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Jack watches Sam watch Dean as the elder hunter talks. He had been paying attention to what Dean was saying earlier, when Dean was talking about the case they were on. But Dean and Sam and Castiel were talking about something else now, reminiscing over moments Jack didn’t have context for, so he zones out their words and watches Sam. He liked watching Sam because Sam made him feel safe, and it was also one of the only ways he could learn things about the man. For example, Jack learned by observing that Sam was always extremely cognizant of hands; he looked at people’s hands when they talked more than he looked at their faces. Or that Sam let very few people in the world touch him; so far Jack had only seen Dean, Castiel, and the witch Rowena touch Sam without causing him to recoil at all.
Right now, Jack saw how Sam was looking at Dean’s hands even as they laughed together, and his knee was pressing against Castiel’s. Sam looked happy, at least as happy as Jack had ever seen him. Jack felt happy right now, because he felt safe. Safe because Sam looked happy, he was eating, and him and Dean were both drinking just beer, nothing stronger, and Jack liked the atmosphere of the dive bar they were in. He felt sleepy, too, because he felt safe and warm and the booth they were sitting in was comfortable. He leaned back and closed his eyes, and let the warm sounds of his three companion’s voices wash over him.
Jack liked doing this, closing his eyes and just listening, because he had discovered that sounds came with colors in his head. There was that sparking, smoking yellow that was Dean’s laugh. Sometimes when Dean was in a good enough mood Jack would lean his head on Dean’s shoulder and feel the baritone vibrations that washed through him when he spoke. Dean’s body shook when he laughed, though, so Jack preferred hearing it this way, no contact, just the lightshow in his head. There was Sam’s voice, light in a way that meant he was smiling as he talked, vibrant green that reminded Jack of the rolling hills he had seen once in Oregon, in the spring. Dean’s voice was a deep maroon most of the time, but right now it was a pleasant gray-blue. Castiel’s was steady as ever, deeper blue than Dean’s and punctuated by bright, angelic ivory.
Jack must have drifted to sleep, because next thing he knows he’s being nudged by Dean, maybe a little too roughly to be considered at all gentle, but Jack didn’t mind, really. Sam seemed to mind though, because as Jack blinked his eyes awake he heard Sam say “Dean,” sounding admonishing but still light. “Eh, he don’t mind,” says Dean, “C’mon kid, up and at ‘em.” Jack just nods and clambers out of the booth, going to stand beside Castiel as Dean tosses a wad of cash on the table. Sam and Castiel mutter something to each other as Dean scribbled on a receipt, but Jack was still too disoriented with sleep to listen close enough to figure out what they were saying. “‘Kay,” Dean says as he straightens up, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
Jack didn’t sleep in the car on the way back to the motel. Instead, he leaned his head against the window and watched the lights of the town they were in roll by. It’s one of the largest towns they’d worked a case in by far, so it’s a good 10-minute drive to the motel. Jack didn’t like the bright white of oncoming headlights, which he felt validated for when he heard Dean mutter something like “Fuckin’ LEDs” under his breath. Jack did like other LEDs though, he liked the backlit gas station signs and the vibrancy of the traffic lights. Everyone was quiet in the car, and when Jack peeked at Sam’s phone over his shoulder he saw that the time was nearing 1AM. Sam and Dean must be getting tired too. Castiel was almost always quiet in the car.
The vacancies sign at the motel was neon and purple. Jack liked it, mostly because their room was positioned in a way that meant the sign didn’t shine through the window. All he could see through the slight gap in the heavy curtains was a faint purple glow emanating from the darkness. He flopped onto the couch without bothering to change into more comfortable clothes, (ready to crash, as Dean sometimes said). Sleep came slowly, so he watched the light play on the ceiling and listened to the soft rustling and footfall as Sam and Dean moved around the room. He fell asleep before either of them finally settled.
Jack wakes to the less muffled noises of Sam and Dean preparing for the hunt. Daylight leaks into the room through the gap in the curtains, wider now than it had been last night. Sam is saying something about machete sheaths as Jack sits up, but he lets Dean cut him off to say, “Mornin’ sunshine!” to Jack. Jack just blinks at Dean blearily. Sam gives Jack a little smile. Dean pats Jack on the shoulder as he says “Pack your shit, we’re leaving in ten,” but continues talking to Sam, “The sheaths are fine, Sam, I oiled ‘em last week.” Jack starts throwing the few items he had removed from his bag back inside, and before long they’re all getting in the Impala again. Jack peaks at the time; it had been 7 minutes.
The nest is an abandoned industrial plant on the edge of town, isolated but large. It has a large tower on one end, and a sprawling lower section with several corrugated metal doors. “We’ll have to split up,” says Dean from behind the trunk as he hands Sam a machete. “Jack, with me,” and Jack feels very proud that he caught the machete that was tossed his way. Sam sighs and it’s colored annoyed, but he doesn’t argue. “Cas ‘n I will take the lower bit, you guys get the tower,” Sam says, mostly to Dean but he does glance briefly at Jack. Dean grunts an acknowledgment as he closes the lid to the trunk. “Watch each other’s sixes,” he says even as he begins striding toward a door at the bottom of the tower. Jack hears Sam call back “You too,” as he scrambles to catch up.
It’s dark inside and Jack has to take a second to blink the sunlight out of his eyes. He looks to Dean for direction, once he can see, who nods toward a door with a sign beside it reading ‘stairs’. There’s an elevator too, but Dean whispers before Jack can ask about it. “Elevator’s probably trapped or broken. Stairwell’s safer, but it’ll echo, so keep quiet.” Jack nods his understanding, and he tries to tread as softly as possible as he follows Dean to the stairs, gripping his machete tight.
They check every floor on the way up, but almost every door in the stairwell opens onto a catwalk. The tower they’re in once housed steam piping, but was now empty except for the rings of catwalks rising to the top. Jack can see the pile of pipes lying on top of machinery at the bottom of the tower, where they had collapsed. He feels nausea building in his gut, the adrenaline and anxiety that came with stealth. They finally encounter something at the very top of the stairs, 13 floors in total by Jack’s count. Dean motions for him to stand back, and Jack does so as Dean creeps up to the door, then swiftly slams it open, swinging his machete almost simultaneously. Jack sees the head roll, but Dean is already stepping over it into a narrow hallway. Jack follows, nervously glancing over his shoulder. There’s just 1 door at the end of the hallway. Dean reaches it silently, and presses his ear against it for a moment before nodding to Jack and pushing it open, slowly. Looking past him, Jack sees a small room, with a tiny window. There’s an array of metal boxes on one wall, several colorful bulbs that had long since died. In one corner is a stack of pallets with some random soft things scattered on top, a makeshift bed, on which a girl lies curled in on herself.
