Author's Note: Sorry, again. Thank you for your continued patience, guys. :) 3
Disclaimer: No
Warnings: Blood, violence, PTSD, hell trauma, self worth issues, self harm thoughts, attempted suicide (mentioned).
"I have touched heaven
And returned howling."
-Unknown
Chapter Six:
Jack's in the process of putting on Sam's jacket to serve as an attempt at a shirt when Mary steps out of the motel room. He can't see her expression from this distance, but the way that she's holding herself suggests that she doesn't have anything pleasant to report.
Jack feels dread settle in his stomach.
Sam pulls the clothing around Jack's shoulder, helping him into the other sleeve. Jack grimaces, thankful for the assistance even as much as he wishes he didn't need it. His chest is throbbing dully, but movement sends sharp waves of pain to the base of his skull.
Jack fumbles with the zipper as Mary draws closer to them, biting at her pointer finger's nail.
"Hey," Sam says, turning to her. Jack watches, his lips pressing together, as Sam grabs at the door to the Impala sharply when he puts more weight on his left knee than he was braced for. Mary notices, her gaze lingering on his leg, face pinching unhappily. "You alright?" Sam asks her.
"Yeah," Mary releases her nail, gaze lifting up to his eyes. "Yeah. I'm okay. It's just…" she sighs, blowing out a breath, gesturing slightly with one hand, as if to encompass everything.
"Yeah." Sam agrees quietly. They share a knowing look, and Jack, miserably, wonders how much Sam didn't tell him about what happened. He shouldn't have fallen unconscious. So much can happen in twenty minutes.
Mary turns to Jack, trying for a smile that barely passes as a grimace. "How long have you been awake?"
"A few minutes." Jack mumbles, managing to get the zipper pulled up to his neck. It helps him feel less vulnerable and exposed, hiding the shame of his injuries. But the clothing feels far more weak and pliant than it did before. It wasn't armor when Michael sliced through it. It gave way under pressure without a fight; it was useless.
And without his powers, Jack could do nothing to stop the assault.
The archangel sword.
Always one of those swords.
First his throat, then his chest, now this. What, Jack wonders in silent terror, will be next? What will be the next thing that the sword cuts open?
Mary's eyes linger on Jack's face, her gaze searching before she comes to some sort of conclusion and looks at Sam. She gestures toward the asphalt. "Sit down, let me look at your knee."
Sam sighs, like the thought is both exhausting and an annoyance. "Mom-"
"No, Sam." Her voice has lost any patience it had before. She makes some sort of sound behind her teeth, and Jack feels himself draw back from her a fraction. "You really want to test me right now?"
Sam hesitates, and Jack stares at his profile in the street light, recognizing the strain in it. "I'll put some ice on it later. There's not much else that can be done. It's not bleeding or broken, it's just dislocated."
Mary folds her arms across her chest. "You're not macho-manning me?"
Macho...what? How do they ceaselessly make Jack feel like he barely knows only a few jumbled words in English?
"No." Sam sighs, releasing the Impala's door. "I'm not. Really. It barely hurts."
Mary snorts loudly, "Sure."
"Okay." Sam agrees, turning back to Jack. He kneels forward to start gathering up the supplies, and Jack hesitantly helps him, wary of Mary. She looks like she wants to start yelling, and Jack would rather that she didn't. He thinks he understands why. She's stressed, and she's taking it out on everyone else around her. Dean's done it before.
"Sam." Mary's arms drop. "I've had a dislocated knee before. They're not anything to laugh at. How are you still walking?"
"High pain threshold." Sam mutters, and there's something about the way that he says it that makes the words feel almost...slimy. Like something with layers and layers of undertones that Jack wouldn't have a hope of deciphering in this lifetime.
Jack hands Sam the tape.
"Will you just-sit down, or something? You can't pretend that it's not there. You're not going to help anyone if you're-" Mary starts to reprimand. Sam slams the kit shut with more force than Jack had been expecting and he jumps slightly, wincing. Sam's mouth opens, like he wants to say something, but he stops himself, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly.
He's frustrated. Maybe even angry, but the thought strikes Jack as ludicrous, because for all the time that Jack has known the younger Winchester, Sam has never been angry. Sam doesn't get angry, almost like he can't.
Part of Jack has always wondered what it would take to get Sam to be honest-to-God furious.
"Mom," Sam's voice is tense, and he doesn't face her. "Your concern for Dean needs to be given to Dean."
Jack's brow furrows slightly, and he sends a quick glance between them. Isn't...isn't Mary just concerned about Sam? Even if she's doing it in a way that's slightly overbearing? Why would Sam assume that she's giving her concern about Dean to Sam? Doesn't...doesn't Sam know that Mary would have concern for both of them?
"That's not what I'm-" Mary protests, but it's weak, and she gives up, dropping her shoulders in defeat. Sam doesn't seem like he was expecting anything else, though, he doesn't even look hurt. Maybe Jack's reading far too much into this. He does that. He does that a lot.
"I'm sorry," Mary goes back to biting her nails. "I just... I want to help."
"I know," Sam withdraws from the Impala, holding the kit in his left hand. He starts to move toward the back of the car, asking in a clipped voice, "Cas is still with him?"
"Yeah." Mary sighs. "I don't know if...if we should leave him by himself for a bit. Not until we can get him in a better place." Mary glances at Jack once, quickly, then she averts her gaze. Jack's eyes narrow.
"Has he said anything?" Sam questions, the trunk groaning as it's pulled open. Jack watches, sliding forward a little so he can put his feet on the parking lot's road. His entire body protests the movement, and Jack closes his eyes at a wave of dizziness. His skull is going to split open down the back, shattering into a thousand pieces if this pressure continues.
"Nothing yet." Mary sighs, shifting her stance. "Do you...do you have any idea what happened? Why Dean would…?"
Sam makes a sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a cough. It's tinged with an edge of exhaustion. "Possession isn't something you can shake off." He says, his voice knowing. Something moves in the trunk. "Believe me. It's the worst violation that I know of."
Mary quiets at that.
