Author's Note: *winces* sorry. Thanks for your patience.
Special shoutout to Elena, who kept me from defenestrating my laptop in sheer frustration. XD
"And suddenly I'm an angel on the cutting room floor,
wearing gore, a blank stare, and not much more."
-Unknown
Chapter Seven:
He dreams about blood.
Swathes of it sticking to him, spread on the floor and walls around him, leaking out of him. He's standing in the center of a massacre without a body in sight and breathing heavily. His hands are shaking, slick with sweat, and his nails feel like razorblades digging inside of his palms. He feels sick. He feels wrong. And yet, somehow, as if he's meant to be here.
"I like the color," Lucifer says behind him. Jack turns, panting. His whole body is trembling like he's ready to burst into pieces. He's...he doesn't know what he is. God, Jack doesn't feel right.
His father is leaning against a bloodied wall, and it takes Jack another moment to recognize this as Dean's bedroom in the Bunker, at least, what he can remember of it. The dreamscape feels off in a way he can't place. He's only been in a few times, having been barred entry most others. Sam kept it locked while Dean was...away.
Lucifer wipes the fresh blood off the wall with one finger and looks at it studiously. He frowns. "This is all yours, isn't it?" he asks and looks up at Jack. He seems disappointed. Not concerned. Because Lucifer doesn't...
Jack doesn't know the answer to his father's question. His entire body is beginning to go hot and he can't hold himself up anymore. His chest is burning. Jack falls to his knees, groaning, and wraps his arms around his stomach. He begins to rock back and forth. The heat is insatiable. His eyes burn. His chest is going to melt.
His father kneels in front of him and tilts Jack's head up. Lucifer's fingers are cold and boney. They make Jack feel wet and slimy inside. Lucifer smiles and wipes the blood across Jack's face, over his lips, one cheek to the next.
"There," Lucifer says, stroking the side of Jack's face with his cold, wet thumb, "now you can finally stop crying and be happy. Like a good son."
Jack just pants. He drew a smile on me, he realizes, with my blood. A sob escapes him, some form of desperation and panic, and why won't the pain go away, "Wh-why can't you just l-love me?" Jack gasps.
Why was it Sam? Why not me?
"Oh, Jack," Lucifer sighs, "how could I ever love something so useless?"
Then he draws a gold-tinted archangel sword and stabs Jack in the throat.
Jack wakes up and goes completely and utterly still. He doesn't breathe, he doesn't move, he doesn't open his eyes. He lays there like something is lying on top of him, pressing his limbs into the couch. He wants to scream, or cry, or both, but something in him warns do not make a sound and Jack can do nothing but comply. His throat feels like it's closing.
He's almost nauseous with anxiety.
His fingers tighten compulsively, grabbing fists of Castiel's coat, still laying on top of his body like a heavy blanket. Jack lays there for a long minute, breathing in as steadily as he can. He can smell blood and his throat tastes dry but feels wet.
He breathes out, his chest decompressing suddenly. With it, his other senses seem to reintroduce themselves into the living.
It smells like old blood, cleaning supplies, and wet fabric. There's a bright light just past his eyelids. His hands are clenched around the smooth, worn fabric of Castiel's coat. His body feels uncomfortably numb and slightly detached like it belongs to someone else and he's just touching it.
And he can hear people talking. There's a sense of foreboding and dread that sinks into his stomach immediately upon this realization, and he closes his eyes tightly and tries to curl up in on himself, only to bite harshly on his tongue and choke on sudden, gasping pain.
White-hot and pulsating, like he's just curled into a knife.
Michael. The cuts. The torture. He forgot. How could he forget?
He squeezes his eyes tighter, trying not to cry. The voices, he recognizes after a few moments, are Mary and Sam. It takes a few seconds more for his sluggish mind to connect their words to an actual conversation.
"-can't be serious!" Mary is hissing. Jack's back stiffens at her anger, always so quick to burn, bright in its intensity and the desecration it can leave behind.
"There's not much else that we can do," Sam is protesting, his voice level but completely toneless. He sounds sort of dead. "We don't have that many options on the table. It's not like we have access to the-the brain thing that the Men of Letters had. Cas can't get to him right now. This is all I've got."
Mary sputters. "But this isn't even his choice."
Dean. Jack sighs out heavily, wanting to cry and bury himself inside of Castiel's coat and stay there. He doesn't want to deal with this. Oh, how he doesn't want to deal with this. But it's not a problem that they can put on a shelf until they're ready to take it down again. Dean needs their help now, not when it's convenient for all of them.
"I don't know what else to do, Mom," Sam whispers. Defeat, Jack realizes. His voice isn't toneless, it's defeat.
"Not this." Mary is adamant. Whereas Sam's voice is soft and barely audible, Mary is the one trying not to shout. "I refuse to let you do this."
There's a beat. "So what do you want to do instead?" Sam's voice is a quiet challenge. "You want to leave him running around thinking he's in hell?"
Oh, god. Jack freezes, suddenly wondering exactly what Sam is suggesting. He's not...he's not actually suggesting that they kill Dean, is he? But no, of course not, that would be ridiculous, wouldn't it? Because...because Sam and Castiel worked so hard to make sure that Dean was alive. They aren't going to stab him in the throat...right?
"Cas said-"
"Cas can't fix this!" Sam snaps, and Jack flinches at his tone. "We don't know what Michael did, and Cas might make things worse instead of better." Mary is silent as if she's fuming or she doesn't know what to say to that. Probably some mixture of both.
Jack is more surprised than he cares to admit when Castiel says quietly, "I wasn't trained in interrogation, Mary. All warriors have a basic grasp of it, but I might utterly obliterate Dean's mind if I try to help him. He's not letting me in, I'd have to force it, and the desecration that would cause would be…" Castiel releases a breath.
"Bad." Mary says through gritted teeth.
"To put it mildly, yes."
