Educating Jack: Sam
K Hanna Korossy

All signs had pointed to it being an ordinary ghoul hunt. Supposedly dead people running around doing crazy things. Dug-up, chewed-on corpses at the local graveyard. Classic ghoul party tricks. Dean had really been looking forward to lopping off a few heads, pushing back the memories of Cas and Mom being gone and the son of Satan taking their place, and just ganking some nasty-ass ghouls.

But these were so not ghouls.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, the warning too late. Whatever it was that rushed them left an inhuman growl and footprints in the mud in its wake…but it was otherwise completely invisible.

Sam had just spun around to try to spot the threat when…it slammed into him, knocking him into the open grave he'd been checking out. Dean could hear him hit with a yelp and a thud.

With a growl of his own, Dean charged the edge of the grave where the prints stopped. Wouldn't be the first time he'd fight something invisible.

There was a moment, a half-second where the darkness seemed to shimmer. He almost thought he caught sight of a too-wide Cheshire grin.

Definitely not a ghoul.

And then there was the sound of rushing wind, and something cold slammed into him. And kept going, sinking into his flesh, his muscles and bones, his brain. Everything fell away.

Except the fear.

00000

Jack was standing in front of the…he was pretty sure Sam had called it a microwave, studying the buttons. So far he'd been happy with the sandwiches and vegetables and fruit Sam had taught him how to fix and eat, but Dean had extolled the wonders of "TV dinners"—even though a television didn't seem required—and Jack was curious to try one. He tried to push the "Start" button, but that didn't do anything except beep. Hmm. Maybe he needed to tell it what he was cooking first? But there was no button for TV dinners…

There was a distant clang, and Jack's head shot up. They'd returned! He had missed Sam. Not so much Dean, who still looked at Jack like he was trying to figure out how to kill him. But being alone was…not so good. Jack hurried out to meet the Winchesters and hopefully learn more about how one hunted ghouls.

But…there was only one sound of footsteps coming down the hall from the garage, and they didn't sound right: fast, heavy. Sam had said no one else knew where the bunker was or would be able to come in, but perhaps he'd been wrong. Jack hurried to meet the new arrival, one fist curling with a tingle of power.

He turned the corner, and saw now who was hurrying down the hall. It was Sam, but…oh, Dean was draped over his shoulder. That meant he was injured. So did the look on Sam's face. Jack's hand relaxed, and he quickly moved forward to meet his…friend.

"What happened?"

"Jack. I need your help. Get me some towels from the bathroom, a bowl of water from the kitchen, and the red bag on the counter in the infirmary." Sam's voice was clipped, winded. Of course, Dean had to be heavy. It wasn't the time to ask questions; Jack hurried to collect what Sam requested.

As he watched the large mixing bowl fill with water—the one Dean had used to make pancakes the morning they'd left—Jack realized with a lurch that Dean's arm had been swinging loose. He was not just hurt, he was unconscious. Not dead, or Sam wouldn't have sent Jack for supplies. Dying? The thought knotted Jack's stomach unpleasantly. Even if Dean didn't like him, Jack was surprised at how much he didn't want him to die. And not just because it would hurt Sam.

The things Sam had asked for balanced in his arms, Jack made his way to Dean's room, where he assumed Sam had gone. Not the infirmary, come to think of it, which was another mystery.

Entering, he finally saw Dean properly, sprawled out on his bed where Sam had laid him. He was motionless except for his shallow breathing, and his face was a shade of gray Jack was pretty sure humans never should be. There was no visible wound Jack could see, however. It didn't look like a ghoul had tried to eat him.

"What—?" he started as he laid down the towels and bowl beside Sam, but Sam was already shaking his head as he worked, pulling Dean's boots off and then moving to his jeans.

"Later." Then he hesitated, eyes darting up to Jack. They looked red with fatigue. "He'll be okay."

It was…strange, how those three words loosened the tightness in Jack's stomach.

He helped Sam pull off Dean's two shirts, then at Sam's instructions, started to wipe down the unconscious man's face and hands. There was a design on his chest, a…tattoo? It looked puffy and almost burnt. The rest of Dean's skin was hot, and it turned out some of the gray on it was dust. Wiping it away just left paleness behind.