Jack looks down at his hands, wondering miserably how Sam knows that with such acute detail.
Sam pulls the trunk closed, and limps around to the front of the car. "Sorry. I'm just," he runs a hand through messy hair, "I'm still processing everything. I didn't mean to say that. I know this, uh, isn't anyone's choice of topic."
No it's not their choice of topic, but that doesn't mean they should avoid it. Especially now.
"Don't apologize," Mary says. "I just don't know what to do. How do you even help this?"
Jack doesn't know. He never imagined that they'd need to. Dean was supposed to be fine, but he's not. Part of Jack, and he hates himself for this, but part of Jack is almost angry with Dean for not being okay. He wants to sympathize, God knows he wants to, but he spent so long fantasizing about this moment, and to not have reality line up…
Sam shakes his head at Mary's question, but doesn't say anything, clearly at a loss. Mary releases her fingernails from her teeth. The two of them are quiet, obviously thinking. Jack lets his eyes slide toward the motel room. The only thing he can see is the light streaking in through the cracks of the curtains, no silhouettes. No Castiel, or Dean.
Jack releases his lower lip and adjusts his position so it puts less strain on his chest and abdomen. "What are we going to do?" he asks, exhausted. Sam and Mary look at him, and Jack expands after a second to clear his suddenly muggy thoughts, "Are we going back to the Bunker now? Michael knows where we are. He could be back."
"He won't." Sam doesn't sound as confident about that as Jack would like him to. "He needs time to get another vessel."
Mary quietly scoffs. "I imagine that a psycho angel is going to have a hard time finding a willing participant."
Willing participant. Jack thinks of Nick, and Lucifer, and wonders suddenly, about why. He'd never thought about vessels having to be willing before. They've just always been.
"You'd be surprised." Sam mutters. He rubs at the lower half of his face. "We're wiped. Jack can't make the journey back to the Bunker tonight, and I know that Dean won't be up to it either. Honestly...I don't know that more people would be the best thing for him right now anyway."
"So we're staying here?" Jack asks, feeling deep relief rush through him at the realization that he's not going to have to move for several hours, nor be confined to the inside of a car.
"For a few days, probably." Sam confirms. "I'll check with Cas before we make any final decisions, but at least for tonight, yeah."
"Great!" Mary claps her hands together. "I'm going to go get some food. Keys." She holds out her hand expectantly.
Jack glances back at the motel room, coming to a realization. He knows what Mary is doing. It's the same thing that Sam is doing. Both of them are avoiding the motel room, and now Mary is increasing her time away by getting food that Jack doubts any of them are going to eat.
What happened while Jack was asleep?
Something had to have, didn't it? Jack's not sure he's seen any of them this agitated before. But Jack also knows that this situation isn't exactly normal. It's confusing and it's frustrating. And none of them know exactly what to do about it, which is probably part of the problem. Helplessness, Jack has learned, is one of the worst feelings to have.
"Oh, god. Food." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "Right."
"I don't think that any of us have eaten in the last eight hours," Mary points out. Jack tries to bury a grimace, silently hoping that they'll continue to not eat for eight more. "I won't be more than twenty minutes. I saw a diner when we were coming in." Mary continues.
Sam looks at his watch, "It's five thirty-two AM. You seriously think you're going to find something open?"
Mary's expression is beginning to border on desperate. "Coffee."
That seems to be enough for Sam, who sighs quietly in defeat and digs the Impala's keys from his pocket. He drops them into Mary's awaiting hand, and she clenches them tightly, her eyes relaxing with relief.
This, Jack decides sarcastically, is not foreboding at all. As if he needed confirmation that stepping into the motel room again was going to be a high-stress environment.
Jack starts to hobble out of the car so Mary can take it, but he severely overestimated how well he felt. Sitting down and doing nothing is one thing, trying to stand up and move is an entirely different story. He must have been bleeding for hours last night, and his body has yet to replenish the blood. His vision goes sideways, colors brightening in intense detail as Jack starts to tip over, hands flailing wildly for something to grab onto.
Sam catches him, hauling Jack upright and keeping him there. Jack squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out sharply. Tears burn beneath his eyelids treacherously. It's fine. It hurts, yeah, but he's had worse. This is terrible, he's in so much pain. A sob hitches in his chest and he resists the urge to vomit.
Other people have had worse and been fine. Jack's just so weak.
"...feeling...Jack?" It takes him a second to realize that Sam is trying to talk to him. The ringing in his ears slows before fading and Jack manages to squint his eyes open. Sam is crouched down a little so they're eye level, trying to get his attention. Mary stands behind him, her arm also on Jack's left shoulder.
Jack blinks several times to focus. "I'm okay," he rasps. He swallows. "I'm okay. Just got a little dizzy."
"A little?" Sam repeats, skeptical. He adjusts his feet slightly, leaning on his right leg.
"Yeah," Jack swallows again, but his throat is dry and aches and no amount of liquid will help with that. He meets Sam's eyes. The motel has never felt so far away. It's not even fifty feet, less than a minute at most. But it seems endless. He'll never make it there. He's going to pass out before he makes it to step ten.
"Why don't you sit down?" Mary suggests, her voice having dropped an octave. Her eyes are wide, voice gentled.
Jack shakes his head. "I'll just have to get up again."
"We can get you closer to the door," Mary suggests. Her thumb rubs across the top of his shoulder. "What you need right now is to be horizontal and lots of sugar."
Jack stares at her, squinting with confusion. How is sugar going to help? That seems ridiculous.
Sam's shaking his head, and Jack lifts his heavy eyes up to the hunter. "We can do this two ways: we drive you closer to the door and me and Mary help you to your feet, or I can carry you again. What do you want?"
Jack feels heat rush to his face. Again? But of course he did, what was Jack expecting? They teleported outside?
Jack thinks about it for a long second, but his thoughts are sluggish and he's too tired to properly weigh the pros and cons of this. He shakes his head to clear his vision and lifts his arms up toward Sam. "I don't think I can move." He admits softly, averting his eyes with shame.
