Author's Note: Hi. Sorry for the wait.
Disclaimer: No
Warnings: discussion of self-harm, sucidial thoughts.
Chapter Nine:
After a long, weighted hesitation, as if Jody's expecting them all to pull weapons on each other the moment she turns away, the sheriff leaves the room to retrieve Castiel from the couch.
The thought isn't unjustified.
Jack can't guarantee that they won't.
The thought of punching someone isn't unappealing. And what is wrong with him, resorting to brutality when there are easier, better methods he could choose?
Just like your father. There's less of Kelly in you every day, but Lucifer is crawling into your soul.
Sam's body is rigid, his face closed off and emptied of any emotion useful, creases of his elbows carefully hidden inside his folded arms. It hides the worst of the scarring, but it doesn't mean it's not there. Jack feels like it's branded inside of Sam's skin and all of them are waiting for it to start sizzling.
Beside him, Dean's jaw is taut and his arms are tightly wound in front of his chest. He looks like he's trying to stop himself from being sick. Mary has gotten back up to her feet, but only to hunch over herself, one hand covering her face as she sobs silently.
No one reaches out to comfort her. No one even tries.
And Jack? Jack should apologize for setting them all off. He should say something. He doesn't. Instead, he stands there beside the table, gripping the back of a chair and trying to swallow his temper, feeling ready to explode. The initial shock of Sam's reveal has worn off, leaving behind only anger. Everyone else is distraught over Sam's confession, and Jack can't even spare him the time of day.
He is, he thinks sarcastically, a good person like that.
Jody comes back into the room a minute later, Castiel stumbling in beside her, looking drugged. His eyes are half-lidded and his face pale, clearly still mostly asleep and in pain. He's hiding inside of his trench coat again, looking small and frail, but instead of letting him lay down, Jody has to drag him into this. Because Jack can't keep himself together and had to lose his temper like he's a child.
Jack grits his teeth. Behind his tears, he just wants to keep shouting. Scream at the world until something gives. He wasn't ready to be done with their argument. Part of him is furious that it stopped when it did, and he hates himself a little more for that. Sam is selling himself and Jack wants to address small, insignificant things like them not talking?
But this—this just seems to be more evidence that this whole mess is their fault. If the Winchesters would just damn talk—
Well. They wouldn't be here, would they?
"Okay," Jody claps her hands, breaking the heavy silence that has settled across the room. Castiel's heavy gaze slinks across the space, landing on Mary's distress and his lips purse together. Jack feels guilty that he can't even imagine reaching out to help her.
"Everybody sit down," Jody instructs.
Castiel, of course, has no complaints with this demand, slumping into a chair with all the grace of a collapsing puppet. Jack forces rigid muscles to move and slinks around to the other side of the table so he can sit beside the seraph. He's more certain than he probably should be that if he gets within a two feet proximity of any of the Winchesters he's either going to start crying hysterically or strangle them.
Still crying, Mary sits down, and so do her sons.
And then, like this is some sort of ridiculous comedy, Castiel finally seems to recognize something is actually happening and asks, "What happened?" in a dull, exhausted tone. His voice is a whisper, but Jack feels dark amusement and despair wash through him at once.
What didn't?
Sam's selling his body parts, did you know that?
"Is it Michael?" Castiel asks cautiously. He's looking at Dean now, waiting.
Jack wants to laugh.
Laugh and laugh and laugh.
No, it's not Michael, for once.
"No. It's nothing." Sam says through gritted teeth. His body is tense when Jack dares a glance at him. The younger Winchester has taken a seat at the end of the table in a clear effort to be out of grabbing distance. Dean is on the other side of Jack beside Mary. Jody keeps standing, like she'll need to make a dive for someone. Maybe she will. It will probably be the only way they don't kill each other.
Castiel's gaze pulls away from Sam to land on Dean for help, but the hunter has buried his face into his hands and isn't looking at anyone. He's breathing hard. The sound of Mary's tears feels like background noise. Just there, not something to react to.
It's making his chest hot, though.
Jody sighs, then says in explanation to Castiel's question, "I think we're having some trouble with communication." And her tone is so light, so jovial about the whole thing that Jack wants to stand up and smack her.
Having some trouble? Sure. Let's boil this whole thing down to a joke. Because that's all Jack's emotions are to everyone, right?
"Okay," Castiel says slowly, still confused. Then his gaze slides from Jody to Jack, and Jack feels any resolve he had crumble. He'd intended to put up a front and force Sam to admit to everything, to make everyone confess their sins like he's some sort of indifferent judge, but he can't. Castiel doesn't even have to say anything, his look—soft and confused, but wanting to understand—pops the cork of Jack's silence with ease.
"Sam's selling his blood to monsters." He blurts out.
