Most of the lab staff had been apprehended. Taken from the lab, detained until the Men of Letters could figure out what to do with them.

While the organization had grown significantly from a secret librarian society, their existence was still unknown to the world at large. The world wasn't ready for the truth—that it ever would be was doubtful.

In any case, these scientists couldn't be turned over to the police for experimenting on werewolves.

Granted, the Men of Letters had contacts in the know placed inside various establishments who could present a believable case to the authorities. But there would be a long slog of procedures before these people would face justice.

You should be glad they're facing justice at all, Sam reminded himself.

One of the few remaining lab employees had been held back, kept here to help Letters teams sort through stacks upon stacks of test subject files. He was a skinny, pale, nervous-looking stereotype, complete with messy hair and glasses. He shrank into himself as Sam approached him and demanded his help.

"I don't—I…who are you?"

"Just give him what he wants, son," drawled the grizzled hunter supervising him—Singer, they called him. Sam knew him vaguely as a well-versed hunter who'd been recruited by the elder Winchesters. He lounged against a wall, cradling a shotgun almost absentmindedly.

The lab tech—Rudy, according to his badge—nodded timidly, casting a fearful glance at the armed, bearded, older man.

"The boy with wings," Sam repeated. He drew himself up to his full—considerable—height. "Who is he?"

"W-wings," the lab tech stuttered, adjusting his glasses. "Subject N?"

"That's what you call him?" Sam scoffed. "He doesn't have a name?"

"He—he was born here," Rudy stammered as he shifted through a mountain of file folders. "His mother stayed under observation through her full gestation period. She died when he was born—there was no place for him to go. Everything's in his file; here, take it."

Sam flipped the file open, scanning the contents. He could hardly take in the information—years of notes and reports—over the sentence pounding repeatedly in his head. He was born here. He was born here. He was born here. Born here. Born. Here.

He'd just managed to convince himself that these scientists wouldn't be so sick as to engineer their own test subjects. Apparently he'd been wrong.

What he read didn't help calm him, either.

Egg fertilized and infused with archangel grace...Nephil born with fully formed wings...mother not resuscitated...grace periodically siphoned...healing powers diminished...will not cooperate unless forcibly anesthetized...resilience testing...wind tunnel proves flight impossible…

There were pictures too, detailing every test conducted.

Bruises enveloping his entire torso. His arms, discolored from the numerous injections. Vials of sparkling, shimmering celestial grace being pulled from his neck. Light brown feathers ripped from his wings, tested with reagents. The wings, tender and pink, scanned and imaged and tested.

The kid's frightened, half hidden face flashed before Sam's eyes.

This was what he'd feared Sam would do to him.

Unbidden images bloomed in Sam's mind. Hands reaching, groping, grabbing, pulling at him. Holding him down, attaching restraints to his wrists, ankles while he writhed and screamed. Covering his eyes so he couldn't see.

We're trying to help you, Sam.

He slammed the file down on the table instinctively, face burning with indignation. Rudy flinched.

"A nephil," Sam said flatly. "Half angel."

"That's…what the 'N' stands for."

"So his mother was human?"

Rudy nodded wordlessly.

"She died in childbirth?"

"More or less." He shuffled his feet, not meeting Sam's eyes.

Glancing back down at the file, Sam found the paragraph he'd skimmed earlier. Mother not resuscitated. Last words recorded: "Jack, like my father. Jack. Please. I love you."

"Meaning you let her die. So you could have the baby."

"I didn't—"

"Let me get this straight." Sam's tone took on a sardonic edge. "You gave her this child, kept her in this—this place—while she carried him, and then you let her die and kept her kid like an animal. A lab rat."

Rudy flushed red. "Listen, I—"

"For eight years, this kid has been nothing. A file number. A code. You've done God knows what to him in the name of science, and you don't even bother to give him a name?"

"We—we didn't name any of our subjects. We used codes for everyone."