"'Kay," Sam adjusts his position, leaning down to get an arm beneath Jack's knees. There's an awkward second where Jack just clings to him before Sam hefts him up. Jack's teeth grit compulsively, his stomach dropping at the sensation. His stomach and chest twinge dully at the slightly hunched position and Jack gasps.
Please don't drop me, Jack thinks wildly. Sam's skin is cold.
"You okay?" Sam asks.
Jack nods, not trusting his voice.
"Sam," Mary says quietly.
"I've got him, it's fine." Sam says, not even winded, turning to face the motel room. Jack remembers about Sam's knee a second too late, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Sam suggested it, Jack tries to reassure himself, he's okay to do this, isn't he? Probably not. Sam would set himself on fire to keep someone warm.
Sam stumbles toward the door. His grip is tight against Jack's body, as if he's afraid that Jack will fall out of the hold if he doesn't. It's not even fifteen seconds before Sam arrives at the door. He turns sideways to push the door open with the side of his foot. The room blurs with colors, and Jack realizes suddenly where Sam is intending to put him and feels his stomach drop with panic.
"Not the bed." He blurts, then hastily tags on. "Please."
Sam stops, but he doesn't ask and doesn't protest, simply turns toward the table. There's the sound of chair being pulled out, and Sam is settling Jack at the chair beside the table, Castiel's hands joining Sam's in helping him settle. Jack squeezes his eyes shut as the world spins around him, his stomach in his throat. The thought of throwing up is exhausting, but his stomach is promising that it's going to be a guarantee.
Jack's fingers tighten compulsively on the nearest object when he starts to tip. The familiar well-worn feeling of Castiel's trenchcoat meets his hand. The chair shifts beneath him before Jack is suddenly balanced between the back of the chair and the table. No arm rests, Jack remembers.
"Shouldn't he be laying down?" Castiel questions.
"Yeah." Sam agrees.
"And the reason he's not is…?" There's some sort of telepathic conversation because a second later Castiel makes a slight "ah" noise. Castiel's fingers brush Jack's bangs away from his face. "Jack?"
Sam's hands leave, and he hears the sounds of footsteps. Jack miserably squints his eyes open, wincing at the bright light. Castiel's squatting in front of him. He looks awful. His face is almost gray, the skin around his eyes red from tears. He's hunching forward as if trying to accommodate for a weight on his shoulders, or pain, his face lined with a thin line of sweat. His hands, Jack can see, have a fine tremble to them.
"Cas…" Jack mumbles in concern. He starts to try and lean forward to get a closer look, but Castiel pushes him back gently.
"Just stay still for a moment, okay?" Castiel asks him softly. Jack nods in complacence, leaning back. Where, he wonders miserably, is Dean? He was in the corner next to the table, but he doesn't seem to be there anymore. He's still in the room, isn't he?
Sam returns, setting down a glass of water on the table next to Jack's arm. "You're going to need a lot of water, okay? It helps with blood loss."
He knows that, but Jack groans quietly. He releases Castiel's forearm to fumble for the glass; watching Sam limp toward the door, where he and Mary share a quiet few words before she turns away. A minute later, the Impala's engine roars to life, then fades out.
The door closes.
Jack manages to get the entire glass of water down without throwing up, a feat that he's miserably proud of. Sam comes to stand in front of Jack, arms crossed and lips pinched. Castiel rises up to his feet and stands beside the hunter, his movements slow and precise, grimacing at the movement.
Michael healed him, Jack thinks bitterly.
"Where's Dean?" Jack mumbles, setting the glass on the table. He has to stop it from tipping over a second later.
Sam and Castiel share a brief look. Then both of their gazes jump toward the bathroom. Question answered, Jack follows their line of sight toward the room. It's dark. With only the dim overhead light on in the central room, there's only a measly attempt to eat at the shadows in the bathroom. Jack squints, but he can't see the hunter.
Jack frowns, shaking his head a little to try and clear away the fog. "Why is Dean in there?"
Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair, his eyes creasing at the edges. He seems exhausted, and this is confirmed when, rather than come up with some sort of elaborate omission, he says, "Because he's handcuffed to the sink."
Jack's eyes snap back to him. "What? Why?"
Castiel's lips pinch together. He shifts his feet a little, "He was...he is…" Castiel fumbles, as if he's not sure how to explain this. "Dean is...struggling."
"So you handcuffed him to the sink?!" Jack feels his voice raise with incredulity. Anger pushes away the exhaustion, the lethargy, giving him new life. There is a part of Jack that has always deeply, irrevocably trusted in the Winchester's judgement. This is not one of those times. "Hasn't he been captive long enough?!"
"Jack-" Sam tries.
He would try to excuse this!?
Jack just spent the last few hours pinned by Michael's powers. He can't imagine how Dean must feel, being surrounded and choked by that power for weeks on end. He can't believe that Sam and Castiel would even consider this.
"No! I didn't just get-" his mouth tries to form the word tortured, but it's a heavy, weighted word and he escapes it with "-hurt so that way you could make things worse! How could you even think that that was the-"
"He tried to stab himself, Jack!" Castiel snaps, shoving Jack back down when he starts a weak attempt to rise. He shouldn't have bothered. Jack quickly slumps back into the seat at that, feeling impossibly young. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Castiel breathes out carefully. In a tone much calmer, he explains, "Dean is as much a danger to himself as he is to us right now."
"I don't...understand," Jack whispers, looking between the two of them. Sam's face is blank, eyes dead. His sudden desire to get out of the room makes far more sense, and Mary's desire to leave. Dean tried to...Dean tried…
Castiel's eyes are tight. "He's not lucid." Jack's continued confusion must show because he explains, "Michael would have had to drop Dean somewhere inside of his head to keep him from fighting back and complacent. He broke their deal. Dean had every right to say no to him at that point, and likely would have. In order to stop that, Michael had to keep him occupied. We...just don't know with what."
"Okay," Jack agrees slowly. That makes more sense. An awful sort of sense, but still.
"Michael didn't release him from it." Castiel says, voice tight.