"Jack!" Sam hisses.
What? What did he expect him to do? Leave Castiel in the dark?
And Jack, stupidly, childishly, almost feels gleeful about spilling all their secrets, as if he's been some sort of central hub for collecting them and he finally gets the opportunity to dump this onto someone else. It doesn't have to just be his problem anymore. "And you're dying and won't say anything about it, and Dean tried to kill himself and we're ignoring that because it's easier, and Mary is avoiding all of us because she wishes she didn't have to deal with us, and I'm the stupid naive kid who can't get anything right." Jack explains in a rush.
"What—what the hell?" Jody interrupts, sounding choked.
Oh, damn him.
Jack snaps his mouth shut.
Everyone is looking at him, and Jack realizes belatedly that this is not a good thing. Their faces are ranging between open disbelief to barely contained anger. At least, Jack thinks darkly, nobody's crying anymore.
Jack waits for the yelling to start. For fingers to get pointed and accusations thrown and branded. He waits with bated breath, expecting hell.
Castiel, unexpectedly, breaks the silence first. "What?" His heavy eyes sweep across the room, and Jack watches Sam wince beneath the weight of his stare. Castiel's mouth moves as if he can't figure out what to say, and Jack doesn't know whether to cry or be impressed. Castiel is thousands of years old, and Jack has rendered this celestial being utterly speechless.
Explanations break out at once from the Winchesters, voices overlapping each other. There's a desperation to the tones as if everyone needs to say their piece before someone else will explain for them.
"Okay, okay!" Jody says over them. Nobody silences. Jody says, louder, "Everyone shut up!"
The Winchesters are quiet.
Jack sinks into himself.
Why can't he make anything better? This isn't fair. He just makes it all worse. Why can't he do anything right?
Jody rubs at her forehead, shaking her head. "God. I don't even know where to start. Somebody tell me what the hell is going on."
Nobody volunteers. Jack doesn't even bother pretending to consider it. He was supposed to swallow everything down and resign himself to silence. That's what's been expected of him since this started.
He didn't.
Now their world is exploding.
Castiel slowly gets to his feet, and all of them watch as the angel carefully makes his way around the table until he's standing next to Sam. The younger Winchester looks away from him, biting on his lower lip, frustration obvious in the set of his jaw. Castiel slowly reaches out, grabbing Sam's arm and withdrawing it from where it's tucked against his chest.
Sam, Jack notes, lets him.
Castiel stares at the injection marks, the bruises, and the pale skin. His back is to Jack, so he can't see his expression, but Sam is avoiding it like it will wound him. Castiel releases a breath sharply. "Damn it, Sam," he whispers. Then, louder, "What were you thinking?"
Sam shakes his head, looking away. He sets his jaw.
Jack wants to scream at him.
"No, no," Dean's tone is indecipherable. He pulls his hands away from his face, letting them rest on the table, hands appraised near his head. "Answer the man, Sammy. Let's hear it. Don't be shy now."
Sam's piercing stare raises up to land on his brother and something visibly darkens in his gaze. Mary breathes out sharply. She's practically shrinking in her seat as if she's desperate to let the floor swallow her.
"I told you," Sam says, his voice low, "that all I wanted was to get money to take care of Michael's rebels. I wasn't—I wasn't trying to hurt myself. It just made sense."
"It made sense?" Mary repeats, furious. "It made sense?"
"Let him talk," Jody tries to interject.
Nobody listens.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Castiel sounds hurt. "Sam. I—"
"Would you have let me continue?" Sam interrupts, staring intently up at him for the first time. Castiel twitches, his hands tightening on Sam's forearm as if the thought alone horrifies him.
"No."
Sam makes a face. "There you go then. It was all I'm good for. But no," Sam looks up at Dean then, his gaze furious, tone bitter, "obviously it doesn't matter what I want to do because nobody cares about whether or not I agree to it anyway. My body's a community-owned project until I decide to do the helping."
"Sam—" Dean makes a choked sound and starts to protest the same time that Mary starts "Samuel—"
"Oh, don't start!" Sam snarls, pulling his arm from Castiel and slamming his other hand on the table. The sound rattles in the room and Jack feels his insides go cold. Suddenly, the threat of violence doesn't seem relieving as much as it does terrifying. The Winchesters are trained killers. If this breaks out into a fight, this isn't going to be a bloody nose or a little rough housing. It will be broken bones and swollen limbs.
Cracked fingers and shattered trust.
Jack broke them. He got Sam angry. The only reason they function is because they carefully conceal all their emotions away. Nobody feels anything outside the small realm of their personal acceptable emotions, everything is fine. They all pretend that it's normal.
Sam doesn't get angry.
Dean doesn't get sad.
Castiel doesn't get tired.