Dean rushes to the girls side, and Jack is surprised at the gentleness with which he shakes the girl. She whines and covers her ears, but turns her face toward Dean. Jack stands frozen in the doorway still, though frequently checking over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming, curious at what Dean was doing. There’s blood around the girl’s mouth, and Dean curses softly. “Did you drink?” Jack hears him whisper. The girl nods, not saying anything. She looks terrified but there’s something else in her eyes too, something that Jack doesn’t like. It takes him a moment to recognize it as hunger. Dean curses again, louder this time. Then, “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and he swings his machete.
Jack remains frozen in the doorway even as Dean brushes past him. The blade in his own hand is still clean, but somehow Jack feels disturbed, dirty. He had never seen Dean apologize to a monster before. He stares at the vampire girl’s body, watches the blood leak through the stacked pallets and pool on the floor. Her head had rolled into a corner where he couldn’t see it. He jumps when Dean barks his name, and hurries to enter the stairwell behind Dean. They’re louder, faster on the way down, but Jack feels even more nauseous now than their stealth had made him before.
They emerge squinting into the bright sunlight at the same time that Castiel and Sam duck out from under a half-opened overhead door. Immediately Jack notices that one of Sam’s arms is bleeding heavily, soaking through the light blue flannel he was wearing and staining it an ugly, dark red-brown. Sam is clutching his arm and grimacing, but otherwise he doesn’t acknowledge it, instead saying to Dean, “You good?” Jack sees Dean’s eyes dart from Sam to Castiel back to Sam, and he knows that Dean wants Castiel to heal Sam. Castiel shakes his head minutely as he wipes a blade across his forearm, staining his own sleeve, and Dean doesn’t say anything about it, just says, “Yeah, got two. They were siring here. You good?” Sam nods once. “We got five. No new ones down here. And, uh, gonna need you to stitch me up,” he says, lifting his injured arm slightly as he speaks.
Sam sits in the backseat with his legs outside the car, leaning his head against the door jamb as Dean tends to his wound. Sam has his eyes closed and had gotten significantly paler in the walk from the factory doors to the car. Jack is burning to ask why they don’t just have Castiel take care of it, as he watches Dean stitch Sam up, but he could tell that now was not the time. He would ask Castiel, in private, later. He feels the need to say something though, to break the silence, to give Sam something else to focus on, so instead he asks, “What does ‘siring’ mean?” It’s Sam who answers, without opening his eyes, which makes Jack slightly regret opening his mouth. “It, uh,” Sam paused to wince as Dean tugged on the thread a little too hard, “It means they were making new vampires, uh, converting humans,” he finishes, wincing again. “Watch it, would you,” he grumbles at Dean, who just raises an eyebrow and retorts “Quit squirming, would ya’?” Jack bites his tongue, wanting to ask about the girl Dean had killed but not wanting to distract Dean.
Castiel had gone to double-check the factory perimeter, and Jack is relieved to see the angel approach. Dean is wrapping Sam’s fresh stitches in gauze as Castiel reaches them, and gives the angel a questioning look. Sam has his eyes closed still, leaning even more heavily on the Impala door. Now that Dean had shifted away from Sam some, Jack could see a rather concerning amount of red, both on Sam’s cut-away flannel sleeve and on the small pile of rags Dean had been using to mop up blood as he worked. His focus is pulled away from Sam as Castiel speaks, the angel’s presence calming to Jack as always. “Nothing,” says Castiel. “I believe we cleared the nest.” “Good,” grunts Dean. Sam doesn’t respond.
The music Dean plays in the car is calmer than usual. Sam and Castiel had swapped their usual positions, Sam in the back beside Jack, drifting in and out of consciousness, while Castiel was up front, more talkative than usual as he engaged with Dean. Jack watched the sun-yellowed prairie grass blur past out the window. Privately, he thought they should have stayed put for one more night, to let Sam recover, but he knew there was no point in trying to argue the case. Dean was worried but hiding it, and wanted to go home, and Castiel trusted Dean’s judgment. So they drove toward home.
They stop for gas, at some point, and Jack gets out to stretch. It’s getting colder, the further north they get. They had been in the deep south, and Sam told him it was unusually warm down there this winter. It was cold, in Kansas. Jack had been surprised, when this winter had rolled in so much colder than the last. Sam told him that the cold was more normal, the way it was supposed to be, that the seasons were often irregular these days because something was wrong with the climate. Jack had asked Sam why it was supposed to be cold, it had been his understanding that most living things needed warmth. Sam said that it was just the natural order, that everything happened for a reason, and not everything would survive the winter but there would be new life in the spring. Jack had asked Sam if he liked the cold, and Sam had shrugged and said he didn’t really notice, he was used to it, and Dean had slammed down his drink and walked out of the room.
Jack is broken out of his reverie by Castiel’s hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you trade places with me, Jack, I want to be able to reach Sam better.” Jack doesn’t question why, he trusts Castiel. But. “Is Dean okay with that?” he asks. Castiel gives him an odd look, but just says “He will have to be.” Jack retrieves his book and headphones from the back as Dean emerges from the convenience store. Sam hadn’t woken the entire time they’d been stopped. Jack is relieved that Castiel would be keeping a closer eye on him. Dean doesn’t acknowledge Jack when he slides into the front passenger seat, but he doesn’t reject him, so Jack settles in. No one speaks, and Dean pops a new tape in, still calmer music than usual but slowly getting more energetic.
Jack lets himself sleep in the front, unable to focus on his book or drown out Dean’s music now that he was closer to the speakers. He let the colors wash over him as he closed his eyes. No one was speaking much, but both Dean and Castiel were internally agitated, tense, and their energy pervaded the inside of the Impala. Dean was his usual cacophony of dark red overlaying blues and grays. Castiel’s usual steady blue was tinged purple with concern. If Jack focused very hard, he thought Sam was a pale sage green, interrupted by a steady dripping of bloodred drops. Jack did not focus on Sam very hard. He fell asleep to a song that he recognized; When the Levee Breaks, and Castiel’s low murmurs, too muffled and quiet for Jack to understand what he was saying, but he thought that Castiel might be talking to Sam.
Jack is jolted awake as he slides into the door, the car moving wildly as Dean slams on the brakes and swerves to pull over. Still blinking sleep out of his eyes, he hears a door open behind him as the Impala shuts off, shortly followed by the sounds of two other doors and Castiel calling to Sam. The urgency in the others’ movements wakes Jack far more effectively than any amount of blinking would, and he opens his own door to tumble out, reaching for a knife, angel blade, anything. But he stops short as he registers what he’s seeing, car door hanging wide behind him. Sam is kneeling in the gravel on the side of the road, his shoulders heaving like he was breathing heavily.
