Author's Note:
Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, mention of non-con/rape, stronger language. Self-worth issues. Discussion of Kelly's suicide attempt.
Thank you so so so so so much for your support. I love you all!
"And I don't wanna be a monster in the making,
I don't wanna be more bitter than sweet,
I don't know how to be just standing by blankly,
Not getting angry,"
-Lola Blanc, "Angry Too"
Chapter Eight:
Castiel wails and sobs himself into an exhausted sleep.
Dean had eventually moved so he was leaning against the bed, Castiel held tightly against his chest. Sam, on the other side of Castiel, had gone between softly playing with Castiel's hair or tracing slow, light circles along Castiel's back, mindful of tender areas, but nothing had seemed to help. Castiel was beyond the point of comfort, and Jack knew that. The Winchesters knew that.
It didn't stop them from trying, though.
Jack hadn't been able to get himself to stand up. He wasn't sure what he could do that Sam and Dean weren't, and he didn't believe that he would make it anyway. The distance between the couch and the bed was maybe fifteen feet but to Jack it felt like miles. Instead, he'd watched quietly as Sam and Dean had whispered quietly to Castiel, and Castiel had let himself collapse against them as if he intended to crawl inside of them and hide there. The amount of trust that the seraph was displaying was nothing short of breathtaking.
It hurt and Jack doesn't know why.
After a while, the pained tension in Castiel's shoulders had stilled as Castiel fell asleep. His wings were a giant, bloody mess on top of Sam and Dean's legs, like some sort of wet blanket. It smelled like blood and ash. They would twitch every so often, causing Castiel to shudder with pain, and Sam and Dean would reassure him with a touch or soft words.
And it hurts.
Jack doesn't know what this feeling is. Jealousy, anger, frustration? But it makes him feel disgusted with himself in a way he hasn't since he first learned of his misplaced trust in his father. Desperate for something else to do, Jack remembers that Mary is coming back, and he gets to his feet slowly. The Winchesters don't need him. Neither does Castiel. That much is obvious.
He carefully makes his way out of the motel room, mindful of himself, and closes the door. He feels winded and nauseous from the journey, which only annoys him. Look at him. Can't even make it ten steps before feeling the need to collapse. He truly is something, isn't he?
Jack sinks down to the wall beside the door, letting his legs stretch out in front of him like a dropped puppet. He clasps his hands on his stomach, applying gentle pressure, and that seems to help with the pain, but not the sudden itchiness. It's not exactly warm outside, and Jack misses Castiel's coat. The jacket he stole from Sam is warm, but not enough.
Trying to blank his mind of any thoughts, Jack looks out at the parking lot.
There's a grand total of three cars, all of which are probably employees. Why would anyone want to come to St. Mary's? There's nothing in Kansas but corn, dust, and broken people.
The longer Jack sits out here, his butt going numb and his entire back beginning to stiffen up, the more he realizes that he absurdly, somehow, misses the chaos of the Bunker. He misses Bobby's sniping and snarking and the chaos that had felt so intense it was hard to breathe. He misses the pain and the intensity of the emotions because that is better than this emptiness.
He must be crazy.
How can he miss that?
He left to find Dean so he wouldn't have to face that anymore.
But there—there it felt like he was doing something. Whether that was looking for Dean, training, or hiding from people, there was never an opportunity to stop and think. It was always go, go, go and Jack longs for that distraction. Sitting with his thoughts hurts. His head is so heavy. He hates this emptiness.
He was supposed to be able to help. But Jack can never help.
Castiel isn't the broken one.
Jack is.
The Impala pulls up in the parking space immediately in front of the door, and Jack watches dully as Mary gets out of the sedan. She looks worse, her eyes strangely red and slightly puffy in the late afternoon light. She was crying. Mary doesn't have any food. Wherever she went, it was to lick her wounds in private. Mary always does that. Jack doesn't think he's ever seen her cry before.
Jack feels like he's intruding on something, but he always does, and God, why doesn't anyone just tell him that he doesn't belong in this damn family? Why does everyone have to pretend that they even tolerate him? It would be easier if they just stopped. Because Jack knows. He knows that he was only filling the absence of Dean, or Mary, and now that they're back, and the entire family is back together, Jack has no hole to fill. He's nothing. He doesn't belong here.
That.
That's why it hurt so much.
Because watching Sam and Dean hold Castiel close, Jack had known that they wanted the seraph there. They would have done anything to keep him close. If the Winchesters and Castiel are the four wheels of a car, Jack is an awkward, broken-down trailer being dragged behind them like a bumpy sled, dramatic sparks and all.
Mary visibly composes herself before walking over to him. "What are you doing up?" her voice is calm but clogged. The tears must have been vicious. Why didn't he do anything to help her? Why can't he help anyone? Why, why, why—?
Jack licks his dry lips but finds himself unable to talk.
Mary frowns, her eyes weary. Her entire posture is slumped and her face is pinched as if she's barely holding herself back from screaming or breaking down again. She doesn't want to deal with this. Doesn't want to deal with Jack. Because Jack is exhausting. No one wants to see how the sled is doing if the whole car is running fine. He wishes he had let Kelly kill them both.
"Cas isn't doing well," Jack admits with effort. The words feel sharp as they pass up his dry throat.
Mary's eyes close. She breathes out very slowly, flexing her fingers out. Jack feels himself tense, wondering if she's going to start shouting. What if she hits him? That would be so much worse. She's never hit him, none of the Winchesters or Castiel have, but he's seen demons do it. He's seen monsters do it. They get angry and they hit and hit and hit.
"How so?" Mary asks.
"He was screaming," Jack whispers. He feels like a child, admitting some wrongdoing. Mary's eyes pop back open and stare at him, so Jack rushes on to explain, "He's not...his wings...they're hurting him. He was in so much pain."
Even the memory of it makes Jack's limbs feel weak and shaky.
I'm broken, I'm broken…
"Damn it," Mary whispers. She swears under her breath again, looking like she's reached her emotional limit. Fresh tears spill down her cheeks and she wipes at them angrily with the back of her sleeve. Jack feels worse. He made her cry. He should have just...just not said anything. Or something better. He just messes things up. What is wrong with him?
Mary inhales raggedly, exhaling in a gust. She draws her shoulders together and moves toward the motel room door, looking like she's about to enter a den full of massive spiders. Mary slips through without another word to Jack, and he watches her go. Tension builds up in his chest until he can't breathe, looping in great knots around his throat. It feels like watching her go breaks something in him.
Jack grips his hair, shakes, and digs his hands into his chest until the pain makes him want to scream. But he's not thinking, and Jack would sell his soul not to think. No one comes out for him, and they shouldn't, but Jack feels desperate to talk to anyone. As if mere conversation alone will fix everything. It won't, he knows that logically, but he's spiraling into a dark, endless pit, and he doesn't know how to get himself to stop.
He has his phone, and Jack slowly pulls it from his pocket. The list of contacts is small, and people he would normally talk to—Sam, Mary, or Castiel—are all occupied. His next go-to would be Rowena, who has proven to be a surprisingly adept listener, but she's busy with whatever her occult thing was. Jack doesn't have any friends his fake age and feels that acutely suddenly. All he has is a list of broken adults.
Oh, well.
You can't find anybody to talk to.
Nobody would have wanted to listen to you anyway.