Mary doesn't show any emotion beyond calm in front of them.
Jack broke it all. Michael didn't even need to do anything. That was all Jack. All because he can't keep himself in check. Jack isn't allowed to get angry either. He stepped outside his comfort zone, and now everything is shattering around him.
What was he thinking?
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean is trying to cover his desperation with anger, but it's a flaking, weak mask.
Sam laughs, cold and empty. It sounds like Lucifer. "You're joking, right? Gadreel ring any bells? When have you given a damn about my body autonomy unless it benefits you? But the second I start to use it for something good, you all freak out? I have to have your permission?"
"You're selling your organs!" Mary's voice is pitched and strangled, "In what universe are we supposed to be okay with that?"
Sam raises his hands in annoyance. "See! This is why I didn't bring it up in the first place, I knew that you'd all overreact—"
"Overreact?" Castiel chokes.
"The hell, Sammy!?" Dean exclaims. "You're selling your body parts. This is nothing like Gadreel!"
Who? Jack thinks desperately, but the familiar frustration at not knowing anything settles in his stomach, twisting up beside the anger and wariness.
"Oh, god," Sam flops his head back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him the words to get them all to shut up. "It's not like I chopped off my arm or something."
"You were fucking getting there!" Dean shouts.
"Dean." Castiel warns. There are layers and layers to his tone that Jack doesn't want to begin to unpack. Sam shakes his head, teeth gritted. He still won't look at them. Jack feels himself shrinking in his seat.
There is, he decides, a vast difference between listening to an argument and participating in one.
I did this.
I broke them.
What the hell did I think yelling would accomplish?
"Alright, alright, let's just calm down," Jody tries to placate. Jack can hear something in her tone, but he can't determine if it's frustration or curiosity. Exasperation, he realizes a moment later. It's exasperation. She's annoyed with them? Doesn't she understand how quickly this can escalate into something much worse? Why isn't she terrified?
Sam lifts up a hand, pointing a finger at her angrily. "No," he says, his tone heavy, "don't start. I am calm."
Jody's jaw twitches.
"No, Sam," Dean says, sounding genuinely flustered. "You're not. Calm down. You don't have any reason to be upset, okay? Just. Breathe, dammit."
Sam's expression twists, something dark crossing over his features. Jack sees Castiel withdraw his hand, something pinched settling on his face as Sam gets to his feet, planting both hands on the tabletop. He leans forward. "I don't have a reason to be upset? Are you fucking shitting me? What the hell, Dean? Have you paid any attention to the last few months?"
"Sam—" Castiel tries to interject, taking a step toward him.
Both brothers ignore the seraph.
Dean's expression looks desperate, but his voice is cold. "No. I haven't. Because I've been possessed. For you."
"For me?" Sam repeats, sounding like he's choking on a laugh. "You know damn well that it wasn't—" Sam stops, shaking his head, fingers curling on the tabletop. Castiel reaches out, grabbing Sam's arm, trying to get him to stop, but Sam shoves him off.
Jack can feel himself beginning to bottom out. He can't do anything. He's watching. Always watching. Someone glimpsing into their lives from afar. He can feel everything crumbling. Breaking. Shattering. He's standing on broken glass.
"Right." Dean snorts, sounding a little desperate. "Right. I forgot. You wouldn't do the same for me, right. That's still a thing we're peddling around with?"
"I wouldn't—I did do the same for you," Sam shouts. "This has nothing to do with—"
Dean gets to his feet, incensed, and a little panicked, "I was saving you, you selfish bastard! You have no idea what he did to me!"
"I can imagine," Sam says, something almost delighted stretching across his face. "Does that scare you? The idea that I know you? You never fucking talk about anything, and now I know because you're not the first person to be possessed by a fucking angel."
Dean takes a step forward, aggression etched into every bone of his body. But not being on the receiving end makes Jack realize what's hiding behind it: terror. Dean is terrified. Mary gets to her feet and rests a hand on his chest, stopping him from taking another step toward Sam.
"You—" Dean struggles to find the words, "You don't get to say that you know me just because you got your mind scatterbrained by an angel, too. Gadreel was a mercy."
Sam laughs, "Was it?"
"Angels—" Dean starts to say furiously, but both of them are interrupted as Mary shoves Dean back with a harsh, "boys!" In rebuke. She stares at them both, her jaw tight.
"That's enough," Mary says sharply. "Stop before you say something you'll regret."
"Funny," Dean says dryly, "because I don't regret anything."
"Oh?" Sam's face flattens, "Big surprise. Regret and apologies have never really been your thing, have they, always got to be right." Mary starts to say something, but Sam turns to her and snaps, "Don't. Just—don't pretend you care about me. The moment that I drag Dean into it, you suddenly give a shit."