As Jack stands frozen, staring, Dean brushes past him, rushing to crouch in front of Sam. “Woah, woah,” Dean’s words tumble out but they’re perfectly clear, “You’re okay Sammy, you’re okay.” Sam doesn’t seem to hear Dean, he certainly doesn’t acknowledge him. Until Dean reaches out and places a hand on Sam’s shoulder, causing him to reel back and smack Dean’s arm away. “Okay, okay,” says Dean, and he looks the most helpless Jack has ever seen him look as he turns to Castiel, “Cas, what the hell happened?” Castiel looks grim and apologetic. “I had to heal him. He was losing too much blood. I could not rouse him to warn him.” Dean spins on his heels and kicks a rock, away from Sam’s direction, cursing loudly. He returns to Sam though, crouching in front of him and seizing one of his hands. This time Dean does not let go even as Sam fights to pull away.
Jack watches, frozen in fear and curiosity and confusion, as Dean starts muttering to Sam. But before Jack can get closer, to hear, Castiel’s hand rests heavy on his shoulder. Jack looks to Castiel, and with a glance back, allows Castiel to guide him away. “Castiel, what’s happening to Sam? Why can’t you heal him?” Jack asks as they reach a leafless tree some distance away. Castiel leans on the trunk and closes his eyes briefly before answering. “I cannot answer you fully, Jack, because it is not my place to tell,” Castiel begins, “But I can tell you this. Sam has been hurt very badly in the past, and hurt breeds a darkness in humans.” Here Castiel inclines his head slightly toward Jack, “As I am sure you are discovering. But you will further discover that the darkness can linger a lot longer than the source of the pain. Sam’s darkness still lingers, and much of it is associated with angels. It is up to Sam if he wishes for you to know any further details, but I must warn that if you ask you may not get many answers.” Jack thinks about Castiel’s answer, and he thinks it helps him understand somewhat. It was true that he had learned about pain in his short life, but human pain was newest to him.
He thinks about what Castiel said about darkness, and remembers something he overheard some time ago now. “Are you talking about demon blood, when you talk about darkness?” he asks Castiel. Castiel looks startled, “How do you know about that?” Jack now realizes that maybe that was something he should have kept to himself, Sam had warned him against eavesdropping before. But too late now. “Um, I overheard Sam and Dean- uh, talking about it. A long time ago.” Castiel does not look angry, more so just sad. “Hm,” he says. “Well, to answer your question. Yes, demon blood is a darkness that haunts Sam, but it does not have much to do with this particular situation, I don’t think.” Jack has to try very hard to swallow his curiosity, distracting himself by watching a crow land on one of the bare gray branches over their heads.
When they reach the Impala, Sam in seated in the front passenger seat, with his legs planted outside the car. Dean is leaning on the hood beside him, door hanging open, how Jack had left it, between them. Sam’s head is lowered, staring at his hands. Jack catches Dean’s eye as he stands stoic, watching them approach. Dean gives the slightest shake of his head, and Jack knows that means no questions, just get in the car. Jack can’t help but linger for a moment, hoping Sam will look up and catch his eye. Sam doesn’t, so Jack wordlessly climbs into the backseat behind Sam.
It’s another hour and a half to the Bunker. Jack looks out the window, watching the prairie bluegrass fade from yellow to gray the further north they go. The sky turns gray too. Dean puts on a Black Sabbath tape. Sam looks out his window. At one point Jack risks glancing forward a little, and he can see Sam’s reflection in the window. Sam does catch his eye this time, through the reflection, and gives him a half smile. Jack notices that Sam just looks tired. He smiles back.
Jack hated nights in the Bunker. More specifically, he hated the noises that leaked through the heavy wooden doors. It wasn’t that the noise itself kept him awake, he was used to falling asleep to the sounds of Sam and Dean moving around motel rooms. Their booted footfalls, sometimes muffled by carpet, often the soothing rhythm of Sam typing on his laptop or the scratching of a pencil, the rumbling of cars outside because they chose roadside rooms every time. But in the Bunker, at home, the noises were awful. Most nights, the most rhythmic sound was gunfire echoing up from somewhere deep in the belly of the concrete maze, as Dean unloaded clip after clip in the shooting range. The thumping sound of stacks of books being dropped on a table, the scraping of chair legs that meant Sam was in the library rather than sleeping. The shouts of pain and fear that echoed from their bedrooms on the rare occasions that either Sam or Dean let themselves fall into a deep enough sleep to dream. The worst was when it was silent, though. The only room that was frequented, that Jack couldn’t hear anything from, was the kitchen. When it was silent, it meant that Sam and Dean, and often even Castiel, were in the kitchen. If Jack crept closer on those nights, he would hear the low murmur of their voices, the soft clinking of glass, and the sounds would wash over him in amber. He hated amber.
Tonight there were gunshots, and usually a combination of headphones and burying his head in his pillows would let Jack sleep. But his adrenaline was still pumping from the day they had been through, and visions of blood dripping through pallets and gray tree branches kept flashing through his mind. So he couldn’t sleep. He gets up and pads toward the kitchen, freezing when he hears voices emanating from there. Much louder than they usually were, but still hard to hear over the echoing gunfire, so Jack creeps closer, staying hidden despite Sam’s warnings against eavesdropping. It was hard to tell what they were saying, he hears Sam sounding angry, bright white and red flares that were so rare from Sam, and he thinks he hears Castiel apologizing. Then something glass shattered, and the crash makes Jack jump- he knocks his elbow into a wall with a thump, and swears under his breath when the voices in the kitchen go silent.
“Jack, is that you?” he hears Sam call from the kitchen. Sam didn’t sound as angry as he had moments before, so Jack steels himself and sheepishly rounds the doorway into the brightly lit room. Sam was standing near the table, leaning on his hands, palms planted flat. Castiel was standing across the room, leaning his back against the counter with his arms crossed. There was broken glass on the floor and counter next to Castiel, and an empty bottle on the table. Jack swallows in apprehension as Sam straightens up and turns to face him, but Sam once again just looks tired. “Um, I couldn’t sleep,” Jack says, trying to sound casual. “I’m sorry bud,” Sam says, and he looks it, “Do you want me to go tell Dean to stop?” Jack shakes his head. “It’s not that, I just- can’t get my head to shut up, I guess,” he explains. Sam nods understandingly. “How about some tea?” Jack considers this. It was obvious he had interrupted something intense between Sam and Castiel, but he decides to be a little selfish tonight anyway. He nods, “That sounds nice.” Sam just nods again, but as he turns toward the cupboards, Castiel moves at the same time, pushing himself off the counter. “Sam, relax, I’ll make it,” Castiel orders. Sam doesn’t move for a moment, his back turned to Jack so he can’t tell what Sam is thinking, but eventually Sam gives in and sinks down onto one of the benches at the table, patting the tabletop to indicate he wants Jack to sit across from him.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Sam asks as Jack sits down, “How your head won’t let you sleep?” Jack shrugs. He wouldn’t know where to begin, what he was allowed to ask about after his conversation with Castiel under the tree. “Just thinking about a lot of things,” he says lamely, staring at the tabletop. He can feel Sam looking at him. “I get that. It was an eventful day,” Sam says. Jack hadn’t been expecting Sam to acknowledge that anything had happened that day. He eyes the empty bottle, and Sam must notice because he picks it up and places it on the bench beside himself, where Jack can’t see it. “If you want to talk about anything, anything at all, I’m here for you, Jack,” Sam says softly. Jack seriously doubts that, that anything was okay to talk about. But it’s obvious Sam wants him to talk, to unload, and Jack does not know how to say no to Sam, how to prevent him from shouldering his burdens. He chews his tongue thinking about a safe topic to start, and the image of the dead vampire girl flashes in his head once again. “Okay, um,” Jack hesitates, but Sam just looks at him encouragingly. “At the vampire nest, um, remember what Dean said about them siring?” Sam nods slowly, “Yeah, they were making new vamps. Fucking sucks, huh?” Jack tries not to think about how Sam only curses around him when he’s been drinking and plows on. “Yeah. Uh, there was this girl, upstairs. I think she might have been new. Dean- Dean killed her, but he said sorry to her first. Why’d he apologize?” Sam sucks in a breath, and shifts so his back is leaning against the wall and his feet are up on the bench, knees tenting in front of him. “There’s a cure, for new vamps,” Sam begins, but cuts himself off, “Did Dean ask her if she’d done anything?” Jack nods, “Yeah, he asked if she’d drunk at all.” Sam sighs. “The cure, for new vamps, um. It only works before they drink any blood. Dean was probably hoping he could save her.” Jack considers this, and he feels even worse for the girl. She had been so young, and it had been hard watching Dean kill her, seeing her lifeless body curled up on that pathetic attempt at a bed. He thinks he understands Dean’s apology, now.