But stubbornness is an inherited trait, and Jack doesn't stop. There has to be someone. Why can't I find someone? He scrolls until he reaches a name and his entire body goes stiff. There's this clenching sort of desperation, along with relief. He can call her. He can talk. There would be something, but it also feels like a betrayal, because he's revealing their problems and why can't he do anything, what is wrong with him, he should be able to handle this on his own, and instead he's dumping all his problems onto people who don't care and wouldn't care if God himself showed up and told them to and this is just a mess he's a mess why can't he why why why why why
Jack lifts a shaking hand to the number and presses call.
Damn damn damn damn
WhydidIdothatwhatwasIthinkingshouldhavenononono
Jack chews on his fist, setting the phone on his knee, but he's committed and he can't stop now. He rocks, and the pain makes him dizzy and doesn't help his nausea. He thinks he really will be sick all over this dirty, disgusting sidewalk.
No no no no no no no no no no no no
I'm broken, I'm broken
That was me, Oh, God, Jack…
I forgot that my mom went on a mind-controlled killing spree across the country
You don't know that Sam and Lucifer spent almost eighteen centuries together? In the Cage?
You have to understand this is for your own benefit
How could you do this to me?
...or I start carving up those pretty eyes of yours…
I think he's going to kill me
Lucifer loved Sam and not me?
There's something not quite right about that boy—
I can't do this anymore, the thought is desperate and wild, but sincere. I can't do this. I can't. I can't—NO more. NO MORE! Make it stop, oh, God make it stop. Mom, help me. Please, I can't do this anymore. I want it to stop, I can't, I CAN'T—
"Hello?" Jody Mills voice cuts through Jack's darkening thoughts, and he twitches, blinking rapidly. He gasps in pain and Jody's tone levels into something concerned and flat. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Jack?"
She does know who I am.
She would. They've texted. It's not like Jack is an unknown figure to her.
"J-J-Jody…" He moans. His voice sounds like a congested, weak, pained mewl. It's embarrassing, and his cheeks flush. His palms start to sweat. He feels something crawling up his throat, hot and painful. "Shouldn't...shouldn't have called. Sorry."
He moves to hang up, his shaking hand above the end-call. "No, no, Jack!" Jody interrupts the action, her words quick, but still calm. Jack stops, his hand hovering, his stomach smashed somewhere inside his ribcage, fighting with his heart for space.
"Jack, kiddo," Jody's voice is soft, and it makes fresh tears leak down his eyes, "what's going on? What's wrong?"
And Jack means to tell her, I'm sorry. I'll call back later, I don't mean to be an inconvenience. Or, we found Michael and he hurt us, but we have Dean back, or even the Winchesters hate me cause I broke everyone but what comes out is none of that. Instead, "I wish I had let my mom kill me," is what comes tumbling from his tongue instead. And he doesn't know why. He and Jody have spoken, but though he's always thought of Jody as warm, distant would be the adjective before that one.
Mortified, Jack makes an awkward, pained sound in his throat. "Oh, my god. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm making a mess and I have to—I have to—" a wheeze cuts off the rest of that sentence. Panic is still wracking through his body and making him shudder and stumble through basic human functions.
"Jack," Jody's voice has lowered with concern, and he can hear her moving on the other end of the line like she's pacing or sitting down. "Don't hang up, okay? What's going on? Did something happen?"
Jack shakes his head, then he buries it into his hands. "I broke every one." He gasps, beginning to cry again. "I broke them! All I wanted to do was help, and I-I-I can't—I can't—I don't want to do this anymore!"
Jody is quiet, and Jack panics, trying to figure out what he said wrong. "Are you by yourself right now?" Jody asks after a moment.
What?
What does that have to do with anything?
"Yeah—yeah, kind of?" Jack admits, "I'm out-outside the motel room. Everyone else—everyone—they're, everyone else is inside. They're...Cas isn't...Cas isn't...he's. He's bad, and I...If I hadn't...If I,"
Jody shifts again, settling, obviously realizing this conversation is going to be longer than a few seconds, and Jack feels worse. How could he just call and dump all their emotional drama onto Jody? Why is he so messed up? He's so selfish. He should have thought about this before he called. But he didn't. He never does. He's just like his father.
"I'm sorry." Jack whispers.
"Hey, don't apologize. You aren't doing anything wrong." Jody says immediately. There's a hard edge to her tone, and it only makes him want to apologize again. He bites on his tongue, quiet for long enough that Jody gently prods, "Why don't you get me up to speed, okay? Here's what I know: I know that you ran away to find Michael a few days ago, and Sam and Cas were getting pretty desperate to find you. I'm guessing that they did find you if you know where Cas is."
"Y-yeah," Jack mumbles. He wipes at his face. His chest is burning. He wants to lie down or collapse. Jack fumbles and curses his way through a clipped version of the following events, explaining what happened to Michael, then Dean, and how it affected them. How Castiel is in too much pain to move and Dean can barely function, Sam is running on two percent instead of his normal twenty-five, and Mary has breached her limitations. He hurries on to explain that most of this is his fault, not wanting Jody to be angry with the Winchesters or Castiel.
Much to his surprise, Jody doesn't just stop there and go "well, that sounds terrible, I'm sorry" then hangs up the phone. Jody backtracks through the entire event and makes Jack talk about it in more detail. Jack admits to her how terrified he was when Michael was torturing him, and how awful things have gotten since. Jody asks him about Castiel, and Jack tells her that Castiel is in too much pain to be awake now, and last he saw, Dean and Sam were trying to keep him resting.
Jody talks to him for a long time. Jack eventually finds himself calming down enough that his entire body has stopped shaking and he's no longer crying. He's cold, but he's not dizzy or nauseous, and for the first time in days, his head actually feels semi-clear. He feels...he feels okay and it's a strange, alien feeling after so long of the tension on the Bunker and the self-destruction of the road.
Eventually, Jody connects the circle, "Jack," she says, and her voice has been like a warm, comforting hug the entire time they've talked, "what did you mean when you said you wish your mom had killed you?"
Jack flinches, rubbing at his face. He feels tired, and sore in a way he can't describe. "When...when my mom," Jack hesitates, but Jody is patient. Jack has found it hard to talk, and Jody hasn't gotten frustrated like Jack privately thinks she should have. "When my mom was pregnant with me, she tried to kill herself to stop me from being born. I, um, I healed her."
Jody makes a sound in her throat, pained and sad. "Oh, my god. I'm so sorry, Jack. You...that's terrible. How the hell do you know about that?"
Jack plays with the edge of his jeans. "She would think about it and talk about it. It was when she realized she wanted to keep me."
"God, that's terrible." Jody breathes. "She'd rather die then...Why the hell…? You shouldn't know that. God, you shouldn't know about that. Why?"
"I'm...I'm not a good person, Sheriff Mills," Jack admits in a whisper. "I think she could see that. I tricked her somehow when I didn't let us die."
"Jack," Jody sounds pained. "No, you didn't. You are a good person. Sam has told me enough that I know that. You deserve to be alive. I wish you knew that."
Jack is quiet.
The words sound…fake. Distant. The sort of thing that Jack hopes desperately is true, but never is. And he does want it to be true. He wishes that he knew he had a right to be alive, but he doesn't. He breaks things. It's in his nature. He broke his family. He never should have trusted Lucifer. He never should have gone after Michael. He makes things worse.
