Author's Note: Thank you guys so much for your support. Your comments mean the world to me.
Warnings: Some gore, a seizure, and some violence.
Thank you very much to AngelFishOfTheLord for their beta'ing on the last half of this chapter. :)
"Anonymous asked: 'When's your bedtime :)'
Whenever I next collapse is purely up to the gods."
-Tumblr, post by pukicho.
Chapter Four:
Jack reads that night until his eyelids feel raw. He tears through tomes and texts, anything related to angels and things that only have vague allusions to them. He searches for angels, for archangels, for grace, for tracking spells—anything. Desperation fuels him, allowing him to push past his body's desire for sleep.
He flips pages back and forth, skimming, hoping, his heart in his throat.
When he eventually stumbles back toward his room, he sleeps for three hours, wakes up, and repeats the same process the next day. There has to be something here. They're in one of the greatest gatherings of supernatural knowledge in the United States. They have to have things on angels.
He researches through the day. He forages for anything that feels like it might be helpful to what they're doing, and even some things that won't. His eyes ache until they feel swollen, and a headache builds at the base of his skull, but he ignores it and keeps pushing through. He falls asleep on the books, wakes up, and carries forward.
Castiel checks on him later that night, asking cryptically, "are you alright? You've been in here all day."
Jack can only look up at him with impatience, because though the books have thus far proven to be utterly useless, that doesn't mean they'll be that way forever. There has to be something. "I'm fine," he answers, and returns his gaze back down to the text. Castiel seems doubtful, but he doesn't push. He leaves, and later returns, then nudges Jack into eating a sandwich.
It's dry and papery on his tongue, but he thanks the seraph anyway, and continues looking through the lore.
Feeling almost sick with worry and defiance, Jack presses forward with an almost frantic haste. He has to fix this. He has to make it better. He's already made a mess of things, and he can't allow himself to do that again. He won't offer any suggestions until he's sure what he says will be useful.
So Jack doesn't stop after one day. He plants himself in the library for the next several days and reads until his eyes feel dry and his limbs are trembling. But even with all the information, Jack becomes aware of the fact that the Men of Letters know scarce little about angels.
Their information is split between thick tomes, rarely gathered together, and the entire thing could fit into about seventy pages. It's frustrating. Jack would have better luck getting information by going to Castiel and asking him direct questions, but part of him is as humiliated as he is afraid that Castiel would be offended or annoyed at his asking. Besides, he's sure that Sam has already ground every last detail from Castiel that would be helpful.
It's not like there hasn't already been a frantic effort made to find Dean. Jack doesn't even know why he's bothering. But even knowing this, he can't stop, either.
Sam approaches him on what Jack thinks is day three, but could be day four, sitting down across from him at the table with a water bottle outheld. Jack realizes that he is, in fact, thirsty, and takes the plastic container from Sam. Twisting off the cap, he takes a long swig. He can't remember the last time he ate. Maybe the apple that Castiel brought him recently. Or was that yesterday?
Sam stares at him. He still looks exhausted and a little pale. He's wearing a thin brown jacket on top of his layers of clothing, which Jack finds a little strange. It's never warm inside of the Bunker, but it's not cold enough for that.
"Thanks." Jack says, setting down the water bottle on the table and rubs at his aching eyes between his fingers.
"When was the last time you slept?" Sam asks neutrally.
Jack shrugs.
"Jack," Sam sighs.
Jack bites on an irritated comment. This is the only thing he can do that is useful. Sam has to understand that, doesn't he? Jack's not a good tracker, he's not a good hunter, and without his powers, he's another mouth to feed that's offering absolutely nothing in return. And Jack...just...he can't. They have to find Dean.
"It's not like you haven't done it before," Jack points out. Especially since they got back from Michael's world. Sam hardly sleeps. Jack rarely sees him eat. He seems to subside off of willpower, stubbornness, and determination alone.
"That's different." Sam says. Jack feels his expression twist with disbelief at the hypocrisy, and Sam adds, resting a hand on the top of one of the tomes. "You don't have to do this. I've been through these books, Jack."
He knows. Of course he knows. Jack doesn't know what he was expecting. That he would somehow find something that Sam, in his twenty plus years of experience, had missed? It was a ridiculous endeavor from the start. But he still…he can't stop thinking about Castiel's despair. The hollowed out look. Sam's panic and Sam's eyes…
He can't keep waiting around for something to happen; for the problem to resolve itself. The tension inside of the Bunker makes him feel like he's choking. He wants out. He wants to wake up and not fear for some sort of emotional or physical desecration that day. He just...he just wants things to go back to the way they were. Before he was lost.
"What am I supposed to do, then?" Jack asks him, hands curling into fists. He leans back in the stiff chair, running a hand through his messy hair. "We haven't had a lot of luck otherwise."
"We'll keep a look out." Sam promises, shifting. His eyes crease at the edges in discomfort. "We're going to find him. Michael can't stay hidden forever."
Jack isn't so sure, but he doesn't say that. The very idea of expressing this belief in words horrifies him. As if, were he to speak it out loud, that would force it to become truth. Jack sighs quietly, flexing his fingers. He scoots forward on the stiff wooden chair, "We've been looking for a month."
More than a month. They're on what? The tail end of week six?
Sam's eyes empty out. His expression flattens. "I know. But you working yourself to the ground isn't going to get us there any faster."
And yet, somehow, that concept applied to Sam isn't the same? Is it because Jack is that useless, or because Sam doesn't trust him to find anything helpful? He did get Sam's eyes carved out, didn't he?
Sam breathes out sharply, patting the book once before slowly rising to his feet, "C'mon, at least lay down for a few hours. It's two in the morning."
Is it? Jack checks his phone, resting on the tabletop face down beside the book. The screen blinks back at him. Two seventeen AM. That would explain why he feels so raw. The concept of day doesn't really exist in the Bunker, but Jack's biological clock still gives a half—hearted attempt at functioning.
"Sam," Jack finds himself saying, and Sam stops, looking back at him. He's so tall, almost looming over the table, features hardened and sharp. His fingers are thin and pallid, looking like white claws. Jack's mouth is dry, but he forces his eyes up toward Sam's hazel ones. "Is Castiel okay?"
He's not sure if that's what he wanted to ask, or if it's the first thing that came out. Sam pauses, head tilting forward a fraction. He pulls his lower lip in with his teeth, and Jack gets the sinking feeling that whatever Sam says is going to be a lie. But he doesn't look surprised, which Jack finds a relief, because he wasn't the only one who noticed Castiel's distance.