"What?" Mary chokes. She stares at him, her red-rimmed eyes wide. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You sold me!" Sam shouts. Mary flinches, her face draining of color. Sam's shaking, Jack realizes. His eyes are wet and he's so pale he looks like he should be tumbling. But he's not. "You fucking sold me to a demon and you can't even look me in the eyes because of it! You barely see me! And now you give a fuck about my body?"
"That's—" Mary blinks rapidly, looking sick. "That's not. You—I—I had no idea that Azazel—you honestly think that I would give up my child to a demon—"
"I'm—" Sam blinks, his voice thick. He gestures to himself, his voice laced with so much disgust Jack barely recognizes it. "There is so little of me that's human that I could cast an exorcism only demons could use to release angels and it worked and you chose to let that happen to me."
"I didn't choose—I died for you!" Mary protests.
"Big deal. Get in line," Sam says flatly.
Mary makes a wordless sound of pain.
"God, Sam," Dean shakes his head, "you haven't changed. You're still the selfish bastard that ran off and left me with Dad. You're not the only one who's been hurt—"
"You think I don't know that!?" Sam shouts.
"SHUT UP!" Castiel says lowly. His voice seems to rattle in the air, like a choking vice. The Winchesters quiet, looking toward him. The seraph shakes his head, frustrated. "Stop, all of you! What do you hope to achieve by this? Tearing each other to pieces accomplishes nothing. If you intend to air grievances, do so when you're calmer. You're a family, act like one."
"Right," Dean's head tips, his eyes burning, his voice is high with something desperate. "Cause you're in the position to judge. Your family is a bunch of mind-fucking psychopaths, I don't really think you're the person to be dallying out advice."
Castiel goes still. His head raises slowly, his gaze pinning on Dean. There's a long lull of silence before, "What am I, then?" His voice is soft, but Jack feels more terrified by it then he has anything else since the conversation started.
"You're—" Dean shakes his head, exasperated, "Cas, you know what I meant. You're not like them."
"Yes, I am!" Castiel shouts, "I am exactly like them! I am built the same, think the same, I am the same!"
"Cas," Mary whispers, "Cas, it doesn't matter. You're more human than they are."
"And to be human is to have reached the peak of living achievement?" Castiel asks furiously. "Why am I not enough as I am? Why do I have to be more like you before I am acceptable? I am an angel! Those angels that you kill without hesitation are my siblings, my family, and you murder them—" Castiel's voice breaks.
Sam exhales sharply, "We're—we're not—"
"Yes, you are!" Castiel protests. "You are not the only one who has suffered at the hands of my siblings, you have no idea how Michael has violated me because you don't care about me, you've never cared, I am a tool in your goddamn toolbox, not a living being. I still think of what Lucifer did to me daily, but no—your problems always come first. Always." Castiel seethes. The words make Dean and Sam flinch.
Castiel exhales on a shudder. "I can't do this anymore," Castiel whispers, "I'm exhausted. This is too much. I want to die. I wish Michael killed me or I had succeeded before. I can't…I can't…"
Jack thinks he's going to choke.
"Cas…" Jack breathes.
And that, the single, breathless, pained syllable, seems to remind the entire room that Jack is there. Castiel turns to him, his eyes wide and horrified, as if he's unveiled something awful about himself. Jack thinks he's going to dissolve into sobs.
"You—" Jack can't get the words out. "You want to die?"
You want to leave me?
I'm not enough for even you to want to stay?
You promised you'd look out for me.
"I—" Castiel looks desperate. "I'm exhausted, I'm saying things without meaning to," he says quickly. "I need to clear my head, I—I should—go." Castiel starts to hobble toward the door, but Jody jerks into action, moving after him. No one protests as Castiel leaves, but Jack sees Dean and Sam rock toward him as if they intend to go after him but stop. The door laps shut behind him, leaving the rest of them entrapped in a tomb of silence.
"Oh my gosh," Jack gasps. He feels numb. He can't breathe. He shoves up to his feet, unable to stand to look at any of them. His body feels tight. Jack squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm sorry," he gasps, "I'm sorry I broke everything. I—I didn't mean—"
"Jack," Sam's voice is pained, yet level, as if the presence of Castiel's anger has seeped any remaining fury from him. Everything has been shoved inside and compartmentalized.
Back to normal.
Castiel wants to die.
Jack shakes his head, opening his eyes only so he can make his way around the table, avoiding Dean reaching out for him and scrambles up the stairs.
He races into the bathroom, tumbling inside and shoving the door shut behind him. He locks it with shaking hands. He grabs the drawers next to the door and yanks them open as a further barrier.
Jack catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.
(Skin peeled back from eyes, yellow eyes rimmed red, skin white, jaw hole-riddled, wings a deformed mass.)
