Author's Note: I write long chapters. Don't expect me to apologize about it. ;)
Summary: In the wake of Lucifer's death, with Dean missing, Sam falling apart, and Cas struggling to keep everyone together, Jack realizes there are a lot of things he doesn't know about the Winchesters and Cas. Things he should know. Things he's going to fight to learn. S14 AU.
Parings: None.
Warnings: PTSD, torture, past torture, cage trauma, hell trauma, some violence, black market organ selling, mental health issues, self harm; some language. No slash, no smut, no non-con/rape. Further needed warnings will be posted at the top of chapters.
Disclaimer: No.
Set: Beginning of S14
Note: Cross-posted on A03 under the same penname.
I didn't know.
I didn't understand.
Why didn't anyone tell me!?
Chapter One:
His hands are slick as they hold the tablet, making his grip a desperate fumble. He adjusts so he's using both hands at either end because he's afraid that he's going to drop it if he doesn't. And then it will just be something else he's broken the last few weeks, and the idea of presenting the ruptured device to Castiel or Sam makes his stomach churn.
Jack purses his lips together, breathing out slowly through his nose, trying to remind himself why he's here. Why he's standing in the kitchen doorway, trying not to feel like an idiot as he fills up the space, hands clenched and body stiff.
Mary, without her jacket for the first time in days, looks up from the fridge she's scouring for the last remains of any food. Someone needs to do another grocery haul, but Sam has yet to delegate that for the week—handing out the money from wherever he wrestles it from the skies—and dinner will probably be another loot from the Bunker's dwindling military-like food supply. Jack doesn't like it. The texture is rough and gets stuck in his teeth, and it often tastes like what he imagines gnawing on wet cardboard would.
But he's not in the position to be complaining—Sam doesn't need any more complaints, least of all from him—so he's kept his lips firmly pressed together about his opinion, even if he's silently longed for the days where food was an option, not a requirement. His chest aches dully, as if in reminder of that.
"Jack?" Mary says his name like a question, hand on the top of the fridge's door. Jack's fingers tighten around the tablet. "Is something wrong?"
That, Jack supposes, depends on how you define the question.
"No." He reassures quickly, pulling his lips up. The smile doesn't feel sincere, and trying harder will only make it worse, so he lets the awkward attempt hang on his face. "No, nothing's wrong. I just…" he lifts up the tablet as best he can with two hands clasped around it. "I think I've found a case."
He watches her expression carefully. Green eyes are tired, and her face pallid with exhaustion. She looks more sleep-deprived than she ever did in Michael's world. Jack understands. Helping with the rebellion was relatively straightforward. It wasn't enjoyable, but it was simple. With Dean missing and the mess that has become the Bunker and the rebels, there aren't any obvious solutions or an escape.
Mary looks worn: stretched in six different directions, but only capable of holding onto one.
And, as Jack watches, her lips downturn, pulling tight against her teeth. It's not frustration, but long-suffering might be a better term. His stomach sinks a little, and he feels like an idiot. Why, he wonders, did he think this was a good idea? The last thing anyone wants to focus on right now is a hunt. But leads for Dean have run dry and emptied out into a barren basin, and Jack doesn't know what else to do.
How he's supposed to help.
He was far more useful to everyone when he had his powers.
Maybe they'd have found Dean by now if he did. Maybe then Castiel wouldn't be ready to murder someone, and Sam prepared to help him bury evidence of the crime. Mary wouldn't look so tired, and the rebels wouldn't be strained and so confused. Jack wouldn't be so useless.
"Jack," Mary's voice is patient, "are you really sure that's the best thing right now?"
Well, he was before. Now he's not so sure.
Absently, the knuckle of his right thumb finds his sternum, and rubs against the mostly-healed stab. It throbs dully, but is without the fiery ache anymore. A part of him is disappointed at this. Pain is a good distraction.
"I thought it might be good to focus on something else," Jack explains, swallowing back the urge to retreat. Mary's disapproval pulls on something inside him. "We're no closer to finding D—Michael"—he never knows what name to use anymore, and his mouth awkwardly runs the two together as he tries to correct it—"than we were three weeks ago. It's only a few hours from here."
He thinks. Directions still evade him, despite Google's attempts to help.
Mary releases the fridge, letting it click shut. Her stance is open, but her expression is not. She's quiet for a long moment before she releases her lips and sighs, folding her arms across her chest. "Show me."
Jack steps into the kitchen, crossing the distance between them. His steps feel loud and echoing in the quiet of this room. Most of the Bunker is filled with people now, and though Jack isn't exactly fond of the sudden forced socialization, the sound has been somewhat calming. Proof of life, he supposes.
He steps onto the other side of the counter, and relinquishes his hold on the tablet. His fingers hurt from how tightly he'd had it clenched. He opens the device and slides it across the countertop towards her. Mary takes it, scanning through the article in a way that almost makes her seem bored. "Vamps?" she guesses, eyes still on the words.
Jack brightens slightly. It's what he concluded as well. "I think so." He agrees. "The coroner said that the throats were slashed open. The police are saying it's a wild animal. They think it's a cougar."
Mary scrolls, then stops on the news photos, and presses on one. Green eyes tighten around the edges. "Cougars have five claws, not four. And those marks are a little wide for a mountain lion."
"I agree," Jack says. He'd had to look up a cougar before he made that assessment, though. He's not sure he's actually seen one before. Wolves yes, along with a handful of other wild animals in the forest of Michael's world.
Before Mary can say that it looks more like werewolves, or literally anything else with claws, Jack points towards the image of the body she's staring at, and explains, "The body was drained of eighty percent of the blood. It's why she's so pale. But her heart was untouched."
Mary's eyes follow his finger. Her frown doesn't shift. She looks up at him. "So it's some vamps." Her lower lip worries between her teeth. She sets the tablet down, and Jack feels his heart sink with the device when she seems no more enthralled than she did earlier. Jack rocks his weight from his heels, trying to balance his disappointment out. "What do you want to do about it?"
Her question gives him pause.
The answer, to him, is rather obvious.
"Hunt...them?" Jack says the words with a waver, and feels slightly ridiculous. His thumb knuckle comes up to rub at the stab wound again.
"Jack," Mary sighs. He hates it when people sigh his name. "I appreciate the thought—and it was a good one—I just...don't think we're ready for this. Not yet."
An answer pops out before he can stop it, "So sitting around, waiting for a lead on De—Michael is better? It's been thirty-six days. I can't sit around here anymore. I need to do something."
Jack inwardly winces. There it is. His admittance. This isn't for them as much as it is for him. He rubs at the wound harder, until he manages to elect a slight twinge from himself. He's pushing up against his sternum now, thumb knuckle to bone.