"His stab is doing a lot better. That's not what you're asking about, is it? Why?" Sam questions.
"He's just...I don't know." Jack rubs against his sternum and grimaces at the push-pull pain of the healing stab. "He doesn't seem okay."
None of you do, Jack thinks, but refrains from saying.
Sam releases his lip and touches a hand to his side. "I'll talk with him," he says, and taps the back of the chair he's standing beside, effectively ending this line of questioning. "Alright. Come on. Bed." Jack sighs deeply, but gets up to his feet. He closes the book he was searching through, and gathers his phone and the water bottle.
Maybe he should be resisting harder, but Jack doesn't think that if push came to shove, he'd win a battle of stubbornness against Sam.
Sam follows him to his room silently, which Jack privately finds somewhat distressing. He's so quiet, it's like Jack's being followed by a shadow, not a person. Jack dumps the phone on the bedside table and sits down heavily on the bed.
Feeling Sam's gaze, he looks up. The hunter is standing in the doorway, somehow looking both imposing and out of place. He doesn't say anything, but nods once and slips away down the hall. Jack listens for him, but can barely make out the odd soft footfall. Breathing out heavily, Jack stands up, walks to the door and pulls it closed.
He doesn't sleep.
He lays on the mattress for hours, rolling back and forth. Despite the fact that his body is exhausted, his mind isn't. Running endless circles inside of his head, shouting into his ears and forcing him to listen. Clamping his hands over his ears does nothing. The twisted, hollowed out pit of anxiety is fed and fed until Jack finally throws off the covers and sits up.
He sighs in frustration and grabs his tablet, pulling it off of the charger, desperate for anything to do that isn't think. He searches fruitlessly for stories about Michael, about angels, about anything, and finds the grand total of nothing.
Michael remains a ghost.
000o000
After spending hours pouring over lore the next day, Jack falls asleep over the library's table. The paper is uncomfortable and scratchy beneath his cheek, but it serves as an adequate pillow for his needs. He's spent the last seven or eight hours flipping through pages in his desperation.
Jack wakes what must be hours later to Castiel gently touching his shoulder. Jack twitches, looking up at the blurring figure, trying to squint him into focus. The seraph's lips are twisted into a frown of disapproval. Upon realizing that Jack's gaze has settled, Castiel sits on the edge of the table, shoving the book out of Jack's reach.
"What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here?" Castiel asks. Jack suppresses a wince at his tone.
He sits back in the chair, his back feeling stiff and vertebrae aching up to his skull. "I'm going to find Michael." He says firmly. "You can't stop me. I just...I just have to find the one thing that will point me in the right direction."
"Jack," Castiel sighs. Why does everyone sigh his name? Can't they just say it? Would it be that hard? "You've been here for five days."
"You don't understand. This is all I have." Jack reaches for the book, but Castiel's palm lands flat on the surface, his hold an iron weight pinning the tome to the tabletop. Jack looks up at him in irritation through his bangs. "What else do you want me to do? You and Sam keep saying that we're going to find him, but we aren't any closer today than we were six weeks ago."
Castiel doesn't quite flinch, but his face twists into something close to a grimace. He takes a moment to visibly gather himself before saying, "Me and Sam have been through these extensively. If there was a way to track Michael we would have found it." At Jack's look, he adds sharply, "I'm not saying that what you're doing is wrong, or even that it's not helpful, but you need to sleep. And eat."
Jack slumps, burying his face in his hands. "This is more important."
"Are you really that desperate?" Castiel's tone is less curious as much as it is bordering on disbelief.
"Aren't you?" Jack asks, clenching his fingers into his hair. He doesn't want to look at Castiel. The thought of trying to read his expression is exhausting. Jack's elbows are digging painfully into the edge of the tabletop, but he refuses to move.
Castiel's aura shifts, a subtle withdrawal from the room. But because Jack is so familiar with it, he can feel it recede. With shame, he realizes that it's somewhat easier to breathe without it hanging over them like a weighted blanket.
"I just want things to go back to normal." Jack whispers in admittance. Castiel doesn't say anything, so Jack carefully adds on, "Once we kill Michael, the rebels will go back to their world and then we don't have to keep pretending that we like each other."
Castiel scoffs, but clears his throat softly like he's trying to hide it.
Jack squeezes his eyes together with more vigor, "I hate it here. Ever since Bobby and Sam fought, everyone's been ready to stab someone else. Sam has barely said two words to him. Do you hear what they say about him?"
Jack finally looks up at this, and sees that Castiel's expression is stony. There's an edge there that looks vaguely dark and violent. Jack pulls his lips against his teeth. Castiel is a warrior, he forgets. To most people, Castiel isn't gentle. And right now, he looks the part.
"I do," Castiel says quietly. "Their lacking sympathies pain me, even if I understand them. They are making the fight follow them here, because they don't know how to live any differently."
Jack sighs.
They sit in silence for a long minute, Jack staring at the tabletop with increasing anger and Castiel's gaze pinned at the crease between the wall and the ceiling. At last, Castiel says, "Take a walk with me."
Jack blinks. "What?"
"You need a break, and the afternoon heat has passed. Take a walk with me." Castiel repeats. Jack stares at him, feeling like this is some sort of joke. But Castiel is still staring, and Jack finally nods once. Already dressed in his sneakers and adorned in a light jacket, they can simply exit the library and walk up the steps.
As they pass Trent and Charlie talking quietly together beside the war table, the two step back to give Castiel a wide berth. Apparently unbothered by this, Castiel says nothing and quietly climbs the stairs. Jack trails after him, feeling both detached from his body and far too aware of every cell.
Stepping outside is like walking out of a prison. Jack finds himself exhaling sharply and squinting into the sun. Castiel takes off at a moderate pace, and Jack scrambles to keep up with him. They don't talk, and Jack finds the tension in his body slowly leaking from him. He breathes easier, and his muscles begin to release.
When Jack catches glimpses of his profile, Castiel's expression is blank, his face somehow utterly lifeless while his eyes hold swathes of shadows; as if physically he is here, but mentally he couldn't be farther away. It's the same look Jack's seen him wear far more recently, as if Castiel is simply trying to crawl inside his vessel and hide there, waiting until it's safe to emerge.
And Jack wonders then, who this calming walk was actually for: him or Castiel?