He flinches, reaching out to turn out the light as well. Then he slides against the wall across from the sink, gripping his legs to his chest and panics. There's something—there's something more intense about the idea of Castiel wanting to die. Somehow it's worse than the fact that Dean tried. Because Dean—Dean had something awful happen to him. It's something that…that Jack doesn't know can get better, but he can pretend.
It feels manageable.
But this.
Castiel is.
Stable.
Safe.
Secure.
Wants to be gone.
It's. It's hard. He can't. Jack can't think. He must have done something wrong. He has to have. Because Castiel would only want to leave him if he had. He can never please anyone he sees as a father. He's always harbored a quiet, desperate fear that one day Dean would boot him out the door and Sam wouldn't protest, but Castiel has felt secure. Jack knew that he wouldn't let him go. But this…this is different.
He did something wrong.
He always does something wrong.
"Bad, bad, bad," Jack whispers, chants, repeats and repeats and repeats because it's true and he broke his family. He broke them all. He shouldn't—shouldn't have said anything. He slaps his arm furiously. He smashes a fist into his stomach, then again and again, because the pain is blinding, but all-consuming, and for the briefest moment, Jack can forget.
When his body is riddled with pain and his fingers feel slightly swollen, he stops and just sits there, staring at the tub.
There's a knock on the door, and Jack holds his breath, forcing himself not to breathe. He stares at the door, feeling ready to start screaming.
"Jack?" Sam. "Jack, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have exploded like that in front of you. Are you okay?"
Jack doesn't answer.
"Jack?"
Jack exhales thinly.
"I know you're in there," Sam says softly. "Are you okay? I'm worried about you."
"Go away," Jack whispers, but he thinks it's too quiet for Sam to hear. Sam leaves anyway. Jack's not surprised.
000o000
Jack somehow, magically, manages to avoid the Winchesters and Castiel for the rest of the day. He hides in the bathroom for a long time before sneaking out only to escape out the back door while studiously ignoring Mary sitting at the table with her head in her hands looking like she's mourning something.
Then he gets out as far on Jody's property as he can go and sits down in the forest, leans against a tree and just thinks. He spins endless pine needles and sticks between his fingers.
He thinks about everything. Every moment that he can remember, stretching back to being inside of Kelly, safe, but hated, to now. He's done something wrong, that much he knows, but he can't figure out what it is. That's the only reasonable explanation on why no one wants him as a family.
Jack watches the sun slowly descend behind the trees and listens to the soft sounds of the forest.
His entire body feels hot and cold all at once, like he's an explosion waiting to go off.
I wish Kelly hadn't let me live. She should have tried harder.
He exhales shakily.
I shouldn't have stopped her.
Jack rubs a twig between his fingers, the rough bark strangely calming.
Lucifer should have stabbed me in the neck. Maybe he knew. Maybe he knew what would happen if he let me live. I'm a bomb waiting to go off, and he knew. He left me here because he knew it would be a worse punishment than nothingness…
Nothingness that sounds wonderful.
Jack pulls his legs up against his stomach, resting his head on his knees. He drops the twig. The air is cold when he breathes it in. He looks back toward the house he can see in the distance, the roof showing up awkwardly in the trees.
"Mom," Jack says shakily. His voice sounds strange. "Mom, I'm sorry." He whispers. He's quiet for a long time, trying to gather his thoughts, slightly afraid that she can actually hear him. "I think…" Jack exhales softly, "I think that I really messed up. I just…I was so angry and I shouldn't…I don't know what I was thinking. I ruined everything. I guess I'm a lot more like Lucifer than you were hoping for. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. I should fix this, and I don't know how."
It feels weird to talk to her. She's dead. She can't hear him. He's talking to a ghost.
Not even that.
He's talking to nothing.
And yet, somehow, imagining that she's here is comforting.
Jack breathes in, wiping at his face. His chest aches. And, amazingly, despite all of this emotional desecration, Jack is hungry. It feels almost comical. His family is destroyed, his body is in tatters, but sure, eat something. That will fix everything.
"I wish that I was a better person," Jack confesses. "I'm sorry I disappointed you."
Jack sighs and turns his head, drawing his body tighter together. His next words feel too raw to say out loud, but he directs them toward her anyway. I'm sorry you had to die for something like me. He wonders if she regrets it. Maybe she hates him more now than she ever did when she was alive and forced to carry him.
Jack wishes he had more to say in this rare moment of bravery, but his throat is dry and words sound exhausting.
He's not sure how long he sits out in the woods, but the sun has long since set when Jody comes trekking toward him, her phone as a flashlight, a blanket on the other hand. Her expression is carefully neutral when she drapes the blanket across his shoulders and then sits down next to him, turning the flashlight off.
"Thanks," Jack mumbles.