"I think you all need some help," Jody says after a long minute, "none of you are functioning. I'm going to call Sam later and tell him to bring you up here."
Jack blanches, "What?"
"You wouldn't be intruding. I don't have a lot of space, but I have enough. None of you are helping each other like this, okay?" Jody asks. Jack agrees, but that doesn't mean he wants to haul them all up to South Dakota and dump them on her doorstep and plead with her to fix everything.
"Jody, we—"
"No buts. This isn't a suggestion. You're coming to South Dakota." Jody's words are final. She's stating a fact, not a suggestion. The sun will rise tomorrow, there are angels in heaven, the Winchesters and co are going to South Dakota.
Jack slumps a little. "Thank you," he whispers. "I don't know what to do."
"You don't have to," Jody assures him. "And anytime. Thank you for calling me."
000o000
After they end the call, Jack stays outside until well after the sun has gone down, too exhausted and in too much pain to do anything else. If he tried to move, he's pretty sure that he would collapse. He dozes, hand clenched around his phone, head tipped back against the rough wall.
Eventually, Sam comes out, and upon seeing Jack, he slowly sits down beside him with a grimace. Jack glances at him, remembers his knee, then looks away.
"Cas okay?" he asks.
Sam sighs, then shrugs, as if he's trying to be more nonchalant about it than he really feels. "Not...not really? He's still asleep. Dean and Mary are with him right now." Sam brushes at the lower half of his face in an anxious compulsion. "We're just...just not really sure what to do about it yet. When he wakes up, hopefully, he can give us some direction."
"I don't think Cas knows what to do either," Jack says, playing with the end of his jeans.
Sam pauses. "Why do you say that?"
"He would have already done it." Jack points out, thinking about the bathroom's sink. He scratches at the jean material, rubbing the seam between his thumb and first finger. "There was all that...stuff, in the sink. It was on his wings, too. I think he was...I don't know. Maybe he was trying to clean it."
"In the sink." Sam repeats, but he doesn't want an answer, because that's not a question, it's a realization. He exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He mutters something under his breath that Jack doesn't quite catch and doesn't think he would have understood anyway. He's eighty-percent sure it was in Enochian.
Jack looks down at the sidewalk, tracing a long crack with his eyes. He doesn't say anything. He's exhausted and he doesn't want to talk anymore.
"Jack," Sam says after a minute, "are you okay?"
Jack looks up at him. Sam's face is blank, pinched carefully around his eyes, but he's trying so hard to remain neutral that it's obvious he's worried. Strangely, Jack feels the urge to laugh. What does he think? Honestly? None of them are okay. This isn't some "who has the best coping skill" game, it's a massacre.
No.
Jack isn't okay.
But he's terrified to say that because then Sam will blame himself.
Jack shrugs, looking away. He thinks that something must have shown on his face because Sam shifts to face him better. "I'm...sorry. I know that these last few weeks have been difficult and we haven't been as available as we should have. Things have just…" Sam trails as if he can't find a word to fill in the blank. He inhales, bracing himself, "I know that I'm not okay."
He's—
Sam's...just…
Admitting that? Outloud. To him?
Jack stares. He doesn't mean to and knows that it probably doesn't help Sam feel any desire to be more open or honest about it, but he stares and he waits because this feels like some sort of joke. Long seconds pass in silence before Jack can finally pull his tongue down from the roof of his mouth. "I'm not okay, either." He admits in a whisper.
"Yeah?" Sam asks, "You...You want to talk—?"
"No." Jack interrupts quickly. He licks his lips nervously, "No."
Sam's mouth twists and he rubs absently at bandages wrapped around his left palm. Jack hadn't realized they were there until Sam drew attention to it, but he remembers the blood all up and down his hand when he grasped Dean's hours ago. (Was that really only today?)
The Winchester shifts again, hand coming up to his stomach, grimacing, "Jody called me," he admits after another silence, "she seemed pretty worried about you." Jack shrugs, refusing to divulge the nature of their conversation. Admitting that he had a panic episode and sobbed to some woman he barely knows isn't something he wants to admit to. It's embarrassing. He was being so dramatic. He's not even entirely sure if Jody told Sam that they talked. He doesn't know her well enough to guess.
Sam continues, something between relief and frustration in his tone, "She said we're to be in Sioux Falls in two days or she's hunting us down herself. Are you okay with that?"
Is he okay with that?
Why does Sam now care about his input?
This time, for no desirable reason, Jack does laugh. He looks at Sam, his mouth twisted up into something bitter, and snaps, "Why would you care? I'm not Mary, or your brother, or Cas. You don't care about my opinion, or me. The only reason you're out here is because Sheriff Mills told you to be!"
And something dark, wet, and hot surges in Jack's chest as Sam lurches back from his anger. There's a wariness that has seeped into his features as if he's not seeing Jack but something else, and all Jack can think, all he can feel is good.
At least you're looking at me.
"What?" Sam breathes. His voice sounds tight like he can't breathe right. "What are you talking about?"
Jack shakes his head, burying his hands into his face. Absurdly, he feels the urge to cry and hates himself for it. Anger is supposed to be safe. It's supposed to be numbing. Jack can always hide from other emotions with anger, and now it's failing him. Slipping out of his desperate grasp and leaving him with an empty sadness.
Jack deflates despite his best effort to hold onto the anger in a stranglehold. "I don't want to do this. I can't do this. All we keep doing is hurting each other, and I'm tired." He looks up at Sam, preparing to say something else, but the words die in his throat. The hunter's face is cautious and empty. His body is tense like he's waiting for a blow.
He's afraid of me.
He thinks of Nick, sitting at that table, alone and no longer sober, looking into his glass to stare at his reflection. You see him in me. I know you do. Everyone does. I don't know where he ends and I begin anymore. Sam isn't looking at him. He's looking at Jack and he's seeing his father, and the idea makes Jack sick to his stomach.
"Sam, I—" Jack starts, but he doesn't know what to say.
"Maybe we should get some rest," Sam interrupts in a burst, clearly wanting to avoid the topic at all costs. Jack feels the numbness sink back in, sucking any remains of feeling from him. He nods because that's what Sam wants him to do. "Dean and Mary already agreed to Jody's idea, I just wanted to make sure you were on board. We'll leave in the morning, okay?"
"Yeah," Jack says numbly.
Sam gets to his feet, his entire body still rigid, and he helps Jack up. His grip is a little too rough and painfully tight, but Jack doesn't say a word. He's not sure he hasn't earned it. Sam helps him back into the motel room.
Jack's eyes sweep over the space, looking for Castiel. The angel is on the bed now, wings curled around him, looking like demented, stiff blankets. It still smells like blood and something else that Jack can't identify beyond "rotten." Dean is sitting on the ground beside the mattress, rolling a plastic water bottle between his hands, looking very far away. Mary is absent, but the bathroom door is closed, and if Jack strains, he can hear the sound of soft crying.
Jack's entire body tenses up, but there's nothing he can do except listen helplessly.
They're a mess.
Sam helps Jack onto the couch with as minimal contact as is necessary, then promptly moves toward the kitchen. He tries to get a glass of water with one of the motel's glasses, but his hands are shaking so badly he drops it twice, once on the counter, the second time in the sink. Sam just stops after the second attempt, breathing heavily, hands fisted around the edges of the counter and shoulders drawn up tightly.