Mary swears. It sounds like she kicks something from the harsh thwap that follows and Jack jumps. His eyes open and he automatically turns toward the source of the noise. Castiel and Sam are sitting at either end of the table, Mary standing in front of it. A laptop is opened in front of Sam, and a locked tablet is resting on the table in front of Castiel. The seraph is sitting at the edge of his seat, his back so rigid that it looks painful.
Mary continues swearing, gripping at her hair. She looks awful. When was the last time she slept? Or ate anything? The coffee doesn't count. Jack tries to remember, but can't. He knows that he hasn't eaten since he left the Bunker and that was...ugh, two days ago, maybe? Or was that yesterday? With all the time that Michael stole, Jack could have been laying on that mattress for weeks and be unaware of it.
"Mom," Sam says, a sigh and a plea all at once.
"This is ridiculous!" Mary snaps. "You don't know what's going on in his head-None of us do! You can't just waltz in there without a problem and expect to find the source of the problem, do some pleading, and wham-he's back to normal. Especially from this source!"
"Mary," Castiel's voice has more patience than his expression or body language does, "I am intimately familiar with the mind games angel's use. Finding Dean and helping him come out is the only way that I can see us making any progress. And I…" the seraph looks away, ashamed, "I can't do that."
Mary looks ready to kick something else.
Jack shifts his gaze up to the white ceiling for a moment, trying frantically to play catch up. It seems...like they're sort of talking about going into Dean's head. Not killing him. Which is a relief, because Jack...it's stupid that he even considered that. He knows them. (But do you? A soft voice asks. It sounds like his father. They never tell you anything. And how long have you really spent with the Winchesters, not just Mary, but all of them? No time at all.)
"Look," Sam closes the laptop lid. "This, uh, isn't my favorite solution, either."
"Can't you just use-I don't know. African dream root or something?" Mary's voice is strained. She folds her arms across her chest, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. "He's asleep, right? Why won't that work?"
"Where Dean is you wouldn't be able to find in dreams," Castiel explains, and then sighs softly. Sam's face tightens a fraction. "'Waking up' is a relative term and has no meaning here. Rowena is the best option for right now. Even if I was at full strength, I would still need permission."
"But a witch?" Mary protests.
Oh, Jack thinks.
He feels confused at Mary's anger for long seconds until he remembers that Mary was raised a hunter. Consorting with anything supernatural must be like chewing off her own leg. But Rowena is...she's different. Jack tries to remember if Mary's talked to Rowena for more than a few minutes and doesn't think so. After making sure that Sam was okay, Rowena fled the Bunker a few hours after they got back to start looking for Dean.
They haven't seen her since, only communicated with her via text.
Sam rubs his temples. Jack wonders how long they've been circling through this argument. "You seemed perfectly fine with Rowena's involvement before."
Mary throws up her hands, annoyed, and turns away from them. "That's because she wasn't rifling through my son's head!"
"Mom, I trust Rowena with my life." Sam says, his tone still that flat defeat. "And I trust her with Dean's." Which, Jack knows, is a rare thing in the Winchesters' circle. There aren't a lot of people that they trust to take care of each other. The weight of those words slowly sinks into him. He knew that Rowena and Sam were fond of each other, but this-this is something else. "Cas can help her figure out what to look for, then she can...do something, hopefully. If she doesn't have any progress, then we'll try the African dream root."
"This is stupid," Mary mutters under her breath.
Castiel's composure breaks. The face he makes is filled with irritation. His hand curls on top of the table. "Mary, she's done nothing but help us recently. I wouldn't have agreed to Sam's suggestion if I didn't trust her. Why are you fighting this?"
Mary sharply turns away from them, her gaze pinned to the crease of the ceiling and wall.
Sam is hesitant a moment before saying quietly, "Mom?"
Mary's arms tighten around herself. "The Men of Letters-They didn't get into my head with hypnotism. They claimed a lot of what they did was with tech, but it wasn't. Toni Bevell used a lot of magic in her device. Do you know how many hunters that I killed because they were in my head?"
...What?
What is she talking about?
Sam and Castiel are quiet. They don't look like they could move if they tried. They, of course, seem to have a perfect knowledge of what's going on inside of Mary's head. Because they get told things.
"Over thirty that I can remember. Thirty lives on my hands. Innocents. I killed so many people because of them." Mary's voice has, at last, burned out. The fury has leaked away, leaving only the remains of what drove it forward: fear. Mary's afraid.
Sympathy crawls beside his heart.
Jack doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if he could talk, even if someone begged him to. Mary…
"I get that," Sam says after a few beats of silence. His voice is careful. "But Rowena isn't like that"-Mary snorts loudly-"I know you don't trust her, and I don't blame you. But trust me, okay? Trust Cas. We wouldn't have asked if we didn't believe that she could help."
Mary slumps a little. "I just don't want him to go through that. Not after everything with Michael. It's...it wasn't easy."
"I know," Sam grimaces, "I know. But we won't let that happen. I'd shoot Rowena in the head first before letting her possess him."
Jack's stomach tightens. He thinks of that. Of Rowena collapsing to the floor, a bullet in her forehead and all the blood that would leak into her red hair and-god, it would be disgusting. It would be horrifying.
Sam's words seem to reassure Mary a little. That this isn't blind trust. There is trust, obviously, but not so much that they'll agree with anything that Rowena suggests.
There's silence for a long minute before Mary asks, through gritted teeth, "When is she supposed to be here?"
"A few hours. Apparently, she had some business to finish. It was delicate. She couldn't just run off." Sam explains. "I, uh, imagine a little after noon."
"Great. I'll go get us some food." Mary says and doesn't wait for an answer. She grabs a set of keys off the table and all but bolts from the motel room. Jack winces a fraction, tongue pushing against the back of his teeth. God, that was awkward.
The Impala's engine purrs in the background before Jack hears the car drive away.
Sam groans softly, burying his head into his hands.
"What?" Castiel asks, sounding tired.