Jody hums. She leans her head back against the trunk of the tree, resting her hands on her tented legs. Neither of them talk for a long time. Crickets start to chirp and Jack hears something moving in the woods behind them, but he's too exhausted to care. Let the bear eat him. God knows he wouldn't protest.
"You find the Big Dipper yet?" Jody says after a while, the sound of her voice startling him after so long of silence.
"What?" Jack asks, genuinely confused.
"Star constellation," Jody says, then frowns at him. When Jack continues to be silent, Jody shakes her head in disbelief. "Those Winchesters. Good for nothing." She grumbles. She lifts her hand out and gestures to a vague patch of stars, "Follow my finger. There's a constellation that makes a ladle sha—you probably don't know what that is. It's, uh, like a kitchen utensil. Maybe think of it as a square spoon."
Jack follows her hand, trying to see what she's seeing. All he sees is stars. "I can't find it."
"That's okay," she promises, "it can be a little hard to see at first, but I promise you'll never unsee this."
Jody works with him for the next few minutes, both of them shifting to their backs before Jack finally sees what she's pointing out with a delighted "Oh! Jody I see it! It's-It's right there!" and Jody's laughter accompanying it. She points out a few other constellations after that, the Little Dipper with the North Star—Polaris, Jack vaguely remembers Castiel called it—the Hunter, and Drago. Jack's eyes keep falling back on the Big Dipper. He found it.
He actually accomplished something today.
So. There's that.
"How are you feeling?" Jody asks, her voice far more gentle. She's laying beside him on the ground, her hands clasped over her stomach. Jack has the blanket wrapped around his upper body but he's still cold anyway.
Jack sighs. "I have felt worse."
"Not great, though," Jody says. She's quiet for a moment. "Sounds like the Winchesters are driving you a little bit crazy."
Jack bites on his lower lip before confessing, "Castiel too."
"Hm."
It feels strange talking to her about this. He doesn't really know Jody, but he's desperate for anyone who isn't the Winchesters or Castiel to talk to. In this moment, he would bare his entire soul to Jody if she asked. Jack exhales, long and heavy, before rolling onto his side to look at her. "Will you not tell them about any of this?"
Jody makes a zipping motion across her lips. "My lips are sealed."
"I feel frustrated," Jack starts slowly. "But I didn't intend to explain it like that. Sometimes it feels like there's no other way to get their attention. Like I have to shout or scream for them to even pay attention to me. Or I'd have to go on a murder spree so they'd hunt me before they'd see me."
Jody nods slowly. "So like you're sort of there but not important?"
"Yes," Jack nods. "And if I am important, it's in the worst ways. I feel like they only pay attention to me when I've done something wrong. And I know that isn't fair, because they have…stuff, too, but I don't understand why they can't tell me about it. I feel like…they all feel like strangers to me. I barely know them, Jody. We were together for a few months and that's it. I feel more comfortable with Mary than anyone else, and it makes me feel guilty because I know that Castiel died for me. Dean was possessed. Sam died, too. It's like…I can't be angry because that…undoes everything."
"Okay…" Jody sounds a little confused. "I don't think I'm following," she admits, "you think that being angry undoes any sort of…relationship?"
"Yeah," Jack's shoulders slump.
"I see."
"And it's…" Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I guess, I thought…I could see how badly Dean being gone was affecting everyone, but no one would talk to me. It's so frustrating to be in the dark all the time but still be expected to sympathize with everything. I'm swallowing their emotions without knowing why. And then they—I know it's my fault because I trusted my—Lucifer in the first place, but at the same time, I blame them for this. If they had just…talked to me…"
"Wait, hold up," Jody lifts up a finger, rolling onto her side and looking at him. "I know about Apocalypse World-thing, but not about that bit. What did they not tell you about?"
"Lucifer," Jack says, spitting the name. "He was…he was trying to be my friend and no one said a goddamn word about what he did to Sam or Cas or anyone! They just—they wouldn't talk."
Jody's brow draws together, "Really? That's really…" Jody doesn't seem to have a word for that.
Jack plows forward anyway. "Everyone said I shouldn't trust him but never said why, and they're doing that all the time, Sheriff Mills. Omitting details and lying to me and even though I want to trust them, I know I can't, and it hurts. If they would trust me then maybe I could trust them, too. I don't want to talk to them, I don't want to be near them if this is what it's going to be like forever. I hate it here." Jack confesses the last part in a whisper.
"That's…a lot." Jody says. "Wow. That is a lot, kiddo."
Jack's stomach squirms weirdly at the nickname. There is something about being referred to as a kid that makes some sort of raging panicked storm relax. He's not nearly as old as everyone seems to think he is. It's…nice, for that to be acknowledged. As if Jody is seeing something hidden inside of Jack.
