Author's Note: Sorry. Thank you for your patience. I'm going to keep coming back. I promise.
Sorry. Every time I get a chapter done I'm on this "writer's high" and am far more optimistic about my writing speed than is realistic.
Disclaimer: No
Warnings: Gore, self-worth issues, vague and brief death idolization, PTSD, trauma.
"Congratulations. You have survived the war.
Now live with the trauma."
-Unknown
Chapter Five:
For a long moment, Jack doesn't know what to say. The only thing that runs through his mind is a long stream of no, no, no. His hand wraps tightly around the strap to his duffle bag as he thinks frantically, I've been caught. I wasn't supposed to be caught. Of course I was caught. I can't even do this.
He swallows. Nick stares at him, eyebrows lowered. His expression is pinched. Unreadable.
Jack doesn't have the patience for this; he doesn't have the time for it.
Swallowing down his apprehension, he inhales, drawing himself together. "I am." He says in answer to the question, and starts to shoulder past Nick in the hallway. He doesn't know what his plan is once he gets past the Bunker. What? He's going to storm up the stairs and out the door then walk? But he doesn't care. He has to do something. He has to get out of this place before he loses his mind.
"Where?" Nick asks, following after him.
Jack grits his teeth in annoyance. He's barely spoken with this man, and now he's decided to follow after Jack as if his presence is actually wanted? The thought is nasty, and Jack swallows compulsively.
"Out." Jack answers, clipped. He keeps his head up, even though he wants to check behind himself to make sure Nick hasn't pulled out a knife.
"Looks like you're committing to a little more than a walk, there, bud." Jack can hear the clear skepticism in Nick's voice. He shoulders forward. The back of his neck still prickles, and his body is stiffening with tension.
It's not him, Jack tries to reassure himself, breathing in, it's not him.
His father has been dead for over a month. It's not him.
Jack rounds the corner. He's closer to the exit now, but still has no method of travel save his feet. Maybe he should take the Impala—no. No. As soon as the thought occurs to him, his blood rushes cold. Stealing the car would be like spitting on the Winchesters and Castiel's good graces. He'd be...he'd be disgusting, more so than he already is. Jack shakes his head, as if the movement will physically dislodge any trace of the idea from his mind.
"You running?" Nick asks.
Jack wishes he would be quiet.
His grip tightens compulsively on his pack's strap, and he breathes as evenly as he can. Still, he says nothing, even though part of him knows that Nick should get an answer. A smaller portion of him is terrified about what Nick will do if he doesn't.
Nick follows him a few more beats, but once they enter the war room, the man reaches out and snags Jack's shoulder with a sighed "kid—" Jack whirls on him, frustrated, and flinches back a fraction as he sees the face. Images blur together, then split, separating these two entities, but it's still the same face.
Nick must see it, because his eyes cloud and his expression darkens. He backs up a step, hands appraised, as if fearing that Jack is going to hurt him. Jack feels tears unexpectedly burn at the edges of his eyes. He doesn't want to be dangerous. He doesn't want to be feared. He doesn't want people to look at him and see his father.
Jack's throat works, and he has to swallow several times before he can speak. "I am leaving, and you can't stop me. Someone has to deal with Michael."
Nick's expression flickers, disbelief showing momentarily. Then doubt. "And what? You think you're just going to walk up to him and puppy eye your way out of the problem? Kid, we don't know where he is, remember? This isn't some problem you can fix because you cry hard enough."
Jack bristles. He's not crying his way out of the problem. He's trying to deal with it because no one else will. "He talked with Sam earlier. He's not gone anymore. I'll just...I don't know. Set up a meeting. I'll pray to him."
"This idea is based on half hopes and stale anxiety. Jack, don't be stupid." Nick warns. His body shifts forward, and Jack rocks back. He has to keep distance between them.
"Like you care." Jack snaps, and regrets it when Nick's eyes flash with anger. He doesn't want to deal with this. The last thing on this planet that he wants to deal with is this. "I can't do this anymore. I hate it here. I'm going to fix this." Jack tries to keep his voice steady, but it wavers, and he feels like a small child, indeed attempting to cry their way out of something.
Humiliation makes his cheeks hot.
Jack turns away from the man, intending to carry his plan out. Not even Sam or Castiel could talk him out of it now.
"You're an idiot." Nick says to his back. He sounds angry, and Jack can't, for the life of him, fathom why. "I know what kind of power you're going up against. If Michael does bother to answer, he's going to kill you. Archangels are heaven's most feared weapons for a reason—just ask Sam."
Jack's stomach turns. Death terrifies him, but the prospect of living another hour in the Bunker is worse. This is slow torture, that would be quick.
Ask Sam. Hilarious. Truly, a comedy. Sam wouldn't answer any of Jack's questions even if there was a gun to his head.
Jack storms up the steps, and barely resists the urge to slam the door shut behind him.
000o000
He takes a bus. Jack may be hopeless on some—most—things that are basic human skill sets, but he does have some of Kelly's knowledge, and she knows how to get a bus ticket. The wad of cash that Sam gave him for emergencies only is put to good use. Lebanon has exactly one bus station, running every two hours to a more populated part of Mankato.
Jack braces himself as he sits on the bench to wait the twenty minutes until it's supposed to get here, holding his duffle bag against his stomach and desperately hoping that the Winchesters or Castiel, or even Nick don't arrive to try and talk him out of this.
There's a demon in the basement. They've done worse things.
Not that what he's doing is wrong. It's the only plan of action that makes sense. Michael wanted to know about him. Michael will probably meet Jack on his own terms. There's no need for Sam or Castiel or anyone else to get involved. And if he dies—Jack's stomach gives a squeeze of panic—it will be unfortunate, but he'll barely be missed.
He's not that important to anyone.
So Jack waits on the bench, because he has nothing else worthwhile that he could do anyway. Even if he was at the Bunker—he should have checked on Castiel before he left, what if something goes wrong and the seraph is hurt badly or worse, or what if, what if, what if—he would be doing nothing worthwhile. He's doing the right thing. He knows he is. He's sure he is.
But Nick's words make him waver, because…
Because Nick knows Lucifer. He was him. For years. And...why wouldn't he know what Lucifer was capable of by now? And Michael is as equal in power as his father is. If Michael decides he is to die, Jack is going to die.
Just ask Sam.