They lull into silence for a bit, and Jack watches Sam watch Castiel as he brews tea. Jack curls up and braces his shins against the table, resting his head on his knees and hugging his legs into himself. It was a position he had learned from watching Sam, though Sam did it rarely, even more so these days. Jack found something about the pressure of his own weight comforting. Eventually, Castiel sets a blue mug down in front of Jack and a red one in front of Sam. Sam catches Castiel’s hand, now both resting on the red mug, and almost whispers “Thanks, Cas.” Castiel stands still, leaving his hand under Sam’s, as Sam looks into his eyes. “Of course, Sam.” He goes to pull away, but Sam shifts his grip to Castiel’s wrist, holding him there, “I mean it. Thank you, Castiel.” Something about the way Sam says Castiel’s name is odd, but Jack thinks he must have misheard, as he was beginning to grow tired again from the pleasant aroma of tea and warm comfort of his fathers’ presence. Sam lets Castiel pull away this time, and Castiel sits on the bench beside Jack. Silence falls over them again, and Jack notices that there was no longer the sound of echoing gunfire.
“Was there anything else on your mind, Jack?” Sam asks, almost absently as he fiddles with the paper tab on the end of his teabag. Jack is somewhat surprised to find that he was doing the same thing when he looked at his hands, rubbing the paper tab between his fingertips. He drops it and firmly wraps both hands around the mug. “Are you okay, Sam?” he braves asking, looking back up at the man. Sam looks away, though, and laughs a little as he says, “Yeah, I’m fine bud.”
Just then, Dean walks in into the kitchen. Jack hadn’t heard him approaching, but Sam must have because he doesn’t seem surprised. “Partyin’ without me?” Dean asks jokingly. Sam laughs a little again and closes his eyes, with his head resting against the wall. Jack thinks he looks almost peaceful. “You know it. Animals, these two,” Sam jokes back at Dean. “Tea, Dean?” asks Castiel, without bothering to stand as Dean starts rummaging in the liquor cabinet. “Nah, it’s a man’s drink for me,” Dean grins as he triumphantly pulls a bottle out. He walks over to where Sam is sitting and looks a little offended at the empty bottle sitting at Sam’s feet, right where Dean was intending to settle. Dean hadn’t acknowledged the broken glass across the room at all, and Jack wonders if he’d even noticed it. Dean picks up the empty bottle and taps Sam’s leg with it, tossing it into a bin behind him and sitting down as Sam pulls his legs in a little to make room. Sam squints at the bottle Dean had procured. The label has an illustration of a blonde lady dancing, in red shoes and red dress. Jack likes the illustration, the lady looks happy. “Yeah, very manly,” Sam teases. “Shut up,” says Dean, even as he twists off the cap and pours himself a glass. He splashes some into Sam’s mug as well, which Sam picks up and gestures to Dean with. “Cheers,” Sam says, and takes a sip. Jack rotates to mimic Sam’s position, resting his back and head against the wall. He closes his eyes and lets their voices wash over him, as they talk in low tones. There’s less laughter than there had been the night before, but their words again don’t hold much context for Jack. He focuses on the colors instead. There’s the amber that he hates so much, but other colors too. Soft greens and blues, a red the same color as the lady-on-the-bottle’s shoes, angel ivory and gold, a dusky orange Jack associated with the Impala’s headlights, all weaving in on each other. It feels peaceful, and that’s rare, for nighttime in the Bunker, so Jack savors it as he drifts off into sleep, curled up there at that hard table with his back against the wall and his hand around his cooling mug.
There’s frost on the ground, the next morning. It paints swirling white designs creeping up the heavy metal door and the gravel underfoot crunches more than ever. Jack watches the frost lose its battle with the rising sun as he waits for Sam to get home from his run. This was a sort of unspoken tradition they had developed, where Jack waited outside with a water bottle to greet Sam. He liked watching the sun rise, and Sam almost always went out before the sun rose. He liked it in the summer better, there were more birds to listen to, but he had developed an appreciation for the frost this winter. The Impala was parked at the main door, rather than in the garage, and Jack traces designs in the frost on the windows with his finger while he waits. The heat from his skin causes the frost to melt, and little rivulets run down the glass from wherever he touched it.
Jack jumps at the sound of Sam’s voice behind him. “Better not let Dean catch you doing that,” Sam says. He’s panting but smiling as Jack turns to face him, “Morning, Jack.” Jack smiles back at Sam. He’d approached through the grass, rather than over the gravel, which was why Jack hadn’t heard him coming. “Good morning,” he says, handing Sam the water bottle. “Why not?” Sam takes a drink before answering, “He’d complain about scratching the glass.” Jack feels a brief spike of anxiety before Sam assuages it by saying, “Don’t worry, though, it’s just dust that does that.” “Oh,” Jack says, nodding his understanding even as he guiltily wipes the moisture from his finger. Jack waits a moment as Sam checks his heart rate, resting two fingers on the pulse in his neck while looking at his watch. He points to the door once Sam lowers his hands, “Look, the frost makes pretty shapes on the door.” Sam glances over but looks away quickly, toward the sun, “Oh, yeah that’s- that’s nice, Jack.” Jack has the strange sense that he had said something wrong, but he has no idea what it could have been. Sam slings an arm around his shoulders and moves them to the door, saying, “C’mon, high time for coffee.”