"Do you have anything else you want to say?" Jody asks.
Jack shakes his head.
"I have thoughts, but if you're not ready to hear them, then I'll keep them to myself," Jody says after a moment. Jack shrugs, then mumbles something about it being okay if she talks. He's dreading what she has to say. He knows she must be exhausted with him. This is what, the second breakdown that he's had in so many days? Her patience is going to run out.
"Okay," Jody shifts a little, adjusting her head, "First, I think you should know that I talked to Castiel. And Sam. Dean and Mary were talking to each other when I came out to find you. You didn't break anyone or the family, okay? There was just…everyone is stressed right now. That doesn't excuse them blowing up, but it's not because of you."
"I'm the one that started it," Jack whispers.
Jody talked to Sam. And Castiel. They talked to her. That's good, isn't it?
Jody shrugs. "Someone would have eventually. I think a blow up was kind of inevitable. I also think it's important that you talk to each other later, when you're not on the edge of trying to kill each other," Jody adds after a moment, her tone wry. She sighs, her expression growing more serious. "Jack, not feeling like you can be angry with the Winchesters and Castiel is bullshit. They messed up. So did you. Everyone did."
Jack squirms uncomfortably. His chest feels tight.
"I don't want—I try so hard, not to do anything wrong." Jack admits, wanting her to take it back. To tell him that he wasn't at fault and did everything right. Because Jack doesn't want to have done anything wrong. He can't. Lucifer does wrong things.
Jack, if he's meant to be his opposite, can't.
Jody's expression twists in sympathy, "I know. But that's impossible. You're going to mess up. I highly doubt this will be the last time you yell at someone." Jack chews on his lower lip. Jody rubs a hand over her eyebrow. "Okay, let me rephrase that. Doing something wrong doesn't decrease your worth as a living being."
Jack stares at her.
It…doesn't?
Since when?
"Messing up is part of life, and it's inevitable. No one is free of that flaw. The important thing is recognizing that you did something wrong and then admitting to that." Jody explains. She's quiet for a moment, then adds, "I really do think that you all need to talk to each other. There's…a lot that needs to be said. Not tonight, though."
"No," Jack agrees. He sighs and leans back, tucking his arm behind his head. "Jody?"
"Hm?"
Jack worries his lower lip between his teeth. He wants to ask, did I do something to make Castiel want to kill himself, but the words get stuck in his throat. He doesn't want to say them and then have Jody answer with yes. "Can we go inside?"
"Yeah," Jody says, starting to get up, "It's pretty late. We'll deal with this tomorrow, okay? This isn't a one-time conversation."
Yeah.
Right.
Jack gets up to his feet and follows Jody back to the house.
000o000
Despite his initial doubts, once Jack lays his head down on the pillow, he sleeps through the night. He doesn't move. He doesn't dream. He goes to sleep, then wakes up feeling more exhausted than before but with a persistent need to pee. Unable to ignore his bladder, Jack finally shoves up and carefully hobbles his way to the bathroom.
Once he's finished, Jack stares at himself in the mirror. Dark, gray circles are hanging beneath his eyes. His eyelids look swollen from crying so much. Hair disheveled, posture hunched, he's like some sort of horror movie villain.
Fantastic.
Jack sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the edge of the sink. He wants to go back to bed.
Actually, he doesn't have a reason not to go back to bed. With that thought in mind, Jack slips out of the bathroom and returns back to the guest room he's sharing with Mary. She wasn't there when he left and she's not there when he returns. Jack doesn't really care. He clambers back into bed and buries himself beneath the covers, squeezing his eyes shut.
He falls asleep again, and he doesn't wake for what feels like a long time.
A hand is shaking him awake, and Jack mumbles something dark in annoyance. He blinks groggy eyes open, violently jerking back when he sees that Mich—-Dean is standing next to the bed. He has a glass of water in one hand, his expression strangely open. His brow furrows with concern, but he lifts up a hand in placation, assuring Jack that he doesn't mean any harm.
Jack swallows thickly. His heart is smacking against his chest.
His face flushes with embarrassment.
"Sorry." Jack mumbles, dropping his gaze.
"Don't worry about it," Dean brushes off and offers the glass of water out to him. Jack just stares at it, exhausted. His throat is almost painfully dry, but the idea of holding the glass is too much. Dean doesn't withdraw his hand. "You've been asleep for more than eighteen hours," Dean persists. "God knows that you need it, but you need water. Drink this and I'll leave you alone."
Jack sighs and acquiescences, taking the glass from Dean. Once he's drained the entire glass, Dean takes it back from him. He stands there for a moment, biting on his lower lip as if he wants to say something, but doesn't. Part of him is tempted to ask. Jack doesn't think he really cares. He just wants to sleep. He lays back down and Dean releases a soft breath.