Jack closes his eyes, pressing his duffle closer to his stomach, like if he grabs at it hard enough, it will push out his anxiety and leave only emptiness behind. What he would give for that. He's not a hero. He can't face this without fear, not like the Winchesters or Castiel would have. They're never afraid.
But Jack? Jack always is.
He shifts his feet.
Someone sits down on the bench next to him, and Jack's heart leaps into his throat, his legs bracing, calves tensing as he prepares to run. He'll find some other method, he has to do this. He won't let anyone stop him, not this time—
"Whoa there." A hand grabs at his elbow, pulling him back down. He makes some sort of sound in his throat, like a gasp or a squeak, but the voice is feminine. Not Sam. Or Castiel. Or, he spares a glance at her, even Mary. Nobody that he knows. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you." She's older, with gray-white hair, but she's aged well. Her dark skin folds over itself beautifully, making her seem like a work of art rather than a human being.
He wishes he was that beautiful; at the very least something that didn't frighten people. Instead, he's...him. (Skin peeled back from eyes, yellow eyes rimmed red, skin white, jaw hole-riddled, wings a deformed mass)
"Sorry." Jack whispers, looking at his bag.
"That's alright." She assures, gently releasing his arm. Smiling slightly, she says, "I'm going north. Got family in Minnesota." She says. He nods, even though he doesn't really care. It seems appropriate. He looks away from her face. He's worried he might cry. "Where you going?"
"Away." Jack says. He hadn't thought that far ahead. He just wants to be far enough away that the Winchesters and Castiel can't interfere with his plans. Or get hurt by them. Probably a couple hours away from here. He'll figure it out when he's in Mankato.
"You alright?"
Why does everyone want to talk to him today? He knows it would be rude to tell her that he doesn't want to socialize, but he really doesn't want to talk. "Yeah." He lies. "I'm fine."
"You running from home?" she asks with a knowing look. Jack knows they both already know the answer to that, so he thinks it's a pointless exercise of vocalization. He opens his mouth to answer, but feels suddenly deeply wary of her. Why is she talking to him in the first place? Is she some sort of supernatural creature? A demon?
Jack...Jack doesn't talk with a lot of people outside of the Bunker who aren't connected to the supernatural world somehow.
Weren't the angels looking for him? Maybe she's some sort of an angel. But no. That doesn't make sense because he didn't sense any grace, and Castiel is overwhelming on a good day. So...what is her agenda?
There's always some sort of an agenda.
He makes some sort of sound in the back of his throat, a mixture between confused and distressed.
She pats his hand, and he nearly rears back from her. Why, why, why. Everyone always wants something from him. No one talks to him because they actually like him. Even the Winchesters. Even Castiel. His father…
"Where you gonna to go?" the woman asks.
"I'm, um," why can't he talk? This shouldn't be this hard. "I'm headed to meet my uncle." Jack says. He isn't lying. He's just omitting.
"He'll take care of ya'?" she asks. She actually looks concerned. She doesn't even know him. She's looking at him, though, and how he's hunched over himself, and Jack feels like she's seeing to his marrow.
I think he's going to kill me.
"Yeah." Jack says. She looks appeased at this, or she gives up. Either way, to his private relief, she stops talking to him. The bus arrives fifteen minutes later, and Jack and the rest of the passengers clamber inside. It smells like sweat and wet leather. Jack makes his way to the back, and settles himself in for the wait.
This was the right choice. The only choice. But the right one.
Jack makes sure his phone is off, and steadfastly ignores the sudden urge he has to call Castiel and ask for the seraph to come stop him.
000o000
Three hours later, after finding the nearest and cheapest motel next to the bus stop in St. Mary's, Kansas, Jack dumps his bag on the table, uses the facilities, drinks water from a cup that's seen better days, and sits at the edge of the bed. The mattress creaks beneath his weight, as if the effort of holding him up is too much to think of.
He feels nauseous, jittery, and exhausted.
The weight of what he's doing is slowly sinking into him, and only making things worse. But it's too late to back out now. Even if he wanted to, it's too late. The only thing he can do is move forward.
With a shaky exhale, Jack wipes his sweaty palms on the sides of his jeans, and runs a hand through his hair. He wishes someone was with him. He wishes he could talk to the Winchesters or Castiel. But he hasn't turned on his phone since he left, and he's not going to start now.
He can do this.
It probably won't work, a snide voice reminds him, your success rate is little and covered in blood. He hesitates, but then pushes forward.
"I pray to thee Michael," Jack's voice is barely a whisper. He feels stupid. He doesn't know if he's doing this right. He's only prayed a few times before, and never with much success. He closes his eyes, awkwardly setting his hands in his lap once he realizes that he doesn't know what to do with them. People in movies always fold their arms across their chest, or clasp it in front of their heart, but Jack privately finds it strange.
Maybe that's what he's doing wrong.
Jack lifts his arms up, digging his fingers into the skin above his elbow.
He feels so stupid.
Not that it matters, this isn't going to work anyway. He grits his teeth and breathes out shallowly. "I pray..." he clears his throat, and when he tries again, he finally gets it at a semi-normal volume.
"I pray to thy angel Michael," his tongue fumbles around unfamiliar words. He's not sure if he used the right one. But it's fine. Castiel said it didn't matter. "It's Jack. Kline. Your nephew. I'm in the Motel Seven in St. Mary's, room twelve. You...you wanted to meet. With Sam. He said that you asked about me. Well. I'm here now. By myself. I'll meet with you, and we leave the others out of it. A…" what's the word, what's the word, what's—? "man. Men. Amen."
Jack opens his eyes, halfway hoping, more dreading, that Michael will be there.
The room is empty.
Of course it is. He shouldn't have expected anything different.
He waits, tense, ready, waiting for Michael to make his appearance, but he waits for hours. He feels tears burn at the corners of his eyes in frustration, and even lets a few fall. When the sun has begun to set, he gives up.
He ignores his phone sitting beside him, screen black, still off.
Jack rubs at his face, groaning. He leans forward and buries his head inside of his palms. He was being an idiot. He can't fix this. He can't do anything, because he doesn't have his powers and is useless. Even Michael was asking about his powers. Because that's all Jack is to everyone. His father, the Winchesters—everyone.
Jack gets up to his feet. He moves toward the sink and gets more water from the tap. He should probably eat something. He can't remember the last time that he did, but his stomach is a yawning pit of emptiness and need.
"Jack."