Meanwhile, Jack watched Sam out of the corner of his eye. Sam took some things out of the infirmary bag, and rubbed the inside of Dean's elbow before sliding in a needle that was connected to a tube, which was connected to a bag of what looked like water. Sam hung the bag from the lamp next to Dean's bed, then glanced at Jack again.

"It's fluids. Humans get dehydrated if they don't get enough water."

It was just one piece of this puzzle, but Jack nodded, grateful for that much.

"Okay, now grab a towel and put some of this on it, and wipe his face and hands again. Just not on his eyes and mouth, okay?"

"Okay," Jack echoed. He took the bottle, which also looked like water. One sniff filled his nose with a sharp smell that made him cough, however, and he gave Sam a doubtful look.

Sam noticed, and almost smiled. "It's alcohol. It'll evaporate faster and cool him down."

He took Sam's word for that, saturating one of the smaller towels and dabbing it against the hollow of Dean's throat.

It occurred to him that this was maybe the first time he'd even touched Dean. Jack doubted the hunter would have liked Jack being so close, but he wasn't complaining, and Jack found the task oddly satisfying.

Sam, meanwhile, was checking Dean all over, down his legs, examining the soles of his bare feet, then palpating across his abdomen and chest, across his arms and shoulders. Checking for injuries, Jack guessed. He kept expecting Dean to complain and push Sam away, but he just lay there, unnaturally still. It bothered Jack.

Sam paused at the end to press his fingers against the inside of Dean's wrist for several seconds. He frowned at what he found. Jack wasn't sure what that was supposed to do, but pausing to surreptitiously try it on himself, he was surprised to feel a soft, steady throb. From what he'd read of the human body in the book Sam had given him, he guessed that was the feel of his heart beating. Very cool. Trying it on Dean, though, revealed a faster, weaker, and more uneven beat than Jack's heart, and he found himself frowning, too.

Sam finally took an instrument and stuck it in Dean's ear, which made Jack stare. Looking at the instrument, Sam sighed. He sank back on the edge of the bed and ran both hands through his hair, which also looked dusty.

"He was possessed," he quietly said as Jack contained to dab alcohol on Dean's face and exposed chest.

Jack frowned, processing that. "By a demon," he concluded.

"No. Well, sort of. I think by a pishacha. Kind of an Indian demon?" Now that Sam was talking, Jack could tell how tired he was, the words thicker somehow. "We've never run into them before. I guess our wards weren't made for Indian flesh-eating demons."

Jack wrinkled his nose. "Dean ate someone?" There was no blood that he could see…

Sam huffed, weary amusement. "No. It was eating bodies. But turns out it can possess people, too. Only, it's not really smart like a demon. It just…went crazy and took off."

"With Dean," Jack clarified.

"Yeah." Sam was watching his brother's face, his own creased with what even Jack could recognize as worry and sorrow. He'd taken a towel, doused it with alcohol, and was wiping down Dean's bare arms. "They don't even try to take care of the host or use it for anything. It just started walking, and didn't stop until I stopped it two days later."

"So, Dean is just…tired?" This was confusing.

Dean seemed to try to answer with a weak sound low in his throat. His eyes fluttered but didn't open, and in a moment he was limp again.

Sam did his sad almost-smile again. "Pishachas feed on energy. Like…using up a battery." He was carefully threading the towel between each of Dean's fingers now. "And humans aren't meant to just keep moving for days without rest or-or water. Dean, he'll be okay. He's strong, he'll bounce back. But right now, he's dangerously exhausted, like, body-ready-to-shut-down drained. We'll have to keep him cool and hydrated and let him rest for a few days before he can even start eating and doing stuff on his own."

"Oh." Jack thought about that. "He's not going to like that."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time he won't be so reckless." Sam tossed the towel into the water bowl.

Jack raised his eyebrows in question.

Sam took a long breath. "It threw me into the grave, so Dean charged it, got himself possessed. The idiot." He didn't seem all that angry despite the words.

Jack thought about that. "And if he was hurt, would you be…reckless, too?"

His friend blinked. He made a soft sound Jack couldn't decipher. "Yeah, probably."

Interesting. And confusing. "But he'll be all right?"

Sam nodded after a second. "He'll be all right. Takes more than a demon and a long walk to take Dean Winchester down."

Jack put his hands on his thighs. "What can I do?"

"Uh." It was clearly proving difficult for Sam to think. Dean wasn't the only one who was tired. "Actually, would you mind fixing me a sandwich? I'm not even sure when I last ate."