The older Winchester reaches out and brushes stray hair from Jack's forehead. Jack twitches, squinting up at Dean in confusion.
"Just go to sleep," Dean encourages.
Jack doesn't fight him.
He's asleep before Dean leaves the room.
000o000
He wakes up when Sam brings him water later, promptly going back to sleep, and twice more to relieve himself, then finally, Jack wakes up completely and utterly conscious. He doesn't think he could sleep anytime in the next year even if he tried.
He doesn't know how long he's been asleep, but he suspects it's been days. His body aches from lack of movement.
He sighs heavily and glances at the clock—five twenty-six p.m.—before finally submitting and sitting up slowly. His chest feels much better. It throbs dully, like a days-old bruise, but there's no immediate stabbing agony. When Jack rubs a hand across his stomach, he winces but doesn't want to pass out.
He is, however, starving.
Which means going into the kitchen.
And that means that he might run into the Winchesters or Castiel.
But he can't hide in here forever. He has to get up and face this. Has to be the one to fix everything because he broke it and that's how this works. He can't just wait for things to resolve themselves.
Jack presses his palms into his eyes, rubbing in slow circles before breathing out sharply and forcing himself to his feet. The world feels a little tipsy for a moment, but it settles and Jack clambers to his feet. He's dreading every moment of the next few hours.
Expecting something awful to happen at any turn, Jack slowly makes his way out of the room and down the hall. He doesn't run into anyone. Part of him wonders how long he's been asleep.
It doesn't really matter.
Tentative, Jack moves down the stairs slowly, listening carefully. There's no shouting. No yelling. Just the sound of sloshing water and Sam and Dean's soft baritones occasionally interjected with Castiel's. Jack carefully moves further down the staircase, peeking his head around the edge of the landing.
He goes still.
Castiel is sitting on the counter cross-legged, his back to Jack, his shirt and coat removed. But that's not the surprising part. That's the fact that his wings are spread out across the counter, hanging off the edges of the island, with the majority of the weight on the countertop.
Jack's breath catches.
Sam and Dean are carefully, meticulously, cleaning off the black, blotted tar-like substance with wet rags and their fingers. Beneath the—blood? Maybe—black stuff is fresh, mostly unblemished pink-white skin. Feathers in the early stages of development, a color of gray that suggests they could eventually be either white or black, are sticking out awkwardly in some areas. The skin is cracking in others, as if dry and humid, or something is trying to poke through. The only word that Jack can think of to describe it is raw.
Sam and Dean are gentle as they work together, slowly making their way down Castiel's left wing. Jack's close enough that he can hear what they're saying, and realizes that in-between gentle teasing about wing maintenance, the three of them are talking about Jack.
He slowly sits down on the staircase. He wants to approach and ask to help them, but he's worried about what will happen. What he would ruin or break. And now, because he's a bad person, Jack doesn't know what to do beyond sit down and listen to them talk about him. He knows he should approach and confess to being there, but he doesn't.
"—don't think that I've seen him get up for a few days," Dean is saying softly. "I know Jody talked with him, but I don't think that it helped that much. I don't know what to do."
Castiel sighs.
Jack's stomach churns uncomfortably.
"I haven't spoken with him yet. I'm afraid that I scared him." Castiel confesses, quietly. He sounds sort of strained. "I don't know what to say."
"Do any of us?" There's no answer. Sam continues softly, "We're going to need to talk to him eventually. Actually talk. I know that he has questions, I just…"
"There are things that I can't imagine making him carry the weight of," Castiel finishes. Sam makes a sound of agreement. "He is so young. It's not his responsibility. I wish he would stop trying to make it."
"Kid's curious," Dean mutters, "and that can be a good and bad thing. I just…he's…God, I wish he would stop asking. He doesn't want to know."
Yes, I do. And that's the problem, isn't it?
You assume you know what I want.
Water wrings and Castiel makes a soft sound that Sam apologizes for. There's a minute of silence before the younger Winchester says, soft, "I don't want to tell him. Not to punish him, just because I can't…there is no way to talk about the scope of this."
"No." Castiel agrees. "And he is still a child."
Does being a child make him less worthy? Jack wonders bitterly. Always too young for everything but too old. So old. Infinity caught between embryo. They're never going to tell me anything.
Jack gets up to his feet, feeling inexplicably drained. He stalks back up the stairs silently and returns back to the bedroom. He lays back down and considers going back to sleep, but his mind is spinning too much for it to work. He wants to talk to someone, but he thinks that if he tried they'd just lie to him.
Omitting. Lying. False truths.
For once in his damned life, can someone tell him the truth?
Next chapter: I literally have no idea. I have plans to finish this eventually. Thanks for reading, please bare with me.