Mary's brow furrows, and she looks at him in a contemplative way. Most everyone's has been cursory over the last week, and the intensity of her stare makes him draw back a little. The Winchester's hand reaches out, and her fingers gently encircle his right wrist, pulling his arm back. Jack lets her, privately relishing in the contact. "Jack," her tone is soft, "don't do that."
But I need to, he almost blurts. It helps me focus.
He flexes his fingers out, looking anywhere but her face. "I'm sorry." He whispers. He's not sure, exactly, what he's apologizing for. The hunt, the rubbing, Dean, Michael or anything and everything else. This entire thing is my fault, he thinks with force, and feels the weight of that settle against his shoulders again. If he hadn't been so stupid, so naïve...
Mary releases a breath, letting him go. He drops his hand, letting it settle on the countertop, next to the tablet. "Just don't do it again."
He can't make that promise, so he doesn't.
He looks at the tablet, and his lips push together with discomfort and mild despondency. It had seemed like such a good idea when he'd started. But Mary's probably right. Sam has stressed the importance of being mentally stable when hunting, something Jack notices he and Dean don't always adhere to, but the point still stands. None of them are really in the position to pull this off safely. But he still…
Mary's staring at him. He can feel the weight of her gaze, though he doesn't lift his own up to meet it. "Why don't you help me round up something for dinner? We don't have much in the fridge—" they never do anymore "—and it's probably going to be a hunt to find something that will make it past the gag reflex."
The attempt at humor only makes his lips twitch up, as if it's a muscle memory, but little else.
"Okay." Jack agrees, snaking a hand out to rest flat on the tablet and drag it toward himself. "I can do that." He folds the black cover of the device over the screen, and Mary turns to make for the hall when she stops suddenly.
Jack lifts his gaze up, and sees Sam staggering in through the doorway. His clothing is the same pair as yesterday's—blue flannel, long sleeve tan undershirt, jeans and a pair of boots that he probably slept in, if he bothered to lay down. His hair is falling in front of his eyes, and the beard Mary has been half-heartedly trying to get him to shave has yet to meet its maker. Sam's skin is pale and stretched. He looks feverish, or well on his way to developing a serious illness. Eyes rimmed with shadows and red. The intensity of emotion in them makes Jack's stomach hurt.
Jack's gaze flicks away, suddenly desperate for another target to his stare.
"Sam?" Mary asks. Her voice is slightly uncertain. Jack has noticed, since they got back, that Mary does that. Holds herself with an unsteadiness around Sam. It bothers him, but he's never been brave enough to ask. "Are you okay?"
"Y-yeah, no, I'm fine." Sam says, running a hand through his messy hair. A flicker of a smile tries to pull on his lips, but his eyes are filled with so many shadows it holds little meaning.
Jack presses his lips together harder. His hand shifts up unconsciously.
"Sorry, I just...was hoping to get away from the crowd. I, uh, didn't realize anyone was in here. I can leave." Sam says it sincerely, but Jack thinks if he tries to go anywhere he's probably going to collapse. His observations, Jack doubts, will be well received, so he says nothing, and stands there like a child, holding his tablet and hoping he's invisible.
"No, it's fine, we were just about to leave," Mary assures, "why don't you sit down?"
Sam nods, then moves for the table, and all but falls face-first into a chair. He winces slightly, hand shifting unconsciously to his stomach, but his face smooths out just as quickly, fingers clenching on the tabletop. He looks terrible. He wouldn't, a soft, slinking voice whispers in the back of his head, if you hadn't gotten Dean possessed.
Jack rubs his thumb against the wound. The pain is a reminder, and offers a modicum of relief.
Mary hesitates, then moves toward the table. She stands next to it as if gathering words together, hands crossed over her chest. "You were talking to Nick again." It's not a question.
Sam's eyes flit away. Jack's stomach twists with discomfort. Ever since they realized his father's vessel wasn't dead, Sam has taken it upon himself to see to the man's recovery, almost like it's penance for something.
It would have been easier, Jack guesses, if Castiel had actually had the ability to heal archangel blade wounds. But time has dragged the healing process, and his own injury was, for all intents, fairly shallow and still hasn't knit itself together fully. Nick has barely gotten back to his feet as of two days ago, and still has a bit of distance to go before he can actually get anywhere. somewhere.
And despite that, Sam always leaves any encounter with him pale and shaky. A hidden terror. As if Nick spent the entire conversation slicing Sam open with a knife and laughing.
Jack doesn't like it, but his protests fall on deaf ears.
And Sam is getting worse. Jack doesn't know if it's because of Nick's presence, Dean's absence, or something else, but the hunter has lost weight and his hands keep shaking. Anxiety, Google told him, because Jack was afraid they wouldn't tell him if he asked.
There's a lot of things they won't tell him. About angel possession, about Nick—anything about his father, for that matter. Even after...after. Jack shakes the thoughts off. The bitterness of them makes him uncomfortable, and feel weirdly tainted.
"Sam." Mary sighs his name like a threat.
Sam's eyes snap up to her, "He needs help, Mom."
"You?"
Sam's head cants forward, frustrated. He almost looks like he wants to laugh. "Who else will? Michael's rebels? Cas? You can't even look at him."
I'd take it, Jack thinks, but you won't even let me talk to him. Not that you'll say why.
Mary's jaw bunches up. "He's not our responsibility. We got him on his feet, we can just dump him at an asylum. Guy gives me the creeps."
Sam shakes his head, like this is a conversation they've had before and the outcome is no different. Mary's lips press into a hard line. Jack's fingers fidget on the tablet, suddenly feeling like an intruder. His thumb rubs harder into his chest, and he winces. The action seems to remind Sam that he's here, because the Winchester's heavy eyes lift up to him.
"Jack. Is something wrong?" Why does everyone keep asking him that? A question must show on his face, because Sam tips his head in the direction of the tablet. "You look like you're about to snap that."
Jack's gaze flicks down, and he realizes he is, in fact, gripping it tight enough to break it if he applies any more pressure. He eases up, and tries for another smile. Nothing's felt very sincere since that night. Almost as if a part of him died along with his father. He doesn't understand it, but he can't fight it. "Oh." Jack intones, "It wasn't intentional."
That doesn't seem to reassure either Winchester in the slightest. After a moment, Mary's fingers drum against her arm, then she turns to Sam and releases a short breath. "Jack found a case. Probably a vamp in Colorado."
As far as discreet attempts to change the subject go, that one isn't high on the list for Jack.
Sam's eyebrows raise. "Okay."
His stomach hurts. It's clenching in anticipation. Jack bites on the inside of his cheek. Tablet pressed. Don't crack it, he reminds himself, loosening.