"Of course." Jack stood. "I've become very good at ham and cheese."

Sam smiled at him, for real this time. "Sounds great."

Jack wasted no time going to the kitchen and preparing the food. He was glad he could do something for Sam, too, especially when his friend looked so weary. He grabbed a bottle of water to go with the food, and then, since this was Sam, a handful of carrot sticks.

When he returned a few minutes later, however, he found Sam stretched out beside his brother, one hand around Dean's wrist. He was fast asleep.

Jack debated a minute, then decided food perhaps wasn't as necessary as rest. He would cover the plate and leave it. Sam could eat it when he was awake enough to do so.

The brothers didn't look quite right there. Even if Dean had a fever, he appeared to be shivering a little. Jack thought about it, then went to get one of the extra blankets from his room and covered both men. There. Sam looked more comfortable, too.

Nodding, Jack eased the door shut behind him and returned to the kitchen, and his waiting TV dinner. He had a lot to think about while he ate.

00000

Jack finished an episode of Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood—factories were so interesting!—and that led him to Roy Rogers, who apparently lived in a world where there was no color, then a movie called Mr. Roberts about ships and men in uniforms—official hunters?—followed by a lady called Julia Roberts and an article on "prostitution," which was both shocking and intriguing. It was at that point Jack decided he'd maybe had enough Internet for one day and went to see how Dean was doing.

It didn't surprise him that Sam was awake, toweling down Dean again. Jack sniffed: just water this time, which was probably a good sign. As was the relieved smile Sam gave him.

"His fever broke."

"That's a…good thing," Jack hazarded. Breaking rarely seemed to be.

"It means his fever's gone down. He should be okay now, he just needs to rest."

Sam said that like he hadn't been sure before, even though he'd told Jack Dean would be fine. Jack frowned, filing that away to think about later. He sat carefully on the opposite side of Dean's bed. Dean actually stirred a little at the movement, even though he didn't wake up, and his color looked more like it normally did. "Is he still…dehydrated?"

Sam pinched the skin on the back of Dean's hand, like it was a test, and looked satisfied by whatever he saw. "He's better. I think this bag'll be the last one he needs." Sam nodded at the new bag of fluid hanging off the lamp.

Jack didn't see how pinching someone could tell you anything, but he believed Sam.

"Hey, can you help me change his sheets?"

Jack got a fresh sheet from the drawer Sam directed him to, then watched as Sam gathered his limp brother up to him. Dean groaned softly as he came to rest against Sam's chest, his face hidden against his brother's neck, and Jack saw his nearest hand twitch. Buoyed, he followed Sam's instructions: pull off the sheet at the top of the bed and fit the new sheet in place, then as Sam laid Dean down again and lifted his legs to the side, do the same at the other end of the bed. For the first time, Jack saw that Dean's feet were bandaged, maybe from all the walking, and Jack was extra gentle as he tugged the crumpled edge free from under the man. The old sheet was damp and smelled like sweat and illness, and with a wrinkled nose, Jack tossed it out into the hallway. Sam had showed him already how to do laundry, but it could wait.

He returned to find Sam drawing the blankets—the ones Jack had brought in, he noted proudly—up over his brother's bare chest.

Dean's eyes were half-open, but when Jack bent to get a closer look, he saw they were drifting, not focusing on anything, and they soon closed again. He'd never seen Dean so…defenseless. It was strangely frightening.

"He'll be okay, Jack," Sam said quietly.

Jack pressed his lips together and nodded, and sat in the chair next to the bed. He glanced around the room idly; Dean had never allowed him in there before. He probably wouldn't be happy knowing Jack was there now, as a matter of fact, but Sam seemed glad for his company, so Jack stayed.

His eyes traced over the weapons on the wall, the artwork of men in strange costumes with musical instruments. Then his gaze was drawn to the picture propped up against the bedside lamp. He hadn't met her, but he assumed the blonde woman was Mary, and the child, a young Dean. He looked happier than Jack had ever seen him.

Jack looked at Sam sideways. "Does Dean hate me because it's my fault your mother is gone and Castiel died?"