"Can I tell you something?" Sam asks quietly. Castiel makes a noise of affirmation, and Sam admits, his voice soft, "I forgot about that. Everything with the Men of Letters was happening right on top of Lucifer, and Dean is the one that actually went and found her. Then she was leaping into the other universe with Lucifer, so it's not like there was actually time for me or Dean to talk to her about it, and then Jack happened and when she got back, Michael had taken Dean and...it just sort of slipped my mind? I forgot that my mom went on a mind-controlled killing spree across the country. How the hell did I just...put that to the side?"
The Men of Letters...mind controlled her? Into killing people? That...actually makes a lot of sense.
Jack thinks about those first few weeks that he was in Michael's world and how...tense Mary had seemed. She was just...off. She refused to do any of the killing or defense. She wouldn't even hold a gun for a long time. Jack had just thought it was a reaction to being in Michael's world, not something else that had happened. She just stayed back at camp and played healer. Mary didn't want to leave. Not because she believed in the Rebels' lost cause, but because she was afraid to come back here and face what she did.
God, she'd looked so disappointed when Sam, Dean, and Castiel decided to simply take the whole camp with them. She'd...she'd actually been hoping to die there.
Mary hasn't left the Bunker since they got back.
Not until Jack ran away.
Damn it. Jack can't even imagine that. She was forced to kill people, and now Sam and Castiel called in the very thing that did that to her. The restless nights and the way that she's seemed to shrink into herself-Jack understands, suddenly.
"I don't know," Castiel says to Sam. "But she hasn't been doing well. She kept looking for unsolved murders. She was looking for her victims, I think."
Jack winces.
"Damn it," Sam whispers. "God. What is wrong with me? She's my mom. I should have remembered. Or asked her about it or something. Dean would have remembered. He was there and I wasn't, and she's just..."
"We can talk to her later," Castiel promises. He shifts forward a little on the chair, and it scrapes over the floor. Castiel bends forward, leaning his elbows heavily against his knees, almost as if he can't hold up his own weight. "I don't think it would be a good idea right now. She's already high strung."
"Yeah," Sam sighs. He chews on his lip before he lifts his gaze up, staring directly at Jack. Jack freezes, caught, but Sam doesn't seem surprised in the least that he's awake. And Jack has a moment of hesitation here, because if Sam knew he was awake the whole time, why did he just admit that to Castiel? If he knew that Jack would overhear? Why? When Sam puts so much effort into keeping everything close to his chest?
As if reading his thoughts, Sam asks, "How much of that did you hear?"
Castiel's head turns toward Jack slowly, his brow furrowing. His eyes are bloodshot and slightly glassy. He should lay down. He looks awful. As Jack watches, Sam's hand subtly reaches out to grab Castiel's wrist, as if worried that he's going to fall over. The seraph seems numb to it.
Maybe this, Jack decides is another reason they called Rowena. Castiel doesn't look like he could fill a glass with water, let alone go traversing across someone's mind.
Jack would sit up, he wants to, it's always easier to face these things when he's eye-to-eye with them, but he thinks that if he tried, he'd pass out again. He chews on the inside of his cheek before sighing and muttering, "Not long. A few minutes."
Sam nods. "So you heard. About Rowena?"
"Yeah," Jack agrees. He shifts a little, and the trenchcoat falls off his left foot. It leaves his leg feeling exposed despite the fact that he's still wearing pants. And shoes. He didn't realize he was still wearing shoes. "Do you think that she'll be able to help?"
"I hope so," Sam says quietly. His fingers tighten on Castiel's wrist, and his next words are for the angel. "Do you want to lay down?"
"What?" Castiel's gaze snaps into focus. He looks toward Sam for a long second. Then he shakes his head. Not in response, but as if he's trying to clear it. "No. I don't...I'm okay. I just…I need air." He gets to his feet, an open grimace stretching across his un-aging face. It makes him look young and sickly. The T-shirt, stamped with AC/DC, is rumpled and sticking to his skin.
"Cas," Sam says quietly. He doesn't get up, he doesn't physically put himself in the way of Castiel or anything like that, but Castiel deflates. He sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Jack stares at the two of them.
"I won't sleep." Castiel mutters. "I need to-be outside." If Jack caught the mid-sentence change, then Sam did, too. But Sam doesn't say anything, and Castiel hobbles slowly toward the door, slipping out a moment later. Jack doubts that he'll go far. He's not sure that Cas could, even if he wanted to.
Sam sighs, shifting his weight awkwardly before getting up to his feet. A grimace of discomfort creases the edges of his features and Jack remembers his knee. Then he bites on his lower lip and watches as Sam comes closer to the couch. He towers over Jack, who only wants to curl into himself and vanish.
"Does your chest feel any better?" Sam asks, eyeing Jack's face critically.
Jack shakes his head no. "It hurts," he admits, "but it's kind of numb now?" Sam frowns at that, clearly unhappy with the revelation. Jack changes the subject. "How long was I asleep?"
"Just under twelve hours," Sam says. His gaze shifts away from Jack for a moment, glancing at the bed. There, Jack can see, Dean is still laying on top of the covers. His breaths are even and deep. If Jack didn't know any better, he'd say that he almost looks peaceful.
"Wait. Twelve?" Jack repeats, feeling his eyes widen. He stops playing with the collar of Castiel's coat.
Sam gives him another one of those grimace smiles. The ones that mean he's trying to be reassuring but doesn't actually believe what he's saying. "You were really out of it. We didn't think you'd wake up for a while. To be honest, you still look pretty wiped. Try and get some more sleep, okay? We'll wake you up when Rowena gets here."
He should probably protest that he's fine, but Jack is too tired to. He nods.
"Can I get you anything?" Sam asks.
Jack thinks about it, mind groggy. Finally, he mumbles, feeling his cheeks heat, "Help to the bathroom?"
"Ah. Right. Yeah. Can you stand up? There's, uh, other things we could do instead that would be less painful." Sam is completely calm about this as if it's the most normal thing in the world. Jack's face is flaming.