He drops the cup in surprise at the sound, hearing the whipping of wings. The cup doesn't break, landing inside of the sink whole with a loud clatter.
Damn.
He's...oh, man, no. Michael is. Michael is—
He feels the aura before he sees him, the stark, slapping sensation of power overwhelming his senses, making his head hurt and his ears ring. A feeling that Jack knows he must have emitted at one point. This is a being that commands respect, and Jack feels his knees try to give way before it.
Even still, Dean is Jack's first thought, and his body relaxes a fraction at the familiar baritone, a reaction to the sound rather than any conscious thought. Michael is here. Michael is actually here. He came. Six weeks, some scattering of days, and Jack actually...Jack actually did it.
Any elation he might have felt about this fact is squashed by the realization that he's not ready. Of course he's not ready. Jack feels almost hysterical. He hadn't actually expected that the archangel would make an appearance, even if he'd hoped for it.
He turns, trying to brace himself for what he'll see, but his eyes slide to the archangel, and he feels sick because Jack…
Jack can't see a difference. There isn't any visible marring or scars done to the body to show that this is Michael, and not Dean. He knows that Sam and Castiel wouldn't have a problem seeing the two of them as two entirely separate entities, but Jack...can't. They seem so similar. A mirror image, exactly the same and unchanging.
The only real difference that Jack can see is that Dean—Michael—is an awful mix of healthy and emaciated. His face is clean shaven, green eyes bright to the point it's unearthly, freckles standing out starkly against pale skin. His eyes are without the familiar haunted shadows, and he's standing at his full height. He doesn't look hunted, he looks as if he feels completely safe.
The clothing is the same as the day Michael possessed Dean, the one difference being that he's wearing a long black trench coat, sprinkled with a light dusting of snow. Jack lifts his eyes up to the otherworldly ones, and feels something tighten in his spine. They remind him of Castiel's, but these ones are so much more disorienting. More powerful.
"Michael," Jack manages to get out of his suddenly tight throat.
Michael's head tilts, watching him, lips slightly parted, as if he wants to say something, but isn't sure what. Jack stares at him in turn, rubbing his sweaty palms against the sides of his jacket. He feels like Michael can tear him apart from the inside out, reading him, and only feeling disgust instead of fear.
Jack is supposed to be his equal, but he has never felt less inadequate.
"You're looking better than last I saw you," Michael says, his voice soft. It sounds like the way Jack remembers Dean speaking to a child. Careful and gentle, trying to be inviting. It doesn't calm Jack. "Yet…"
Michaels eyes sweep up and down him, and this time Jack catches the faint humming of angel grace.
Just ask Sam.
Jack takes a step back. I shouldn't have done this, he thinks, desperately, wildly. I don't know what I'm doing. Just as quickly, he chides himself. He's supposed to be the one rescuing Dean, not the child scampering off into a corner and waiting for someone else to fix the problem. This is what he wanted. He can do this.
This is what he wanted.
Jack releases an unsteady breath and squares his shoulders, jutting up his chin. He wants to cry. "What do you want from Sam?" he says, his voice more put together than he had expected.
Michael turns away from Jack, his profile briefly catching in the light from the late afternoon sun through the window, and he looks so much like Dean in that moment that Jack's heart aches. Michael reaches out a hand and touches lightly at the lamp resting on the bedside table, fingers hesitant. Leaning forward, he flicks the light bulb on, spreading more light into the room.
Jack watches him, wary. He wishes he'd thought to grab an angel sword, for all the good it would have done. It would have given him a false sense of security, which probably would help him feel less like throwing up.
His fingers thrum, anxious against his sides.
Michael turns his back fully to Jack, silhouetted by the lamp. The move is strangely offensive. Jack isn't stupid. He knows Michael is power playing. By showing his exposed back to Jack, he's showing he doesn't fear Jack in the slightest. He grits his his teeth in irritation, wishing he had his powers to blast through Michael's ribcage just to prove a point.
Then again, it would have also meant that he damaged Dean as well, and Jack couldn't stomach that.
"What is it that you want, Jack?" Michael asks instead of answering Jack's question. He doesn't move, staring at the wall as if it's a work of art.
Your entire being scattered into atoms, I know what you've done, Jack thinks darkly. But he doesn't say that. Not because he's afraid to offend this being, but because he doesn't want to waste words trading pointless threats.
"Dean." Jack says, releasing his tongue. "I want Dean. I'll get you whatever you want if you give us back Dean."
Michael's head tips, his shoulders loose, hands clasped somewhere in front of him. "Is that so?" Michael murmurs softly over a muffled clicking noise. "Dean and I…" he sighs, "we've grown very close these last few weeks. I'm afraid I've gotten quite attached to him, and that won't be an option on the table."
Jack bristles, shoulders drawing tightly together. He takes a step forward. "Dean doesn't want you. You can't keep him captive!"
Michael laughs softly, and Jack wishes he'd turn around just so Jack could punch him. "Are you going to stop me, child? Dean and I are two halves of one whole. We are connected in a way that you can never understand. You can't will away my chosen from me. We're kin. He knows that."
Disgust crawls through Jack's bones, making him feel itchy and his skin sensitive. Kin? They're not kin. Jack isn't going to pretend that Dean likes him very much, but he knows that Dean's family is waiting for him. Wanting him. And this isn't fair.
Jack's tired of waiting.
He's tired.
He drops his shoulders, trying to make himself look more complacent. "What do you want from Sam? Maybe we can work out some sort of deal."
Michael is quiet for a moment, as if considering this, and turns around to face him fully. Jack shakes out his own hand in anticipation and hope. "The only thing you want is the one thing I won't trade. I don't know how much bartering we can do, nephew."
Jack's teeth grit, and his mind races. Maybe he can find some sort of deal that tricks Michael into giving up Dean, but he's never been very good with words, and that hasn't stopped today just because it would be convenient. "But, then," Jack fumbles, trying to make sense of this, "what exactly did you expect to happen? You want to talk, but you know that the only thing we want from you is Dean."
Michael's head tips, his lips quivering as if trying not to laugh. "Oh, nephew. Such naivety. I never wanted Sam, I just wanted you."
The words are soft, but they make Jack feel cold and empty. He backs up a step, remembering his father's eyes, the way that his face had twisted before he slit his throat.
I think he's going to kill me.
Michael's wings flap, and he vanishes. Jack's heart jumps to his throat, his body tensing. He makes a dive toward his duffle, because he has a knife in there somewhere, and even if it's not an angel sword, at least it's something. He's so unprepared for this it's laughable. What possessed him to think that it was a good idea?