Jack stares at him, before dawning comprehension starts to settle in him.
Oh.
Oh.
Michael dropped Dean inside of something in his head, whether that was memories or some sort of fantasy world, and since Sam exorcised Michael, Michael never had the time to release Dean's consciousness from wherever that was. His body may be free, but his mind is still pinned inside of Michael's distraction.
And, even if it was on a subconscious level, Dean would rather die than face it.
Jack feels color bled from his face. "So he's still...he's...how do we…?"
Castiel shakes his head, glancing at Sam for a second. "Right now we're just trying to keep Dean from harming himself. We haven't decided what to do yet. I…" Castiel hesitates, "I can't enter Dean's mind without permission. Not unless he's dreaming, and even then, there are...rules."
Jack slumps back. "So we have no way of knowing what Dean thinks is going on."
"No." Sam agrees, sounding flustered. He rubs at the lower half of his face, looking toward the bathroom again. "God. I can't..." He shakes his head. Jack looks at him, seeing signs of clear agitation, and, Jack realizes with some surprise, panic. "We need to...to find some sort of mind searching spell. Maybe we can use African dream root."
"He's not sleeping, Sam." Castiel points out.
"Then...Rowena probably knows some sort of spell." Sam breathes out sharply, hands coming up to grip at his scalp. Jack's brow furrows. They haven't actually discussed this yet. How could they? It hasn't even been an hour. "God. This is my fault. If I hadn't used that exorcism-if, if we had just convinced Michael to release him-"
"Sam," Castiel sighs. He's jaw tenses, and he turns to face Sam, "We had no way of knowing that it wouldn't work the way we hoped."
Sam laughs. The sound is loud and unstable, but without any mirth. It's...cold. Words start to bubble out of him as if he can no longer keep it in anymore. He turns toward Castiel sharply, "Didn't we? The source was a damn demon, Cas, to be used by only demons, and, oh god. My brother is going to be trapped in some sort of mental game where he can't tell what's real and it's my fault. I'm an idiot. I thought that it was better if Michael was just out of him-"
"It is."
Jack wraps his arms around himself, feeling immensely out of place. He feels like he's watching something that he wasn't supposed to see.
Sam laughs again, his lips splitting into a wide smile. "Clearly!" Sam gestures toward the bathroom. "We chained him to a pipe, Cas! He tried to kill himself and we chained him to a pipe. God, what was I thinking? We shouldn't...I should have known better. Why didn't I know better?"
Castiel reaches out and forcibly grabs Sam's shoulders. The Winchester apparently wasn't expecting this, because he jumps, wild eyes snapping toward the seraph. His breath comes out in a sharp, heaved gust. "Sam. Stop. It happened. I'm just as liable to this as you are."
"That doesn't matter! I know what it's like to go insane, and I dropped him there on purpose. Cas, I'm-"
What? What on earth is he talking about? Going insane?
But Sam's...not. Sam's not crazy. He's never been crazy; not for as long as Jack has known him.
"It's better this way. I promise it's better this way, Sam." Castiel assures, "You-"
There's a loud crash from the bathroom. The sort of snapping groan that metal makes when it's put underneath a lot of pressure. All of them still, then Castiel swears heavily under his breath in Enochian. He and Sam rush toward the dark room, leaving Jack alone.
Jack can't move. He attempts to sit forward to maybe follow after them, but the mix of heavy pain and exhaustion keep him firmly planted on the chair. He couldn't move if his life, or anyone else's, depended on it.
He hears the baritones of Sam and Castiel's voices overlapping one another, but Jack can't focus on the words. He strains, trying to catch a glimpse of any of them, but the bathroom is deceptively large, managing to encompass the three of them without a problem.
Jack spares a thought for wondering why on earth they left Dean alone in the dark, but then his gaze jumps across the room and lands on the bed and Jack just. Stops. His breath catches in his chest, as if his lungs have been squeezed behind two fists, digging their nails inside of the pleura. There's blood on the blanket laying at the foot. It's soaked in blood. His blood.
It happened. It actually happened. There is real, physical evidence of it.
Michael pinned him down and cut him open for hours.
Michael did that.
Michael-
Dean bursts from the bathroom in an explosion of limbs. His eyes are wild, and there's a handcuff dangling from one wrist. He's listing to one side, but his head makes a frantic swivel around the room before he sees the door. Breath escapes him in a heaved, sharp sound.
Jack swears, starting to try and get up to his feet as Dean makes a break for it. Jack makes it the total of a few inches before he starts to fall forward. His elbow smacks against the side of the table as he scrambles to grab at the edge to keep himself upright.
There's a loud flapping sound, like fabric being snapped out, and Jack whips his head around to see Castiel appear in front of Dean in a ghastly stagger, barely managing to grab and pin him around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides. "Dean!" he shouts, "Dean, calm down, it's me. You're safe, I promise that you're safe."
Dean makes a strangled sound, kicking out violently against Castiel's legs. When that proves to be ineffective, Dean throws his weight forwards, yanking both of them toward the floor. They land in a tangle of limbs, Castiel making a choked, mewling sound as Dean shoves him off.
"Dean-" Castiel grabs at Dean's arm, but Dean pushes him away, hissing.
Jack catches a glimpse of Dean's face and sees that it's white. His eyes are wide with unadulterated panic. Lips completely bloodless, freckles standing out against his skin like dots of blood.
"Dean!" Sam shouts, appearing in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against it heavily. "Dean, please," Sam starts to make his way forward, leaning against the side of the wall, as if he's incapable of putting weight on his knee. "Let's just...calm down...and talk about this…"
Dean glances back at him, baring teeth.
He's starting to move toward the door again, slower this time.
Castiel is getting to his feet, shoulders rigid, his face an open book of barely controlled agony. As he straightens up, something like a whimper escapes his lips. Neither one of them can do this. Stop Dean. Help him. Castiel is in pain and Sam can barely stand.
Jack begins to slide forward again, attempting to get up to his feet.