"Most of your subjects were captured as adults. This lab? Is all he has ever known. Do you even realize what you've done to him?"

Rudy held up his hands defensively. "Hey, I just worked in records."

"You know that makes you complicit in this, don't you? The laws are clear. You're not going to get off scot-free."

The flustered tech dropped his gaze, but Sam still heard his defiant muttering. "What do a bunch of librarians care, anyway?"

"I care!" Sam's voice rang loud in the small file room. "Buddy, I'm the one who wrote most of those laws. And I intend to prosecute you to their full extent."

Rudy flinched again, looking up at Sam with enormous eyes behind his glasses.

Sam snatched up the folder and stormed from the room.

His face burned. He hadn't felt so angry in…

Had he ever been this angry?

Who were these people, thinking they could play God? Experimenting illegally on supernaturals was one thing—another infuriating facet of the strong exploiting the weak. But to create their own? A child who'd literally never seen the light of day? Who was so terrified of people that he would rather stay in a cage?

A chill ran down Sam's spine as a whisper slithered unbidden into his mind. Hold still, Sam…it'll be better soon…we're trying to help you.

He stopped in the hall, supporting himself against the wall with one hand.

"Wow. Sam." Singer, the hunter, had followed him out of the room. "You always reminded me a lot of your granddad. But that? That was the first time you made me think of John."

…

Sam exhaled slowly as he strode back toward the room with the cages. The supernaturals who'd been freed—the ones who'd walked out of the cages of their own volition—were being escorted past him in small groups.

There were creatures here that Sam hadn't encountered in years. Fully grown vampires, ghouls, a pureblood werewolf. Sam was almost certain he'd even caught sight of a vetalla.

All rounded up and experimented on like lab rats. Like their autonomy, their lives, were worth less because they weren't human.

In spite of all the progress made since Sam was a kid, the Men of Letters still had plenty of wrongs to right in the world.

This was one wrong Sam was going to right himself.

When Sam returned, he was surprised to find members of his own team conversing with the handlers at the door.

In the years since he'd joined the legal department, Sam had formed his own task force—a mixture of legal experts and gifted individuals.

"Hey, Sam." The girl who spoke was barely over eighteen, with several piercings in each ear. Her chin-length hair was streaked with blue. "They said you were having trouble with a baby celestial. If you want, I could go in there and pull the little bean out." She twitched her fingers suggestively.

Sam smiled. "No thanks, Magda. I think I can handle it."

"I wouldn't mind—he doesn't look that heavy. I'd be gentle. After all, I've got childhood trauma too."

"Don't we all," muttered her dark-haired, sullen companion.

These two Sam had recruited personally. Magda's telekinesis had caused a family car accident when she was only fifteen. He'd had to intervene before her mother had locked her up for good. Scott was closer to Sam's age. While he was still working to control his psychic abilities, he was handy in an interrogation.

"It's okay, guys." Sam waved them off. "Go ahead and start the interviews. I've got this one."

"Or we could send Garth down here. You know how he goes on and on about how kids love Mr. Fizzles—"

"Garth has more important things to do. And so do you. Remember, these guys are trauma victims, not potential targets. Be gentle."

"Sir, yes, sir," Scott snarked, while Magda gave him a flippant salute. The two headed off down the hall.

Sam breathed a deep, steadying breath before turning to face that room again. The room with the human-sized cages that reeked of fear. The room with one little boy inside, too terrified to leave.

He was going to have to try a different approach.

"Sir, are you going in again?"

"One minute," Sam replied absently. He removed his suit jacket and tie, pressing it onto the handler who had asked him. He couldn't look anything like what this boy was used to seeing—here, he couldn't be an official. He had to be Sam.

As a last thought, he kicked off his shoes and left them by the door.

The little boy was still in his cage, at the end of the row. He hadn't moved from his position in the corner. Knees drawn up to his chest, face pressed into his shoulder. He had let his wings fall away; they settled limp on the floor behind him, save the occasional twitch.