"No," Jack mutters. Sam concedes and helps him sit up slowly. Jack's panting and sweat-soaked by the time he gets there, and his entire chest feels like the skin is being twisted into knots. To Sam's credit, nothing tears or reopens.
The walk to the small room is arduous and painful. Jack feels like he's going to be sick when they reach the doorway. Nausea is curled at the base of his throat as if waiting to pounce, and Jack feels awful enough that throwing up would probably help, which only annoys him.
"Just say something and I'll help, okay?" Sam instructs quietly.
Jack closes his eyes, breathing out. He's beyond grateful that Sam is letting him try by himself. He nods and shuffles into the room, closing the door. He doesn't pass out using the toilet for which he's grateful, but as he's washing his hands, he feels like he's about to tip over. He has to grab at the edge of the sink to stop himself.
His hearing is pulsating. He can hear what sounds like ringing. Almost like angel radio frequencies, but dull and indecipherable.
Jack lets the hot water run over his hands and looks up at himself in the mirror. He draws back, his tongue pushing against his teeth.
Damn it.
He looks terrible. His face is drained of any color, his lips bloodless. There are bags under his eyes and the lids are this strange mixture of purple-blue from crying so much. His eyes look empty and lonely. His hair is a mess around his face, and he can tell that his muscles have stiffened up because a permanent grimace is plastered to his features.
He looks small. Hidden inside of Sam's larger jacket, Jack looks like a child wearing adult clothing.
He doesn't look intimidating. He doesn't look like he was once as powerful as an archangel. He looks weak and scared.
Jack turns off the water. He looks away from himself, but catches his reflection in the corner of his eye. (Skin peeled back from eyes, yellow eyes rimmed red, skin white, jaw hole-riddled, wings a deformed mass)
He looks into the sink, gripping the edges of the porcelain. I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm okay.
There's blood rimmed around the edges of the drain and what looks like the stains of some sort of black sludge smeared against the sides. That's disgusting. This motel likely hasn't been cleaned since it was made. Someone was probably killed here.
Jack hobbles toward the door and opens it. He nearly topples to his knees, but Sam expertly catches him, managing to grab him around the waist without applying pressure to any of his wounds.
"Alright, bud, let's just get you back to bed." Sam sounds tired. Jack can't give him a response. He collapses against the couch a few minutes later and vows never to move again. He burrows himself beneath Castiel's coat and Sam, crouched beside him, gives him a long, aching look before brushing some of Jack's wild hair away from his face and feeling for a fever.
"You feel kinda hot." He says quietly.
Jack mumbles something he doesn't understand, closing his eyes at an onset of dizziness. Sam's hand is cold, which feels nice against his skin.
He pulls the trenchcoat closer, inhaling the scent of Castiel and then blinks open heavy eyes to stare at Sam. "Hey, Sam?"
"Hm?"
"Is Cas going to be okay?" Jack doesn't look at Sam while he asks it, but he can see the full-body hesitation that rocks through him. Up through his knees, ending somewhere in his mouth if the slight jaw clench is anything to go by.
"Yeah," Sam says. It's a lie, and it's a bad lie. "He just needs a little bit. He'll get back on his feet."
"Yeah," Jack agrees, because he knows that's what Sam wants to hear. It's not what Jack wants to say. Because what he wants to say is something along the lines of he's not okay and why aren't you doing anything about it?
Sam gives Jack's shoulder a quick squeeze. Jack thinks it's meant to be reassuring.
It's not.
000o000
Jack falls asleep again. He misses Mary's return with food, and whether or not she's come back with more arguments for her case. She probably did, but she doesn't persuade Sam or Castiel to call off the witch.
A few hours later, Mary quietly nudges his shoulder to wake him, and Jack groggily comes back into the world of the living. His head feels cloudy; like he's been breathing in the steam after a shower. He blinks several times to get the room to focus, and then slowly pushes himself up a fraction so he's leaning against the back of the couch instead of lying flat on his back.
There's a gun in Mary's hand, Jack notes distantly, but the realization feels far away.
Rowena's in the doorway to the motel room. Her long red hair is swept back into a low ponytail, leaving only wispy bangs over her forehead. She looks as immaculate as ever, dressed in black pants, a long green shirt, and a black jacket swept over her small shoulders. She's holding a large black bag, looking unhappy.
"Let's get to it, then," the witch sighs, then slips past Sam in the doorway. Mary's hand tightens around the gun. She hasn't moved away from the couch, and it takes Jack a second to realize why. This-what she's doing-is a protective stance. She's trying to protect him from Rowena. But beyond a lingering stare, Rowena doesn't give Jack any attention.
The woman moves across the room toward the bed, Castiel and Sam following after her. The two of them are quiet, watching. Rowena takes a hard look at Dean's sleeping form before sighing and setting her bag down on the floor. She lifts her right hand above his chest, fingers spread wide. Jack can feel the heightened buzz of her powers as she senses for something.
"Has he woken naturally at all?" she asks.
"Once," Castiel says, "but I put him back to sleep."
Was Jack awake for that? He doesn't remember it.
Rowena makes a hm noise but says nothing else about it. Her fingers close and she withdraws her hand to her side again. Using her left hand this time, she rests it against Dean's forehead and closes her eyes. Her mouth twists, her body going completely still.
Beside him, Mary's jaw tightens.
Rowena withdraws her hand and frowns. She looks back at Castiel, her gaze lingering on him for a long second as if she sees something in his face. "I assume you have some trail for me to follow?" she asks. She pulls something out of her bag, setting it on the mattress beside Dean's prone form. It looks like some sort of small pouch.
"It's hard to explain," Castiel says after a moment, "it would be easier for you to sense."
"Vague and unhelpful," Rowena sighs. She looks into the bag, retrieving a thick book that she leafs through for a specific page as she adds, almost absently, "You're becoming a true Winchester."
Sam makes a sound in his throat.