Dean starts to back up faster, clearly frantic to get out of the room, ignoring Castiel and Sam's quiet pleading for him to stay still and reassurances that he's safe. Jack leans his weight heavily into his hand, starting to shove up to his feet, but the wave of agony that ripples across him promptly takes his legs out from underneath him again. Jack collapses back against the chair.
Useless.
"Dean," Sam's voice has dropped. Jack can see that Dean, for all it looks like he would rather not, is staring at his younger brother. "Dean, please, please talk to me."
Dean scoffs, but it's better than the animalistic terror he was showing earlier. His shoulders are dropping as if he's slowly resigning himself to this conversation. Jack breathes out tightly, watching as Dean turns around to face Sam and Castiel. Part of Jack wonders if Dean even noticed that he's in the room.
Sam's face tightens, but he takes another hobbled step forward, hands still appraised. "We're not going to hurt you. I promise."
Dean's shoulders tighten.
If Sam or Castiel notice this, they don't show it. Their expressions are twin masks of nothingness. "Okay, okay," Sam takes another step forward, nearly pitching toward the floor before he grabs at the wall. Jack feels himself lurch toward him as Castiel's body leans in that direction. But Dean? Dean doesn't even twitch. As if he doesn't even know who Sam is.
"Do you…" Sam exhales sharply, lifting his head up, "Do you know who I am?"
Dean laughs softly, but it's filled with bitter mockery.
Jack stares at the hunter's back, utterly baffled. What the…? For all that Jack has seen of Sam and Dean's relationship, he never would have thought anything like this would happen. Dean always seemed to take relief in Sam's presence, not laugh at it. Does he know that Sam is Sam? Is he seeing something else? What is going on?
Castiel takes a step forward, "Dean."
Dean jerks back from him, lifting up his hands in front of himself as if to ward them off. In a voice raspy, quiet, and breathless, Dean whispers, "Don't. Don't...don't come any closer."
Castiel stops. Then his head tilts slightly and he asks, carefully, "What exactly do you think is going on here?"
Jack's eyebrows draw together.
Dean shudders, taking another step back, hands still raised out in defense toward them both. "Please stop."
"Dean," Sam says quietly, "we're not going to hurt you. You don't need to run."
The words, Jack knows, are supposed to be comforting, but Dean flinches like Sam struck him, his breath hitching. "Oh, god," he breathes out. Quickly he backtracks, voice growing quieter, "Sorry, I-I don't. Don't know...sorry. Where's...where's the knife? I'll do it myself this time." There's an edge of desperation tagging onto the despair.
Sam's brow furrows, and a rapid, almost imperceptible look passes between Castiel and the hunter before Sam says, "I don't understand."
Dean's shoulders draw together, "P-please. Please let me do it. Where's the knife?"
He has no idea what's going on, Jack realizes. He's living out some sort of...fake reality or something. Maybe he's hallucinating. Jack's stomach squirms, his teeth pressing together tightly. Dean wasn't supposed to end up like this. Releasing him from Michael was supposed to fix things, not make them worse.
"What knife?" Castiel asks. "What do you want to do?"
"I," Dean seems confused, fumbling, "I didn't...finish what I...?"
The words are incoherent and strung together meaninglessly to Jack, but, abruptly, something clears in Sam's gaze. His jaw tightens, eyes hardening. "Dean," his voice is very, very soft. "Dean, this isn't the Pit. You're safe. You've been out for almost ten years. You aren't there anymore. I promise."
The Pit. Wait. Hell? Dean thinks he's in the Pit? As in the part of hell that the damned go to be tortured until they're turned into demons? Not the waiting cells, or the other, clipped, brief descriptions Jack's gotten of the organization. The Pit. Torture. Endless, spiraling punishment. Blades and knives and-
Like Michael's-
Jack's mind blanks momentarily.
When the hell was Dean in the Pit? Ten years ago? For what?
"I…" Dean draws back another step. "You're wrong. I haven't...I'm not…" He lifts his hands up toward his head in agitation, running hands through his messy, spiky hair. Jack slowly, carefully, leans forward, holding his breath.
"Dean," Castiel says softly, "I can draw your memories forward, if you'll let me-"
"No!" Dean snaps, recoiling with a full body shudder. "Please. Don't. Oh, god. I can't…"
"There may be some sort of blockage," Castiel continues, as if Dean hadn't spoken. "You're not thinking clearly. Please, let us help you." Castiel tries for another step forward, but Dean retreats. Jack feels a quiet surge of frustration push through him. If Dean would just let Castiel help him, maybe they could make some progress. Dean's not accomplishing anything by trying to hide from them.
Dean says nothing, and neither do Castiel and Sam for a long minute. There's only the sound of ragged breathing on Dean's part, Jack's heavy exhalations, and the AC unit clunking in its work from somewhere outside.
They've reached some form of a stalemate, Jack concludes. Dean won't let them help, and Sam and Castiel aren't sure what the best way to help would be, but they aren't ready to force it on him yet. Maybe they can't. So now they stand in uncomfortable silence, staring at each other as the atmosphere in the room grows stiff with tension.
After a beat, Dean's head cocks as if recognizing a sound before he slowly turns his head toward Jack. His back is still somewhat facing the door without leaving him exposed. The sight of his pale face and red-rimmed dead eyes is horrible. Something cold rushes down Jack's spine at the look that passes across the hunter's face.
"You-" Dean exhales, something low and terrified in his voice. "I..."
Jack has a split second to look up at Sam and Castiel, already starting to move forward, before Dean lurches toward him. Jack flinches back, scrambling as far away as he can pinned to the seat, but Dean's already grabbed a fistful of his hair and is hauling him from the chair.
Jack staggers, knees ramming hard into the unforgiving carpet.
"Dean!" Sam shouts in protest.
Dean is deaf to him. Jack looks up at Dean with wild eyes before the man grips the side of Jack's chin, his fingers gruff and unyielding. He's positioned to snap Jack's neck. Jack panics, fingers digging into Dean's, fingernails raking into skin and trying to dig it off. He can't.
"I'm sorry," the hunter whispers, then again and again, before he tenses and Jack tenses, too, trying to scramble out.