000o000
The next evening, Jack finds himself standing in the firing range, holding a .45 with Bobby looming over his shoulder. Despite Jack's efforts to avoid the rebel after Monday, Bobby has been helping him with training, and training is still important even if Jack wants to avoid him like he's carrying a nasty bout of plague.
The gun is uncomfortable in his hands, but it always is, no matter how many times he's held one. It just doesn't seem to fit. As he's come to accept as bitterly normal, he longs for his powers.
Jack misses most of the target when he fires, landing two bullets on the edge of the outermost red line of the ten he discharged. Everything else landed in the wall or the white paper. Sighing with annoyance, Jack slides the headphones down from his ears, detaching the clip from the gun.
Not any better than a few days ago. In fact, it might be worse.
He looks back at Bobby, who is standing there silently, arms crossed over his chest. He also pulls the headphones down from his ears, frowning. "That's probably enough for today, kid. Should save ammo for the hunt." The last part is said with an edge of annoyance.
Jack pulls his bottom lip in, looking away from the man for a moment. I don't want to do this now, he thinks with a curling dread inside of his stomach. He'd rather do anything but discuss Bobby's bitterness. His tongue feels dry, and even the thought of offering some sort of defense is sickening.
Bobby blows out a breath, apparently self aware enough to change the subject. "How's your wound?"
Jack's hand comes up to touch it, and he grimaces. "It's getting better. It still hurts."
"It still bruised?" Bobby asks with a faint edge of concern.
All shades of green, yellow and purple. The mixture looks like his skin is being poisoned. This, Castiel had assured him, is normal. Human skin isn't meant to absorb that much divinity. "Yeah."
Bobby's jaw shifts, "You sure it's supposed to be taking this long to heal?"
"Nick's isn't any further along than mine is," Jack says, but he's not actually sure. It's not like he's asked the man. He's just assuming, because Nick is upright and moving, if with pain. Jack shrugs, trying for nonchalant, "Castiel said that it would take longer because it's also a wound to the soul."
Bobby snorts, like that's one of the most ridiculous things he's heard in a while. "Right. No hand-to-hand today then. Someday we'll get you beat up good and proper." He pats Jack's shoulder with a rough hand, and Jack finds himself huffing out a breath in what's almost laughter. He stops, struck with how strange it is to feel humor. Now that he's thinking about it, he can't remember the last time he really laughed. Everything's been so grim lately, it hasn't felt appropriate somehow.
Jack checks that the barrel is empty and cool enough to touch, flips the gun, and sets it inside of the box resting on the floor outside of the barrier. Other discarded weapons that should be cleaned but haven't yet sit inside of the container. Jack pulls off his headphones from his neck and sets them on top of the weapons.
Bobby drops the headphones beside Jack's and gives him a long look. "Jack?"
"Hm?"
Bobby gestures toward the target, "You're thinking too hard about the target. It's making your muscles stiff. You need to relax."
Jack's eyebrows draw together, "I am relaxed." They've been doing this for what? Four, five weeks now? Jack's grown familiar with a gun. Sort of.
Bobby raises a challenging eyebrow. "Right. You shouldn't be jell-O, but if you were ever in a real fight where you'd have to use a gun, you're not going to be any good to anyone." Bobby explains patiently. Jack's stomach twists, feeling the familiar throb of not having executed something right. "Next time, try to relax."
Jack nods, looking toward the floor. He opens his mouth to ask a question, but no sound ever makes it out. A loud gathering of panicked shouting starts suddenly from somewhere far away in the Bunker. Gatherings of people trying to all talk at once and shouting for someone else to take charge. Anxiety swirls in his stomach, and Jack glances toward Bobby for a second, clicking his jaw shut. The man is already withdrawing a revolver and heading toward the hall rapidly. Jack finds himself following, silently pleading that no one will have died.
The sounds get louder, clumping together in a pitched frenzy of people trying to talk over one another. Stomach in his throat, Jack wishes he had some sort of weapon. He should have grabbed something from the firing range.
They enter the war room, and Jack can see a cluster of six rebels gathered around the edge of the table. A laptop is sitting on the edge, video still playing. The rebels are kneeling or standing around something on the floor. Jack draws closer, his stomach dropping as he realizes that it's Sam.
"—we turn him on his side?"
"—he choking—?"
"—Charlie back with that angel—"
"—do we do?" Trent is shouting, looking up. He doubletakes, then says sharply, "Bobby!" the relief in his tone is palpable.
Jack scrambles forward on numb legs, shoving past the rebels toward Sam. He's seizing, limbs shaking and trembling violently as empty eyes stare up toward the ceiling. His skin is leached of color and there's blood dripping from his nose. He's gagging. Jack just stands there, horrified, hands clenched next to his stomach.
Bobby shoves past Trent, pushing Percy to the side none-to-gently. "Hey, hey! Everyone shut up!" he shouts, landing on his knees beside the hunter. He grabs Sam's shoulder and hip then roughly shoves him to his side. One hand comes to grip Sam's skull, stopping the horrible sound of his skull smacking against the metal plating of the floor. "Someone give me your jacket so he'll stop hittin' his head on the floor."
"But we—" Maggie starts to protest, her voice slightly winded.
"Now!" Bobby shouts.
Jack's stiff, numb fingers scramble to obey. He's shucked off the article of clothing and is handing it to Bobby before anyone else has started with their own zippers or sleeves. Bobby takes it from him roughly, stuffing it beneath Sam's skull.
"How long has he been like this?" Bobby demands.
"Uh, I don't…" Percy says, running a hand over the bottom half of his face. Jack feels sick. If he had his powers, this would be so easy to fix. He could've just...reached over and touched Sam and fixed it. But he can't do anything. He can only watch.
He can always only watch.
Bloody spit dribbles down the side of Sam's mouth, tinged pink, and the ragged sound of his breath is almost physically painful.
"Damn it," Jack whispers, lifting a hand to his mouth and biting on his finger.
"Less than two minutes." Trent supplies. "I think. I don't know." His hand comes up to mess with tangled dark hair.
Sam's body stops abruptly, going completely and utterly boneless. His limbs hang loosely, blood smears down his cheek from his nose. His eyes are closed and he looks like he's dead. Is his chest moving? It doesn't look like it's moving. Jack's knees feel weak, and his mouth opens to ask Bobby to check for a pulse, but all that comes out is a hitched sort of hiss.