If Dean hears, he doesn't indicate it.
Jack looks away from Sam. He's already messed up tonight. He can't help anybody. Castiel's coat is still tucked into the crease of the couch, so Jack forcefully pulls it free and buries himself beneath it. His chest aches to the point of tears and his lower back has stiffened to something truly impressive. He can't move his legs without wanting to cry out.
He breathes in the scent of Castiel and tries to remember happier times, but wonders if there really ever were any.
Every time I try to do something good, people get hurt.
000o000
Jack wakes up to the sound of Dean screaming. His body does a violent jerk, his voice stolen in a gasp of agony. It takes long seconds of forced breathing before he can even move. He turns as quickly as he can to face the motel room and sees that Sam is already crouched in front of Dean, gripping his shoulders and talking to him quietly.
Dean is shaking his head, gripping at his hair and violently shaking.
Jack can't see Mary.
Castiel is still passed out on the mattress.
"...look at me," Sam is whispering hurriedly to his sibling. "Look at me. You're safe. It's okay."
"Please, I'll do anything, please don't…" Dean whispers. "Please, please, please…"
"Hey, hey, hey," Sam's voice is just as low. He grips Dean's shoulders, trying to get him to focus. The gentle tone belies the hopelessness in Sam's expression. And Jack, like a coward, rolls back over. I'll just make it worse. He listens to Sam calm Dean down for what must be more than fifteen minutes, and the two of them talk quietly about nothing for another five before Sam convinces Dean to go to sleep.
The two of them are camped out on the floor beside Castiel. Jack still doesn't know where Mary is and doesn't hear any other movement to indicate she's even in the room. Dean's breathing eventually evens out into sleep, and so does Sam's.
Jack starts to doze, but Dean wakes up in the throes of another nightmare, and the adrenaline rush keeps him up.
Jack doesn't sleep again that night.
Neither, as far as Jack can tell, do Sam or Dean.
000o000
Castiel wakes up enough the next morning that Sam can shove a bottle of painkillers into his hands and explain the plan to go to South Dakota. Castiel seems like he understands about one out of every five words Sam says but downs the painkillers and nods. He does some sort of strange shoulder-rolling thing that sends his wings back into the ether, but his entire body is hunched over awkwardly, and it's obvious he's still in pain. Castiel can't even talk. When he tries to respond, a keening gasp is all that escapes instead.
Sam helps Castiel shrug on his trench coat to ease his shivers, then sends him outside to wait in the Impala. True to the state of how awful the seraph is feeling, Castiel doesn't protest. Jack learns then that Mary apparently slept in the car.
The tension in the air is thick and too painful to wade through, let alone try to talk. Everything is done in relative silence. Jack helps pack what he can, still feeling stiff and pained himself, and soon the motel room is empty of their belongings but stained with their blood and tears. Obvious signs of a fight are everywhere, and Castiel's wings have left deep black stains on the blanket and floor. It sort of looks like ash.
Jack grimaces, but angels don't have DNA, so if the police are called, they won't really have anything to go off of.
The black ash-sludge thing is also all over Sam and Dean's clothing, so Sam tosses more of his clothing at Dean. Sam shrugs back on the stained flannel, streaked with black and red in the shape of feathers and bone. It almost looks like it was an intentional design. Dean takes another quick shower before they leave, and eventually, they're finally ready to go.
Jack climbs into the car beside a panting, exhausted Castiel slumped against the window and waits as Sam does one final round through the room. He's limping bad enough that it's impossible to ignore now, and he doesn't look like he could make it more than a good fifteen feet before his leg gives out entirely. As he hobbles toward them, Jack can see the tight creases of pain in Sam's expression.
He waits for someone to say something about the injury, but nobody does. Not even Dean.
Sam climbs into the back seat beside Jack. Mary is driving with Dean in the passenger seat, and the three of them are squished into the back. It's not comfortable, but a far cry from unendurable. Jack will say, however, that normally physical contact is comforting, right now it feels like a punishment.
Jack's eyes feel raw and dry from lack of sleep, and somewhere after a breakfast all of them pick through or ignore entirely—Dean—Jack feels himself starting to nod off. Not wanting to attempt slumping against either of his fellow backseat passengers, he tries to shift so he can lean against the back seat, but it's uncomfortable and there's not enough legroom. His knee accidentally rams into Sam's broken one and Jack's sputtered apologies break the quiet for the first time in two hours. Sam assures him it's fine in a dead tone and returns to looking over something on his tablet.
This only makes Jack feel worse, so he stops trying to sleep, but eventually finds himself nodding off again anyway.
Castiel must get tired of watching his plight because his warm fingers grab around the back of Jack's head and pull him toward the seraph's sternum. Castiel's hand stays wrapped around Jack's shoulders, holding him close. Jack closes his eyes in relief, sagging his weight against the angel even though he knows he shouldn't. Castiel is in pain, but Jack is too, and all he wants is to be held. Castiel is warm against Jack's side.
Fresh tears spill down his cheeks when he realizes that Castiel smells largely of blood.
This is my fault.
But he doesn't move away even though he should.
Castiel doesn't talk. He's rigid and stiff and it's his fault. He shouldn't have dragged Castiel into this and just let Michael kill him. Jack's brain is half-dead from stress and the other half is rapidly falling into unconsciousness. He doesn't remember exactly, but he's pretty sure that the words, "m's'rry dad," slip out, but by that point, Jack is already asleep.
000o000
Jody greets them on the porch of her home, dressed in jeans and blue flannel on top of a white shirt, her short hair mussed. Her expression is serious, but her eyes are soft. She stares at their huddled, broken group with a knowing look, and Jack feels himself tense beneath her scrutiny. He's still only wearing Sam's jacket and no shirt. He hasn't changed his clothing in days and really needs some sort of a shower.
He's sure that all of them look like they just stumbled out of a battlefield.
Jody pops out her lips then sighs as if she hadn't expected anything less.
"Claire is staying with Alex for the next few days. I thought it might be a good idea if we had a little space," she explains in lieu of a greeting. She grabs a bag from Sam's hand and ushers them inside the house. "All of you are a fine pieces of work. Couches are free game, I've also got the guest bedroom made up. I'm ordering in. Should I get the first-aid kit out?"
Jody sets the bag down beside a couch, then stares at all of them. Jack swallows thickly. The house smells vaguely of cooking bread and women's perfume. It's a scent he can't recognize, but it reminds him vaguely of Kelly. He hasn't been here before, and the entire space feels awkward in a way he can't describe. It's not empty like the Bunker, it's...warm.
"We're fine, Jody," Sam assures.
"I'll get the first-aid kit," she says in answer. Her nose wrinkles and she jabs a finger into Sam's chest accusingly. "Have any of you bathed since you called me about Jack three days ago? You're all very ripe and my womanly nose can't take the strain. Shower. All of you. Please. Then we'll talk."
Sam rolls his eyes in answer to that, but nods in acquiescence and, apparently knowing his way around the house enough he doesn't need to ask for directions, disappears down a hallway. Jody's eyes search between them all, then she gestures to Mary. "You're next. I've got another shower upstairs, thank God for that. Claire and Alex always felt the need to shower at the same time."
Mary laughs weakly, but grabs her small backpack and disappears into another part of the house.