Sam couldn't bear thinking of him as just "the kid" or "the nephil" or, God forbid, "subject N." He couldn't think of a small child that way. It was too dehumanizing.

He sat on the floor opposite the cage, noting every nervous tick of the boy next to him. "Hi. Me again—Sam." He made no movement to get near him. He had to be more patient.

"Listen. I don't know what they called you, or if they called you anything. But is it okay if I call you Jack?"

No response. He gave no indication that the name was familiar to him.

"Jack is what your mom wanted to name you. After she had you. Right before she…passed away." Sam cringed inwardly. Did this boy even know what that euphemism meant? How knowledgeable was he of the world around him?

"It's a good name. Jack."

Does he even know what it is to have a mom?

"I've got a mom, you know. She's still around, although sometimes she feels really far away—because she is. She's always traveling. Hunting. Recruiting. She's really good at what she does, but that sometimes means she doesn't spend much time with me—with us. With her family."

He tried not to sound bitter.

"I don't have a dad anymore. He, uh…he hunted monsters. Bad ones, ones who want to hurt people like you and me. And one got him first. I miss him. He wasn't perfect, but there was so much I wish I could tell him. I never got the chance—I always thought there'd be more time.

"I do have a brother, though—he hunts, like my mom. He's home a lot more than her. He stays local. He thinks—" Sam let out a chuckle— "he thinks if he stays away from me for too long I'll go crazy. I think the opposite is more true. He's the reason I go crazy."

Dean's teasing smirk swam into focus in Sam's mind. I'm just looking out for you, Sammy.

Looking out for me since before I knew I needed it.

Sam cast a glance at the boy in the cage. Jack.

He couldn't tell if the kid had moved at all.

"I'm sorry. I'm talking about myself too much. I never do that. But you're kind of quiet, yourself. I feel like one of us needed to fill up the silence."

This time, Sam was sure he saw the little blond head tilt up. Just barely—he'd peeked up, then ducked back down just as quickly.

Maybe he'd be a little less skittish without eyes on him.

Sam shifted his weight, turning around so he faced away from the cage.

"Listen, uh…Jack." He tripped over the word, unsure if the kid liked or had even consented to the name. "I'll bet the inside of that cage feels like the safest place in the world right now. It's the only thing you know you can trust. Outside is too big and too scary. You can't trust anybody. Even if you get hurt inside the cage, at least you can expect it. But outside…outside you don't know what to expect. You don't know who to trust or how you're going to be hurt next.

"I know this is hard for you. But you can trust me, Jack."

Sam lowered his voice, nearly whispering. "I know what it's like inside the cage. And I'm telling you the outside is much, much better. You have no idea how much better it is.

"I want to show you. Will you let me show you?"

Silence.

Sam waited with bated breath, not daring to turn around.

He hadn't spoken aloud about his past in…well, ever, really. Not even with such veiled allusions. He didn't have to.

Anyone who mattered—along with plenty of people who didn't—knew his story. Knew what he'd been through, knew what he'd become in retaliation. Sam Winchester, the boy with…

His ears perked. Had he imagined the soft rustle behind him? He listened intently.

There. He hadn't imagined that—another whisper of movement, this time accompanied by a soft ping of something scraping across the thin metal bars.

"Jack?"

Sam edged his gaze back around, turning his head ever so slowly.

The little boy was no longer curled up in the corner of his cage. He had scooted forward, sitting at the frontmost pane of bars with his legs splayed to one side. His fingers curled around the metal as he peered out at Sam curiously, wings hovering delicately behind him.

Sam gasped in awe at seeing him fully for the first time. He was a beautiful child. Would be, if not for the bruises and cuts marring his soft features.

He had a naturally round face, but his cheeks were hollow and thin like the rest of his starved body. His eyes were pale, hovering between blue and gray. They pierced out from underneath his overgrown mop of hair.