Castiel grimaces, almost as if he finds the comment more painful than funny.
He murmurs, "I can show you. Give me your hand." Rowena does so, and Castiel takes her small fingers as if they're breakable. Rowena's lips push together tightly, her eyes creasing at the edges. She finds him overwhelming, Jack realizes. Like Jack does sometimes, when all he can sense is the aura of power around Castiel; all-consuming, bright, and painful.
"Close your eyes," Castiel instructs. Rowena's eyes shift in slight irritation, but she obliges, and Castiel covers her hand with his other. "Focus on this feeling."
The air grows almost tight for a moment like something in Castiel surges, and it's not a movement of power so much as it is a general acknowledgment to the universe that yes, this is a seraph, and it's something to be respected. It's only a few seconds before Rowena bodily jerks back from him, pulling her hand away sharply. When her eyes open, they flare violet before returning to their natural color. She blinks several times, exhales slowly, and looks at Castiel again. "How the hell am I supposed to find that in Dean?"
"It will be obvious, now that you know what you're looking for. All of my sibl-angels use the same technique to build the...dreamscape, for lack of a better term in English." Castiel explains. Jack doesn't miss the word change mid-sentence, but he doesn't say anything. But for some reason, siblings to angels make Jack ache.
He's labeling them as his species, Jack realizes, not his family.
Sam says something, and it takes Jack a second to recognize it wasn't English, but Enochian. Castiel frowns and nods at whatever Sam said. "Yes. That." The proper translation for a dreamscape, apparently.
"Great." Rowena sighs. She turns back to her supplies. "You boys really know how to make things simple, don't you?"
Apparently recognizing that Rowena doesn't actually want an answer, neither the seraph nor the hunter give her one. Jack shifts a little on the couch when his neck starts to hurt, burying a wince as his chest pulls, and grits his teeth.
Rowena does the spell set up, which involves dumping this black powder onto Dean's hands, drawing a large circular spiral on the ceiling above him in chalk-which she makes Sam do-and lighting a dozen candles in a neat line beside the bed. The candles glow a bright purple and release a putrid scent.
Then Rowena sits down beside the side of the bed in a cross-legged position and closes her eyes. "Samuel," she says when Sam starts to take a step forward, "to touch me or your brother in the midst of this spell would immediately eject your soul from your body and I'm guessing that's an experience you'd rather avoid."
"Yeah," Sam says without a trace of humor, something dark in his tone. "Wouldn't want that."
Castiel glances at him, then looks toward the ground.
"This shouldn't take more than ten minutes," Rowena promises, putting her hands palm up on top of her knees. Her long red hair spills over one shoulder. "If it does, I'm dead, your brother is, or we both are."
Sam's expression twists, something between desperation and anxiety. "Rowena, if this is too dangerous, you don't have to-"
"Shh," Rowena interrupts, head tilting a fraction in his direction. "I'm concentrating. Not a word from any of you. Sit down. You're throwing off the energy in the room."
"That's not a thing," Mary whispers in protest to no one, but obediently takes a seat at the edge of the couch beside Jack's feet, shoving the gun into her waistband.
Jack shuffles his feet painfully toward the side of the cushion to give her more room. Castiel takes a hesitant seat at the table, but Sam only leans against it with his arms crossed tightly across his chest and seems to count that as enough. Rowena doesn't say a word about it, so it must be.
"O, anima, ego instantiam obvius," Rowena whispers, then repeats it louder, and louder. The candles rise from the floor, coming to hover around her and Dean in what looks like a figure eight. "Anima, tu es lassus et requirit me."
"Coniungere nobis!" Rowena tilts her head back, exposing her neck to the ceiling. All the light in the room crawls across the walls and ceiling toward her, surrounding her in a circle and leaving the rest of them in thick darkness. Her face has drained of all color, her eyes and mouth almost seeming to glow. It's off putting, to say the least. And yet, somehow, fascinating.
Jack feels a surge of jealousy twist inside his chest. He never feels the loss of his powers more acutely than when he sees someone else using theirs.
Without looking at him, Rowena reaches out and clasps Dean's wrist with her right hand. Jack feels the air alight at the contact, almost as if two hands reached out and pushed. Dean's entire body jerks as if hit with a jolt of electricity and then goes still. Rowena's body follows suit, stiffening sharply to the point it's hard to tell if she's breathing. Her grip doesn't slacken.
Jack swallows heavily, forcing himself to exhale. Within the dark shadows of his peripheral, Mary's hand moves and Jack watches as she rubs at the lower half of her pale face. It's a gesture that Jack's seen Sam do when he's stressed, and he idly wonders who picked it up from who. Jack's gaze slides toward his left. Sam's eyes are narrowed and his face has pinched, but Castiel is watching through half-lids with wariness and deep-set exhaustion that makes it look like he's having a hard time concentrating.
Jack doesn't say a word, unsure if Rowena was serious or not about the no talking.
They wait for a tense few minutes, barely breathing.
He's not sure what else to do.
It could have been two minutes or nine before the room seems to...exhale. The tension in the air releases sharply, like a fist at last releasing his chest. He inhales tightly. As one, the candles go out, releasing wisps of smoke circles into the air, leaving Rowena's glowing face-her skull, Jack realizes, her skull is glowing underneath her skin-one of the only sources of light in the room.
Jack watches, unblinking, as the smoke circles over Dean before it surges to his body and Dean inhales it. Mary jerks forward, on her feet, and Jack sees Castiel and Sam both lurch a fraction. But there isn't time for them to do anything, because Dean throws himself upright. Unseeing eyes open, face pale, limbs stiff; he looks like a corpse.
Rowena collapses onto her side a moment later, landing against the ground with a soft thunk. The candles fall to the floor with loud clatters that make everyone wince. The light in the room returns to normal as if nothing had ever happened.
But it did.
And Mary is moving toward Dean as Sam surges toward Rowena. Castiel forces himself upright, leaning against the table heavily, but the process of moving looks like it might make him sick. Jack just lays there, watching, because he's useless.