Sam's head came up sharply. "No!" He seemed to reconsider. "Well, yeah, okay, maybe he blames you a little—it's easier than just blaming himself. But he knows, down deep, none of this is your fault." Sam's mouth twisted, and he ran a hand over his face, something Dean did a lot, too. "He's just scared, you know?" Sam seemed to half-smile a lot when he was sad. "He's afraid of what you could do if you were evil. We've had a lot of things we've believed in blow up in our face, you know?"

Jack didn't know, exactly, but he'd had some clues.

Sam wasn't finished. "But, Jack, you're not evil. The fact you even worry about that shows you're not." Sam looked at the man sleeping between them. "And I think Dean gets that, too. It's just gonna take him some time to believe it."

Jack gazed at him. "But not you."

Sam sat still, watching Dean. He did that pinching thing on Dean's hand again, then drew up his knee so it was right up against his brother's fingers. Jack thought maybe Dean wouldn't mind that kind of touching.

Sam cleared his throat.

"Let me tell you a story."

So he did, about a time he'd done something terrible. Jack listened intently, but it was hard for him to imagine Sam drinking blood, hurting Dean and their friend Bobby, even killing, and then starting the Apocalypse, even by accident. Jack could see the pain it caused Sam just to share what had happened.

"So I know something about everyone expecting you to be bad. And I made some mistakes, okay, some bad ones. But in the end, I made the right choice, and I fixed things. It was up to me, not…fate or tainted blood or something."

His eyes fell from Jack to Dean, and the lines in his face softened. Jack wondered if the brothers knew how often both of them did that.

"Me, and someone believing in me. Because even after everything I messed up, Dean…he still came for me. Not to kill me—yeah, he tried to stop me, but that wasn't really why he was there. He came to save me, or to be with me if it was the end. Even after what I did to him."

"Because you're his brother," Jack said quietly. It took him a moment to identify what he was feeling: longing.

"Because he loves me." Sam's eyes were surprisingly shiny, his voice hoarse even though the story hadn't been that long. "And Dean doesn't do things halfway. If he hates you, you're dead, and even I wouldn't be able to stop him. But if you become family, there's nothing, nothing he wouldn't do for you."

Jack looked away. Remembering Dean's quiet praise after Jack had saved Sam's life from the shapeshifter, the way he'd checked in that doctor's office to make sure Jack was okay even while blood was running down his own face, the way he sometimes looked at Jack when he didn't think Jack saw. Maybe…maybe Jack wasn't the only one who was longing.

Sam cleared his throat. "Hey, uh. You think maybe you could make me another sandwich? I don't wanna leave him yet."

Jack roused himself, just realizing the plate he'd left before was sitting on the nightstand, empty. "Of course. Would you prefer ham and cheese or tuna fish?"

Sam gave him a surprised look. "You know how to fix tuna?"

"Dean showed me."

Sam smiled at him, only a tiny bit sad. "Yeah, okay. Tuna would be great. Uh, two?"

"Sure!" Jack stood, hesitating a moment as his eye caught on something.

Dean's fingers were curled around Sam's knee.

Jack didn't look at Sam as he walked out the door. But…he felt like he understood a little more now.

00000

Sam had said after they ate that he'd be fine for a while, so Jack took a nap. He didn't require a lot of sleep, but he wanted to be ready if he could help. If Sam wanted anything from him…or if Dean did.

Dean's door wasn't shut all the way, and when Jack stepped out into the hall, he could hear a quiet voice from the room across from his. He crept closer, knowing what he was doing wasn't really right, but too curious to resist. Too full of doubts to not need some answers.

It was Sam's voice, unsurprisingly, talking to his brother. Jack swayed closer, and caught a glimpse of Sam straddling a chair facing the bed and the door, leaning forward on his arms as they crossed the top of the chair. His hair was in his eyes and he still sounded tired, but he seemed…relaxed.

"—iron," he was just saying. "I know it doesn't make sense to make it into bullets, but we could still…I dunno, make hoops out of it, or weave some strands into a rope to throw. Would've beat me having to bury some in an open ring to catch your sorry ass."

"Mmm."

Jack's gaze shot over to the bed. Dean was still sprawled across it, although he'd rolled—or been rolled—onto his side, facing away from Jack. So he couldn't tell if the hunter's eyes were open, but the sound had definitely come from him. Was he awake?

"Wouldn't blow away like salt, anyway," Sam continued. He scratched at his unshaven jaw. "Just sayin'."