Rapid footfalls sound, and Jack looks up, feeling tears spring to his eyes as he sees Castiel storming toward them, Charlie hot on his heels. His ageless face is pulled into something fierce and terrible, and the otherworldly power that swirls around him smacks into Jack like a physical punch. He has to lift his hand up to the back of his mouth to stop himself from gagging.
"Move!" Castiel shouts, and the rebels scramble to part for him, looking like they want to put as much distance between themselves and the seraph as possible. Jack finds himself backing away, even though he wants to draw closer.
Bobby releases the hunter, scooting backwards and up to his feet.
Castiel drops to his knees beside Sam, fingers checking at the pulse point on his neck. The skin around his eyes creases, and he hisses something in Enochian under his breath. Jack's beginning to recognize it as a heavy cuss. Brushing hair from Sam's forehead, he presses two fingers against his temple and closes his eyes.
Jack can feel the faint residue of power coming off of Castiel poke at him because his ears are beginning to ache.
The silence that settles over them is sudden and complete. Jack doesn't dare to breathe. He can see Maggie holding a hand over her mouth, tears silently streaming down her face. Trent looks angry, and Jack can't tell if it's in concern or something else. Everyone else is blurred in his shaky vision.
He doesn't care.
Please, please, please...
It's almost a full minute before Sam surges upward with a gasp, coughing. Wild, bloodshot hazel snaps open, sweeping across the room but not processing anything.
Something physically releases in Jack's chest with relief. He wraps an arm around his stomach, digging his fingers into the side of his chest. Breathing out sharply, he forces his eyes to remain on Sam's form. The hunter starts to slide backwards as his body won't support his weight, but Castiel has already scrambled up to sit on his haunches and catches Sam.
The hunter flinches at the contact, wild eyes looking toward the angel. At their eyes meeting, Sam sags a little.
"What...what…?" Sam murmurs, blinking rapidly. His eyes land on Bobby, something in his face tightening, then they sweep the length of the group. His gaze remains on Jack's face for a few seconds later than everyone else. Clarity seeps into Sam's face and he scrambles to face Castiel. "I saw him."
"What?" Castiel asks, hands latching onto Sam's shoulders to stop him from toppling. "Who?"
"Michael." Sam says, trying to get to his feet.
What?
"Sam, wait—" Castiel grabs him, pinning him into place. "You shouldn't be moving yet."
Sam ignores him, still trying to get his feet underneath himself. "He...god, he talked to me—"
"He what—?"
"We've got to get—"
"Sam, wait." Castiel commands sharply. Sam stops, squinting at Castiel. He looks like he's trying to decide if he's going to listen or pass out. Upon realizing that he has Sam's attention, the seraph carefully shoves Sam back toward the ground. "Talk to me. What happened?"
"I...we were just...going over one of the hunts," Sam wets his lips, "and he sort of just...uh, shoved his way into my head, I guess? We spoke."
"And?" Castiel presses.
"I didn't tell him anything. He said he'd be in touch. He wants to meet." Sam touches at his face, wiping at the smeared blood. He looks surprised that it's there.
Castiel swears in Enochian, even as Jack's heart leaps to his throat with some relief. Isn't...isn't this a good thing? Michael reached out. Michael isn't gone. Michael talked with Sam and Michael wants to meet with them. That means that they have a chance to rescue Dean. To stop Michael. This is a good thing, isn't it?
"Just—wait. Stop. How the hell is this even possible?" Bobby interrupts. Jack's eyes slide toward him. His expression is open with disbelief and an edge of...it takes Jack a second to recognize that as fear. "Angels communicate in dreams, you dumbass. You sure you were projecting into your seizure?"
"I seized?" Sam looks toward Castiel helplessly.
"Yeah," Maggie whispers before the seraph gets the chance to. Her voice is thick with unshed tears.
Jack feels color drain from his face. Angels communicate in dreams? He thinks about Dean, and standing in those bodies, and how could you do this to me? And was that just a nightmare, or was it actually Dean? Can the vessels talk with people? Did Dean try to reach him days ago and Jack dismissed it as some random night terror?
Castiel looks toward Bobby, eyes sharp. "Most often? Yes, angels communicate in dreams. But Michael is with his true vessel, and he's an archangel. He doesn't share our limitations. That doesn't mean it was safe." The angel looks at Sam, his expression serious, "He overfired your nervous system. You seized because he was talking to you."
Jack's stomach twists.
"Wait, is he...he can latch onto your brain?" Bobby says to Sam, drawing back another step. Jack doesn't remember when the man got to his feet. His face has gone pale, his lips bloodless with terror. Jack feels his own stomach curling with displeasure and trepidation. Can Michael hear them, right now? Has he been avoiding them because Sam has been giving him information, if unwillingly?
Bobby continues, picking up speed, no longer a war-hardened solider, but a panicked man facing his personal wraith. "If he was talkin' to you, then he can latch onto your skull, then he could be listening right now. He could be here. He could have been watching us this entire time—"
"Oh, god," someone moans.
"—if he's been watching us, then he knows where we are. He could—" Bobby continues, frantic. Similar expressions of horror and panic begin to sprout on the rebels. "God, I knew we shouldn't have trusted you! You've been a ticking bomb since we got here! Michael's going to kill us because you were too weak to shove him out—"
"Shut up!" Castiel shouts, surging to his feet, eyes flicking white in their center for a moment. The wave of other grows, Castiel's aura harsh and angry. A deep seated ache settles in Jack's ears and the base of his skull. Everyone silences, but Jack sees several hands on their weapons. Tense, waiting. Because they're afraid of Castiel. They're terrified of him.
And Jack...Jack can't say he feels any different at the moment.
Castiel releases a sharp breath, and the aura withdraws considerably until Jack can breathe. "You idiots. How can you have fought wars against angels and know so little? Sam is not a...radio tower for Michael to latch onto. Michael is no more in Sam's head than you are in his. Get out, go calm yourself. You have no reason to be afraid."
"But—" Bobby starts.
"Did that sound like a request?" The seraph demands, his voice flat. "Out of two of us, which is going to know more about my species? Don't test me."
"Cas." Sam's voice is a soft exhale of air in protest, propping himself up on an elbow.
"Shut up," Castiel says without even glancing at him. He stares Bobby down until the older rebel finally turns on his heel and walks out of the room. His gait is stiff. The other rebels follow after him, and Jack has a moment of wild, aching panic that Castiel meant him, too, but the seraph is waving him down. "Sit down, you look like you're going to pass out."
