Takes place between 14x08 and 14x09.

There's a small hand shaking his shoulder. "Sam. Sam, wake up."

He raises one arm in sleepy self-defense. "M'awake. M'up." The person disturbing him does not persist, but instead respectfully withdraws his hand and waits for Sam to fight his way to a sitting position. It takes him a few seconds to figure out it's Jack.

Jack, who is no longer sick. Jack, who's now been to heaven and back. Jack, who died and took a piece of Sam with him. Sam's still fitting that piece back into place, if he's being honest.

The kid's in his pajamas, but he's wearing his new winter coat over them. His face is lit with an excited glow that radiates from the inside out. (He looks like a little kid on Christmas morning, Sam thinks hazily, but Christmas is still a few weeks away.)

"What is it? Are you okay?"

Jack takes Sam's hand and tugs. (Exactly like a little kid.) "C'mon. Come with me."

Sam sputters vague protests that sound like gibberish coming from his tired mouth. Ever since they got Jack back, Sam's been taking Dean's advice and trying to catch up on sleep.

Jack ignores him, and shoves a coat into his arms. "Put on your shoes. Hurry, or we'll miss it."

Miss what?

Still holding his hand, Jack leads Sam through the bunker half-dressed and groggy. He springs up the stairs two at a time. Sam wonders if this is how Dean feels when Sam drags him out early to work a case.

But when they step outside, all of Sam's sleepiness drops away. The air is sharp with cold. A thin layer of snow frosts the ground. His mouth falls open at the sight of the pink and orange sky, the growing light on the horizon.

Jack has pulled him out of bed to see the sunrise. A sunrise he never thought he would see.

He wanted to share it with Sam. The one who shared it with him first. Who carried him outside when his own legs were too weak, who did it for no other reason than to see him smile.

Sam looks down at his kid in wonder, hardly impressed by the colors in the sky. There's an overwhelming warmth flooding his chest, spilling into his throat and coloring his voice with tears. He wants to say so many things. But all he can get out is "This is great, Jack."

Jack stares at the horizon for a moment longer, his gaze both childlike and ageless. "You know," he begins softly. "Dean told me. How it was your idea to bring me back."

Sam freezes for a moment. He's transported back to that night, that dark, dark night when he left the bunker to build a pyre. That empty feeling carving out a hollow space inside him. He would've been angry—if he'd had any emotions at all.

He remembers hearing Jack's final breath, watching his chest still, feeling for a pulse and finding nothing, announcing it aloud he's gone…

Then the numbness caused by the liquor, the haze, the stupor birthing a reckless, stupid idea that he'd embraced with drunken, steadfast arms. Somehow, somehow, it had paid off.

Jack lays a hand on Sam's arm, snapping him out of his reverie. "Thank you. For not giving up on me."

Then Jack's thin arms are winding around Sam's torso. It only startles Sam for a moment, then he relaxes. Jack's here, he's going to be okay, and Sam's going to make himself be okay too. He rests his own arm around Jack's shoulders, drawing him closer still. They stand together, facing the rising sun.

Jack's next words are so quiet Sam almost misses them. "I love you."

Sam is grateful Jack can't see his watery eyes, the spillover, when he replies just as quietly. "Love you too."

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