A faint but definite snort this time, and a weak cough.

Sam grabbed a water bottle off the nightstand and leaned toward the bed, out of Jack's sight. It was many seconds before he leaned back again, replacing the bottle. "This time tomorrow, you might be even ready to tackle some soup." Whatever he saw on Dean's face made him laugh, and momentarily erased the fatigue in his face. "I dunno, man, sounds like you've been teachin' Jack some Kitchen 101."

Jack absently filed away the reference to look up, but focused now on catching the response.

None that he could hear, but Sam's face grew serious. "You know what, he's been helping me out however he can since we got back—he's worried about you, man." Sam's brows drew together. "Even after all the crap you—we've—thrown at him, he's still here, still trying. Still worrying. He's a good kid, Dean."

Jack couldn't see his face. But Dean didn't scoff, and whatever he mouthed, or whispered, or even just looked—that seemed to be a way Winchesters communicated, too—seemed to make Sam happy, not defensive.

"Yeah, all right, and I'm gonna tell you all this again when you're not fallin' asleep on me." A pause, then, unexpectedly, "Jerk."

Jack moved silently back to his room, surprised that it felt like it was easier to breathe. And that he was smiling.

00000

It felt like the blankets weighed a hundred pounds. Each.

Dean blinked awake—his eyes had their own weights—and considered rubbing them clear, but it was too much work to lift his hand from under those leaded covers. Best he could do was make a disgustingly slow visual sweep of the room, trying to kick his brain into gear.

His room. His body, if glued to the bed. Every muscle ached, but nothing really hurt. Dean was just…weak as a freakin' baby. A…Fish-achoo, Sam said? Dean huffed; somewhere along the way he was pretty sure his brother had just started making stuff up.

"Dean, you're awake! Are you thirsty?"

And…Lucifer Jr. sitting in a chair next to him—Sam's chair—book in his lap, looking all eager beaver. Awesome.

"Sam said you should keep drinking," Jack went on as he reached for a glass with an honest-to-God bendy straw in it. "He's lying down right now—he was really tired and I said I'd stay with you if you needed something. I'm only supposed to call him if you 'try to do something stupid.'" The kid's forehead wrinkled even as he positioned the glass for Dean to drink. "I'm not sure exactly what that means."

It was embarrassing, having someone hold a glass of water for him like he was a toddler—well, someone other than Sam, whom Dean had held glasses for when he was an actual toddler—but damned if the water wasn't the best-tasting thing ever.

Chatty Cathy went on. "Sam said you'd be okay now, you just needed a lot of rest. I've been reading about the pishacho." The kid held up the thick book he was holding. "Apparently, most of the people it possesses either die or go crazy, so you were really lucky." He seemed to catch himself. "Uh, even if I'm sure it doesn't feel like it."

"'Live s'good," Dean grudgingly agreed. He tried to lift his head to look over at the door, but, yeah, ain't lifting that boulder just yet. Instead, he controlled what he could, and closed his eyes. "Don' hav'ta babysi' me." Crap, why were words so hard? It was just air and opening his mouth.

"Babysit? Oh, you mean, look after you? But Sam said—"

Oh, well, if Sam said. Dean would have rolled his eyes if he were able. "Sam's—" He had a rest a second. "—a mother'en. M'fine." And almost asleep again. Pathetic.

"Well…" Jack got quieter, too. "I'd like to stay with you, too. If that's okay. You were very tired when Sam brought you back and he said you almost died, and we were both scared—well, Sam tried not to show it, but I could tell—and…"

Dean was exhausted just listening to the kid ramble, but it brought back memories of Sam motor-mouthing it as a kid—and a teen, and an adult—when he was nervous. And of Sam saying something before, when Dean was floating around half-awake, of Jack worrying. Dean had threatened to kill him, and the kid was worried about him.

"…his phone in case you needed him, but I said—"

He peeled his eyes open. "Ja…" Dean took a breath. "…ck. S'fine." Well, one eye. Half-open. "Y'r fine." He didn't have the energy to think about how weird it was that was true. "'M gon'…" Just another nap, then he'd think about the weird place Jack had carved out in their life. "…slee…"

Everything fell away.

Except, improbably, the comfort.

The End

Taking a break next week, but I'll be back in twoGod willingwith Educating Jack: Dean (i.e., Sam's turn to get mussed). -KHK