"Hey, hey," Mary grasps Dean's outstretched hand, and he blinks rapidly looking toward her. Unabashed terror and confusion is warring on his face. "Dean, you're okay. Look at me."
It takes a second. "M-Mom?" he whispers. Mary nods, but her back is to Jack, so he can't see what her expression is. Dean is staring into her face, his eyes moving across it rapidly as if he's trying to sort through something mentally.
"You're safe, it's okay," Mary promises. "You're safe. Michael's gone. Look at me."
"I'm fine, Samuel," Rowena is grumbling, and Jack's gaze shifts from the Winchester to the witch. She's sitting up with Sam's help, looking pale and gray, her lips completely bloodless. Her body is trembling. However much she wants to shove Sam off, it's obvious that she needs his help. Sam gets her to her feet before Castiel grasps her forearm and guides her toward the table. There Rowena slumps in the other chair and doesn't look like she could move if her life depended on it.
"Where...where…what?" Dean's brow pulls together, and he looks around the room. His green eyes are piercing as they sweep across everything, his body drawing in on itself as if he's trying to make himself as small as possible.
And Jack breathes out.
Fresh tears build in his eyes.
Because for the first time since Dean showed up as Michael's meatsuit, for the first time since Lucifer was killed, since we had a deal! Jack feels as if Dean is seeing them. Not looking through them, not staring into something else, but truly seeing them.
Dean's gaze lingers on Jack, his eyes narrowing as if confused, and all Jack can do is offer a weak grimace in response, then Dean's gaze is moving away. First to Castiel, whom he stares at for long seconds with something like pain in his expression, Rowena, and then, at last, Sam.
Sam meets the gaze with equal force, and Jack watches as, for the first time in weeks, Sam...deflates. He looks small. Relief makes the hard edges in his features drop, his face relaxing and the tension replaced with exhaustion.
Dean's face closes off. He pulls his hand-smeared with whatever Rowena put on him-away from Mary. His eyes jump over the room again warily, as if looking for something. Waiting for something. He thinks this is a trap.
"Hey," Mary says. Dean's eyes jump to her. "It's okay. You're okay, I promise. Michael is gone."
He blinks at her, lips pressed together tightly.
Sam moves toward them slowly, limping and staggering, looking one wrong foot placement from going down entirely. He stops in front of the side of the bed beside Mary. Jack watches as Dean tracks the movements with his eyes. He draws back slightly as his brother comes closer.
"Dean," Sam says, sounding impossibly young. "Hey. You're good, I promise. It's safe." He reaches out and grasps Dean's wrist. Dean's entire body clenches up as if expecting Sam to strike him. He doesn't relax, his face tight. Sam recognizes this and lets him go, but Dean's coat is smeared with blood where Sam touched him.
What the-?
"Sam," Mary inhales.
Sam ignores her. Turning his palm face-up to Dean. Even from this distance, Jack can see that it's glistening from blood. Oh, god, that's disgusting. Jack swallows compulsively. Sam dug his nails into his palms until they bled. Sam says, his voice soft, "This is real, I promise. Stone number one, remember?"
The words mean nothing to Jack.
They do, however, seem to mean something to Dean, because the elder Winchester carefully reaches out with tentative fingers to Sam's palm. Dean winces as their skin makes contact, then carefully studies the wound across Sam's hand. Dull recognition sparks in his eyes and he reaches his hand out to grasp Sam's forearm.
Sam's shoulders drop in relief.
"Bitch," Dean whispers, sounding exhausted.
"Jerk," Sam says, and laughs a little, even though it's not funny. "God, it's so good to see you."
The two brothers linger for a moment, as if waiting for the other to play the next move, then Dean looks away and pulls Sam closer to him. The two embrace, arms an iron band around one another. Fingers digging into shoulder blades, Dean's face tight with tension and relief, a mirror, Jack's certain, of Sam's, it looks more painful than comforting, but the two of them linger there for nearly a minute.
Then Sam pulls back, and the two of them look away from each other for a few seconds. Dean clears his throat. "What...what happened?" Dean asks. His gaze lands on Jack again, like looking at Jack is a compulsion he can't resist. Jack feels ashamed of the way that the gaze makes him want to crawl inside of himself.
You have to understand, Michael's voice whispers in his head, a memory just as painful as the event itself, this is for your own benefit.
"What's the last thing that you remember?" Sam says in answer to Dean's question.
Dean wets his lips, "Not much. There was...Michael and…" His jaw tightens, his eyes flickering with ghosts. "Other things. I remember him talking to me, I think? I don't know. God, it's all so jumbled."
And yet, Jack doesn't say, but he can see the way that Dean's averting his gaze and how rigid he's holding himself. I think you know more than you're saying you do.
Castiel moves toward them slowly and stands on Sam's right. Jack's not at an angle where he can see the seraph's expression, but Dean exhales a soft "hey, Cas," and Castiel reaches out and grasps his forearm warmly. His pale skin looks almost ghostly against Dean's black coat.
"Welcome back," Castiel murmurs, voice rough.
Jack sees Dean's body strain for a moment as if he's trying to pull Castiel down for a hug, but Castiel remains upright, rigid, and quickly releases Dean's hand to back away. And there Sam's hand goes, Jack watches with dark amusement and sadness, reaching out to grasp Castiel's elbow to steady him. As always, neither of them seem aware that it's happening.
Mary sighs softly.
Dean's gaze glances toward the table, where Rowena is sneering at the sight of them with longing in her eyes. "Sentiment." She scoffs, turning away.
"Hi to you, too," Dean mutters, shifting on the bed as if he finds it uncomfortable to be sitting with so many people looking down on him. Dean looks toward Jack again, and then the inevitable question finally pops out. "Kid, what the hell happ...end…?" and Jack watches as realization slowly dawns in his eyes. His face pales and he clenches his fists as if to hide them. Dean swears heavily, squeezing his eyes shut and swallowing thickly.