Jody directs the rest of them toward the living room, where Jack, Castiel, and Dean all sit rigidly on a single couch. Jody takes a seat on the coffee table in front of them, looking between them. For long seconds, Jack is terrified that she's going to launch into a heart-to-heart, but instead, the woman says, "Have any of you heard the story of how my new officer accidentally lit his desk on fire and destroyed evidence for three separate cases?"
None of them have, and Jody launches off onto the most ridiculous story Jack has ever heard. He's not entirely convinced it's all true, but there are enough details that he's wary that it is. By the time that Sam returns, hair damp and in a different pair of clothing, without long-sleeves, which looks strange, Jody has explained how toothpaste was at fault the entire time. It's not exactly a funny story, but it's entertaining.
Since Castiel has fallen asleep again, Dean claims the next shower.
Jody starts a different story about how she came home one time to Claire and Alex behaving perfectly and learned later that they had, by accident, broken the plumbing to the entire house because Claire was convinced it was haunted and roped Alex into it, too. Jack feels himself relaxing the more that Jody talks, and eventually Sam does, too.
He takes the first-aid kit from Jody and rolls up the black sweats he's wearing to above his right knee. Jack grimaces at the sight of it. It's bent awkwardly and all shades of blue, black, and yellow along the left side. It's the sort of injury that exists purely in film for theatrics.
How was Sam walking on that?
"Oh, my god, Sam," Jody breathes, stopping mid-sentence. Sam hesitates but continues to poke and prod at the injury. Jody scoots closer to him, and Jack notices then that Jody is one of the few people that Sam will allow to invade his personal space. The sheriff reaches out and shoos Sam's hands away, tilting her head this way and that to see the bruise. "God. This is terrible. What happened?"
"Michael," Sam says, clipped. "Then Dean."
Jack's brow draws together. What? When did Dean—? Why would Dean—?
"I'm assuming that your brother has a semi-decent reason for breaking your knee in half?" Jody says, reaching for the kit. She takes it from Sam and starts to rifle through it, but apparently doesn't see what she's looking for because she keeps stirring the contents around.
Sam shrugs, looking at the floor. "He wasn't coherent. He did what he had to." Sam looks up at her sharply, "Don't tell him, please. He'll freak out and he doesn't need to, it's not his fault."
Jack vaguely recalls that Sam's limp got a lot worse when Dean escaped the bathroom right after Michael. Castiel and Sam went in to stop him, Sam hobbled out like his knee was falling off. Dean must have hit him in his panic.
Jody sighs. "I've still got a knee brace from my sprains, I'll go see if I can find that real fast. It should help with the pain, but I really don't think you should be walking on that."
"Probably not," Sam concedes. He sighs, "It's fine. I've had worse."
Jody frowns like she wants to protest, shakes her head, then gets to her feet. "Elevate that. I'm going to get ice and a brace. You really should get an x-ray."
Sam shrugs again, and Jack knows that an x-ray is far from his mind in the future. Jody disappears into a hall and Jack hears a door opening. The house is so silent. It doesn't echo like the Bunker does. There's still sound, but it's muted; muffled, almost.
"How's your…" Sam gestures vaguely to his chest to indicate Jack's.
"What?" Jack says, stupidly. He looks down at himself, then realizes what Sam is talking about. "Oh. It's fine. I think. I'm not sure, I haven't looked at it today." It hasn't hurt nearly as much, which Jack has found nice, but he's not sure if that's a good sign or not. He can actually sit up today with support from the couch, so there's that.
"We'll need to look at that today," Sam says.
"Yeah." Jack agrees. He looks away.
Jody comes back in and hands Sam the black brace and an ice-pack. Sam grimaces and winces his way through strapping the brace to his knee, then pulls down his sweats to hide any evidence of support. He holds the ice pack against his leg and he exhales in soft relief.
A few minutes later, Mary comes back into the room in a fresh pair of clothing and a towel wrapped around her hair on top of her head. It's one of those mystical things that seems impossible in real life and Jack stares at it a little longer than he should. She seems calmer.
Castiel is still sleeping, so Jack hobbles up to his feet and denies any offers of help before Jody shows him where the shower is upstairs. "You holler if you need any help, okay?" Jody says.
"Yeah," Jack says. He pauses. "Sheriff Mills, do you, um."
"Jody," Jody corrects, but she stops, looking back at him.
Her eyebrow raises inquisitively. Jack feels his face heat and he shakes his head. "Never mind."
"What?" Jody asks.
Jack bites on the inside of his cheek, clutching his spare clothing to his stomach and trying to pretend that this isn't as hard as it is. "It's just. They're all downstairs and I don't want to drag them up here, but I think I need help." Jack admits, then tags on quickly, "Not with the shower, just. Removing the bandages first."
There's a pause as Jody stares at him. Her lips tighten. "What bandages, Jack?"
Jack sets his spare clothing on the countertop then slowly unzips Sam's jacket to reveal the mess of bandages across his chest. Jody's eyes widen in what would have almost been comical if it were for anything else. A heavy swear pops out of her mouth before she can seem to filter it and Jack winces. "Damn it, you Winchester boys." Jody shakes her head. She moves back toward him and shoos him fully into the bathroom, "You sure you feel up to a shower at all?"
"My hair is disgusting," Jack says like that explains everything.
Jody nods like that actually made sense. She helps him shrug off Sam's jacket and then makes them both put on blue plastic gloves to remove layers of saturated, disgusting bandages. Jody's eyes grow dark when she sees the full extent of his injuries, and he can see her cataloging them in her mind.
"Are there any on your legs?" she asks when they've finished.
"No," Jack promises. He grimaces at the memory, trying to forcefully shake it off. Michael isn't here. I'm fine.
"These are pretty deep and a few of them are still open. Even with these ones having stitches, I'm worried that if you get the skin wet, it will soften and cause more harm than good." Jody explains. Jack feels his shoulders slump. His hair really is disgusting, and it's not helping his mood.
"So you don't think I should shower."
"I just don't think you should get your chest wet. Let me go find a plastic bag, we can make some sort of...shirt or something, deal?" Jody asks. Jack feels a little awkward but he nods and shuffles toward the tub to sit on the edge. Jody leaves and comes back with a large black bag in her hands, holes cut into the top and sides to form some sort of weird shirt. She helps Jack shrug into it.
"If you can, try and tilt your head forward so the spray goes directly onto the tub," Jody suggests.
Jack nods, and Jody gives him a reassuring smile. It makes some of the tension in his body relax and Jack gives her a grimace in answer. She pats his shoulder warmly. "Holler if you need help, okay? And wait on putting on a shirt, we'll want to clean and bandage that first."
Jack nods.
Jody leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind her. Jack painfully removes the rest of his clothing, wincing at every crinkle of the bag, then climbs inside of the tub. The water is lukewarm at best, evidence of the strained water heater, and Jack groans softly beneath the spray. His entire body aches and he has to sit down on his heels because he can't hold himself upright.
The only shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom is women's shampoo, but Jack doesn't care at this point. Rose, fairy dust, or princess scented, it doesn't matter. Anything so long as he's clean. The scent is actually peach and it's obnoxiously powerful, but Jack slathers it all over his hair and then, as Jody suggested, does his best to avoid letting the shampoo-saturated water slip underneath the plastic bag.