Sam grabs Dean around the shoulders, trying to haul him backward. "Dean, stop it! Don't hurt him!"
"I have to!" Dean is sobbing, he's sobbing, and Jack is rigid and feeling more tears spill down his own face. His body is tensed, he's not breathing, and oh, god, Dean is going to kill him. He's going to die in this mortal prison-"I have to, I have to, this isn't a choice, it's never a DAMN CHOICE!"
Jack makes a choked sound, his fingers drawing blood as he digs them in, trying to not be so useless.
His heart is hammering in his ribs, deafening him.
There's some sort of a physical pull back, because Dean's knee rams into Jack's back, and he gasps sharply. Then suddenly the tension drops, and Dean's hands fall away a second before Dean himself does, toppling toward the ground only to be caught in his brother's embrace.
Castiel pulls Jack toward him, Jack's back pressed against Castiel's chest, the seraph's hands tight iron around Jack's body, holding him close and fingers frantically moving across him, checking for wounds. "You're okay," he murmurs to himself, voice frantic, "you're okay. It's okay. I'm sorry. You're okay."
Jack clings to Castiel's arms tightly, feeling nauseous.
Head tucked against Castiel's breastbone, Jack watches as Sam holds his limp brother against his chest-Dean's chin on his shoulder, arms limp at his sides-trying not to cry. His lips are pressed together and his eyes wet with unshed tears. The hair hanging in front of his face casts shadows that give him an edged, dark look. Sam grips the back of Dean's skull, burying his face into Dean's hair. His shoulders shake, but he's not crying, just trembling.
Dean tried to kill him.
Dean tried to kill him.
And Castiel did something that-"Oh my god," Jack breathes, a thought occurring to him, "did you kill him?!"
"I just put him to sleep," Castiel says quickly. He pulls Jack tighter against himself, as if he can simply enfold Jack into his ribcage and keep him hidden in there, "I just put him to sleep," he repeats, reassuring himself this time.
Michael tried to kill him. And then Dean did, too. Jack feels tears of helplessness flow freely down his face. Castiel says nothing of it, a luke-warm presence behind him. He smells familiar, and this only makes Jack cry harder, because Dean did not.
Because Dean isn't Dean. Michael broke him. And it's Jack's fault.
If he had never trusted Lucifer in the first place, if he hadn't been so desperate for his father's approval…
If Jack hadn't put them in this mess, Dean would be fine. Dean wouldn't have tried to kill himself, then Jack. This wouldn't have happened at all if not for Jack.
It's in this toppled limbs and desperate embraces that Mary returns from the coffee store, minutes later or hours, Styrofoam cups of MJ's Coffeehouse proudly stamped on the side. She takes one look at them, Dean limp against Sam, and Castiel kneeling beside Jack and clinging to him desperately, then swears heavily.
000o000
After a stumbling explanation from Castiel, Mary gets an unconscious Dean up onto the bed, sets Sam down at the table with one of the cups of coffee with Castiel seated across from him, both of them silent, then she takes Jack into the bathroom. Jack sits rigidly on the edge of the tub as she studies his chin and face for bruises, and then she sits down next to him.
Jack stares at his lap. For once, he has nothing to say. No questions, no statements, nothing.
Mary waits patiently beside him for long minutes, then reaches over and squeezes his hand. Her voice is quiet. "Dean didn't mean anything by it."
Ha.
Jack closes his eyes. "He was going to kill me."
Mary is silent a moment, likely worrying her lip between her teeth as she thinks. "He's confused."
Then why, Jack wonders, something dark and heavy coiling inside of his chest, is this not the first time that he's stared death in the face, and it had Dean's hands? Dean doesn't have to be possessed, or freshly unpossessed and slightly insane, for him to want Jack dead.
That's why this hurts so much. He knows Dean doesn't like him, he's accepted that, but he thought, on a basis, that Dean had at least grudgingly agreed that Jack shouldn't die.
Jack shakes his head. "He's confused." Jack repeats, feeling more snide than he thinks Dean probably deserves. Dean didn't cut him open, Michael did. But the line is blurred. Because...because it was Dean's face that Jack sees. It was Dean. And it wasn't.
He buries his face into one palm, letting Mary keep the other. He feels nauseous and empty all at once, too cold and too hot. His eyes hurt and they're watering. Jack exhales heavily, his leg beginning to drum against the tile. "He thinks he's in hell. Did you know he'd been to hell?"
"You don't?" Mary asks, and she actually sounds confused, and for some reason, this just makes Jack angry. Because of course Mary would know something like this. She barely knows her own children, but she knows the important details.
Unlike Jack.
Whom everyone likes to keep in the dark, wanting.
"It's not like it comes up," Jack points out, trying not to sound indignant and failing. "I barely know them. Any of them! Not Sam, or Dean, or even Cas. They're all hiding things like this from me all the time, and it isn't fair. Don't I have a right to know? Sam should have told me about the Cage. If he'd told me, we wouldn't be here." Mary's expression pinches, but Jack keeps going, "If he'd told me why I shouldn't trust my father, not just not to then I wouldn't have! And if I didn't, then Dean wouldn't have got possessed-"
"Jack, this isn't Sam's fault," Mary interrupts.
"It's mine!" Jack drops his hand, looking up at her, fingers clenched. The inside of his throat feels hot. "It's always my fault. Dean is crazy and I'm the source of that problem because I'm always-"
"Jack," Mary reaches out, cupping the side of his face. Jack stops his rant, looking at her. "None of this is your fault. It's not Sam's, it's not Cas's, it's not mine, it's not even Dean's. We got dealt a crappy hand. It happens, okay? There is no reasonable way to pin this all onto you. And I wouldn't want to."
Mary wipes at a stray tear on his cheek.
"Yes, it is," Jack's lips tremble, and he tries to reign himself together, but it's not working, "I'm not even supposed to be alive. I'm a cosmic mistake."