"I'm okay," Jack lies.
Castiel's annoyed headshake isn't even trying for subtle. Instead, he kneels down beside Sam and grips chin, trying to see the blood. Sam swats his hand away, obviously irritated. "I'm fine, you don't need to—"
"I know!" Jack flinches at the harsh tone and Castiel takes in a deep breath, trying to reign in the last dregs of his patience. When he speaks, his voice is considerably softer, "Let me help, Sam."
Sam adjusts so he's sitting up, which only makes him look like he's about to be sick. "Yeah. Um. Help me up?"
Castiel's hand grasps his shoulder, taking a considerable portion of Sam's weight. He says with some exhaustion, "Just...wait a moment. What else happened?
"Nothing."
"Sam."
"Nothing." Sam's eyes jump to Jack for a moment, and Jack feels at once frustrated and afraid. Frustrated because of course Sam wouldn't say anything around him, and afraid because, all that is good above, what doesn't he want to say in front of Jack? What else happened? Was Michael stuffing his way inside of Sam's head not enough?
Castiel's eyes follow Sam's, and Jack wraps his arms around his stomach. He feels pinned beneath their stares. Castiel returns his gaze to Sam, then says, his voice completely serious, "This affects him, too. Jack knows this Michael better than you and I do. He may have insight we don't."
Jack feels his jaw sag a little. Castiel wants him to hear this?
Sam's jaw tenses, his eyes tightening at the edges for a moment before he sighs and closes his eyes. "He, uh," Sam hesitates for a moment before adding, "asked me about Jack."
He what?
Jack's stomach coils, that long-held fear he tried to bury but never quite managed, seeding to the surface. Looking at all those bodies, strewn over those tables and wondering am I next? Castiel's gaze lifts to him for a moment, heavy; pinning.
"What did he ask?" Castiel demands.
Jack's mouth is dry.
Am I next?
"He just, uh," Sam rubs at his temple, "he asked about Jack's grace. How it was doing, if it was back."
"It's not." Jack says tonelessly. Even now, he can feel himself scraping for something that isn't there. He's hollowed out. Empty. A void.
"I know." Sam says, opening his eyes at last. His irises look ancient, old and far too knowing. He shifts, agitated. "I didn't tell him one way or the other. Why the hell would he want to know that?"
Castiel's eyes narrow, his hands moving restlessly for a moment. His thumb pushes into his left hand's palm for a few long seconds, a habit that Jack has noticed he and Sam do when anxious, though he couldn't say who started it first. "I don't know. I don't imagine it's out of concern." Castiel's teeth press together. "He's trying to gauge Jack's threat level."
"I'm—I'm not…" Jack fumbles to defend. Part of him knows, as it has always known, that while his power may be great, his inexperience puts him leagues behind even the most basic angel. He's untrained and unknowledgeable. He doesn't know how much good he would be in a fight against Michael. It wouldn't be clever fighting on his part, all he'd try to do is hit the archangel harder.
But this isn't something he could ever admit out loud. For so long, everyone expected his powers to simply be more. To have more power than archangels, to be more helpful in a fight, to heal people. And while Jack wants his powers back so much he can't breathe, a small fraction of him is relieved to no longer have to shoulder that responsibility and expectation.
"Is there anything else we need to know?" Castiel asks Sam pointedly.
Sam sighs, rubbing his forehead again. "No."
Castiel seems satisfied with this answer, because he hauls Sam up to his feet. The Winchester stumbles, eyes squeezing tightly shut as the back of his hand raises to his mouth. Castiel looks at him sharply, "Sam?"
"I'm good." Sam says behind his fingers, even though he clearly is not okay. "'M good, just give me a second, then we can go."
Castiel waits, ancient blue eyes landing on Jack after a moment. Something surges in his irises, but Jack doesn't understand what. It looks almost painful. Jack fidgets, unsure what to do with himself. If he should stay here, or follow after Sam and Castiel, trying to help.
"God," Sam groans.
"You need to lay down."
"I have—"
"Anything that needs to be done can wait." Castiel says patiently. He looks back at Jack, "Get him some ice. And find Mary," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "Meet us in Sam's room. We need to talk."
000o000
"He gave you a seizure to set up a meeting?"
Mary sounds skeptical, and looks the part. Her arms are crossed over her chest, hip leaning against the desk. Her lips are pinched and eyebrows drawn together. For all her calm exterior, Jack notices that her leg is bouncing softly.
Sam looks at her from under the ice-pack pressed to his forehead, tired and miserable. "Yes."
"He couldn't just call us?" Mary asks.
"It's not like we have our number in the phone book," Sam points out, "and we have ways to track calls. He'd know that because Michael knows everything Dean does. I guess...maybe this was the only way he thought he could do it and keep his location disguised."
Sick, crawling unease spreads through Jack's limbs. He hadn't considered the fact that Michael has all of Dean's knowledge. Everything. There aren't any walls that can be put up in angel possession. It's a complete merging of one psyche to another. Jack did spend the last few days getting a crash course on this. But that's not the point.
They're not just fighting Michael, they're fighting Dean, too.
"What I don't get," Mary says, leaning forward, "is why he's asking for a meeting at all. Isn't that a little too convenient?"
Jack feels himself frown, a surge of frustration washing through him. It's stupid and he knows it, but for once, he just wants something to be that convenient. Is that too much to ask for?
He tips his head back against the wall, staring at the other side of the room. He hasn't been in Sam's room that often, but the only word he's ever found that can describe it is barren. There's signs of life, because Sam has lived here for years, but it's not...homely. Not in the way that Jack has seen in movies. It feels more like an office. There's books stuffed onto any flat surface and piled on the floor, laying open and dog eared, something that looks like a med-kit squished on the desk, and there's clothing spread across the space, but there's nothing that actually says something about Sam as a person.
The bed is unmade and he's pretty sure that the sheet is half on the floor, but it's hard to tell beneath the three blankets that are making good progress in that direction, too.
Sam and Castiel are sitting on the end of the bed, their knees casually bumped together, but neither of them seem to notice. Jack has come to realize that a lot of their physical touch is like that. Neither Castiel or Sam seem to be aware of it at all, it's mindless, but present.
"Michael didn't ask for a meeting," Sam says, adjusting the ice, "he said he wanted to meet up and negotiate."
Mary's hands raise in a frustrated flick. "So? What difference does that make?"