"That was me," he says, quietly. "Oh, god, Jack…"
Regret. He's regretful. He doesn't agree with Michael's decision. Something in Jack's chest releases.
"It's okay," Jack answers. The words feel tight.
Dean's face crumples. He buries his palms into his eyes, digging fingers into his scalp like his fingernails are claws. "Son of a bitch," Dean breathes out raggedly, sounding like he's trying not to scream. A ragged noise escapes him, sort of like a hoarse mewl. His breaths begin to pick up speed, the onslaught for a panic attack.
Damn it. Jack didn't mean to make this worse.
"Hey, hey, hey," Sam's voice is gentle and he reaches out, clasping Dean's forearms. Physical contact, Jack knows, is often one of the best ways to help with the episodes. But this isn't one of those times.
Dean jerks back bodily, his entire body going rigid. The elder Winchester makes a sound like his lungs are being torn up his throat. Sam doesn't let go, but it doesn't matter, because Dean scrambles toward the edge of the bed and throws up.
Then he falls inside of himself in a panic attack.
000o000
Once Sam has calmed Dean down enough that the Winchester can breathe, Dean retreats to the bathroom without a word. His eyes are haunted and his stance is almost...jittery. Jack feels relief wash through him when he realizes that he can see the absence of Michael in Dean's stance. Dean holds himself like he's expecting a knife between the shoulders. Michael wasn't afraid. Dean is.
Mary makes to get the supplies to clean up the pile of sick, but Rowena waves her hand and magics it away without a word. Her lips are pushed together tightly and she's looking at the bathroom door with something Jack might label concern.
Sam rakes a hand through his hair and blows out a breath that sounds like it comes from his soul.
Castiel's posture wavers a fraction, and he stares off into the middle distance, rolling his shoulders.
It takes a few minutes for them to settle into anything that pretends at normalcy. Sam fusses over Rowena, who pretends to be annoyed by the attention but obviously isn't. Mary, as has become her habit of retreat, goes to pick up food.
Castiel takes a seat beside Jack on the couch, looking ready to collapse. He's pale and sweaty, looking as bad as Rowena does, if not worse.
"How are you doing?" Castiel asks.
Jack shifts. He's uncomfortable and his muscles have begun to ache from laying down for so long, but he's pretty sure that if he moved, he'd pass out. He shrugs, wincing only a little at the abdominal strain. "Okay."
Castiel smiles tightly, "Are you in any pain?"
Yes.
"Not really," Jack says. "Just uncomfortable."
"Hm." Castiel reaches out, laying a hand on Jack's forehead. His fingers are cool to the touch. "Your fever has gone down considerably. Both of these are good signs. When the swelling goes down, I'll see if there's anything my grace can do."
That is a terrible idea. The thought strikes him sharply, and Jack presses his lips together, wanting to say as much. But he doesn't. Because it feels like it would be rude. "Cas," Jack says after a hesitation. Castiel's gaze snaps back to him, stopping the stare off into the middle distance. "Are you okay? You don't...you don't seem well."
Castiel smiles. A false, plastic thing that only makes Jack angry. Tell me the truth! For once! But Castiel isn't privy to his thoughts, and says simply, "I'm just a little tired. Michael healed my injuries, but took the energy for doing so from me."
Then why, Jack wants to snarl, can't you sit upright? Why are you moving so slowly? This isn't just exhaustion. You're in pain and you show it when you don't think anyone is looking. You're miserable and you look ill. That's not just exhaustion. What the hell is wrong with you?
Castiel blinks several times. "If there's nothing I can do for you…"
Jack frowns. You could lay down. Or say what's wrong. Or do literally anything but wait until you collapse. He sighs, and mutters, "I'm okay. You should get some sleep."
Castiel smiles humorlessly, but gets to his feet and moves the grand total of about fifteen feet to sit on the bed instead. He looks like he's struggling not to fall back onto the mattress and slip into a coma.
Jack closes his eyes and rubs at them viciously.
It's a funny thing, perspective. Jack knows better than to imagine that Dean's mere presence alone will fix things now, but he still wishes that someone else would take care of all of this. Maybe that's what his hope was. It wasn't that Dean himself would be here, just that someone would come in and make sure that everyone was taken care of.
But he doesn't know if that will happen.
Dean himself is...he's quieter than Jack was expecting. He didn't say a word when he was panicking. It's as if everything that made him Dean was drained away, leaving behind only an empty shell bearing the name, but not understanding the meaning. He was so quiet.
Jack wishes he knew what to do. What to say. All he feels is helpless.
Which isn't an unfamiliar feeling. Why would it be? It's not like he's offered a lot of contribution to anything.
Jack falls into a doze. He wakes up when Dean exits the shower to the smell of cheap soap and steam rolling from the bathroom. He watches through half-lids as Dean tosses Michael's coat onto the floor beside the bed and studiously avoids Sam's gaze. The clothing he's in is Sam's, taken from a hastily put together go-bag that was stuffed into the Impala. They're a little big on him, but he looks more human dressed in clothing that has actually been cleaned within the last fortnight.
"Dean," Sam says.
Dean flinches, then turns to face him. He folds his arms across his chest. The shadows from the setting sun make his face look skeletal and emaciated. He looks awful. Jack knows that angel vessels are held in this...status like carbonite in Star Wars. They don't age, they don't feel hungry, their hearts pump much slower than normal humans and so on. Castiel's vessel has been thirty-four years old for almost nine years. Dean should have, theoretically, been completely fine. There's no reason for him to have lost weight or look like he got hit by a bus.
Why, though? What did Michael do?
"What, Sam?" Dean sighs when Sam doesn't immediately say anything.
Rowena gets up to her feet and grabs her bag, looking between the Winchesters. The color has come back to her face and though she still looks washed out, her balance is steady. And god, Jack can't even begin to imagine how much power runs through her veins if she can recover from what was obviously such an intense spell so quickly.