Jack never reaches the table. Dean's arm—Michael, that's Michael—wraps around his throat and hauls him backwards. Jack flails, kicking out desperately against the grip, fingers clawing at the cloth-covered arm. He makes a primal hissing sound, dragging his heels, desperate to stop the attack.
It doesn't do anything.
Jack's resistance is weak and pathetic. Useless. Like him.
"I've waited with patience," Michael says, seeming unbothered by Jack's fight. He keeps hauling them back. Jack doesn't know where. The only thing behind them is the bed. "Yet you're taking so long to get anywhere. I need you at full strength or you'll be dead before the month is out."
What?
Jack's fingers scramble, and he digs his nails into the soft flesh in the underside of Michael's wrist.
The angel's fingers flex, but he makes no other indication of pain. He doesn't loosen the grip. Jack knows how to get out of a headlock. They've told him over and over how to. But he can't remember and Michael has him, and he is going to die.
Michael throws him bodily backwards, and Jack lands heavily on the mattress. It springs, but weakly, and Jack feels the metal dig into his back. He gasps, attempting to sit up and fight, but Michael lifts a hand and pins him. It's like his muscles are rigid, he can't move, he can barely breathe. He's being compressed until he's crushed.
I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't—
Michael draws his angel sword, the thin gold a familiar set piece of his nightmares since that night.
Jack's breath heaves. He's going to be sick with his panic. He doesn't want to die. He's an abomination and mockery of creation, but he doesn't want to die.
Castiel, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Room twelve, Motel Seven, off of St. Mary's. I thought...I thought that I could…
What exactly did he think would happen? This was a suicide mission from the start. Nick knew that. He tried to warn him, for whatever his intentions may have been, he was right. I think he's going to kill me.
Jack wishes he could close his eyes. He doesn't want to follow the blade.
The blade nicks the top of his shirt collar, then slices cleanly down the center. Michael's fingers peel the blue fabric apart. Jack feels surprised. He hadn't been expecting that. He'd thought it would be one clean blow then nothingness.
This is...this is worse.
Am I next?
Michael snaps the weapon across Jack's bare chest in a short, precise cut. Jack inhales sharply at the white-hot pain, his jaw working, but useless, and feels tears of instinctive pain burn the edges of his eyes. Pain is part of the human experience, he reminds himself, but that that doesn't mean that he's good at handling it.
Jack feels blood pool around the cut. Michael seems unperturbed. He leans forward and cuts Jack again, longer this time, dragging the blade from the edge of his rib nearly to his hip.
Son of a—
Jack screeches and coughs as he tries to swallow back his tears. Let that be the end of it, please, please just let that be the end.
But it's not.
Nor the cut after that, or the one after that. It would be too easy if it was. Michael keeps slicing, his fingers well familiar with this practice, and Jack keeps bleeding. His screeches die down to hoarse sobs, then the odd broken moan.
Michael doesn't explain why. He doesn't rant. He doesn't explain his plans. He's quiet and methodical in a way that's unnerving.
At some point, Michael releases him, but Jack can't move. He's useless and exhausted, dizzy from one end of his brain to the other, and sick with nausea. His clothing is saturated with blood, and he's long since lost the ability to form sentences. His tongue is hot and swollen in his mouth, and Jack has never wanted water more in his life.
He doesn't know what the point of this is.
Castiel please.
Why won't Michael just kill him?
Castiel please.
God, please let Michael just kill him.
Castiel please, please, help me.
"You have to understand, Jack," Michael says, the first words he's spoken in a long time. Jack wonders if this means they're nearing the end of it. "This is for your own benefit. You'll never get better if we don't fix this problem." Michael strokes his hair back from his face, and Jack flinches weakly, his body exhausted and beyond the point of effort. "This is the only way to fix it."
What...what problem? He won't say, he won't explain, he won't do anything but cut and Jack's mouth tastes like blood, his throat is covered in it, his body is bathed in it, and there's nothing but blood, blood, blood and pain, pain, pain, because Jack has never been meant for anything more than blood and pain.
He should have let Kelly kill them both in that bathtub.
Castiel…
Michael cleans the blood on the blade off on his coat, where Jack notices distantly there are other bloodstains. Other victims? He doesn't care. He's...he's not...he's...oh. Oh. The world is going dark. Blood loss. Jack almost wants to laugh, out of all the ways that he'd thought he'd die, something as human as blood loss was never high on the list.
He wants water. His throat is so dry. It must be cracking.
"See," Dean—Michael—whispers, still carding his fingers through Jack's hair, "you have to suffer in order to heal. I'm sorry, nephew. But I like you. I want you here when Earth becomes paradise. And this is the only way."
He...doesn't...doesn't understand. He's not sure if he wants to. He hurts so much, he's so tired...
He hears a faint hum, and something inside of his stomach grows hot to the point of pain. The fresh wave of different agony causes tears to spill down his cheeks anew. Jack makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, but his body is growing hotter, and don't corpses go cold, can he not even die right?
"D'n," Jack's voice is hoarse and barely audible, more an exhale of air than any actual syllable. His lips are dry. It's almost funny, given that the rest of his body is soaked.
Part of him is hopeful, so childishly hopeful, that this will be like the end of the sixth Star Wars, when Vader wakes up and saves Luke from the Emperor. Dean has to wake up and...and throw off Michael's control...doesn't he…? Help Jack...not die...
Oh, God, help me.
Michael's fingers cup the side of Jack's cheek, but Jack can't make his face focus. It blurs, the image smearing like a hand running through wet paint. Michael's lips are moving, but Jack can't hear anything beyond the ringing in his ears.
Blackness sucks greedily at the edges of his vision. His stomach feels like it's going to explode with the heat and pressure, but he doesn't feel the pain as intensely anymore. That...can't...can't what? What can't that be? It can't...be something. Good. No. Bad? That…
What?
I think...he's...kill..ed me.
There's the sound of a distant crash, almost like something imploding. His body jerks weakly in reaction, trying to get away, but Jack doesn't care. As long as whatever it is does a mercy killing. The ringing grows worse, and Jack moans softly, the sound reverberating inside his throat.
His ears hurt.
The ceiling looks gray.
Michael's hand draws away, leaving only chilled skin in its wake. Jack hated the contact, but wants it desperately. Ground him, keep him planted on the inside of this room instead of spinning around it.