"It means that we have something he wants." Castiel says. His eyes are far away, staring at the middle distance. He seems unfocused, but the drawing together of his brows and the creases around his eyes suggests that he is, in fact, actually pissed. "He knows what we want from him. Maybe he wants to trade."
Jack's stomach leaps into his throat.
Dean.
Michael wants to negotiate. Is...is he willing to give Dean to them? That wouldn't make sense. Why would he do that when he's worked so hard to keep him? He wiped himself off the planet, then refused to use a normal device to keep his location secret. Whatever it is that he's doing, whether that be planning for a massive genocide or starting one, he's made sure to keep it off-grid.
So what, Jack wonders, could he possibly need from them?
He's already so powerful.
Mary scoffs. "Of what?" When all of them are quiet, Mary shifts forward, planting both her feet on the ground. Her gaze zeros in on her son. "Sam, no. This is manipulation. Michael isn't going to trade Dean. He's the vessel. Do you really think that he'd give up your brother, knowing that he goes from dynamite to a nuclear bomb with him? You can't seriously be thinking of agreeing."
"What other choice do we have?" Jack asks, then bites at his lower lip sharply. "We're never going to find Michael unless he lets us."
The truth of those words settles over them all. It's thick and unpleasant.
Mary shakes her head, rubbing at her forehead. "I don't care. We'll find some other way, we have to. I refuse to meet Michael on his terms. We have to bring him to us instead—besides, how do you even plan to eject Michael from Dean? Ketch hasn't even found the Men of Letters damn egg yet."
Sam and Castiel share a look.
Jack's heart sinks. He remembers asking this question in the car, and receiving the same, bland non-answer. Nothing has changed. It may have been a week since that happened, but they are still scrambling for answers they don't have.
No one says a word for a long minute, and Jack thinks he's going to suffocate in the silence until Sam closes his eyes, adjusting the ice pack once more, then says quietly, "Let's just...leave it until tomorrow, okay? I need to get some sleep. My head is killing me."
Jack chews on his bottom lip, realizing that the headache must be bordering on a severe migraine for Sam to say anything.
"Okay," Mary says quietly. She looks at Jack, "come on."
Jack leaves the room with reluctance. He leaves the door open in what he suspects might be spite, knowing that Sam and Castiel are likely to keep discussing this without them. Mary follows him as he makes his way to his room, and he stops at the door, looking at her. With her blonde hair falling around her face and eyes shaded, she looks surprisingly young.
"What?" Jack asks.
"Michael asked about you." Mary points out. "Not the rebels, not me, not Cas. You."
Jack stiffens. He thinks of the bodies, the blood, the fighting and the war. Grace snapping this way and that, the flesh, burning bodies, those tables and am I next—"Michael considers me to be a powerful adversary." Jack says. The words feel awkward in his mouth. With his powers, he feels the part of a worthy opponent, but in his human skin, he is nothing but a shriveling coward. "Why else would he ask?"
"I don't know." Mary admits. "Just...be careful, please? Until we find him."
Jack softens at her worry. "It's okay, Mary," he reassures, lifting out a hand to grasp her shoulder. "We'll be fine, I promise."
He'll make it fine. No matter the cost.
000o000
Jack goes to sleep that night and wakes up to chaos.
The shouting carries through the bunker like wind, the fury riding easily on top of it. Jack startles awake. The bunker echoes, it's always echoed, and any sound is amplified in degrees that he can't properly explain into words. He has a flash of déjà vu to earlier with Sam's seizure, and scrambles out of bed, practically leaping forward to open the door.
Did it happen again? Has Michael already come to set up the meeting?
Once the door is opened, the muffled sound becomes louder. Jack follows it down the hall, feeling sick. Part of him is tempted, so sorely tempted, not to find the source, but instead leave the bunker. A smaller fraction within this says it would be better if he just left and didn't come back, ever. Leave this emotional pandemonium to solve itself and be more selfish than he already is.
Abruptly, Jack feels angry.
He doesn't want to do this.
Who would want to?
This didn't happen before Michael's world. Before the rebels moved in, and Dean got possessed. Now it's becoming commonplace and Jack hates it. Part of him is terrified knowing this, but he's not sure what he wouldn't do to stop it.
As Jack gets closer, he sees a clustering of rebels in the hall leading toward the dungeon. They're armed and most of them look exhausted and ragged. Jack can't see the Winchesters or Castiel, and shoves his way through the crowd. He still can't see anything, but he can hear it. Flesh hitting flesh as physical blows are thrown.
As Jack is almost toward the front, a figure is bodily thrown into the masses. He sees Percy and Charlie scrambles to grab them to stop themselves from being plowed through. Jack has a second to recognize a very bloody Bobby before Sam appears in the doorway.
Jack takes a physical step back, his throat closing in. The look on the Winchester's face is terrifying. There's blood smeared under his nose, his lips tinted with it. But his eyes—the cold fury sitting there makes him look almost inhuman. For a split second, Jack isn't looking at Sam, doesn't recognize him to be anything but his father. Their eyes seem to mirror each other.
For maybe the first time in his short life, Jack can see the true vessel of the devil.
It's horrifying.
Sam is holding an angel sword in his left hand, smeared with blood from hilt to tip.
Jack chokes, scrambling to back away, because it's not Sam. It's Lucifer, turning toward him and slicing his throat open, pulling out his grace, leaving a hole. A void. Emptiness that is so present it physically hurts all the time, and what is he going to take next?
Sam stalks forward and Mary scrambles out from behind him, grabbing him around the waist and chest, yanking him back. "Sam!"
Sam pushes against her roughly. Mary has to claw to adjust her grip, fingers digging into Sam's chest in a way that seems physically painful for both of them.
"Let me go, I'm going to kill him," Sam whispers darkly, throwing himself bodily forward. Mary's grip slips a fraction, and Sam makes it forward another step. The sight would almost be comical if it was any other circumstance. Mary isn't short, but she still looks almost tiny compared to Sam, bony as he's become in recent weeks.
"Sam, stop it!" Mary exclaims. "Calm down!"
In response to this admonishment, Sam throws the angel sword. If not for the quick reflexes of Charlie, pulling Bobby back a foot, the weapon would have impeded the man in the chest. As it is, the weapon clatters loudly against the floor.
Charlie and Percy haul Bobby further into the crowd of rebels. Jack raises the back of his hand to his mouth, biting at the flesh. The pain grounds him. What happened? He's only seen Sam this angry once, and that was in front of Lucifer.