The Mills have some sort of weird soap that works like lotion instead of the bars that Sam and Dean normally get, but it's much easier to use. Jack washes as best he can and then turns off the water and just sits in the tub for long minutes, trying to get the willpower to stand up. It feels like the water has washed away all his motivation and energy and taken that down the drain, too.
At length, he manages to get himself toweled off and dressed sans a shirt. After he's pulled away the wet plastic bag off and thrown it away, he wipes steam from the mirror and looks at himself. His eyes are dead, lips bloodless, his hair sticking to the sides of his face, cheeks tinged pink. He looks thin and fragile.
His chest is a mess of bloody scabs and stitches, but the damage isn't as bad as what he remembers it being. It felt like everything was worse than this. The first long line that Michael drew from his ribs to his hip is pink and puckering, but no longer an open wound. The skin is rough but sealed. Jody said that Sam and Castiel called her four days ago.
Which means it's been what...three? since Michael tortured him? How is that almost healed?
Jack squints into the mirror, eyes jumping over the newer scabs to find the scar from Lucifer's archangel blade. It takes him a few seconds to see it, and he lightly rubs his thumb along it. Smooth skin. It's completely healed. It took weeks for it to have scabbed over at all. What is going on? He hasn't healed this quickly since he had his pow—
Jack stops.
He breathes out in a halted, pained gasp.
Michael was doing this to him because it's supposed to be some sort of "re-set" for Jack's powers. Force them to regenerate quickly to stop him from dying.
That—
This—
It—
Did it work?
Jack reaches, again, for that empty, yawning hole that his powers used to occupy and feels the slightest trickle of warmth. Jack's entire body goes rigid. Warmth. Him. It's. He's. They. What. His powers. They're there. The weakest, faintest trickle, but there.
Michael's plan worked. It worked. Jack's powers are coming back!
Castiel always said that they would regenerate with time, but Jack didn't believe him. He didn't know how. It felt like some sort of dream. Luck for other people. Jack's sort of luck would be that they would self-destruct, not that something would happen for the better. If his powers are coming back, then that means that he can actually do something. He can fix Castiel's wings. He'll heal Sam's leg, chase away Dean's nightmares. He'll get rid of Michael. Jack won't be some useless child hoping for divine revelation to guide him.
This is what he wanted. What he hoped for.
But Jack doesn't feel happy. He just feels empty. A horrible, numbing ache, chewing at every part of his body until anything left is hollow. His powers aren't really back. It's just like an almost empty battery, where the lights are dim, but still on. That's what this is. It isn't a fix. When Jack had asked how long it would take Jack to be at full strength, Castiel had gone quiet. He'd looked away from Jack for long seconds as if trying to figure out how to carefully word the answer.
"It might take weeks, it could take decades or centuries," Castiel had said quietly, "but grace is always stronger when it comes back. It's like a broken bone in that matter. Just...be patient."
Jack doesn't, ironically, have time for patience. He needs his powers back now.
He wishes...
Maybe if Sam and Castiel hadn't got there when they did...maybe then...
Jack presses his lips together, exhaling softly. He looks at his reflection in the mirror, depressed at the sight. It's little wonder everyone is treating him like he's one second away from collapsing.
He wipes halfheartedly at his hair with the towel, then steps out of the bathroom. He doesn't see anyone before he makes it downstairs, and he hesitates for long seconds while he hides in the kitchen about whether or not to go into the living room. He doesn't want everyone to see him like this. Things are already bad enough without everyone's respective mile-long guilt complexes.
Jody, Sam, and Mary are talking quietly, but Jack is too far away to pick out a subject.
You're not a child. Man up.
Finally, he grits his teeth and rolls his shoulders before stepping out of the kitchen and into the main room. Immediately, all eyes move toward him. Jack does his best not to flinch, but doesn't think he succeeds. The eyes feel almost painful, leaving him raw and seen. He should have worn a shirt, regardless of what Jody suggested.
Jack makes a motion with his hand, feeling a little helpless. "Can one of you help me? I can't…" he gestures toward his chest, trying to indicate what he means. He can't do this by himself. If his powers return to full strength, it won't be a problem. Now...
They should have let Michael finish. A surge of frustration washes through him, but Jack buries it down.
Everybody—except for Castiel—starts to get to their feet, intent on helping him, and there's an awkward exchange of glances that rotate through the room. Dean shoves Sam back down onto the couch with gentle force, "I'll do it," he offers, and Jack feels himself tense up.
Damn it. Dean is the last person that Jack wants to help him. But what is he supposed to say? No?
Dean looks up at Jack, haunted gaze skirting away. "If-If you're good with that?"
"Yes," Jack lies.
Jody hands Dean the first-aid kit and Jack shuffles awkwardly back toward the kitchen. Dean follows half a step behind. Jack pulls one of the chairs away from the table and sits down on the edge of it, hands clenched into fists on his thighs. Anybody but Dean. He didn't think that Dean would volunteer. He's awful. Dean just wants to help, and Jack would rather it was anybody on the planet but him.
Dean sets the first-aid kit on the floor and squats in front of Jack, lips pressed together tightly as he assesses the damage. Jack tries to keep his breathing steady. It's not Michael. It's not. Dean would never hurt me like that. Dean just wants to help. It's not Michael.
Dean fumbles to open a bandage for a gauze pad and just when Jack thinks he's about to reach a breaking point at the thought of Dean having to touch him, Jody steps into the room. The presence of the woman immediately calms him for reasons he can't place and suddenly he can exhale properly. His hands relax. Dean, too, seems to breathe easier.
Dean lifts up the gauze pad, measuring visually to make sure it will cover something then taps Jack on the knee lightly. "Sit up straight," he says. Jack straightens, wincing. Apparently, he's taken to hunching over to help ease the pain. Awesome.
Dean's touch is ghostly as he presses down the tape. Jack still winces anyway. Dean flinches to that and mutters a quiet "sorry" before looking away to find something else in the kit.
Jody sighs, looking at Dean with something close to sympathy. "You do know you were possessed, right?" she asks.
"What?" Dean stops, startled, looking up at her.
"This," Jody gestures to Jack's chest, "wasn't you. It was Michael. It's not the same thing."
Dean's eyes empty out. "Yeah," he says tonelessly, an obvious indication that he doesn't believe a word Jody is saying. He looks back at Jack's chest and tapes something else down. Dean works in relative silence and Jack doesn't try to spark up a conversation. Jody's two attempts die an early death and Jack's not really complaining about that fact. He doesn't want to talk. He just wants this to be over.
Eventually, when Dean feels like he's got everything and removed some of Sam's stitches, the hunter sits back on his heels and doesn't look at Jack as he says softly, "I'm sorry."
"Dean—" Jody starts, exasperated.
"No. Stop," Dean shakes his head, lifting up a hand to stop her. Dean lifts heavy eyes up to Jack, but it feels like Jack is trying to stare into a vortex. "I am. I get that this was...Michael was...that I'm not completely to blame, but I feel like I should have stopped it. You...what you went through...I can remember you crying. And the screaming...god. I just...I know...I want." Dean chews on his lower lip, obviously unsure what to say. "I'm sorry you had to go through that for me."
He feels himself crack.
"For you?" Jack repeats, utterly flabbergasted.
Dean's gaze jumps away. "I know you were looking for me. You went through that to find me."