He feels a wave of repercussion slam into him, like he's on the outer edge of an explosion. Jack mewls, and his hands flail, but make it no further than his stomach before flopping uselessly at his sides. He keeps his eyes closed.
Over.
Let this be over.
Please. Please let this end.
He can't…
Something touches his face. Hands. Jack can't open his eyes to see who, but the fingers feel different than Michael's did. They're less worn. Smoother. They tap at his cheeks, and Jack wants to tell them to stop, but his tongue is heavy and inflamed. He's afraid if he moves it, it will fall back inside of his mouth and he'll swallow it.
Maybe he'll choke, and this pain will stop.
Wouldn't...wouldn't that be…
...Lovely…
His skin ripples, something cold slapping at the warmth inside of his chest, and he feels the cuts make a feeble attempt at scraping themselves together, skin stretching and morphing to try and press into one. It's like what Jack imagines being branded would feel like. Burning, searing, fire; the pain is all consuming, swallowing his entire being and leaving nothing behind.
Distantly, he thinks he feels himself making some sort of sound. His throat burns as his vocal cords screech. Screaming. He's screaming.
Then, suddenly, as quickly as it arrived, the pain dulls to an empty, lonely ache.
Jack gasps, hands flailing for purchase as it feels like he's going to tip over. His equilibrium is a distant dream. No—he is tipping. His eyes snap open as he realizes that he's sitting up. He doesn't remember moving, but he must have. His hands jerk out wildly to steady himself, and a stab of pain shoots up from his hips to his ears.
Jack breathes out sharply, then looks up.
Castiel blinks into focus in front of him, looking tall and impenetrable, his hand clasped around Jack's shoulder, the one support that stops him from collapsing. At the sight of the seraph, Jack begins to sob.
He's hallucinating. He has to be. This isn't real. This doesn't make sense for Castiel to be here anyway.
And part of him, quiet and lonely, wonders why Castiel would have come at all.
"Jack," Castiel leans down so he can see Jack's face. "Look at me. Can you hear me?"
Jack nods, vision blurred from tears. He leans forward to fall against Castiel's chest, silently pleading for an embrace, but Castiel turns away from him. It doesn't feel intentional, but it only makes him sob harder. The angel is staring at something, his body going rigid.
"I'll be back in a moment," Castiel says, and turns around. His eyes soften at Jack's distress, and he leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Jack's bloody hair. His stomach unexpectedly warms. The seraph turns, snapping his wrist out to summon his sword, and dives forward.
Jack follows him, spotting what he didn't notice before: Michael in the throws of a rapid knife fight with Sam. The two of them are quickly moving across the floor, angel blades snapping in and out of focus, like a gleaming slice of light striking their hands. The door to the motel room is laying open, wood splintered across the floor from the missing doorknob. Outside of the room is dark, a distant streetlight serving as the only source of light.
Jack's eyes slide toward Sam and Michael again. He's seen Sam and Dean spar before, and even as real and breathtaking as it has seemed at the time, this is so much worse. Sam fights much differently when he's looking to kill or maim. He's deadly. He's terrifying.
Blurring movements, hard and practiced, Sam's experience and skill is obvious.
But he's losing. His face is bloody and there's a bruise forming under his eye like he got punched. He's limping on his right knee, and even Jack's untrained eye can see it's out of alignment.
Michael's wielding the angel sword with ease, seeming to anticipate Sam's every move. He's bleeding from his own cuts, but he seems whole. As Jack watches, trying to keep himself upright with varying degrees of success, Michael slams his knee into Sam's stomach and throws him back first against the edge of the table.
Jack winces in sympathy pain, and his stomach tightens as, in a move that looks physically painful, Michael twists Sam's sword around his own and yanks the weapon from his grip. It goes sailing through the air, only to be caught by Castiel, who promptly leaps forward and slams the two weapons into the empty air around Michael's back.
Michael screeches, the sound inhuman and wailing, causing the lamp's bulb to shatter. Jack flinches. The poor lighting worsens, casting long shadows across the room.
Castiel releases the weapons, wrapping his arms around Michaels chest, then jabs a knee into the back of one of Michael's. The two of them go crashing onto the floor. Jack doesn't quite see what happens after that, his view limited by the lighting and his poor range of motion. There's the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, a high pitched ringing, then Sam jerks forward from the table and grabs the two blades.
They're hovering in the air streaked with blood and dripping as if flowing down something, and as Sam hauls Michael backwards like a suddenly earthbound fish, the archangel makes a gasping, choked sound.
Wings, Jack realizes dully. The blades are stuffed inside of his wings.
Oh, my g...Jack's spine curls and tightens with panic. He can't access his wings without his grace, a fact that Castiel was surprised at. Another deformity about him. Would they do that to him? Stab his wings and use it to haul him around like it's a leash?
Sam, panting, says in a voice low and deadly, "Give...him...back."
Michael laughs, and Sam jerks one of the swords up. Michael chokes, hands flailing to reach behind himself and grab Sam, but his efforts are futile. "Clever," the archangel says between gritted teeth. "Harming me, but not the vessel."
Castiel rises to his feet, wiping blood from the side of his mouth. His voice is toneless, but a promise. "Give us Dean or we'll cut them off."
Jack feels sick.
They aren't...they're serious. It's written in their stances, their faces. They are completely serious. They'll maim Michael to get back Dean. They'll torture him. They'll...cut him. Like Michael cut Jack. He wants to say no, but all that comes out is a ragged little hiss.
Michael's eyes pierce Castiel's face, his jaw set. "You would permit this? Castiel, my broken little brother, how far you have fallen. You need—" he reaches out a hand, resting it on Castiel's shoulder, "—you need my help."
Castiel is indifferent. Jack rests a hand on the bed as a wave of dizziness hits him.
"We're not making damn deals." Sam snaps. "Give me back my brother."
"No."
"Michael," Castiel warns.
"No. Dean is happy with me." Michael adjusts his shoulders to relieve pressure, openly wincing as he does so. But he says nothing of it, continuing, "For the first time in his life, he is given rest. He and I understand one another. He has no worries, no expectations. You would remove him from that bliss?"
"You don't give a damn about him!" Castiel shouts, shrugging off Michael's hand. "Whatever lies you've conceived to justify yourself—"
"Did Lucifer not love you, Sam?" Michael interrupts. Sam freezes. Jack stills. His eyes lock on the younger Winchester's face. He can see the truth there, the way that Sam's eyes have widened with horror and his lips parted. And. That. It. They.