Mary frowns, but says, "I think you should go." Jack feels mild confusion wash through him at her sudden change of opinion.
Sam's shoulders drop a fraction. "I can't. With Michael's rebels here, and Dean still out there...I need to be here." His hand tightens, knuckles pressing into the table with force. "Maybe you and Jack should take it. It would be good, for both of you, to get out of here for a little bit."
Stir crazy, Jack believes the term is.
"I'm okay." Mary says. It's almost as if the appearance of Sam has completely changed the woman's mind. Jack watches her from the corner of his vision. He doesn't blame her. It's just...confusing. "We can handle things for a bit. Take Jack, find Castiel, and get him out of here before he kills someone."
Or, Jack thinks with growing pessimism, someone kills him. He was there, in Michael's world. He knows that it was kill or be killed against the angels, but Sam and Mary have both had to diffuse a fight before someone stabbed Castiel in the face with an angel sword.
Sam huffs, but doesn't look convinced. Mary's hand twitches by her side, like she wants to touch him, but isn't sure if it would be well received. "Sam."
He lifts up his hand in slight surrender. "Okay." His gaze slides to Jack, "I'll find Cas. Meet us at the Impala in twenty."
The sudden release of tension in his abdomen almost makes him hunch forward. He nods, hand straying towards the area subconsciously, pressing flat. "Okay. I'll do that." He promises, mind already slipping towards what he needs to pack and trying to remember where he stuffed the duffle bag inside his room.
Sam gets to his feet, hand braced against the table. An edge of a grimace lingers in his eyes, but it's gone so quickly Jack's fairly certain he imagined it. Sam's shoulders roll, then he inhales and exits the room, footfalls silent as he makes his way down the hall. It's something that Jack has had to get used to since his father took his powers. He can't sense anyone arriving anymore, and most everyone here is so quiet he's been startled more than a dozen times by their sudden presence.
Jack turns to Mary, tone accusatory even though he doesn't mean for it to be. "You said it wasn't a good idea."
Mary pulls her lips apart with effort, casting him a side-eyed glance. "I still don't think it is."
"Then why…?" Jack's brow furrows.
"Because you're right. He needs a distraction, and so do you. Everyone does, I think. I don't know what else to do." Mary rubs at her forehead, stress etched into her frame. Jack feels the need to comfort, but doesn't know what to say. "You should go pack," she says after a second, "we'll be fine."
Everyone keeps saying that.
Jack has yet to believe them.
000o000
Jack steps in the garage fifteen minutes later, recently re-found duffel bag in hand, feeling like he's forgotten something. Sam and Castiel are waiting for him next to the Impala, silent; standing side by side. Castiel looks fractionally more put together than the last time Jack saw him this morning, but the tension that's in his frame has yet to depart.
Both look at him as he approaches, gazes sliding away from wherever. Jack chews on the inside of his lip, lifting up the tablet. "I thought you might want to find the directions yourself. The article I found is there as well." He hands the device to Sam, who nods and flips open the cover. Jack loads his duffel bag beside Sam's in the trunk, then pulls it closed with a creak of metal.
Castiel smiles tightly at him. "Are you ready?"
No, is what he thinks, but "yes," is what he says.
Sam fishes out a set of keys from the pocket of his jacket, handing them to Castiel almost absently. Jack watches the exchange, brow drawing together. He knows that Castiel can drive, and he's also aware that he learned to do so in the Impala, but he's never actually seen Castiel drive it. Sam willingly relinquishing the keys when Dean isn't there strikes him as odd.
Castiel, apparently feeling the same, lifts an eyebrow, gaze levelling on the youngest Winchester with solicitude. Sam catches the stare from the corner of his eye, and looks briefly irritated. "I'm fine. I just need to focus on this. Someone's gotta pull up the police report before we get there, and I can't do that and drive."
That makes sense. So why, Jack wonders with a familiar twist of apprehension, does it feel like a lie?
"Of course." Castiel agrees with skepticism. But he moves towards the driver's side without a word, and pulls the door open anyway. Jack clambers inside of the back, hands clenching across his knees, breathing in the scent of vinyl, gun oil, and Sam and Dean.
Sam enters last, movements stiff. He sets Jack's tablet down between Castiel and himself, pulling the passenger door closed as he relinquishes his phone from his jacket. As he types in an address, Castiel turns the ignition and the Impala roars to life, humming in a familiar rhythm. "Looks like I-70 would be the fastest route, it's just outside of Colorado Springs." Sam says after a moment. "It's about six hours from here."
Castiel gives a nod of acknowledgement. Then he turns around in the seat to guide the Impala from the garage with an ease that belies Jack. He's always wondered what it would be like to drive, and though Sam promised to teach him, that was before Jack got stuck in Michael's world, and it has yet to happen. Jack's starting to think it won't.
Castiel pulls out of the Bunker onto the familiar dusty road between them and Lebanon, and Jack worries his lower lip between his teeth and prepares himself for the long wait. Jack watches with vague interest as Sam pulls out his laptop, takes out his phone to connect his computer to the cell's data, then begins the process of hacking into the Colorado Springs police department. The sound of the keyboard clacking is the only one besides the hum of the Impala for a while.
Jack turns his head to the window and watches the miles pass by.
Roads, he's noticed the last few weeks, are far quieter when Dean isn't here. Neither Sam or Castiel are overly talkative on their own, seeming to prefer communicating telepathically—especially as of late—and while neither are opposed to music, Jack has never been fond of Dean's cassette collection. Not that he'd admit it, even at pain of death.
For once, though, he's grateful for the silence. It gives him time to think about the questions swirling in his head. Time to sort them, prioritize...and try to figure out how to phrase them.
They won't answer, a part of him reminds, failed attempts over weeks evidence to this. They'll evade and evade, and you'll keep going in circles.
But he has to know.
If he pushes hard enough, something has to give.
...Doesn't it?
It's somewhere after an hour that Jack finally pulls his gaze away from the freeway, and leans forward a little. Sam is looking over a coroner's report, and has some rather nasty closeups of the wound on his laptop screen. Jack inwardly grimaces, but pulls his gaze to the dashboard, because it's a neutral zone.
He clears his throat, the noise feeling like a discharge of a bullet inside the silence. "I have a question."
Sam tenses, but Castiel doesn't. He glances back at Jack, even though he probably shouldn't. "Okay," the angel says after a moment. "What?"
"When we find Michael...what are we going to do?" Now he has their attention. Sam twists around slightly to look back at him, expression a relaxed promise of death. Jack glances at Castiel, but it's not much better. The optimism Castiel has sprouted is a careful façade, one that Sam stopped bothering to maintain a while ago. Sam hasn't said anything outwardly, but Jack hears him talking with Mary sometimes. The hopelessness.