Mary's head tips, her eyes filling with a heavy grief, "Jack-"
"Kelly didn't even want me." Jack whispers. He's never told anyone that before. He remembers that night, with her in the bathtub and the frantic fear of death pulsing through him. How Kelly had only thought twice about him after he did something for her. He always has to prove he's not the monster. And Jack is tired of it.
But Dean still sees him as one.
"Kelly loved you very much," Mary's voice is quiet. Respectful. "She may not have planned for you, but she gave her life to let you live. She wanted to be your mom, but it didn't work out that way. But Jack, I swear to you, that you are not a mistake."
The words soothe him somewhere, even if another part of him frantically races with denial to anything she's saying, throwing up graphs and carts as to why she's wrong. But God help him, Jack wants her words to be true.
Jack looks down at his hands, feeling miserable.
Mary sighs and adjusts her stance, gripping both her hands in his. "Jack," she says, and her voice is careful, "I know that you're frustrated, and I understand, but Sam, Dean and Cas...they aren't under any obligation to tell you their secrets."
Jack lifts his eyes to her. His thoughts whir, but he can't grasp one to make sense of it.
Mary squeezes his hands, "I know you want to know everything right now, but...that's just not how they are. There's a bond between the three of them that I can't describe, and Sam and Dean…" she shakes her head, "The three of them have died for each other. They've all been through hell by themselves, and they've all been through it together. It might not be something you can ever understand."
Jack blows out a breath. He looks away from her. The words hurt, and they shouldn't. But this...this is the only family that he's ever had. And they can't trust him? Isn't that what family is built on? Trust? Did Jack do something wrong? Did he mess this up somehow, and now he's condemned to be an outsider looking in until he dies?
"I want to," Jack admits, feeling petulant.
"I know," Mary assures, "I do, too. But like you said, it's not something that they like to talk about. I've seen all of them talk circles around some topics, and you don't realize they've done it until later." Jack nods, familiar with this practice. "Just be patient, okay? They'll open up to you when they're ready."
So, never?
Great.
Good to know that what's supposed to be his family is going to keep him at arms length until they're all dead. Jack feels so, so far away from all of them now, and any time he tries to close that distance, they skirt back a few more feet.
Jack nods, tired of fighting, tired of everything. He just wants to sleep.
Mary gives him a tight smile and squeezes his hands again. "How 'bout we find somewhere for you to lay down, okay? You look kinda wiped. Things will be better in the morning."
They won't. But Jack humors her, nodding again. She helps him get up to his feet. The two of them walk toward the main room, and Mary helps settle him down at the couch carefully, accommodating for his chest. Once he's laying down, she brushes hair back from his forehead-he likes it when people do that, but he's too embarrassed to say so- smiling tightly down at him.
Jack doesn't return it, even though he should. He closes his eyes, and carefully rests his hands on his hips, reluctant to even put the barest bit of pressure on his torso until the wounds are healed. He's a liability like this, wounded and falling apart. He never even had to factor in being wounded and in pain when he had his powers.
His powers…
Wait.
Didn't...didn't Sam say that pain would...restart them, or something like that? ...how much pain? Because if Jack has his powers, he may not be wanted in this family, but at least he'd be useful, and they wouldn't abandon him. Dean might even not want to kill him. (No, Jack inwardly snorts, he'd want me dead more.) And this may be miserable, but it wouldn't be permanent. He'd heal.
He'd heal.
How much pain? Jack wonders, feeling sick but relieved deep inside of his stomach in a way that he hasn't in a very long time. They'd want him with his powers. They would want him. They don't have to like him. But Jack just doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't want them to leave him behind, or decide to kill him.
His father had wanted him, Jack's almost sure. Until he realized that Jack was useless.
Jack just...can't be useless, then the Winchesters and Castiel will never come to the same realization.
What Michael did was excruciating, but is there something that Jack can do faster? Take all the pain at once?
Castiel drapes his coat over Jack, and Jack startles, not having realized that the seraph had moved closer. Castiel looks down at him, expression grim. He looks awful. He needs this couch more than Jack does. Beneath the trenchcoat, Castiel seems...small. He's pale, he's sickly, and his face is etched with pain. He's still wearing one of Sam-or Dean's, Jack isn't sure-dark shirts instead of his usual suitcoat, and the clothing swallows him.
"Cas," Jack protests, starting to shove the coat off and return it, but Castiel pushes it back down, clearly adamant.
"You need to stay warm. I don't." Castiel reassures.
Jack's fingers curl around the collar. He tightens his jaw and nods. He can't fight anymore. He's too tired. Castiel seems somewhat surprised by this, as if he was expecting to have to keep battling. Jack doesn't know if he's ashamed or indifferent to this fact.
Mary is out of his line of sight. Jack wonders how long he zoned out for.
"Thanks." Jack whispers. The coat is warm, and Jack didn't realize how cold he was until there's another source of heat available. He buries himself beneath the trenchcoat, and closes his eyes, turning his head away. He senses Castiel's presence linger for a minute more before he moves away.
Despite his exhaustion, Jack doesn't fall asleep instantly. He's not capable of doing anything but lay there and breathe, but he doesn't sleep. He hears Mary talk quietly with Castiel about something, but distinct words escape him. He thinks it has something to do with Dean, but he's not sure.
Later, Jack doesn't know if it's minutes or hours, he hears someone crying softly.
This perks him up a fraction, and he slips out of the daze he's been lingering in. It takes him a few seconds to realize that it's Sam. Jack feels himself still. He's seen Sam cry very little, if at all, since he met him. The only other time that Jack can remember Sam crying was in relief after Lucifer was killed.
Jack opens his eyes. The ceiling is far brighter than it was before, so Jack guesses the sun has already risen, meaning he's been here for hours. He tilts his head toward the table slowly, hesitant to admit that he's awake, but he doesn't want to leave Sam by himself. Not that he'd be able to do much.
He sees Sam sitting at the table, as if he hasn't moved since Mary put him there. His front is facing Jack, but it doesn't matter. The hunter isn't looking at him. Sam's elbows are perched on the table, his face buried in his hands, hair a mess around his fingers.