Lucifer…
Lucifer loved Sam?
Lucifer…
But he didn't…
He didn't love Jack. Jack who is his child.
Lucifer loved Sam and not Jack?
A sudden, seeping, all-consuming wave of jealousy crashes through Jack. Lucifer would have burned him alive if it meant that he could have Jack's power. Jack was never anything to him more than a way to gain more power. To make himself greater. Jack was never loved by him.
Sam's expression darkens, and he yanks up on the angel blade again. Michael writhes against the grip. "All…" Michael pants, before regaining his balance, "all I am doing is caring for your brother, as Lucifer did for you. You, who wouldn't save him. Neither of you want him back because he matters to you, you're doing this out of guilt."
"That's not true," Castiel seethes.
"Isn't it? Castiel," Michael's expression turns into something mournful and infinitely lonely, "I am a creature motivated by love."
Sam snorts. "Geocide is love now?"
Cutting him open sliver of skin by sliver of skin is love? Jack's head is pounding. He doesn't understand.
Michael ignores him. He reaches out and cups Castiel's face, like he's something delicate. Castiel flinches back from him, baring teeth. "I'll—I'll prove it to you, brother, You'll be embraced in the warmth of my love before the end comes. I will keep you safe."
"Don't—" Sam starts to protest.
The skin on Michael's wrist glows a bright white, and Castiel's irises flare. He makes something between a gasp and a choke, then collapses to the floor in a heap of writhing, shaking limbs.
No!
"Cas! No!" Sam exclaims,
Jack reaches for the seraph, desperate but unable to do anything. He can't even talk. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks.
"What the hell did you do?!" Sam shouts, "Answer me! What did you do!?"
"Mercy." Michael whispers, staring at the fallen seraph with an expression that's nothing short of adoration.
Castiel starts screeching, hands reaching toward his back as if trying to claw something off, the pained, sub-level waves of sound that makes Jack's ears bleed and his teeth rattle inside his skull. He feels broken and shaken, his eyes raw and red. No, please not Castiel, please. Someone help him. Someone do something. He can't leave now. Castiel is supposed to be there.
He can't die.
Jack has to get up. He has to get up. Why isn't he getting up? How can he be so useless? Why isn't he getting up, get up, get up, getupgetupgetup—
Sam shoves Michael backwards, pinning him against the wall by the throat. Michael laughs, spitting in his face. "You know your brother's relieved he doesn't have to talk deal with you. He hasn't even fought me. He wants this. He's glad of it. For the first time in his life, he is not just Sam's brother. I keep him safe. You let him rot."
"Go to hell." Sam spits.
Castiel gasps, and Jack feels himself trying to move toward him, but is utterly incapable. He can't move a muscle. He's trying, but he can't...
Michael's lips split into a wide, open smile. "What are you going to do, Sammy? You can't hurt me without hurting your brother."
"I don't have to." Sam hisses, then begins to chant rapidly in Latin, "Omnipotentis Dei potestatem invoco, ab orbe terra," Michael's eyes widen and he reaches out a hand to claw at Sam's face. Sam ducks, continuing to speak, "hunc angelum omne obsequendum!"
Michael's eyes and mouth begin to glow, giving his face an ethereal edge, "Boy king," he spits like a curse, "demon spawn, you—"
"Domine expuet, Ut Deum ad empyreum remittat!"
Sam repeats the verses until Michael begins to howl, and Jack realizes, numbly, that Sam is somehow expelling Michael from Dean's body, as if Michael is something that could be exorcised. He doesn't know why Sam hadn't mentioned this before. He doesn't know why they've never used it before.
It's almost anticlimactic. Michael throws Sam backwards into Castiel with one final burst of power before the angel swords drop to the floor, bloodstained.
The light is pushed from Michael's body, out through his ears, mouth, eyes, nose, splitting out into the open air. It doesn't wait. It doesn't dither. The light makes a harsh snapping noise that causes Jack's ears to wail in protest, fresh blood dripping to his neck, and then it's gone.
Michael is gone.
And Dean—Dean—collapses, utterly boneless. Flailing limbs and layers of clothing tumbling to the motel floor. He lays still on the hard carpet, panting, and Jack is convinced that he's unconscious or nearly there until he makes a low sound in his throat a few seconds later. It's not a groan or a moan, but some sort of keening gasp.
Dean.
Jack finally manages to shoves forward, dizzy and sick to his stomach, but wanting to move. To get closer and hold the elder Winchester, or at least touch him and make sure that it's real. He needs to get closer to Castiel and help him. Has to get going…has to…
Castiel has gone quiet, and the absence of sound is worse than his screaming was.
He waits for a moment, expectant. For Dean to get to his feet, staggering and weak, but present, and make some sort of stupid joke. For Dean to get up period, and maybe stumble, but for Dean to be here. For Dean to be okay because he always is. Dean's always been fine, no matter what. This isn't any different.
But Dean doesn't do that. He doesn't make a joke, he doesn't get to his feet, he doesn't even seem to know where he is. Dean curls in on himself, hands wrapping around his head, and continues to make those gasping keening sounds. It sounds like someone is squeezing the air from his lungs in a wet, slipping fist.
Sam, with one look at Castiel who is nodding at him, scrambles across the floor toward his brother. He reaches out a trembling hand to touch Dean's left shoulder. "Dean," he says hoarsely.
Dean flinches back from the contact, scrambling away from the man, pulling his hands up against his stomach. Wild, hunted eyes flick between Castiel, Sam, and Jack. He grips his hand tighter, then, to Jack's private horror, Dean begins to sob.
Gasping, ugly things, wrapped in death and destruction; the sound the living make when mourning another.
What did Michael do?
Castiel tries to come closer, but the trembling and exhaustion that prevails across his frame make it impossible. His trench coat is soaked down the back with red. Jack gets to his shaking feet, wanting to comfort, to help, something, but he's overcome with a wave of dizziness. He grabs at the mattress, landing hard on his knees beside it.
Jack pants, feeling weak and hating himself for it.
"Dean!" Sam says, relief and franticness coloring his tone. Dean flinches back from him, gasping, and squeezes his eyes shut, mouthing something that looks like stop or please. Sam draws back a little, but he doesn't let go of Dean's shoulder.
