannel shirt over his bare arms.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror beside the closet. His expression was harried, as if he'd forgotten several important things that he now had to do at once.

That wasn't entirely incorrect.

He looked at Jack in the mirror, standing hesitantly in the doorway, half in the shadow of the darkened hall. "You hungry, Jack? Need to eat?"

…

Sam, again, felt woefully underprepared to have a child in his house. Most of his meals were pre-made, which he simply had to heat up in the microwave or oven. There were also plenty of fresh vegetables in the fridge, but Sam wasn't sure if that would appeal to an eight-year-old, regardless of his upbringing.

He ended up heating a small pot of chicken broth, easy on the stomach and acceptable for a child, served with saltine crackers and a cored apple.

Jack ate slowly but steadily, all but ignoring Sam after his first tentative bites. He abandoned his spoon, opting to drink soup straight from the bowl. Aside from a few stray cracker crumbs and drops of broth, he remained fairly neat.

His wings opened slowly behind him, uncurling from their tense, guarded position.

When he was finished, he set the bowl on the table in front of him and wiped a hand across his messy mouth.

His head seemed heavy, drooping forward and lolling from side to side.

"You tired?" Sam asked. Jack looked over at him with half-lidded eyes.

Sam took that as a yes.

"C'mon. You can go lay down in your room. I'll clean up later," he added, when Jack glanced back at his dinner dishes.

He led Jack upstairs, back to the spare bedroom. Jack hesitated, hovering in the doorway before sitting on the floor, wings spiraling to swaddle him in a makeshift blanket.

"W—" Sam stammered. "You…you can get in the bed, Jack. You don't have to sleep on the floor."

The kid's head snapped up. His eyes darted between the bed and Sam, like he'd been caught doing something wrong.

"You—you can lay down here," Sam continued haltingly. He patted the mattress. "It's…more comfortable."

Jack crawled to the foot of the bed, folding his wings tightly against his back. He stroked the bedspread with one finger.

That's…not what I meant, Sam wanted to say. He wanted to press, to continue to nudge Jack until he was in the bed, where he'd be most comfortable.

But was that really what Jack needed? To be pushed along until he did what Sam wanted, made to feel like he was doing something wrong every step of the way?

Or should he be given space—peace and time to figure things out on his own?

Sam didn't know. He was exhausted, and any choice he made in this state would feel like the wrong one.

He decided to leave it for the night.

There was always tomorrow.

He showered, unable to shake the image—the sense memory—of hoses washing dirt and excrement off his body. Whines, screams of pain echoed off the tiled walls.

Sam dressed for bed and wrote a list of things he needed to do in the morning. The list, he knew, was incomplete, but he was so tired he couldn't think anymore.

Looking back, this day had felt incredibly long. More like a year than a day, honestly.

He poked his head in one more time to check on Jack. The boy was still sitting on the floor, staring at nothing.

"I—I'm gonna go to sleep now, Jack. In my room. You, uh. You can sleep, too. But if you need anything, come wake me up, okay? Don't worry about bothering me. Any time."

Jack's eyes flickered to him. He looked wordlessly at Sam, his pale eyes wide and full of unreadable emotions.

Sam patted the doorframe awkwardly. "Okay. Good night."

He listened for any sounds behind him as he headed for his room, but there were none.

Sam collapsed into bed with a soft groan. This was certainly not how he'd pictured today going.

And what now? He'd brought this boy home, desperate to protect him from the torture he'd experienced at the lab. But what to do with him? He had no one. No parents, no relatives. The wings would make adoption impossible.

Would he stay with Sam? Permanently?

Was Sam prepared for that? Capable of it?

Did he want that?

His troubled, worried thoughts might have kept him awake, but his exhaustion helped to balance it out. He dropped off after only a few minutes of tossing and turning.

…

Sam's dreams were always confusing.

They were almost real enough to fool him into believing they were actually happening, but there was always a surreal element to jar him out of it.

For instance, tonight Sam was in a bar. Sitting at the front counter. Mundane enough.

But he wasn't…Sam. Rather, he wasn't today's Sam. His body felt smaller. Shrunken. His thick, overgrown hair flopped in front of his eyes. The stool he was perched on felt too low, and if he leaned forward just a little he could rest his chin on the bar.

He was in a bar, but clearly too young to be in a bar. Surreal.

The bartender, a middle-aged woman in a tank top and jeans, walked over to him and pricked his finger with what looked like a blood sugar meter for diabetics.

It should've hurt, but Sam didn't feel anything. He didn't even flinch.

She examined the device, frowning. Demon count's a little high. Don't worry, I've got somethin' for that.

Without warning, she smashed the beer bottle she was holding and jammed a large, pointed shard into the side of his neck.

Sam gasped and jolted awake, shooting upright in bed. Slurred, panicked words that might have been Latin or Celtic or just gibberish poured from his mouth.

Forgive me.

Begone.

Sam's ears rang.

Dream. Dream. No one had stabbed him. Dream.

Not entirely. The ringing in his ears wasn't internal.

It was coming from down the hall.

A brightness danced across the walls of his room, brighter than any light in the house.

A faint voice echoed in Sam's ears. Young. High-pitched. Nonsensical.

Fear flooded him.

Jack.