Jack is reading at a library table, sitting across from Sam on his laptop when Dean walks up to Sam, footfall heavy. Sometimes Jack is surprised at the stealth Dean is capable of when necessary, his movements in the Bunker or other safe situations are always so loud. “Case,” grunts Dean as he sets his laptop down in front of Sam, who pushes his own out of the way. “Ghost. Arizona,” is Dean’s blunt explanation. Jack watches Sam’s eyes skim quickly over the screen. “I’m not changing the channel,” Sam says, “Leave in an hour?” Dean nods and picks his laptop back up. “You bet,” he says as he walks away. Jack reaches for his bookmark.
Jack had taken to keeping a duffle packed in his room all the time, for days like these when they didn’t have much warning before leaving the Bunker. He puts his other things, books, headphones, laptop, into a backpack, and carries both out to the Impala. Dean and Castiel are already outside, standing over the car’s open trunk. “...a lead,” Castiel is saying. “It’s weak, but it’s all we’ve got.” Dean shrugs. “No, I hear ‘ya man, go for it. You know we’ll call if we need you. You do the same.” Castiel nods, “Of course.” He notices Jack and walks over. “I won’t be going to Arizona with you Jack, I have to look into something else. “Okay,” says Jack. He gives Castiel a one-armed hug, “Be safe.” Castiel pats him on the back, saying “You as well,” as he heads inside. He’ll talk to Sam and then take another car from the multitudes in the garage. He’ll call Jack that night, if he has time, and text if he doesn’t. Castiel always checked in with Jack whenever they had to split up.
They drive straight through to the town in Arizona, a place called Flagstaff, according to the article Sam had printed off for Jack to look over. It’s a 16-hour drive but Sam and Dean switch off whenever one of them needs to rest, and Jack was well used to being in the car for long stints. He had multiple books, downloaded episodes of whatever show he was watching, and had developed a routine of walking laps whenever they stopped for gas. One of the Winchesters would stay at the pump while the other went inside to pay, and stock up on snacks if necessary. They left in the early afternoon, so most of the drive is at night.
One of the places they stop for fuel is isolated, standing stark in the empty desert. The roof over the pumps is lined with white fluorescents, and Jack can’t see far past the cement on the ground. He walks his lap around the lot, never leaving Sam’s sight, who was standing at the pump while Dean was inside grabbing energy drinks. Where the light pools at the perimeter, Jack sees sand, washed out by the artificial brightness, and scrubby bushes with piles of trash collected at their roots. Jack sees a scorpion dart under a rock, and he wanders back over to Sam.
Sam has his hands in his pockets, it must be a locking pump, and he’s staring up at one of the lights overhead, watching moths bump into each other. He notices Jack, though, and looks down to greet him. “Find anything interesting?” Sam asks him. Jack shrugs. “I saw a scorpion.” Sam makes a face. “Ugh. Don’t tell me any more.” Jack looks up at the light Sam had been watching. “What are you looking at?” Sam points, “See those giant moths?” Jack squints at them and nods. The largest ones were tan, with purple rings on their wings. “Those are Polyphemus moths,” Sam informs Jack. Jack admired this about Sam, how he had so much knowledge. He always had some little tidbit to tell Jack wherever they went, and Jack loved learning from him. “Nerd,” Dean calls across the empty lot as he lets the convenience store swing shut behind him. Sam flips him off as he walks over, but is forced to change his hand positioning as Dean tosses him a can. It’s a pretty can, yellow and peach ombre. Sam raises it in Dean’s direction, “Cheers.” “Sure,” Dean says as he moves to the passenger side. “You’re driving.” Sam tosses his can into his seat and nods, turning to remove the fuel pump that had only just clicked off.
Jack liked when Sam drove. He went just as fast as Dean, but merged more smoothly. Sometimes Dean would get bored and serve the car back and forth within the lane, causing everyone inside to rock with the motion. Sam didn’t do that. Jack liked Sam’s music more, too. Tonight, Sam reaches for a Radiohead CD, but Dean stops him. “Ugh, seriously dude? That shit’s so depressing,” he complains. Sam makes a face at him. “What d’you care? You’re gonna sleep anyway,” he says, but even as he says it he puts the CD back and grabs a different one. Pearl Jam. He glares at Dean like he’s daring him to complain, but Dean raises his hand in mock surrender, so Sam puts the CD in. Jack looks out the window as they drive, not very tired for once. He can’t see far into the night, just the sand lit up orange by the Impala’s headlights and the yellow reflectors lining the road, but he can see the moon.
They approach Flagstaff as the sun is rising. There’s snow on the ground, and the brightness wakes Jack. Dean is driving, a little slower than usual. Sam hears Jack stirring and looks at him through the rearview mirror. He has his laptop in his lap, but Jack can’t see what he’s looking at through the glare from the snow. “Morning, Jack,” Sam says. “We’re almost there.” Jack just nods, still too drowsy to speak. The sun rises quickly, and the brightness of the snow only increases. Sam rummages in the glovebox for a moment before pulling out two pairs of sunglasses, handing one to Dean, who wordlessly hums his thanks. Sam puts the other pair on himself. Jack watches the scenery change outside, wide open fields split up by white plastic fences slowly becoming more heavily forested by evergreens. Jack likes the way the snow sits on the dark green branches. The town sits at the base of a mountain, and Jack thinks it’s also very pretty with its snow-capped peaks. He doesn’t mention how pretty he thinks the snow is though, remembering Sam’s disinterested reaction to the frost.
The snow gets less pretty, as they reach a more urban area. There are still plenty of trees, but the snow on the ground is dirty from traffic. Dean pulls into a diner parking lot, and Jack hears the slush splashing under the tires. Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat at the sound. “Do you have boots on, Jack?” he asks. Jack shakes his head. “No, there are some in my bag though.” Dean must be tired from driving, because he doesn’t tease Sam for mothering, or anything he would usually say. Instead, he tosses the keys into Sam’s lap, saying “Lock up when you’re done. I’ll go get us a table,” as he opens his door and gets out. Cold air rushes inside the car, and Jack can’t help but shiver a little. Dean is pulling a jacket on as he walks toward the diner entrance. Sam doesn’t react to the temperature as he stows his laptop in his computer bag. “Hold on Jack, I’ll grab your boots.” He glances at Jack as he gets out. “And a jacket.”
Jack watches his breath swirl in the cold air as he waits for Sam to lock the doors, blowing out clouds to watch them dissipate, catching the sunlight. Sam chuckles when he turns and sees what Jack is doing. “You like the cold, huh?” he asks, smiling. Jack shrugs. “It’s a different kind of pretty. I like spring the best still.” Sam laughs. “Me too, bud.”