Sam pulls his way forcefully from Mary's grasp, shooting forward. Jack scrambles to put more distance between them. He's going to do something, he's actually going to hurt someone. He feels guilt squirm it's way through him. He should stand in defense, but he can't.
He thinks of Bobby's words, you're not going to be any good to anyone, and realizes with a snort of dark humor that he was right. Jack is useless, even in this.
What the hell happened?
Sam violently shoves Percy to the side, moving forward in his warpath. The unmistakable roll-click of a gun cocking sounds before Charlie raises a .45 to Sam's chest, fingers braced around the trigger. "Stop. Don't think I won't shoot, because you know damn well that I will."
Sam's eyes flash, but he does stop, jaw gritted. The look in his eyes is almost as hollow as it is betrayed when he locks gazes with the redhead. Jack feels himself lean forward, wanting to protect. She pulled a gun on Sam. She's holding a gun on Sam.
Jack's feet feel numb. A figure steps forward, and Jack realizes the profile of his fath—of Nick. He looks ready to tackle Charlie from behind.
What is happening?!
He hates it here, oh, how he hates it here.
"Good," Charlie's voice is steady, but her body is tense as if prepared for a violent backlash. "Hands up."
Another gun cocks, and Mary steps out from behind Sam, her own weapon raised. Jack didn't even know she was armed. "You shoot my son, and I'll kill you." Her voice is steel.
Stop it, Jack wants to scream. Stop it! He knew that tensions were bad between them all, but not to this extent! They've never pulled weapons on each other before. What happened? What could have possibly driven Sam to this point?
"Charlie," Sam's voice is steady, his hands raised in placation, "move before I make you."
His words are calm. His meaning is not. Jack swallows thickly.
"No," Charlie says stubbornly, not lowering her gun. "What the hell happened, huh? You finally lost your temper and now you're killing people? Michael got a better influence in your head than we thought?"
"That's not how angel possession—" Mary starts to defend.
"He stabbed him!" Sam says furiously.
"Damn thing deserved it, summoning that freakin' demon here." Bobby mutters. His voice sounds strange beneath the swelling skin. This, unfortunately, does not help his case. Sam growls, the sound low and feral in his throat. He looks ready to strangle the man with his bare hands. Mary claps a hand on his shoulder firmly, other hand still pointing the gun at Charlie.
"Go to hell," Sam spits.
"What else was I supposed to think?" Bobby explodes. "The damn thing is leading you around by a carrot! It was summoning a demon. I didn't have any other choice. Angels aren't your friend, Winchester, believe me, I've spent a decade killing the sons of bitches. Stop pretending."
"Castiel isn't a thing!"
Jack feels the color drain from his face. His lips part, but it's a soundless, wordless cry.
Castiel. They're talking about Castiel.
"Yes, he is!" Charlie shouts. "They're all just things! So far from humans they can never be like us! We have to kill it before it kills us, it's a matter of survival, but you've got too many screws loose in your head to see it."
Sam flinches.
"You killed the angel?" Someone else asks, their voice layered with relief.
No.
Bobby sits up, and corrects with a hoarse, "Just stabbed it."
"Thank God." Someone else says. Maybe Trent. The voice was male.
Jack thinks he's going to puke.
"Sam," Castiel says weakly behind Mary. Jack's head snaps up. The angel is leaning heavily against the doorframe, hand wrapped around his middle. Jack can't say for certain how long he's been there. He looks pale and washed out, as if he's been photocopied with half the ink missing. "Sam, I'm okay."
He doesn't look the part, ageless face gray and eyes red. There's blood on his lips, tainting him to bone.
But he's not dead.
Bobby stabbed him.
Somewhere, far, far away from his present state, Jack feels a protective fury rise within him. An inhumane urge to kill. Because how dare they touch Castiel? How dare they?
Sam shifts, putting himself in front of Castiel. Charlie's gun moves with him, and by extension, so does Mary's. Jack's throat burns from the effort of holding back tears. He's supposed to be accustomed to violence. But it feels different like this.
For a weighted, long minute, no one moves. No one breathes. No one says anything. Then Bobby gets to his feet with effort, and reaches over to forcefully lower Charlie's gun to the floor. "Let it go, Bradbury. No one died. It was my fault. I should have thought before I reacted."
Sam scoffs.
Bobby doesn't say anything to that, his back is to Jack. "Sorry, angel." His words hold a sincerity Jack wasn't expecting, even if they sound like they're pushed out from behind his teeth. Bobby is just trying to stop the tension, Jack realizes. He still believes he was in the right. Maybe he was. Castiel was summoning a demon?
Castiel steps forward, grabbing at Sam's shoulder in a way that would seem restrictive to the untrained eye, but Jack can see he's doing it for support. Sam adjusts to his weight with a simple roll of his shoulder, seeming unbothered. They're doing it again, that mindless contact.
As Castiel comes forward, Jack can see that the front of his shirt is saturated with blood. It reminds him of that demon hunt gone wrong, and Jack feels his face begin to numb. It's happening again, all over and over and it's not going to stop.
Jack's family isn't going to be safe. He can't protect them. He wants to stop seeing this. To feel the deep, endless panic of knowing what their blood smells like. What it looks like.
"It was an accident," Castiel says nonchalantly, as if being stabbed is something that can be brushed off. He waves a hand toward Bobby, beckoning him forward. "Let me heal you."
Jack wonders for a moment, if he will ever be that selfless. Castiel was the one wounded, but he's the one that heals?
Sam's jaw works, but he says nothing, even if his silent protesting is obvious.
Hands go to weapons as Bobby takes a hesitant step forward. As if everyone expects Castiel to reach out a hand, clamp it down on Bobby, and smite him.
Castiel raises two blood-smeared fingers and rests them on Bobby's forehead. The skin seems to spasm, rippling white for a moment before the cuts, bruises, and blood vanish. Bobby staggers, as if trying to remember how to hold himself without pain. He exhales sharply in a gust, his fingers clenching. The entire room is verging on the edge of mass hysteria.
Castiel, Jack knows, has made an effort not to use his powers around the rebels. It scares them. And Castiel has accepted that and accommodated.
There's a few seconds of silence before Bobby says, gruffly and a little higher pitched than normal, "thanks."
Castiel gives him a tight-lipped smile. It doesn't reach his eyes. It barely makes his lips move.
Bobby lingers there, and then says, "The demon?"
What freakin' demon?