"What do you mean?" Sam asks, patient.
"He's an archangel," Jack points out, hands fidgeting "and Dean is his true vessel. Are we just...hoping Michael's going to let him go if we ask nice enough?" There's a stutter in Castiel's expression, and Jack barely represses a wince. "Is there any way to remove an angel from a vessel without the vessel saying no?"
Silence.
"There's a...device," Sam says carefully, "that we used to pull Lucifer from the President. Ketch was working down leads in London, but he's not having much luck."
"The President. Of the United States? When was my father possessing the President?" Jack asks, honestly confused. He remembers something vaguely like this coming up in passing, but details evade him.
Sam's eyebrows raise a little, as if surprised Jack hadn't heard this story before. "When he and your mom…"
"Oh." Jack frowns, going back to worrying his lip between his teeth. A pang of loss shoots through his chest at the thought of Kelly, but he brushes it to the side. He's getting used to her absence, even though she was all he knew for a long time.
"We'll figure out what to do about Michael after we find Dean," Castiel says, carefully curbing the subject. "But all the leads we've tried have led us to nothing."
He knows. Castiel staggered back from another dead end two days ago, and Sam this morning. And while they were out looking for Dean, Jack was here, getting his butt handed to him by Bobby, and being pointless. He misses his powers. He misses a lot of things. Innocence is one of those.
He rubs at his stab wound with the pads of his fingers subconsciously.
"So you don't have a plan?" Jack confirms.
Sam and Castiel share a long look. It's one of those telepathic things again, the ones that Jack can never read right. Sam, Castiel, and Dean have it down to an art. It annoys him. He wishes they would just say what they mean instead of implying it with facial expressions.
"No," Castiel surmises after a moment. "I guess not."
Okay. It's not the most encouraging news, but at least he knows. Jack frowns, and leans back in the seat. He doesn't try his hand at any more questions.
000o000
He falls asleep after hour two, head slumped against the window. He didn't use to feel this tired all the time before his grace was taken, and even though Castiel has promised it will regenerate with time, he can't feel it. Just so utterly human.
He wakes up to Sam shaking his shoulder and saying his name. His touch is light and feathery, but freezing in a way that Jack has never found comforting, and privately reminds him of his father's. He blinks his eyes open sluggishly until the images he's seeing form into one picture. They're parked. Castiel has pulled his tie taut, and Sam is in a suit. In front of them is a small blue house, with the last name Rankin on the mailbox.
The victim's family.
He sits up a little straighter. "Why didn't you wake me sooner? Should I get my suit—?"
"No," Sam interrupts, pulling his hand back. Jack's shoulders fall, anticipating a you're staying here, but Sam adds without prompting, "We'll just say you're job shadowing us. Me and Dean used to do it with our dad. They'll ignore you that way."
Which he's not sure is entirely beneficial, but he keeps his mouth shut, and nods.
Castiel eyes him in the mirror, but Jack shoves open the door and stumbles out into the fresh air before he can be pinned with a question. Colorado Springs is slightly warmer than Lebanon, at least in early April. He's not, however, regretting his decision to wear a jacket.
Castiel and Sam exit the car after him, the latter gripping onto the door with more intensity than Jack thinks is probably warranted. Sam's hands, he notices, are trembling faintly.
Are you okay lingers on his lips, but never makes it further.
Sam strides up towards the door, and Castiel is quick to step into pace beside him. Jack trails behind them, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. Sam knocks. It's almost a minute before Jack hears shuffling inside of the house, and a few more seconds before the door is opened and a tall, pretty black woman in her early twenties stands in front of them.
Sam's flipping open his FBI badge while Castiel is still pulling his own out. "Hi, I'm Agent Jacobs, this is my partner Agent Stilinski." He thumbs in Jack's direction. "That's Harry Willows. Ignore him. He's shadowing us for today. We're here for Amber's death, are you family?"
Harry Willows. Jack sears the name into his mind so he'll respond to it if called for.
The woman nods, "She's my sister. I'm staying here with our mom. We already talked to the police…"
"I know," and Sam's voice has dropped, sympathetic. "And we don't have any desire to drag you through it again, we just have a few questions. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes."
Amber's sister's lips pull into a frown, but she sighs and nods, stepping outside. "Can we do this out here? I finally got Mama to settle down."
Castiel nods. "That's fine."
Amber's sister grabs hold of a necklace hanging around her neck, gently spinning it. "They said Amber died of an animal attack. Does the FBI hunt down wild cougars in your spare time?" Jack thinks it was supposed to be funny, but none of them laugh.
"Actually, we think Amber's death may have been one in a string of murders down a few States." Sam says smoothly, lies falling from his tongue with such ease Jack presses his lips together in discomfort. "Fits our killer's MO, unfortunately. Hides his deaths behind what look like animal attacks."
Amber's sister's eyes widen, and she lifts up a hand to her mouth.
"Did she talk with anyone before she died you thought was suspicious? Anyone that you didn't think to mention to the police?" Sam asks.
"I, uh," the woman tightens her hand around the necklace. "I'm not sure. She's fifteen years older than me, so we were never really close, y'know? I know that her husband worked at an accounting firm, but it was never really that successful. I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill her." Her voice cracks at the end, and her eyes water.
Jack smooths down the side of his jacket, uncomfortable. Not sure what to do.
"It's okay," Sam promises with patience, resting a hand on her shoulder, "take your time."
Jack didn't cry at his father's death. He shed some tears for Kelly in private, but he didn't cry when Dean stabbed his father through the side; blade in one end, out the other. Everything happened so quickly, but not fast enough. There was the blade, then the pain of it pressing into him, then Dean and the bright light then nothing.
His father tried to connect with him. That felt real. And Jack didn't cry when he died. He wasn't relieved, exactly, and he didn't laugh like Sam did. He just…
He didn't feel much of anything.
Should he have? Amber's sister barely knew her, but she's still shedding tears. What does that say about him that he didn't?
"...acting strange?" Castiel is saying, and Jack forces his eyes up, trying to pay better attention. He doesn't know how long he zoned out for, but Sam is eyeing him. His face heats. This case was his idea. The least he can do is try to put some effort into it.
Amber's sister is shrugging. Sam removed his hand, but now she's wrapping her arms around her stomach and looking unhappy. "He's not abusive, or anything. He's a good guy, one of the best I know. And Amber would've left him, or I would've murdered him if he was, it's just...the last time I saw him, he was kind of..."
"Irritable?" Sam offers.
"Yeah." The woman nods, black curls bouncing in front of her face. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, "He just didn't seem like himself. And," she frowns, face flushing slightly. "The police laughed at me when I told them this, but...I could've sworn he smelled like rotting eggs. Death, y'know? Like he hadn't showered in a while."