Jack quickly sweeps his gaze around the room, looking for someone else. Dean is laying on the bed, on top of the blanket-a different one, not the quilt, and Jack can't see the bloody sheets or top blanket anymore-his hands on his stomach, breathing deeply. He looks pale, but relaxed. Castiel, who was sitting at the foot of the bed beside Dean's legs, looks up at Sam. Mary is laying on the other side of the queen bed, on her side and obviously asleep.
Part of Jack tenses up at seeing her resting beside Dean, and he hates himself for it.
Castiel gets up to his feet, and carefully pulls the other chair around the table, sitting down in front of Sam. His posture is stiff, and he doesn't let himself come in contact with the back of the chair. He's in pain, Jack realizes. Probably has been since Michael gave him back his wings. Jack feels guilt squirm through him. Has anyone asked Castiel if he's okay? Castiel, as Jack has heard Dean describe him, burns himself at both ends to keep people alive. Sometimes he'll stick an extra wick in the middle of the candle if necessary, not even realizing that he's on fire.
He gives and gives until collapses.
Jack promises himself that he'll ask Castiel later. When he's supposed to be awake.
Jack watches as Castiel hesitantly reaches out a hand and grips Sam's shoulder. Sam flinches, but seems to recognize Castiel without looking at him, and relaxes. "Sam," Castiel says quietly.
Jack can't see Sam anymore, but the response is immediate, Don't," he says, his voice thick.
"You didn't know." Castiel protests anyway. "There's no way that you could have known."
Sam is quiet for a moment, as if thinking about that. He, from what Jack can see, doesn't move. "I'm supposed to know about these things. It's my job. Every time we do this half-assed, Dean gets the kick in the stomach."
Castiel leans forward a fraction, "I'm a celestial being, Sam, and even I had no idea what would happen if you expelled Michael."
Sam's voice is rough, "He barely...he barely speaks about hell to me. It's not...it's not something that...that we...but...but I can see it. He never...he never really…"
Jack's brow furrows. He...he thought that Sam and Dean shared everything with each other. They just seem to know things. They read each other easily, as if words are a limitation and annoyance rather than a help. Sam recognized this for what it was much faster than Jack ever would have.
"I know," Castiel whispers.
"He...he just...after he got back, he was...he…" Sam can't find the words. "I did that to him. I put him back there. Time and distance has helped him some, but god, Cas...you saw him. I did that to him."
Castiel's voice is firm. "No, you didn't. Michael did. It was Michael's choice to do that. Not yours."
"I'm just the one that left him there." Sam's voice is tinged with dark humor. He sobers quickly, "I don't know how to help him. I...I don't...know…you saw what he did to Jack. How...how do we…?"
"We'll figure something out," Castiel assures, and he sounds far more confident than Jack feels. "I have a few ideas."
Sam shifts, then, and Jack tenses a little, expecting to be called out for listening in, but he isn't. The Winchester isn't looking at him. Sam instead then asks, his voice a little clearer, as if he's lowered his hands, "Kipling warned us there would be backlash for the exorcism. Am I an idiot for barely considering it?"
"I think you did the best you could given our circumstances," Castiel says, which Jack has learned usually means yes, but is a nicer way of putting it. "Do you feel any after effects from the exorcism?"
"No." Sam's voice is quiet, as if just realizing this. "I don't."
Why would he? Jack wonders. Wasn't it just like the demon repelling one? But conveniently showing up now that they need it? He still wonders why they haven't brought it up before. Could they have saved more human hosts if they'd been using this instead of angel swords? But the point is, demon exorcisms sometimes make Jack sick to his stomach, but they aren't awash with aftereffects.
It's just Latin.
Why would this be any different?
"Should I?" Sam asks, and Jack sees Castiel's shoulders draw together a fraction.
"I'm not sure. I was never within the division that was in charge of keeping track of Azazel and his army. I'm not as familiar with it as I'd like to be. Honestly, I wasn't sure that it would work." Castiel admits, and Jack stares at them. They...they came raging in here, not even sure that they could release Dean? Why did they bother at all then? Surely, they didn't just come for Jack, with Dean as a second agenda.
Castiel continues, "Even with the demon blood, you're not a demon. You're sure that you're alright? You just expelled an archangel."
Jack's breath catches. Demon blood? What the hell are they talking about?
"The exorcism only works for demons, Cas." Sam says stiffly. Castiel is quiet, as if he's trying to think of something to say, but can't. "Nevermind, I just. I need to clear my head. I'm going for a walk, call me if Dean wakes up." Sam gets to his feet, and Jack closes his eyes tightly, forcing himself to relax.
Inwardly, his mind is spinning.
Demon blood. The exorcism only works for demons. And something horrible, tight and slimy grips Jack's heart. A thought he'd never thought to consider before. Lucifer tortured Sam for a long time, they were in hell together. Hell. Where demons are made. Did Lucifer turn Sam into a demon? Maybe...maybe that's why Sam seems...off sometimes in a way that Jack can't describe.
Maybe that's why Sam hates Lucifer with such passion.
But it doesn't make sense, not in the way that other things do. Sam isn't...evil. Demons have this thick presence about them, an aura that tastes like rot and blood, and Sam doesn't have that. Maybe...they meant something else by demon blood?
But Jack doesn't know what else it could mean. And it's not like he could ask, because that would mean admitting to the fact he was listening to their conversation.
Sam exits the motel room.
Jack jumps when Castiel slams a fist into the tabletop in frustration. The sound is loud and snapping, and Jack's breath hitches despite himself.
"Damn it," Castiel whispers into the quiet. He disappears into the bathroom a moment later, and Jack hears the lock click.
Jack squeezes his eyes shut and presses his palm flat against his stomach, relishing the pain that that washes through him. Of course, he thinks, bitterly, of course he would finally find Michael, of course they would finally free Dean, and this would not help anything. It would just take things from bad to worse and worse to devastating.
Jack closes his eyes and rolls onto his side, curling into the pain, and silently cries himself to sleep.
Author's Note:
Next chapter: ? Ugh. We will all hope for July, and hopefully the mental illness gods will have mercy on me.