The reach the table where Dean is sitting at the same time as a waitress, bringing over two mugs of coffee. Sam thanks her as they sit down, and she smiles warmly. She has red lipstick on, and kind eyes. “Of course hon,” she says, and then looks to Jack, “What can I get you, young man? Your dad here wasn’t sure what you’d want.” Dean chokes on his coffee, and Jack doesn’t look at him as he smiles at the waitress and says “Orange juice, please.” She pats his hand and says “Sure thing,” before walking away. When Jack looks back at Sam and Dean, Sam is smirking at Dean, who just says “Shut up,” before taking another sip of coffee. Sam raises his hands in mock surrender and pours a little plastic tub of cream into his own mug before pulling out his laptop again. Jack looks around the diner. The tabletop is a greasy linoleum, a diner classic, as Jack had swiftly learned. It’s still quite early, so the diner is mostly empty except for a few truckers seated at the bartop, trying to make their breakfast break last. There’s a family a few tables away, a couple older kids and a baby in a highchair. Jack smiles at the baby, who coos and waves at him. The sunlight filtering through the windows is weak, but bright from the snow at the same time, washing the color out of everything and making all the lights look dim. Though the lights might just be dim. This was far from the worst diner Jack had ever been in, but it wasn’t exactly the nicest either.
The waitress comes over and sets a glass of orange juice and mug of hot chocolate down in front of Jack. He looks up at her, confused, and opens his mouth to say he didn’t ask for the hot chocolate but before he can say anything, she winks at him. “On the house, hon, your hand is cold.” “Oh,” says Jack, suddenly self-conscious as he stows his hands under the table, “Thank you.” She smiles warmly, “Sure thing.” She addresses Sam and Dean now, “You folks local, or just visiting?” Dean smiles at her, “Just passing through.” She nods. “Alrighty then. You just wave when you’re ready to order, ‘kay?” Dean salutes, “Yes ma’am.” She chuckles as she walks away.
They don’t talk much for a while, as Sam types on his laptop and Dean slowly revives himself over his coffee. Jack entertains himself by making faces at the baby, who giggles a lot, earning him an appreciative smile from the woman he assumes must be their mother. Once Dean wakes up some, he pushes a menu toward Jack, who picks it up, and one towards Sam, who ignores it. When he waves the waitress over, Jack orders a short stack and Dean gets a country breakfast plate. The waitress looks expectantly at Sam, and when he doesn’t seem to notice Dean leans over and flicks him on the forehead. Sam startles, looking around to the waitress, “Oh, I’m sorry. Um, nothing for me, thanks.” Dean frowns at him, and the waitress does too, though hers looks more concerned than anything else. “You sure, hon?” she asks. Sam nods, but Dean says, “He’ll take the most boring, healthiest thing you got.” She looks questioningly at Sam for a moment, but he’s reabsorbed in whatever he was reading, so she shrugs and says, “Alrighty then, egg white omelette it is.” Dean grins and says, “Perfect,” and with one last glance at Sam she walks away.
“Okay,” Sam says suddenly as he finishes reading something on his laptop. Dean looks up from his coffee. “Looks like there’s a history of suicides in this building,” Sam continues, and Jack feels a vague discomfort in the pit of his stomach. “I’m thinking-” Sam cuts himself off at the waitress appears and sets plates of food down in front of them. It’s busier now, so she doesn’t stick around to chat, and both Sam and Dean just nod their thanks. Once she’s gone, Sam resumes. “I’m thinking it could be possession, or a cursed object.” Jack knew that this meant interviews, which meant talking to grieving people. He hated suicide cases. Dean nods. “Okay,” he says, and then points his fork at Sam’s plate. “Eat.” Sam and Dean hatch their plan over breakfast. Sam will pose as a grief counselor to talk to the family of the victim, while Dean will pose as maintenance and comb the rest of the building for EMF- it was an apartment building, and Sam said that ghosts in those tended to roam further than just one unit. Sam eats a couple bites of his omelette to appease Dean. As they leave, Dean leaves a sizable tip on the table, and Jack waves goodbye to the baby, smiling at the mother as he walks by.
The apartment unit is in the historic downtown, and Jack admires the warm colors of the brick buildings against the white snow and gray sky. Someone whistles appreciatively at the Impala as they get out, and Dean acknowledges them with a little wave. Dean tosses Jack an EMF reader, saying “With me, Jack. I’ll say you’re in training or something.” Jack stows the reader in his coat pocket and nods. Sam heads up the front steps of the building, while Jack follows Dean around to the back. They have to go through a wide alley to get there, slick with compacted ice. Jack has to watch his feet as he walks, wishing he could appreciate the murals on either wall instead. He looks over his shoulder to see them as the ground clears up, one consists of a nature scene with elk and pine trees, and the other is a profile of a native woman. Jack likes them both very much, and mentally takes note of the artist’s handle painted in the corner so he can look them up later.
Dean finds an unlocked back door that opens onto a narrow hallway, walls lined with small pipes. It’s almost uncomfortably warm inside. If Jack were with Sam, he would ask what the pipes were for, but he doesn’t bother asking Dean. Dean was good at teaching Jack how to fight, and hunt, and take care of his tools, but he didn’t care to teach Jack about anything and everything the way Sam and Castiel did. Dean pulls out his EMF reader, and attaches something Jack doesn’t recognize to it. “What’s that?” he asks Dean. Dean holds it up so Jack can see better. This is hunting related, so Dean will teach him about it. “Sam made it, it’s supposed to extend the range of the reader. In theory, we shouldn’t need to enter any units to get a general location, if there’s a ghost,” Dean explains. “Cool,” says Jack, impressed by Sam’s intelligence, as always. “Uh-huh,” says Dean, “C’mon, we got a lot of building to cover.”
They navigate a series of long, narrow hallways, crossing back and forth as they climb each story. Jack counts four stories total, each floor having plus-sign-shaped hallways. They quickly develop a system where Jack takes the right side and Dean takes the left. They don’t find anything, neither reader goes off even with Dean’s extension, and there are no cold spots or strange sounds while they’re combing the place. They don’t encounter any other people, either, which saves them from having to make up a reason to be there.
Sam isn’t at the Impala when they make it back outside, he must’ve still been talking to people inside. It’s snowing, thick, fat flakes that take a long time to melt when they land on Jack’s sleeve. Dean makes a noise of discontent and says, “Fuck this, let’s wait inside.” Jack follows him in, there’s a small lobby with a bike rack and a couple chairs. There’s no one else in the lobby either. Dean scoffs at the bike rack, muttering something about hippies under his breath. They both flop into chairs to wait. Jack watches the water drip from their shoes, Dean bounces his leg impatiently.