Sulfur.
Jack's stomach sinks with slight disappointment.
Oh.
This isn't a vampire. But he'd been so sure...
"Okay," Castiel says, sharing a look with Sam, "thank you for your time, Abby, you've been very helpful."
They start to back away, but Abby calls after them, "Wait! You don't think that Henry did this to Amber, do you? He just needed a bar of soap, but I don't think he'd kill anyone."
Sam looks back at her, "Right now we're not sure what we believe. Amber could've been killed by anyone, but we'll take your opinion into consideration. Thank you for your time, ma'am."
Then they walk down the sidewalk back toward the Impala, and clamber inside. Sam still doesn't take the drivers side, and no one comments. Jack leans forward as soon as they're settled and Castiel has started the engine. "Possession?"
"Looks that way," Sam agrees, "there's a cow farm a few miles south of here that was all dead. Weather's cloudy."
All signs, Jack knows, pointing to demonic possession.
"Now we just need to find Henry. Who is missing. And hasn't been seen for days, despite his wife's death." Castiel says, sighing softly to himself. "This won't take any time at all."
000o000
There isn't time to do much else today. The hour was late when they got started, and by the time they've left Abby in the distance, it's after eight p.m. Not early enough to turn in for the night, but not leaving much time to do any serious investigation. The most they can do is find a motel room, huddle in for a night of research, and wait.
This, Jack has long-since decided, is his least favorite part of hunting. He prefers the action, the chase, and the blood pumping in his veins. He wasn't designed to wait. It serves him little purpose beyond to heighten anxiety and spur a restless feeling in his legs.
Sam finds the only motel in the small town via phone. It's next to a gas station and looks like it's on the last dregs of life. The paint is old and peeling, the windows don't look like they've been cleaned in decades and when they step into the space, the overhead light flickers ominously then begins to buzz fervently.
"Great," Sam sighs.
"I've seen you stay in worse," Castiel offers, but it doesn't seem to be much of a platitude as it is an acknowledgement, because the angel's lip is curled up in faint distaste. Jack inhales, nose wrinkling at the thick smell of dust and faint body odor. He wonders when the last time anyone stayed here was. Jack didn't get the key, so he doesn't know if the clerk was surprised to see them.
Sam's lips press together and he moves for the couch. It's one of the few pieces of furniture beyond the two beds and the small table that's listing toward the left on a tattered leg. Sam tosses his duffle bag onto the floor and sinks onto the faded red cushion with a small grunt.
Jack frowns, letting his own duffle drop to the floor beside the end of one bed. Castiel shuts the door behind them, and tosses the keys onto the table. "Sam," the angel says without prompting. The hunter doesn't look up from where he's digging out his laptop from the well-worn leather case. "Take a bed. I don't sleep."
Jack didn't used to. He didn't realize what an inconvenience his body's need to shut down was before. Sam and Dean had never made much of a fuss about it, so he didn't realize how exhausted they must have been all the time before his father's death. Now he knows. He shares it; for all the good it does him.
"I'm okay," Sam says, flipping up the laptop screen, "I've got to pull up the traffic records anyway, and run Charlie's facial recognition software—"
Castiel grabs the back of the screen, and Sam looks up at him, finally giving the angel his full attention. There's an edge of wariness on his face, discomfort, maybe. Jack's eyes squint, and his lips pull against his teeth. "The excuses you are lying with are bountiful, but I'm not an idiot. Don't try me." Castiel's frustration is clear. Short patience, short temper. Everyone has been a battle-zone these last few weeks. He can only tiptoe so far before he accidentally detonated something.
What would it be like to be that direct? To just say something like that?
"Cas…" Sam blows out the name between his teeth.
"Sam."
"I can't—"
"I am just as apt at running a computer program as you are." Castiel's tone brokers little room for argument. The two hold a stare for a long moment, and for a second, Jack's afraid they're about to descend into an actual, physical fight. They don't. Sam looks away, and Castiel softens some. "Get some sleep."
Sam closes his eyes for a moment, heavy shadows looking worse and deeper against his face. Sam shakes his head, then gets up to his feet, handing the laptop to Castiel. He catches Jack's eye for a second, but pulls his gaze away just as quickly. Undoing the tie, and removing the suit coat, Sam collapses against the creaky bedframe with a plume of released air.
Jack feels his frown deepen.
But he doesn't know what to do. So he doesn't do anything, and gravitates towards Castiel, not ready to commit to sleep yet. Castiel has taken Sam's abandoned seat and is typing something into the keyboard. His speed is nowhere near as fast or familiar as Sam's is, but he's still making progress.
Jack sits down next to him, letting his arms fold across his legs. The urge to speak is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down. Castiel is scowling faintly, and conversation might prevent Sam from sleeping. He rubs the pads of his fingers against his elbows, settling in for silent watch. But the quiet eats at him, gnawing at any sense of calm he's been faking, and leaving him jittery and wary.
After some difficulty, but much less than Jack would have, Castiel pulls up the traffic cameras. He then goes to the files loaded onto the computer and opens up a program. Jack watches him find a picture of Amber's husband—Henry, wasn't it?—and run it through the two programs. It lags. Jack's brow draws together, glancing once at Castiel in confusion.
In movies, whenever this is done, it's often faster than a finger snap. Maybe a few seconds of loading. Not...this.
"It's processing the data." Castiel explains in a whisper. "This might take well upwards to an hour. Charlie was a genius, but the accuracy is costly. There was only so much she could do. You should get some sleep, Jack; I don't know when you'll get another opportunity."
Jack shakes his head, feeling strangely guilty. "I slept in the car. I'm okay."
Castiel looks over at him. His face makes something inside of Jack flinch back. It's easy to forget, too easy Jack has found, that Castiel is not human. The sense of otherworldly and power that Jack used to find comfort in now only makes him cringe and feel an urge to panic. He'll never understand how Sam and Dean, who have always been human, could fathom to give this being a nickname.
"Jack," Castiel's voice is trying to be patient, "you don't need to set yourself on fire."
The expression gives him pause, but he thinks he understands the meaning. He presses his lips together, hands clenching around his triceps for a moment. "I can help." He protests weakly. Let me help. Let me do something. Please.
Castiel rests a hand on his shoulder. His skin isn't warm, because angels don't have body heat, but it's not cold either. "I know. But you don't need to. I'll wake you if I come across anything."
Jack pauses, feeling stupid, but asking anyway, "Promise me?"
Castiel's head quirks slightly. "Yes. I promise."