"Do me a favor boys," Rowena says, slinging her bag over one shoulder, obviously preparing to leave.
"Yeah, sure. What?" Sam asks.
Rather than say anything else to Sam, Rowena unexpectedly looks directly at Castiel. Her gaze is piercing and filled with something like understanding and...is that pity? "I know what's happened to you. I can see it."
Jack's eyes slide toward the seraph.
Castiel stiffens, looking more awake than he has since Michael was here. Rowena studies the seraph long and hard. "You aren't well."
"And you're concerned?" Castiel's voice is practically oozing sarcasm.
"I am," Rowena admits. "You haven't given me a reason not to be."
"I'm fine." Castiel says through gritted teeth.
Rowena smiles with teeth. "Obviously." She looks toward Sam, "Samuel, keep me updated. I have matters I have to attend to." Her voice sharpens, and she looks at all of them. "Boys," she says with a dip of her head, and then she's gone from one blink to the next. There's no swirling magical wind or a loud pop, it's like she simply slid from one room to another.
There's a very long, very uncomfortable beat.
Then Dean slowly turns around to face Castiel, looking exhausted and like the last thing he wants to deal with is this. He just woke up less than an hour ago. The most Dean probably wants to do is go back to bed. Maybe eat something. Eating seems to bring Dean comfort, and he could use the food.
Jack shifts on the couch, pulling one of his legs up. His chest twinges with discomfort, and Jack wishes, not for the first time today, that he could sit up.
"What the hell is she talking about?" Dean asks.
Castiel averts his gaze. "Nothing. I think that there's-"
"Cas." Dean doesn't shout the word. He doesn't raise his voice. It comes out somewhere between a sigh and a whisper. Dean's arms tighten around himself as if he's trying to hide behind them.
"I..." Castiel's jaw tightens.
"It's your wings, isn't it?" Sam asks quietly. He's getting to his feet now, coming to stand beside his brother. "You haven't said what happened after Michael...healed you. You wouldn't even let me look at it."
Castiel's expression goes tight.
"He gave you your wings?" Dean repeats, looking between the two. His expression has twisted up, something almost like relief there. Happy. He's happy. For Castiel. "Oh my god, that's-that's amazing! Cas, I can't even imagine-"
"Amazing?" Castiel snarls. The warmth it normally carries has been drained away, leaving instead only a cold, hardened, empty nothingness. "Yes. That's amazing. Absolutely. It was the kindest and most gracious thing he could have ever conceived of doing."
Sam's head tilts a fraction. Sam and Dean share a confused look. "...Cas?" Sam prods.
Castiel, painfully, achingly, gets to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height. He's pale, worn, and shaking. Jack's hands clench apprehensively. Oh, god, please don't start shouting at each other again.
He would sell his soul for them not to shout at each other.
"I don't understand," Sam says carefully. "We spent months looking for this sort of...miracle after Metatron, why-"
"Because what he did wasn't mercy!" Castiel's not yelling, but it's close. "I can't, I can't…oh, father help me."
"Cas," Dean's voice has gentled.
Castiel's face twists, scrunching in pain. "He…he…" Castiel shakes his head, at a loss for words, but desperate to prove some sort of point. "Just look for yourself."
There's a sound like ripping flesh and snapping bone before Castiel throws his hands out from his sides, outstretched as if in mockery of wings. And a moment later, a pair of disgusting, blood-soaked black...lumps fall to the floor at his feet. Bent at crooked angles and looking more like gatherings of hole-riddled fabric lay Castiel's wings.
And Castiel doesn't seem to give a damn about how painful they look. He grasps a fistful of each wing with one hand and raises them up from his sides. Outstretched by his hands, Jack can see them for the first time. They're big. Some of the black feathers would be easily the length of Jack's entire torso. They're at least twenty-five or thirty feet in width from tip to tip, but Castiel can only hold up a little of it. Soaked with blood and ruffled until Jack can see patches of skin, they look ancient and broken.
"Son of a bitch," Dean whispers.
"Oh, god, Cas," Sam breathes.
Jack makes a pained sound in his throat.
Castiel drops the wings and flinches as it stretches muscles across his back. Jack feels his throat close. Oh my god. Those are attached to him. Those are his wings. Those are his. Jack remembers Castiel's wings from before. They were bones and some desperate feathers with clumps of skin, nothing impressive. It was haunting, a skeleton attached to a living creature. But this-
This is different.
It's worse.
"They're broken, and I am broken," Castiel whispers. His face is pale and he's shaking. Whatever energy it took to pull his wings from the ether left nothing for him to stand with. He collapses forward, only to be caught between Sam and Dean, who carefully lower him to sit back on his heels, kneeling in front of him, their hands on his upper arms and shoulders.
Jack slowly, painfully, sits up. The world rotates around him in dizzying speed for long seconds before it settles. He wants to reach out and grasp Castiel's arm, but he can't move. His tongue feels stiff and swollen, crowded with too many words.
"I'm so tired," Castiel murmurs. His face is shoved against Dean's shoulder, his eyes closed. "I can't...I can't…"
"Just…" Sam doesn't seem to have words.
"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean whispers, guilt edged into the creases of his face. His eyes close and he looks like he wants to hit something. "This is my fault."
"Michael did this." Castiel protests. "This had nothing to do with you."
Dean shakes his head, "I should've…"
"Can we help?" Sam asks, looking over the wings, his right hand hovering over a wing as if he's unsure whether or not to touch it. It's covered in this weird black...sludge thing. It looks familiar. Where…?
The bathroom. There was black smeared on the sides of the sink.
"No." Castiel says and begins to cry. "No. I'm broken." His sobs turn ugly, fierce, and desperate as he breaks. "I'm broken, I'm broken…"
Author's Note:
Next chapter: I think it's great I keep putting this here when none of us take it seriously. Ahahaha. Um. Late...October, let's say.
But seriously, thank you so, so much for your support. 3