They hear Sam coming before they see him, boots landing heavy on the creaking old stairs. “Hey,” Sam greets them as he reaches the bottom. He slings his jacket on as he asks Dean, “Anything?” Dean shakes his head, standing to put on his own jacket, “Nada.” Sam hums. “Guess we’ll have to hit the books. Ready?” The last part is directed at Jack, who nods and stands. He hadn’t bothered taking off his coat. They turn to make for the door, but Sam stops short. Jack looks at him questioningly and sees that he’s staring at something over the door- there’s a small wooden crucifix hanging there, the only decoration in the entire lobby area. “You still got an EMF?” Sam asks, directed at no one in particular. He’s still staring at the crucifix. Dean was stopped in the doorway, letting cold air seep in. He couldn’t see what Sam was looking at. “What?” he asks, but Jack is already handing Sam the EMF reader he had kept tucked in his pocket. Dean sighs and steps back inside, letting the door close, as Sam reaches over his head to hold the reader up to the crucifix. The reader lights up, whining shrilly. “Yahtzee,” says Sam, stretching himself up to take down the crucifix. Dean stops him with a hand on his arm. “Fuck are you doing, Sam?” Dean asks vehemently. “What?” asks Sam. “You can’t just touch the possessed crucifix that makes people kill themselves,” Dean spits. Sam seems genuinely confused for a moment as he processes what Dean said. “Oh. Right,” Sam reaches into his pocket and shakes a handkerchief free, avoiding eye contact with Dean. Sam watches Dean’s jaw flex as Sam reaches up again, this time with the cloth between his skin and the wood of the cross. Dean shakes his head as Sam tucks his prize into his pocket, but doesn’t say anything else as he opens the door again and stomps out.
They get a motel, to rest properly before making the haul back to Kansas. Dean wanted to burn the crucifix right away, but Sam wanted to wait, to research more and make sure they disposed of it properly. Now it lies on the table next to Sam’s laptop as he researches. Jack sits next to Sam and examines the crucifix, careful not to touch it at Dean’s warning. It’s an unassuming little thing, dark stained wood with many scratches and worn corners, like it was old and well-used. “This is interesting,” says Sam. He’s only talking to Jack because Dean had gone out for beer. “That building used be a brothel. There was a priest who sort of looked after the girls there. One of them-” he pauses and glances at Jack with an unreadable expression, “Um, one of them got hurt, bad. She didn’t make it, and the Father killed himself with grief. They speculate she was his bastard daughter.” Jack didn’t see how that was interesting. It mostly just seemed sad, to him. “Oh,” is all he says. Sam clears his throat. “Anyway, uh, the cross was a gift from the Father to that girl. We should be safe to burn it.” Sam wraps the crucifix back up in the handkerchief and tucks it away. Jack looks at him questioningly. “I’ll take care of it in a bit,” Sam says. “For now, R&R.”
Jack kills time for a little by watching his downloaded shows on the couch. Sam sits on the bed closest to the couch, leading against the headboard, doing something else on his own laptop. He’s also texting back and forth with someone a lot. Jack is curious, so he cranes his head a little to see Sam’s phone screen. Sam is texting Castiel, and Jack catches the words rape victims and suicide in Sam’s paragraphs. He looks away, a pit in his stomach. Those were words he had heard Sam dance around before, on other cases, or sometimes when he was talking to Castiel in low tones that Jack wasn’t supposed to listen to. It always made Jack feel queasy when those were an unavoidable topic of conversation, even though he didn’t fully understand their meanings. Perhaps it was because they were topics Sam tended to avoid, and if Sam was avoiding it, it must be awful. Jack looked back to his screen, trying to distract himself with his show.
When Dean gets back, his presence fills the room. He stomps snow off his boots at the door, drops a plastic bag on the table with a thud and clank, throws himself on the unoccupied bed. Sam barely looks up from his laptop. “Have a nice time out there?” he inquires dryly. Dean groans. “Dude, I hate snow.” Sam hums in sympathy. The light is fading behind the heavy curtains. “Is it still snowing?” Sam asks Dean. “No,” says Dean. “Why?” Sam chews his lip for a moment, staring off into space. “I think I want to go for a walk.” Dean rolls over onto his stomach, his face buried in the comforter. “You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he says, muffled because he doesn’t bother lifting his head. Sam stands and pulls on a jacket, patting Dean on the calf. “One of us has to stay fit and able,” he stays. Jack pipes up as Sam turns toward the door. “Wait! Can I come?” Sam turns back toward him and hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking between him and Dean. “Sure,” Sam decides, “We’ll let Dean get his beauty sleep. C’mon.” Dean lazily flips off the room in Sam’s general direction as Jack scrambles to don his boots and coat. Sam snakes the car keys from Dean’s jacket pocket, to which Dean just vaguely waves his hand and lets it drop.
The sun is setting as Sam drives them somewhere. It’s windy, and the clouds are clearing rapidly. The fresh coat of snow over the dirtied roadside slush makes everything look much more picturesque, and Jack happily looks out the window for the duration of their short trip. Sam pulls into a dirt lot. “I stayed here for a little, a long time ago,” Sam explains when Jack looks around curiously. “This park was my favorite place to run. It’s got a good view of the stars, moon permitting.” It wasn’t often that Sam shared things from his past, and locations were even more rare due to the hunter’s previously nomadic lifestyle, so Jack is excited at the prospect of witnessing this place, that Sam remembered for so long.
The moon is full, and does not permit them to see many stars, only a few of the larger ones and some planets shining through. The moon does light up the snow, and Jack can see almost as clearly as day in the soft white glow. The wind had died down, and it was utterly silent except for the crunch of his and Sam’s boots in the fresh snow. They follow a wide trail that winds through a large field, dotted with copses of trees. The silence feels sacred, and Jack is reluctant to break it by asking questions, so he just looks around, trying to drink in as much of the view as possible and watching their breaths cloud in the air ahead of them. Suddenly Sam stops and nudges Jack with his elbow, silently pointing off into the distance. Jack squints in the direction he pointed and sees it- a solitary elk standing in front of the treeline. Its antlers had four points (something Jack had learned to count from another hunter they had worked with once, who hunted animals as well as monsters) and as they stood and watched, Jack could see the elk’s breath clouding in the cold air too. He doesn’t know how long they stand there in the dead silence, looking at each other, but eventually the elk turns and disappears into the darkness of the trees. “Wow,” breathes Jack. He looks up at Sam, who doesn’t say anything, but smiles and keeps walking.
Castiel beat them home, and he stands outside waiting as they pull up in front of the metal door. He had called while they were driving, and he and the Winchesters had updated each other on their respective cases, so conversation is light as he greets them. Castiel walks Jack inside while Sam and Dean linger at the car, ensuring that the arsenal in their trunk was all in order. They hadn’t seen any action, but they had to stow the EMF readers at least, and driving could jostle things around. Dean was working on building a more secure storage whenever they had downtime at the Bunker. Jack excitedly tells Castiel about their encounter with the elk, and Castiel listens patiently. “That sounds beautiful, Jack,” he says when Jack finally concludes his story. Jack nods fervently, “It was. I’ve never seen an alive elk before.” Sam and Dean come down the stairs as Jack is speaking, and Sam calls out, “A living elk, bud.” Sam did that sometimes, corrected grammar. Jack usually didn’t mind. “A living elk,” he corrects, addressing himself to Castiel. He sees Sam smile at him from over Castiel’s shoulder as he deposits his computer bag in a library chair. He smiles back. Dean shakes his head and mutters something under his breath, but he doesn’t tease out loud.