Jack gets up. He doesn't change clothing, simply crawls onto the other bed, not even bothering to remove his shoes. The blanket is thin and rubs against his skin in a way that makes him overly sensitive to its touch. He lays on his side and awkwardly maneuvers his hand until he's not pulling at the stab anymore. Although it's a familiar sleeping routine since his father's death, it's still not enjoyable. It takes him a bit of shifting before he can finally settle.
He lays awake for a long time, listening to himself breathe, Castiel shift or tap against the keys on occasion, and Sam's soft, but strained exhalations. He lays still, but awake, for so long he doesn't think he's going to sleep, but he must have because he becomes aware of the fact he's dreaming.
He's standing inside of a massacre. A town that Michael smote, and they'd been too late to save. Jack never learned why they'd been killed. The rebels were such a small group, but those that didn't resist—they were often left alone. These people died smiling. Their eyes burned out of their sockets, bodies strewn over furniture, the floor, and each other, but faces in such peace it was unsettling. Almost as if they were grateful to have given their lives.
Agony and panic would have been better.
Jack's standing in a pile of bodies, blood everywhere. The walls. Floor. Him. He's alone here, his breaths echoing.
He's holding a blade. It's not a silver angel sword, but something closer to the archangel blade that his father had. The one he stabbed himself with. The one that Sam gave him to kill him with. He knows he's supposed to do something with it, but what escapes him entirely.
Jack turns slowly, blinking, trying to make sense of what he's seeing. Sam and Dean—no, Michael—are standing there, and Michael's hand is shoved through Sam's chest. The hunter's face is white, lips pushed apart in wordless agony. Jack stands, utterly frozen, blade in hand, as the archangel yanks back sharply and withdraws Sam's still-beating heart inside a fist.
Sam collapses bonelessly without a sound.
When Michael turns to face him, his expression is filled with horror. It's not Michael. It's Dean, holding his brother's sluggishly pumping heart and staring at Jack. Sam twitches on the ground, but it's death throes. "How could you do this to me?" Dean whispers. His voice is so soft it's barely audible, but it pierces Jack to his soul.
This is his fault.
If he hadn't been so trusting…
So gullible.
But that connection, that urge to bond—that had felt real. Sincere. His father's interest, his care, when he gripped Jack's shoulders. All of that, that had felt sincere. He's sure. He's sure. He can't get the two to align in his head. What everyone warned him of, versus what he was shown. And yet. There was no hesitation. When Jack refused, when he had served his purpose, it was over.
Dean's eyes are haunted. Blood bubbles from his lips and his irises flick the familiar haunting white-blue. "How could you do this to me?" he repeats.
"I don't…" Jack whispers. "I'm sorry."
"How…" Dean's head tips, spilling red from his lips toward the floor. He gives Sam's heart a squeeze, and the hunter shudders on the floor, "Could you do this to me?"
His voice slips further, small and wavering, "I don't know what to do, Dean. I don't know how to fix it."
Dean flickers. Beside Sam one moment, hand through Jack's chest the next. The pain is blinding. He can't inhale, and his limbs won't move in defense. "How…" Dean's voice is cold. There's none of the warmth that Jack has come to associate with the hunter. None of the life. He's staring into an empty shell. Michael's vessel, beaten to compliance. "Could you…" he twists his fist, and Jack gasps, tears springing to his eyes. "Do this to me?"
He yanks back, wrenching the muscle, pumping with life, out through his ribcage, splitting open his chest cavity and breaking bone.
And Jack jerks upwards screaming.
The panic consumes him, toes to head, numbing him. Air escapes in a gush, and he stops his guttural cries, not because he wants to, only because there's no space for it inside his squeezed lungs. Compressed. Tightened. He's going to suffocate.
Hands grab his arms, pinning the flailing, and a light flicks on behind him, leaving him momentarily blind. Spots float in and out, but in front of him, he can see Sam. He's not picking out distinct details, but it doesn't matter, because Sam got his heart torn out and Dean is—
How could you do this to me?
He can't. Can't. Can't—
Wheezes, thin and rattling, faint and weak, hiss out of him. His vision is beginning to blur. His entire face is numb, he can't feel the tears rolling down them, but he knows they're there because his eyes are wet.
"—ck! Hey, hey, look at me!" Urgency. Cold hands grab either side of his neck, pinning his head into place. "Jack. Jack!"
Another voice, Castiel, hand on his hair, "Jack, you need to breathe."
Funny. That's the problem.
He's…
What is wrong with him!?
"Shh," Sam's grip loosens some, tone gentling, "shh, just try and hold your breath, okay? Look at me."
Jack tries to get his eyes to focus, he does, but they won't. He doesn't understand what's going on and it terrifies him. He's shaking. Rattling. Falling apart from inside and maybe—
How could you do this to me?
—that would be better for everyone.
He's pulled forward, head smashed sideways against a flannel shirt, skin pinched against the buttons. His hand reaches out automatically to grab a fistful of it. Cold, bony fingers cup the side of his face to keep him there, the other around his shoulders. "Jack? Jack, can you hear my heartbeat?"
The question gives him pause. He settles his ear closer, trying to find the evasive sound. Nothing...nothing...there. Thump-thud, thump-thud, a slight skitter, then a pause before it continues. Jack feels himself start to sag, tension bleeding from him. For a long time, Kelly's heartbeat was the only sound he knew. The noise feels him with a sense of safety and warmth.
His breathing begins to steady, the distraction enough of a hiccup to help him gain control. He stays here, in this bubble of ignorance, for what feels like hours but is likely only a few minutes before he becomes aware that something is touching his knee. Fingers. A hand. If he's hidden inside of Sam's arms, this must be Castiel's.
Jack blinks his eyes open sluggishly, feeling exhausted and humiliated. The dream was distorted and made little sense, and yet, here he was, panicking over something that wasn't real and never will be. It was all in his head, and he couldn't breathe. His teeth grit. He's tried so hard to prove himself the last few weeks. Prove that he could handle things, he is capable, even without his powers.
But now they'll know, just as he knows, that Jack is putting up a façade.
He is useless.
"Jack?" Sam's voice is soft. Jack can feel the rumble of the baritone against his face, but refuses to move. He exhales, afraid to let his breathing hitch again. "Hey, you with us?"
Yes. Unfortunately.
But the moment is over, and he needs to pull himself together again. Jack hesitantly pushes up, sliding out of the embrace with regret. He looks at the blue thread-worn blanket to gather himself, then raises his eyes to face the two. Castiel is squatted next to the bed, hand still lightly touching his knee. His eyebrows are drawn together in a very human expression of concern. Sam's head is tipped a little, lips pressed together, but expression mirroring Castiel's.
Jack flicks his gaze away, spotting the laptop abandoned on the couch. The light has gone off, but he can still hear the machine whirring softly. The clock on the bedside table reads four twenty-seven. Last time he'd checked, it had been just after eleven.