"Handled." Castiel assures, then looks up at the other rebels. "This was an accident on my part. Go back to sleep, all of you. Things will make more sense in the morning."
The rebels wait, but then start to disperse, as if trying to put as much ground between themselves and Castiel as possible. Sam reaches out a hand and grabs Bobby's arm. Castiel's fingers tighten on his shoulder in warning. Sam's voice is low, "You make another move on him, and I will put you in the ground."
Bobby's eyes narrow. "I've been told your brother was the hotheaded one, not you. You really got the guts for that?"
Sam smiles. It feels like a threat, and is one. "Bite me."
Sam releases the rebel, and Jack feels something in his body both release and tighten. Nick passes him on his way out from the hall, and Jack sees something almost predatory on his face. Jack knows he should leave, but he's afraid if he tried to move he'd collapse. His legs are rigid with tension. Did that really just happen? Wasn't the bunker supposed to be a place of refuge? It doesn't feel like that.
When the hall is empty save the four of them, Castiel collapses bonelessly against Sam, panting sharply. He moans something in Enochian, voice thick with pain. His knees hit the ground loudly, and Sam follows him down, hands touching at his neck, his face, his side. The contact is gentle and grounding, and Jack is ashamed that a surge of jealously pings at him.
"Hey, hey, I've gotcha," Sam assures, the dark radiance slipping away as suddenly as it appeared. Sam helps ease Castiel to the floor, pulling apart the white dress shirt. He stares at the wound. Jack can hear the humming lull of grace from the open cut. This is worse than what it was before. Of course its worse, nothing's getting better. Jack's eyes squeeze closed. He wants Michael dead. He wants the rebels gone. They have to find Michael. Now.
Jack exhales shakily, and looks up. Mary is crouching beside the seraph on his other side. She's not looking at him. None of them are, and none of them should be.
He should move closer. He should check on Castiel. He should move. Make sure that the angel doesn't need him. But Castiel's not going to need him because Castiel never needs him, and what can Jack do anyway? Sit there needlessly? He already did that once before and—
Jack bites on his fingers again, trying not to cry. He's already done this before. He's done this before and that's what's wrong because Castiel shouldn't be hurt again, Jack should have let this happen. The idea of drawing closer makes him feel paralyzed. This shouldn't have happened. Castiel shouldn't be sustaining this injuries.
Jack wants to collapse next to Castiel. He wants to touch him and reassure himself that Castiel is okay, and cry into his shoulder and be held like a child.
But he doesn't.
He's ashamed to get any closer. He's terrified. It seems the most Jack has seen of Castiel recently is him bathed in blood. He doesn't want more images to haunt his nightmares.
"The hell were you thinking?" Sam chides. He pulls out a black bandana from somewhere on his person.
"We need to be ready," Castiel mumbles, closing his eyes. "Mary made a strategic point. It's better for us to surprise Michael rather than the other way around. I thought—ah!"
Sam does something with the bandana, apologizing. "So you summoned Kipling?"
Kipling? The demon from the diner. The demon, Jack remembers with a sick feeling in his chest, that said it knew where Dean was. His hands clench. Is Castiel that desperate?
Aren't they all?
"There was a devil's trap." Castiel defends himself behind clenched teeth.
"You're an idiot." Sam says flatly, still working around the wound with gentle hands.
Castiel's eyes roll up in irritation. "I didn't know Bobby was there."
"Yes, you did. You didn't care."
Castiel's shoulders drop. "I didn't think he'd react that way."
"Did you get it?" Mary asks. Her gun is put away like it was never out in the first place. All of them are so nonchalant about violence. It makes Jack want to scream. "A location?"
Castiel shakes his head. "He was toying with us. I didn't get any more information before Bobby took matters into his own hands."
Mary sighs heavily, "Great."
"We'll just have to wait," Sam concedes. "I don't like it any more than you do, but there's nothing else we can do. Until Michael sets the terms, we don't have any other way of releasing Dean." He looks at Castiel, "Let's get you to the med ward, you need stitches."
Castiel looks like he's trying not to groan. Sam pulls him upward. "Is Kipling still here?"
"Yes." Castiel pants, eyes closed and face pale.
There's a demon here. Kipling is here. He can't do this, damn it.
Jack shifts, wishing that the ground would swallow him. He wishes he had left the bunker. He doesn't want to be here anymore. Jack turns away before anyone can say anything to him. Not that he suspects they would have. Jack was there, as always, but he wasn't really there.
Mom... he prays, because some twisted part of him always hopes she can hear him. He doesn't say anything else. He never has. He wants to talk to her, but never makes it past the title.
Jack closes the door to his room, leaning against it, breathing heavily. He feels as though he's been running. He wishes he was. He would give almost anything not to be here. Not to have to deal with Bobby, or Sam, or even Castiel. I wish I hadn't seen that. Things are only going to get worse from here. Bobby is getting worse. Everyone is.
Sam looked like my father. I thought he was my father.
I wish that I could have just stayed in bed until this morning. I wish I could never get up. I wish Dean was here, so none of this would have to happen in the first place. I wish. I wish. I wish.
And Jack just...stops. His hands tremble and his body rattles. He can't do this anymore. He has to get out of here before he loses his mind. He has to go find Michael, and bring him back. Find him before he gives Sam another seizure, or does something worse. He hates this. He hates this. He wishes that he was with Kelly. He would sell his soul to receive an embrace from her.
His eyes burn from holding back tears.
Jack staggers forward on numb legs. His knees aren't bending right from his anxiety, but he doesn't give a damn. He grabs his pack, stuffing inside his tablet, his phone, and spare clothing. He takes the credit card that Sam gave to him before he fell into Michael's world and prays it still works. Robotically, he scribbles out a hasty note for Sam, Mary, and Castiel, and leaves it on the bed where it will hopefully be visible.
Then Jack turns and exits the room. He starts to make his way down the hall, some part of him feeling hot and sticky, knowing that he should be going the other direction to check on Castiel. But he doesn't. Because he's not a good son. He never has been, and he doesn't think he can be.
Jack rounds a corner sharply and smashes bodily into Nick.
The former vessel's hands snatch out to stop him from tipping over, a rebuke on his lips that dies. They stare at each other. Nick's eyes narrowed, Jack's wide and panicked.
Something seems to settle in Nick's eyes before he asks, calmly, "Going somewhere?"
Author's Note:
Next chapter: Let's all be hopeful and say before the end of April, okay? Okay.