"Are you hurt?" One hand comes up to cup Dean's face, and Dean's wild eyes raise to him. Fresh pools of water leak down his face.
Sam's eyes fall on Dean's hands, and another comes to rapidly pat down limbs. Dean suffers the scrutiny with tight eyes and rigidity that strikes Jack as almost inhuman. Nothing appears to be broken, because Sam's hand comes back up to gently grab at the side of Dean's neck, forcing his older brother to look at him.
"Dean, Dean, hey, you...you're gonna be fine," Sam's voice is level. Calm. But shaking. "I promise, big brother. I've gotcha. C'mon," he says, "let's get you outta here, okay? Back home. Your baby's just outside, Mom—"
Sam starts to maneuver so Dean's arm is slung around his shoulders, but Dean all but flails.
His fist slams into Sam's face, and he scrambles away from the younger hunter as if Sam meant to torch him alive. His back slams into the space between the corner and the table, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, a defensive position Jack is well acquainted with. He doesn't look away from them, his green eyes wide, making him look half his age.
Jack feels sick.
Dean was...Jack had never imagined a scenario where Dean wasn't fine. Where Dean didn't get up and walk away from this possession as if nothing had happened. He'd make fun of Sam, maybe avoid the people in the Bunker for a few days, but that would be it. This...this had never…
He's fading again. Adrenaline is leaving him, and exhaustion is rapidly taking its place.
He's...going.
No. He has to stay awake. He has to help deal with this. He doesn't know how he'd do so, but he can't...not...do anything.
Sam rubs at his jaw, but he doesn't approach Dean again, watching him instead. Jack grips the rough blanket between his hands, trying to find a texture that will help him stay present. It doesn't help. His body tips forward, and Jack loses the fight to stay awake.
He feels the impact of the ground, then nothing.
000o000
He comes to in the backseat of the Impala groggily, Sam gently applying bandages and some cream to his chest from just outside the car. His expression is pinched, but his gaze lands on Jack's face as soon as his eyes open. Jack's entire body feels raw, as if every muscle was worked over beyond the point of exhaustion. He's cold, miserable, and his throat is dry.
Sam hands him an opened water bottle without prompting. Jack drinks the entire thing, and still feels famished, but his tongue doesn't feel as swollen or heavy inside of his mouth anymore. His dry lips part, but Jack makes the mistake of looking up toward Sam's face and this halts any words that were making an attempt to crawl up his throat.
Sam's face is beginning to show colors and swelling from the fight. The gash beneath his eye and streaking down his cheek is red around the edges. He's awkwardly balanced on his feet in a way that clearly places most of his weight on his left leg. He's in pain. Jack's eyes jump back to his face, but Sam's eyes tell nothing of how intense it is.
"Hey," Sam says softly, reaching out a hand to keep Jack steady when he tries to move, "Stay still, you're still pretty wiped."
"What..." Jack's voice cracks. He swallows compulsively. "What...happened?"
Sam doesn't stop applying some sort of tape to keep gauze flat across Jack's stomach, but he frowns, "You don't remember?"
He remembers. Oh, he remembers. He doesn't want to, but he does. Running away, Michael's blade, that burning heat then Castiel arriving, the fight, the blood. But he doesn't know how Castiel and Sam got here. He doesn't understand what happened after they arrived.
Sam...exorcised an archangel.
Jack's just...supposed to accept that? Even after they spent weeks looking for ways to get rid of Michael, and Sam can just...do that? Spontaneously? Since when? How? How is that even possible? Castiel and Sam made it seem like you had to have some sort of tool to force an angel from someone. Like the Men of Letters' egg-thing.
But Jack doesn't say any of this.
Instead, he asks quietly, "Is Castiel okay?"
This time, Sam does hesitate a moment. His hand barely slips, but Jack was watching for it. I see you, Jack thinks viciously. You can't hide this from me. Not this time. Sam's thumb smooths out the piece of tape, then he fingers another cut on Jack's abdomen. Jack winces.
"Yes, he's fine. Michael, uh," Sam looks like he's struggling for words. His hands are covered with plastic gloves, but the blue is stained red, Jack realizes, wet with Jack's blood. "Healed him."
Jack snorts. "I'm not stupid, Sam. That wasn't a healing." Castiel was screaming, Jack doesn't say. Castiel was bleeding and he was writhing and Michael healed him? That makes as much sense as Sam being able to evict angels suddenly.
"In the traditional sense? Not exactly." Sam admits. He's not looking at Jack's face. "I think this one might need stitches." He turns toward the floor to grab the first-aid kit.
Jack bristles slightly. His injuries aren't important. He's functioning again. Sort of. Even though that doesn't make sense either. "Sam." Jack protests, pushing away his hands. "What's going on? Please just talk to me. I need to know."
Sam stills, working his lower lip between his teeth for a long beat before he sighs and sets the kit down. He looks up at Jack through hair hanging in front of his eyes, sitting back on his haunches. "Alright," he sighs, waving his hand to indicate that Jack should start asking. "Let's hear it."
Jack's heart sits in his throat, hopeful, but apprehensive. It feels like Sam is lying to him, prepared to snap this window of opportunity closed at any moment laughing. But Jack can't not take this chance.
Strangely, the first question that comes to mind, bracing on the edge of his tongue and prepared to be fired off, is not how did you get here? It's why did Lucifer love you and not me?
Jack's stomach rolls with nausea, and he shoves the question to the side to be contemplated later. Instead, he asks, "How long was I out?"
"About twenty minutes." Sam says. His expression darkens minutely, "Cas said that Michael was trying to force a healing out of you. Apparently it's some sort of old angel battle trick. If grace wasn't healing as quickly as they needed it to inside a vessel, they'd trigger pain to force it into activating. Cas, uh, said that Michael did have some success. There's a process to it if you're running on empty. Apparently Michael was only halfway done."
Jack flinches.
Halfway? He only made it to the halfway mark?
Abruptly, he feels humiliation heat his cheeks. Castiel or the Winchesters or anyone would have been able to survive for much longer without resorting to tears—
Wait.
Jack's head snaps up. "Does this mean that my powers are back?" Jack feels inside of himself desperately, searching for the familiar warmth, but Sam is shaking his head, and Jack only feels empty.
"No. Michael got a pulse out of you. That's about it. It's why we've still got to bandage everything up. Cas doesn't know what an outside healing would do to you right now. He, uh, warned that it might kill you." Sam admits with reluctance.