"Sorry," Jack says quietly, grabbing a fistful of the blanket and rubbing it between his hands. His chest aches dully, and his eyes are raw and wet. Sam and Castiel share a brief look, one that Jack's too tired to even guess at. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't." Sam assures. There's a beat. "Do you want to talk about it?"
How could you do this to me?
Jack's teeth press harder together, and his eyes squint as the sensation of his heart dropping to his hips with dread settles inside of him. He swallows, then shakes his head minutely. What would he even say? "No," he flicks his gaze up toward them. "Thank you."
"Okay," Sam says, running a hand through his hair, even though Castiel looks like he wants to argue. "How 'bout you try and get some more sleep—?"
"No!" blurts out of him before he can stop it.
Sam's words stumble over themselves for a second, but he nods. His compliance is a relief. Jack doesn't have the energy to fight them. The hunter wets his lips and shifts slightly, "Cas has a general idea of where Henry will be. He's been at a coffee shop at six a.m. every day since Amber was killed. We can meet him there."
Jack nods. Demons. Case-work. A distraction would be wonderful. Anything but his thoughts.
"Jack…" Castiel says, and Jack lifts his eyes up to meet the electric blue. "We'll listen, if you want it."
Only if it's a convenience for you. Or I don't have questions. Jack tries for a weak grin, ashamed. They're doing everything they can for him, and he's being selfish and whiny. His lie, as it scrapes itself off his tongue, feels more like a betrayal. "I know."
000o000
The coffee shop is tucked into a little corner of the small town, and one of the few places where food can be ordered. The only thing the owner is selling at six in the morning is some pastries that are dry and brittle, and muffins that are squishy on one side, hard on the other. The reason for this is revealed as the shop owner, a plump older woman who immediately coos over them, states with pride, "me and my granddaughters cook everything ourselves on Sunday evenin', and I defrost it over the week. Keeps them fresh as a fiddle!"
Jack's not entirely sure how the analogy applies. He lifts the coffee cup to his lips with doubt as she strides away, expecting it to taste like mud. It's surprisingly okay, warm and sweet, but the latter might be because of the four sugar packets he dumped inside of the liquid in an effort to preserve it. Sam grimaces through his own, and Castiel just stares at the cup he ordered for show more than anything else, expression thoughtful.
Beyond a stray comment here and there, they don't talk, watching the customers pour through the doors. Regulars, because the owner already has pastries and coffee set aside for them. They stride in, walk out, and the owner cheerfully discusses them with her one employee, a young woman who seems cheerful to engage in the gossip.
The town seems...Jack doesn't have the word. Sharp, maybe? Where they appear to be tight-knit, but an inside dive reveals their points. The employee and her boss have little to say that isn't demeaning, and it seems to be a theme for the customers to arrive and state some sort of complaint.
Jack has started to zone a little, cup long since empty and working through Castiel's, when Sam nudges his forearm with his elbow. Jack sits up straighter, eyes snapping up. "That's him," Sam says, tipping his chin at the man who just entered. Not overly tall, but not short either, a business man with a blond hairline that's starting to recede and facial hair that reminds Jack a little of Tony Stark. He's in a white polo, with a striped tie, but without a suit jacket.
He strides up toward the counter and orders a latte, then without further prompting, walks towards the table they've claimed as their own for the better part of half an hour now. The man grabs the fourth chair and spins it, straddling it as he sits down directly across from Jack. His eyes flick black. He smiles at them with levity, gaze skimping over Castiel and himself to rest on Sam.
"Sam Winchester," the demon murmurs, "what an honor."
Sam shifts slightly, hand doing...something beneath the table. Jack's own hand has strayed to the angel sword Sam gave him from the trunk before they entered the shop. How stupid, Jack wonders, does this demon have to be in order to walk up to an armed hunter and an angel?
A gun cocks. Oh. That's what Sam's doing. "We can do this messily, or you walk out of here without a fuss." Sam says. His tone is devoid of emotion, lost the warmth that often wraps around it. His eyes are dead. This is the revered and feared hunter everyone speaks of, and not the man that Jack has known for the better part of a year with.
The demon huffs. "You gonna shoot me? A man of your experience should know that bullets are meaningless against a demon."
"Not when they're devil's trap." Sam says pleasantly. "Your choice."
"See, though, that's not what I want," the demon says, and waves a hand. A signal. The four other customers in the building turn to face them, and the shop owner and her employee. All eyes flick black. Jack's stomach sinks as they withdraw weapons. Anything from a gun to a pocket knife. Crap. "I heard that Sam Winchester rolled into town, loyal lapdog at the helm and thought to myself 'Kipling, you don't get a chance like this more than once.'" Kipling? "Talk with a Winchester." He sighs, besotten.
"Right," Sam has shifted into a position of defense, no longer on the offensive. On Jack's left, Castiel has done the same. Jack's muscles are coiled, but he feels no different. "You want to talk? Talk."
"I want to make a deal."
"With us?" Castiel repeats, dubious.
"Well, I don't see anyone else in here," Kipling says, smirking. "The throne of hell is without a leader, and after a recent discussion about what I want, I've decided to take power. But I'm not an idiot. Your reputation speaks plain for you. I want the Crowley deal."
Jack's brow furrows. Crowley has always been an abstract concept to him. The Winchesters and Castiel don't speak of him often, and when they do it's a mix between vague fondness, annoyance, and some respect. But he didn't know anything about a deal.
"I give you a hand every now and then, you turn a blind eye to some more of my...uglier deals." Kipling continues.
"We didn't give Crowley that deal." Sam says, tone flat.
"Pity," Kipling murmurs, "then I suppose I'll have to be the first."
"No." Sam interrupts. "You won't. We're leaving," he raises his voice, "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas—"
The room explodes into a flurry of movement. Kipling jerks a hand forward, throwing the three of them from the chairs and the table. Jack lands hard on his back, the metal framework of the seat slapping into his shoulder blades. For a moment, he's winded. Pain has always felt so different as a human.
Castiel has already surged to his feet, and is swinging his sword with flurries of swift, deadly movement. He makes fighting look like a dance. Kipling has grabbed Sam by the throat and is hauling him off the ground.
Jack shoves and elbow roughly into the tile and pushes himself to his feet, yanking out his borrowed blade. For a hopeless, helpless second, he doesn't know what to do with it. He's mostly been working on hand to hand and long-distance weapons the last few weeks. Blades require more fluidity of upper body movement than he had.