His lips, full and delicate—though cracked and bloodied—parted and moved minutely. Mouthing something, without making a sound. As he repeated the motion, Sam could see a small gap between his two front teeth. It was then that Sam realized exactly what word he was miming.

Jack.

"Jack," Sam said softly. "Yeah. That's you. You're Jack."

One skinny arm moved from the bars to his chest, pointing to himself. Jack, he mouthed again. His eyes sparkled with curious energy.

"Jack," Sam repeated. He mirrored the kid's movement, pointing at him with one hand. "Jack. And I'm Sam."

The kid—Jack—lifted his eyes to meet Sam's for the first time. His forehead leaned against the bars of his cage. His chest rose and fell sharply, his breaths quick and expectant.

Sam turned his body around fully, leaning toward the cage now. "Hi," he breathed, unable to hide his pleased smile. "It's nice to meet you, Jack." He raised his hand in a half-wave.

Pale eyes followed his movement. Then the boy—then Jack—raised his own hand the same way. Palm out, toward Sam. He held it against the bars. Reaching. Waiting.

Sam hardly dared breathe. This felt like a test. The ultimate exercise of trust.

He lifted his hand toward the cage. He couldn't shake from his memory the last time he'd reached toward this vulnerable little boy.

This time was different. Instead of cowering in the corner, he was alert, expectant. As he watched Sam's hand move closer, his wings twitched with anticipation.

Sam rested his hand against Jack's, feeling his cold, tiny fingers behind the bars of his cage.

Old eyes met young. The same pain reflecting in each of them.

With his other hand, Sam reached into the open cage door. He left his hand open, outstretched. Inviting. "C'mon."

Jack jumped. His gaze darted between Sam's face and his waiting hand. Puzzling. Deliberating.

Sam felt he would drown in that haunted gaze. Too wounded to trust, too hopeful to run.

Seconds seemed to stretch into hours. Sam could practically hear the kid—Jack—weighing Sam's words. Against a lifetime of pain, they seemed meager.

How could Sam earn his trust, when anyone who'd ever shown him kindness had had ulterior motives? Who was Sam to care for this broken child, anyway? Sam was broken enough himself; what business did he have trying to put someone else back together when he still had cracks?

Sam's attention had wandered into self-flagellation, away from the boy in front of him; he was surprised when he felt small fingers on his palm. His mouth dropped open.

Jack's hands were cold, his touch feather-light hesitant. Tremors passed from his arm to Sam's, and his chest heaved with nervous breaths close to hiccups.

Sam closed his hand around Jack's tiny one, keeping his grasp gentle and easily broken. "C'mon," he said. "Let's get out of here."

Jack scooted forward, letting Sam pull him toward the cage door. He ducked his head and tucked his wings tight behind him to crawl through.

As he straightened up, placing his bare feet tentatively on the cold tile, his wings twitched and rustled.

Standing up, he was barely eye level with Sam's belly button. He kept his head tilted down, letting his hair shield his eyes—but his hand tightened its grip on Sam's.

Sam's throat tightened. "Yeah," he said softly. "That's it, Jack."

By the door, the Letters handlers murmured in surprise at the sight of the little boy, emerged from his cage, walking toward them hand in hand with Sam Winchester.

Jack, sensing the other people, tensed up again. His fingers clenched inside Sam's, and his timid steps slowed to a halt.

Sam waved them off. "You all can go now. Toss me my jacket and go ahead."

They exchanged dubious glances. "What about his examination?" one asked.

Jack flinched. The word was obviously familiar to him.

Somehow Sam didn't think he would benefit from these people poking at him, no matter how well-meaning they were. "That won't be necessary. I'm assuming responsibility for him. My jacket," he repeated, when all three handlers froze at his bold statement.

"O...okay, sir." The man holding Sam's jacket handed it over. "What exactly are you going to…do for him?"

Sam draped his suit jacket over the little boy's thin, trembling frame. Covering his bare wings, his bruised arms and legs.

"Home," he answered. "I'm going to take him home."