Jack's teeth grit.
He can handle the pain, that's not a problem. He almost likes it. The idea that he could die? That's harder to swallow. He doesn't want to die. He's terrified of it. What if he's not accepted by heaven or the Empty, and all that's waiting for him is absence?
"Oh." Jack breathes, because he's not sure what else to say. "Cas—is he okay? What do you mean Michael sort of healed him?"
Sam looks at his feet for a moment, visibly bracing himself. "He's, uh." His hands move, his gloved right hand pushing into the center of his left palm deeply. "Michael healed his wings."
Jack's jaw falls openly. He stares at Sam for a long moment in disbelief. "But you've all said that it was irreparable—" he starts, remembering a tight conversation between himself and the Winchesters after Jack saw him the first time. He's been horrified by the stumps and the charred bones and feathers attached to the angel's form, dragged behind the seraph like a broken, boney cape.
"I know." Sam interrupts. "I know what I said. That's what we thought. We tried, Jack, to fix it. But there was nothing that worked, and Cas...But the point is Michael is…" He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing out. "Archangels are far more powerful with their true vessels. This may not have been something he could do by himself normally, but. Here, he could."
Unwillingly, Nick's earlier warning flashes through his mind.
Archangels are heaven's most feared weapons for a reason.
Just ask Sam.
Jack swallows. "Where is Castiel? Is he okay?"
"After the initial regrowth, yeah, he's okay physically." Sam assures. His thumb is still working into his palm, and it's starting to disgust Jack slightly. "He and Mary are with Dean right now." His head tips back toward the motel behind him in indication. Jack hadn't even noticed that they were still in the parking lot.
The door is as closed as it can be, the broken wood from it being kicked in at some point clearly visible, even from this distance. The curtains are drawn, offering no clues as to what's going on inside.
Jack looks back at Sam. "Mary's here?"
"She was in the car." Sam confirms.
Great. Another person to witness this.
"Dean, is he…?" Jack isn't even sure how to phrase the question.
Sam's lips press together, eyes darting to the side for a moment before returning. "The best thing for him right now would probably be some time and space. We just need to get him home. We were waiting until you woke up."
Jack registers then, how strange it is that Sam is the one patching him back up, and not Mary or Castiel. Why would Sam not be in the room with Dean, offering him comfort and reassuring him that the worst is over, he can magically make archangels go away with some Latin now? Dean would never have left Sam alone in this. Why would Sam do that to Dean?
"Why aren't you with him?" Jack asks, because he never has a filter. He just asks and asks and asks.
Sam's expression closes off. He looks...taut is the only word that Jack can think of, but it still doesn't fit.
"He wasn't...lucid," Sam says carefully, and Jack's stomach clenches as he thinks of Dean hiding in that corner, legs pulled up defensively, looking like he was waiting for the next beating. "Cas put him to sleep. You needed help. I needed to do something."
So Jack's a distraction then. His shoulders fall a fraction. Sam must notice, because he says, "That came out wrong. I'm sorry. I want to help you, regardless of what else is going on. Dean...doesn't need me right now. You do."
The words, he knows, are supposed to be reassuring, but they just make Jack feel infinitely lonely and empty. "Okay," he agrees.
"Do you have any other questions?" Sam asks. He looks like he's hoping the answer is no, but Jack does, and Sam has been so forthcoming thus far.
"How did you guys know to come here?" Jack asks.
Sam blows out a breath between his teeth, nodding. "Nick told us you'd left. After that, we just jumped from trail to trail. Your, uh, prayer to Cas about your exact location was what really helped. I'm sorry we couldn't get here sooner. We tried, I promise."
"You…" Jack feels confused and warmed and sick all at once. "Looked for me? Before I asked for help?"
Sam stares at him. No words, no body movement, just an open, hard stare. His lips move for a second like he doesn't know what to say and he, at last, finally releases his left palm. "Jack," his voice is empty, "do you honestly think we wouldn't?"
Yes.
"I don't know," Jack shifts, and winces, hand coming up to his abdomen absently. He wishes he had a shirt. He feels exposed without one. "You just. I know the only reason you came to Michael's world was because Mary was there. It wasn't because you wanted to find me. Dean doesn't even like me."
Sam's lips press together. He nods, as if what Jack is saying makes sense, and Jack's stomach drops. Maybe it's true, and he's not just making this up. "I can see how you'd get that," Sam admits, "but though your feelings about it aren't wrong, they aren't based in truth. We didn't just go for Mary. I didn't, at least. I won't speak for the others. Jack, please believe me when I say you are more than just the devil's kid to me."
But that's all he is to everyone. Jack stares at him helplessly. "I'm…?"
Sam sighs, but it's not with frustration, it's with sympathy. "You got crap DNA on your dad's part. That doesn't mean that you are him, believe me. You are nothing like your father. We came today because we care about you. I'm sorry that we've done a terrible job of showing that lately." Sam pulls off the plastic gloves and stands up, drawing Jack against his chest. Jack wraps his arms around the man's waist, resting his head against Sam's shirt, and relishes the contact, the safety of it. Sam's hugs, rare as they are, have always made him feel wanted.
Jack closes his eyes tightly and wishes that Sam could keep him safe from everything. But Sam can't. Jack knows that. The real world is still out there, waiting, and Jack is still bleeding and still hurt. Sam is still hurt. Castiel's wings are back and Dean is lying unconscious in the motel room. Michael isn't dead. The rebels are still in the Bunker.
Nothing has changed.
Jack knows that.
But he pretends that he doesn't, and releases a shuddering breath against Sam, trying not to cry.
Author's Note: I am not, by any means, supporting or encouraging Samfier. I personally find the ship disturbing, but you are welcome to your own opinions of course. That said, Lucifer is creepy, and he and a lot of the other angels have a pretty warped idea of what love actually is. Lucifer and Michael, however, strike me as the sort of character that would justify their horrible horrible actions by saying that they were doing it out of love. They love the suffering and the attention that it gives them. This is not actual love. This is sadism at its purest. However, I'm just...taking that deep dive into the psychological trauma of everyone, and I'm doing my best to treat it as carefully and respectively as I can. I just. Uh. Wanted to make that clear.
*Notes/pleas for creative liberty:
-There are no bus routes into or out of Lebanon that I could find off of Google Maps.
-There is no Motel Seven in St. Mary's.
Next chapter: Idk. June?