He doesn't get much of a choice. The possessed owner of the building leaps at him, a long, serrated knife in hand. Jack barely manages to dive out of the way, but the edge still nicks his cheek. He raises his sword up, hoping that skill will be gifted to him in the two seconds he's been holding it. It doesn't. There's a level of basic skill that he manages, but he doubts it's much more than adrenaline and basic human instinct.
Much to his embarrassment, she has him disarmed in less than a minute, and has swiped along his chest, opening a long gash. It stretches from his collarbone nearly to the end of his ribs, and Jack makes a sound of wordless agony. He hears a cry of his name, but his vision is going too much in and out for him to focus.
"Not much of a fighter, are you?" the demon sneers, swiping a finger at the end of the blade to wipe at his blood.
Jack pants, scowling, hands pressed against the areas as they leak blood. He can't think of a retort, and it isn't needed. Sam has Kipling by the throat with Ruby's knife, and is starting an exorcism again.
"I know where your brother is." The demon hisses.
Jack's stomach drops.
Sam falters.
Castiel misses a block, and takes a gut full of metal via a knife for it.
This seems to have provided the distraction the demons were seeking. Two grip Castiel by the arms as a third pushes his blade is pushed against his chin, and Kipling shoves Sam on top of the counter pinning him into place with demonic power.
Sam's Taurus lay abandoned next to the table. There's nineteen bullets in it. Ten of which are devil's trap. If Jack can get to it, and aim quickly enough, maybe he can fix this. He doesn't have the exorcism memorized, and this is all he'd be capable of.
But if Kipling really does know where Dean is…
The tip of the blade pushes against his sternum, forcing him back against a wall. Jack grunts with discomfort. Neither Castiel or Sam are in the position to see him, and visibly shift with unease at the sound of his voice, but say nothing.
"I guess if you aren't going to give me a deal, I'll have to take it." Kipling sighs, like they're a group of rowdy children he doesn't want to quiet. He withdraws a small blade several inches long from his pocket, flicking it open and letting it hover above Sam's face.
Jack's mouth runs dry.
"Where's Dean?" Sam grits out.
"Ah-ah. See, I'm the one talking here." He flicks the blade, cutting open a long streak across Sam's nose, but the hunter doesn't make a sound. How much pain, Jack wonders, would it take before you became numb to it? "So you can take the deal, and I'll even let you and your pets go, free of charge, or I start carving up those pretty eyes of yours."
What?!
Sam is quiet, jaw taut. "Tell me what you know about Dean."
Kipling flicks his wrist, swiping the blade down with a jerk. Sam releases a gasping, choked sound, body shuddering as if trying to curl in, but unable. "See, that wasn't on the paper," Kipling sighs. "You just don't listen very well." Castiel wrestles with the demons holding him in fury, but Jack can hardly keep himself on his feet. His legs feel weak and his throat clogged with horror.
"Let him go, you bast—" Castiel starts to swear, but the demon holding the blade delivers a swift punch to his midsection, over his previous stab. Castiel goes quiet.
Do something, Jack demands of himself, do something you moron!
He stands still, wishing, like a small child, that someone else would fix it because he doesn't know what to do. He's the one with a tactical advantage, the one that's not as guarded. It makes sense for him to go. It's not his first battle. Not the first time he's seen torture. But inside of his skin, Jack feels very vulnerable.
"So, what do you say, Sammy? We got a quid pro quo? You do something for me, I do something for you?" Kipling asks.
Sam's voice is a shaky gasp. "Go-go to h-hell."
"Wrong answer." Kipling jerks the knife down. The sound Sam makes causes something in Jack to retreat, seeking safety. It's the type of noise that someone makes when they're lungs are being yanked up their throat.
He thinks, somewhere very distant, he's furious.
But his hands are shaking.
"Sam," he whispers. This hunt was his idea. These injuries are on him. If Sam dies...how could you do this to me?
Castiel lurches, shouting Sam's name. The demons have to scramble to keep a hold on him, and Castiel spits out curses in Enochian that Jack doesn't understand. He hasn't since his grace was taken. His breathing has picked up speed. The demon in front of him has twisted around, nothing short of delight on its features as it watches the spectacle.
Jack swallows down bile, and tries for courage. He forces up any dredge of it still remaining in him as he swings out with his left hand, forcing the knife from the demon's grip with a well place smack to the vessel's palm. It's probably more distraction than any luck that causes the blade falls, and Jack dives for the gun. His shaking fingers have scarcely touched the handle before a high-pitched whine encroaches his senses.
Jack cries out in pain, hands slapping over his ears. Bright light encases the entire coffee shop, and Jack ducks his head, eyes squeezing shut. It's only a few seconds, but Jack feels the tremor of power wash through the room. It's like a warm, suffocating blanket. His frame shakes, blood trickling from his nose and ears.
When the light no longer feels like it will blind him, and the sound has quieted, Jack blinks his eyes open, gasping. His hand is wrapped around the Taurus, for all the good that does him. There are only two vessels in the shop. They've collapsed to the ground, black eyes smoking, dead. Castiel is staggering toward the counter, panting, blood leaking down his shirt.
What, Jack wonders, brain hazy, was that?
"Sam," Castiel says, and reaches out a hand to lay on his chest, swearing, "Sam, it's okay. You'll be fine." His tone is desperate, but Sam says nothing, only gasping. Castiel shouts his name.
Jack hobbles up, hand tight around the weapon. He feels sick. His mouth tastes like ash, and his tongue is swollen in his throat. He staggers toward the two as Castiel helps Sam off the counter slowly. The Winchester staggers, collapsing forward. Castiel catches him, adjusting his grip to support the weight, saying meaningless reassurances.
Sam's head raises.
Jack freezes, utterly boneless and panicked.
On either eye is a deep gash the length of several inches, digging into the eyelid and likely the eye. The skin is already starting to swell and blood is mixing with tears like Sam is weeping it. His face is ashen, and though he needs the support, he's leaning away from Castiel.
"Don't…" Sam whispers.
"Sam, it's okay," Castiel says, and starts to hobble for the door.
"I c-can't...oh, god..."
"We can fix this," Castiel promises, looking like he's about to tip over. His face is almost as white as Sam's is. Castiel shouts his name again, shouldering open the door, moving for the Impala.
He can't help now, Jack realizes. He was the source of that light. He's drained himself.
Castiel saved them.
But he wouldn't have had to, if Jack hadn't gotten them condemned in the first place. He staggers forward on weak legs, gun clenched against his stomach, heart dangling somewhere beneath his knees. He tries to reach out for Sam to help support, but the second his fingers touch the hunter's arm, he shudders away.
Jack thinks he might puke.
How could you do this to me?
Author's Note: Please leave a comment if you're comfortable with that. I'd love to know your thoughts.
Next chapter: ?
*Depending on how much people are interested will raise this on my list of fic priorities.
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