And on some level, Jack understands this. Jack knows that it's true. He was looking for Dean, and his torture is ultimately what stopped Michael long enough that Sam could use his convenient exorcism powers to free his sibling. He did go through that for Dean. And he would do it again and again.
But Jack isn't thinking straight.
Jack isn't...
On the surface, Jack is...Jack is exploding with emotions. Rage, prominently. At everything but Dean. And yet, here the Winchester sits, the perfect target of his anger. "No, I didn't. I didn't go through that for you. I went through that because of you! If you hadn't been such an idiot and ran off after Sam when Lucifer took us, then none of this would have happened!"
Dean flinches back from him, nearly falling onto his butt in his haste to get away from Jack's fury. And this is the second time in twenty-four hours that Jack has made the Winchesters flinch away from him because of his temper and Jack—Jack just. Doesn't. He's done. He's angry, he's tired, and his emotional exhaustion has reached a breaking point.
Let them be afraid of him.
God knows they're the only things that are.
"I-I didn't—Both of you would have died." Dean whispers in a placid defense.
Jack plows over it. "So? Maybe that would have been better! I wouldn't have minded dying!"
Dean pales, shaking his head, looking sick. "No. You…"
"Jack," Jody says, sounding like she just got gut-punched.
Jack doesn't care, feeling bitterness creep into his soul and start sucking. Now that it's started, he can't seem to get it to stop. "You didn't come for me, you came for Sam, because it's always about Sam. Everyone loves Sam. But I just wanted to do something good just once because you think I'm evil and I wanted—I wanted to be more, but all I do is hurt people!"
Dean's mouth shifts, unable to form words. He doesn't look like he can move, his entire body is braced, waiting for Jack to strike him. Why do Sam and Dean think him capable of such violence over and over again?
"Jack, honey," Jody says taking a step forward, eyes on Dean, hands outstretched in placation. "Maybe right now isn't the best time—"
"When?" Jack turns furious eyes up to her and sees her jaw twitch. She takes a step back. "When will be a good time? Next week? Never? Because that's all that happens! We never talk about anything!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Sam asks. Jack doesn't jump, but it's a near thing. His head swings up to see Sam in the doorway, bare arms folded tightly across his chest, Mary beside him, looking tense. Castiel must still be asleep.
Unperturbed, Jack looks at Sam. "We don't!"
"What do you want us to talk about?" Sam asks, sounding somewhere between exasperated and incredulous. Mary's eyes keep jumping between them like she can't decide whose side she's on.
"Anything!" Jack blurts out, throwing up his hands. And there it is, the room collectively flinches. It hurts, deep inside of him where he gathers these things like some sort of sick blackmail list, but Jack keeps going. He's sure now that if he stops, he'd never be able to say any of it again and he has to get it out. "If you or Dean, or Cas, or anyone had told me about my father, do you really think we would have gotten to that place at all? Who do you think I am? That you'd tell me that Sam was tortured by him for more than a century and I would still be willing to spend time with him? That I would have trusted him!?"
Sam makes a choked sound, beginning to look truly frustrated. "What the hell was I supposed to say about him? Did you want a goddamn list?"
"You could have said anything!" Jack accuses. "You know who I learned that he hurt you from? Nick. Because nobody tells me anything!"
Sam's face drains of color.
"Why would we?" Dean's voice is flat and still so off-tone from normal. At some point, he stood up, and now Jack is the only one sitting and it makes him feel small, and that only increases his temper. He's tired of feeling small. "You're just a kid, not a shrink."
"So?!" Jack shouts, shoving up to his feet. The chair tips over and lands with a loud clatter that everyone jumps at. "If you had just trusted me, we wouldn't have gotten into this situation in the first place. How the hell did you expect me to know my father was evil, I was supposed to sense it?"
"Yes!" Sam yells, gesturing with his hands, "Yes! How did you not feel him? He was coated with—" Sam doesn't have words to describe Lucifer's aura, but Jack doesn't either. "He was evil, and you were too naïve to see it!"
"No, I wasn't!" Jack feels like throwing something. They all think he's some sort of child. He is a celestial being who once held more power than either of them could conceive. He may be young, but he's not stupid. "I had no information on him! And you know why?" Jack points an accusing finger at Sam, "Because you were terrified that Lucifer would love me."
"What the hell—?" Sam makes a sound in his throat. It's hoarse and raw. "That had nothing to do with what was going on!"
"It had everything to do with it!" Jack snarls. "You could have told me anything. You could have given me a list, you could have said something at any point and I wouldn't have lost my powers, Dean wouldn't be half-crazy, and Cas wouldn't be in too much pain to talk."
"Hey, that's enough," Dean says sharply, "this isn't Sam's fault."
"You're just as much to blame! You could have said anything at any time, too!" Jack shouts, turning to him. All of Dean's courage seems to drain away as he visibly shrinks in on himself.
"This isn't—" Dean starts to say weakly.
"What the hell did you want?" Sam's voice has dropped, low and dangerous. He takes a step toward Jack, and all Jack can hear in his voice is Lucifer. "Did you want me to sit you down on one of those porches and happily explain to you about how Lucifer cut out my eyes over and over again because he knew one of my greatest fears was going blind? Did you want me to tell you about how he would choke me with my organs? Or how he would hold my soul until I was in too much pain to move? How he would cut off fingers and toes and make me sew them back on? How there was never any end to the mind games? How I eventually trusted him more than I trusted anyone else? When he would violate me and then joke about it? How there was never any end to the torment and I would beg him for death, and all he would do is laugh. He made me listen to him for hours as he shared his goddamn sob story and I would sympathize. I cared! I don't think in English because of him. I don't remember most of my childhood because of him. I can't remember anything before my mid-twenties without his commentary about it. Everything in my goddamn life has wrapped itself around him—INCLUDING YOU!"
For the longest time, Jack wondered what it would take to get Sam angry. And here Sam is, furious, shouting, and Jack flinches back, feeling nauseous. All it would take is him.
Oh, god…
His eyes burn with the need to cry, but Jack forces himself not to.
Sam exhales, his entire body buzzed, looking like he's trying hard not to hit someone. When he speaks again, his voice is only marginally calmer. "You say that we had to tell you like it was our obligation or your right to know. It's not. It's none of your goddamn business, Jack, so fucking stop." Sam turns away, obviously intending to leave, but he stops, and looks back at Jack, pointing out an accusing finger. "You know what? I was terrified that Lucifer would love you, and you know why? Because I know what his love looks like, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Thank God that he hated you."
Jack's tongue unsets. "That's not true." He whispers desperately.
Sam scoffs.
"It's not." Jack scrambles, tears falling down his face, feeling like he's drowning and reaching out desperately only to grab more water. "He loved me...He had to...He was going to give me a lightsaber."
"No, Jack." Sam's voice is cold. "You were a tool to him. Trust me, I know what his love looks like."
"But he's my father." Jack doesn't know how to describe this to Sam. He doesn't know how to make him understand. Because if Kelly wanted to kill him, and Lucifer wanted the same, then the people that have to love him—his biological parents—don't and there is something irreparable about Jack.
"That doesn't mean jackshit in my experience." Sam snorts, running his hands through his hair. His forearms look covered in bruises.
"Why did he love you and not me?!" Jack cries, feeling young and naïve and stupid. All the things that Sam said he was. Jack knows it's true. He is a child. A dumb, dumb child. "He's my father! What did I do wrong that he couldn't? It's not fair! He has to—"
Dean's hand shoots out suddenly and grabs Sam's wrist in a vice, tipping his arm up to the light. The sudden movement makes Jack flinch, and Sam makes a sound of surprise in the back of his throat, but Dean doesn't care. And Jack realizes something, then. Today is the first time that he's seen Sam without a jacket or long-sleeve on in months.
Most of Sam's clothing is distributed between Jack, Castiel, and Dean, and everything else is dirty or bloody. Sam looks...small. He's still built like a superhero, but Jack can see that Sam has lost considerable muscle mass in the last few weeks. He's no longer lean muscle, he's just thin.
"Dean, what the—?" Sam starts, sounding half a beat away from sucker punching his brother in the face.
"What the hell is this?" Dean interrupts and gestures at something on Sam's arm.
Sam's eyes widen with recognition and he blurts the same swear in Enochian that Castiel usually does, trying to yank his arm back. But though equally weakened physically by their time apart, Dean's grip doesn't let up. His fingers dig into Sam's skin enough to bruise.
Mary apparently gets a look at whatever Dean sees, because she swears. "What the hell? What the hell!?" her voice rises up an octave, her panic showing through plainly. Jody inhales sharply but doesn't make a sound.
Jack shifts slightly, thrown by the change in direction, but doesn't let it stop him. He awkwardly angles his head to see and only feels confused. He was expecting some sort of massive injury or tattoo from the way that Dean and Mary are reacting, but all that's up and down Sam's arm is little red or black circles with bruises in various stages of healing. It makes his veins stick out awkwardly and painfully, but Jack doesn't think it deserves nearly the amount of panicked fluttering it's getting.
It's just bruises.
And God help him, Jack is angry that their argument got stopped.
He's terrible. He's Lucifer's child through and through, always salivating off of violence and anger.
"Are you high?" Mary demands, her voice choked.
"What?" Sam sounds genuinely confused. "No! I'm not high!" He finally manages to get his arm away from his brother and holds it close to his chest. "Why the hell would I be—"
"Damn it, Sammy!" Dean explodes, and Jack thinks it's funny in a dark, morbid way that Dean is furious, and he finally sounds like himself again. "What did you take? Tell me. Demon blood?"
"No!"
"Heroin? LSD?"
"I'm not on drugs!"
"Then why the hell—"
"It's not drugs! It's from IVs! I'm selling my blood to monsters, okay!?" Sam shouts, and silence falls over the house like a heavy, wet shadow.
What...
What the hell?
Jack tries to swallow but finds his throat is too swollen with fear and anxiety. Sam shakes his head, looking away from them as if embarrassed.
Long, weighted seconds pass.
"Why?" Dean's voice isn't a question, it's a demand.
Sam's jaw works. He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter—"
Mary slaps him. It doesn't look hard, but it's hard enough that Sam's head moves with the force of the blow. His hands clench and he inhales a rapid, heaving breath as if he expects the blows to continue. Mary is shaking, her entire body looking like she's about to collapse. Jack's not sure who looks more surprised that she hit him, Mary or Sam.
It doesn't matter. In the half-second before Mary starts yelling, Dean takes a step forward, placing himself subtly in front of Sam, and the position feels like it's a well-practiced ritual.
"YOU STUPID BASTARD!" Mary yells. "How the hell could you not say anything to me!"
"Mom—" Sam and Dean say at the same time.
"No!" Mary screeches, "You don't get to explain your way out of this one! You should have told me! I am your mother! It's my responsibility, you self-sacrificing—"
"Oh, my god." Jody groans. "That blackmarket case we took last year, with Donna's niece. They were gonna sell you for parts. That's what this is, isn't it? You're selling your blood to them."
The case means absolutely nothing to Jack—big surprise—but Dean's entire body goes still. Mary had apparently already made the connection because she doesn't make any verbal or non-verbal indication that she's surprised.
Sam looks away. "Yeah."
Dean's expression goes through a series of emotions in rapid succession. Rage, grief, frustration, sorrow, and hopelessness before settling on anger. He turns around to face his younger brother, but his voice sounds broken. "Why, Sam?"
Sam swallows thickly. The longer he speaks, the more he seems to forget that he's doing it at all. "We...we needed the money. The Rebels don't have jobs, and we don't either, and I didn't have the time to try and find anything else. Charlie's cards max out too quickly with this many people. It was pretty easy and it didn't take a lot of time. I mean, anything that wasn't blood was kind of painful, but it was fine and—"
And there Dean's hand goes, completely ignoring any sense of personal space as he grabs the bottom of Sam's light gray shirt and yanks up. Jack feels his breath collapse in his throat. In between arms and people, Jack can see at least three separate fresh scars, one of which looks infected, lower near his hip. The other two are pink or light red and up near his chest and down the middle above his hips.
This is…
This can't.
This isn't real.
This is ridiculous. He's dreaming. He's going to wake up and everything will be fine and he'll be just as blissfully ignorant as he was five minutes ago. This can't be real.
But the more Jack thinks about it, the more it begins to make sense. Sam's slow movements when sitting down or standing up, Sam's insistence that Castiel should drive them despite seeming perfectly fine, Sam getting bested by a handful of demons, Sam's winces and grimaces that he made when he didn't think anyone would notice. The money that he seemed to pull from the sky. Sam's constant exhaustion, him never seeming to be warm, never hungry, always always showing signs that something wasn't right and they ignored it.
Sam wasn't suffering from chronic exhaustion because he was overworked looking for Dean. Well, he was, but the bigger factor was the fact he was recovering from surgeries.
And Jack realizes then with a clarity he hasn't felt before, just how much he hates Lucifer. Not his father, Lucifer. Because Lucifer is the reason behind all of this. Not Sam, not Dean, not even Jack's naivety. Lucifer exploited Jack and wielded him like a weapon. He is the reason that Dean got possessed, he is the reason that Castiel is in too much pain to sit up, he is the reason that all of this happened.
He is the reason that Sam sold his organs and his blood.
And Jack hates him.
He hopes that wherever he is is the worst form of torture that Lucifer could think of. His worst fears exploited and used against him. Lucifer isn't his father. Not if he can cast this much destruction in his wake and laugh about it.
Jack leans back heavily against the table, feeling unable to stand. The nausea is so much worse.
Mary starts to cry, earnest, wet things that rattle her entire frame. She reaches out a hand to touch one of the scars and falls to her knees, hand wrapped over her mouth. "Oh, my baby," she cries, "oh, god…"
Dean lets go of Sam's shirt and it drops, covering the wounds. He takes a physical step back as if Sam is painful to look at right now. Sam, for his part, seems mostly confused and uncomfortable, but not upset. He looks as though they're the odd ones for crying about this as if the idea that Sam is literally selling parts of himself is totally normal and acceptable, and why are they freaking out?
Jody takes a step forward, exhaling shakily. "Everybody sit down, I'm going to go wake up Castiel. Obviously, we need to have a family meeting; God knows there is a lot to talk about."
Author's Note: *cackles* I have waited...9 (nine!) months to write this last scene. Also, I /promise/ that Cas will get more screen time next chapter. I, unlike the show, want to make sure that I take the proper time to address his trauma.
Next chapter: December. We'll say that and pray the mental illness gods have mercy on me so I can get it finished. XD