Jack sits on the steps in the garage, out of the way while he watches Dean work. Dean was in a good mood today, and Jack liked hanging out with him while he tackled projects. Usually he would watch Dean build the new storage for the Impala’s trunk, and sometimes even be allowed to help by holding things together or handing Dean tools. But today Dean was doing engine maintenance on the Impala, so Jack stayed out of the way and hummed along to the Led Zeppelin album Dean was playing.
Jack turns as the door behind him opens slowly, like the person on the other side was being careful. It’s Sam, who doesn’t say anything to Jack but gives him a little smile and ruffles his hair as he descends the steps. Sam goes straight over to where Dean’s knees are tenting up from under the Impala. “Yo,” says Sam, and Dean pushes himself out from under the car at the sound of his brother’s voice. Dean doesn’t sit up, though, so Sam crouches down next to him. Jack can’t see either man’s face as he listens to their brief conversation. “Cas and I are going out,” Sam says. Dean must make some kind of face, because he doesn’t say anything but Sam flicks his knee and tells him to shut up. “Anyway, d’you want anything?” Dean makes an annoyed sound. “Ugh. A mechanic I can trust?” Sam laughs. “Yeah, good luck with that buddy,” he says as he stands. Sam is halfway back to the door when Dean calls out, “Sam!” Sam wheels around. Dean is pushing his head and torso back under the car as he speaks. “Brewskies,” he orders. Sam waves over his shoulder in acknowledgment, “Obviously.” Sam pauses when he gets to where Jack is sitting. “Want anything, Jack?” Jack considers. “Where are you going?” Sam shrugs. “Nowhere in particular. Just out. We can go anywhere if there’s something you want.” Well, that’s not an offer Jack gets every day. “Nougat?” he tries. Sam chuckles a little, then sighs, “I ‘spose.” Jack grins triumphantly.
Sam stops just short of the top step, “Oh,” he says. “I forgot- Jack, go get my phone for me, would you? It should be in my room.” Jack nods and scurries up past Sam, as Sam retreats back down the steps and over to Dean. Sam’s phone is on his desk, alongside a piece of scratch paper covered in seemingly random scribbles and drawings. Jack lingers for a second, admiring Sam’s sketches, but he’s also hoping to catch a little of whatever Sam had forgotten to talk to Dean about. As Jack turns, he catches sight of a small wooden crucifix over Sam’s door, conspicuous due to the complete lack of any other wall decor. Jack stares at it for a moment, recognizing it as the one Sam had taken from their most recent case. Now that Jack thinks about, he had never actually seen Sam burn the thing, he had just trusted Sam to take care of it. As he ponders the item, he decides that he trusts Sam to have his reasons to keep it as well, and promptly forgets about it as he speeds back to the garage.
Jack sits on the counter in the kitchen as Dean cooks, taking advantage of the liberties Dean allowed him. Sam usually wouldn’t let anyone sit on the counter. It had been a give-Sam-space kind of day – there had been more and more of those, recently – and Dean usually took pity on Jack on those days, and allowed him to hover around whatever Dean was doing. Winter had come and gone. Lebanon had only really gotten one good snow for the season, a couple inches that compacted quickly and froze solid, lingering for the next week and a half. The night after it had first snowed, there had been no moon, and they had sat on the Impala’s hood, watching the stars. Sam had allowed Jack to curl into his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to prevent Jack from sliding off the car. The next morning, Jack had coughed up blood.
Dean slid a tray into the oven and shut the door with a bang, brushing his hands together with a satisfied expression. “Now we wait,” he said to Jack as he used his palm and the counter to pop the cap off of a beer bottle. Dean leaned against the island, bracing his feet on the base of the counter Jack was sitting on. Jack waits, puzzled, as Dean just looks at him for a second. Dean’s eyes were sharp, and Jack always felt a little exposed under his scrutiny. “How you doin’, kid?” Dean asks him. Jack is confused, and a little startled at the question. “Uh- I’m fine. Why?” Dean doesn’t answer right away, just nods and chews his lip, continuing to scrutinize Jack. Jack resists the urge to squirm uncomfortably. “You followin’ what Sam says?” Dean asks, “Do as we say, not as we do?” Jack is anxious at this line of question. That was something Sam said to him a lot, whenever they talked about healthy habits, especially since Jack had lost his Grace; getting a proper amount of sleep, eating right, drinking enough water, the like. “Um. Yeah?” Jack says, hoping Dean would get to the point soon. Dean was positioned between Jack and the door, unless Jack wanted to round the entire island. He wondered if Dean had done that on purpose. “Okay,” says Dean. “Wanna talk about how you’re coughin’ up blood?”
Jack’s stomach sinks to the floor. “Um,” is all he can manage to say. Dean raises the hand that’s not occupied by a bottle in a placating gesture. “Hey, I know I’m not the one you would usually talk to about this stuff. By Sam’s occupied, and I don’t want Cas to overreact. I got you, okay?” Jack does feel somewhat comforted by Dean’s words, perhaps because they had been spending so much more time together lately. “Uh,” Jack tries again. “I guess, um, it started a few weeks ago. I didn’t- I guess I didn’t think it was that worth worrying anyone?” Dean sighs. “Sometimes I think you’re a little too much like Sammy, kid,” Dean says. “Your health is always worth worrying at least one of us, okay?” Jack nods sheepishly. “I, uh, it really isn’t that bad, though. I mean, I feel fine, most of the time. I’m breathing fine. Do we really have to tell Sam and Castiel?” Dean chews his lip again, looking at Jack. “Hm. I’ll keep it to myself for now. We’ll look into figuring out what the problem is. But you tell me if it gets any worse, deal?” Jack nods gratefully. “Deal.”
Sam doesn’t eat with them, retreating to his room early. But Castiel keeps them company while they eat, and Jack enjoys listening to him and Dean chat. Dean had softened, somehow, through the winter, while Sam had withdrawn. He was in a better mood more often, and his words washed blue-gray over Jack more, now, than they did crimson or maroon. He had finished the new storage for the Impala arsenal, a wooden frame with several dividers, canvas lining, and leather straps to hold things in place. Things still jostled when they drove too roughly, but it had improved a bit. He had stopped shooting so often, and when he did, it wasn’t so late into the night anymore. Dean had even taken Jack out on a case alone, once, that winter. It had been nearby, a ‘milk run’, in Dean’s words, and Sam had been having a particularly bad week, rarely leaving his room and keeping his distance from Jack. Castiel had stayed behind with Sam, and when Dean and Jack returned Sam seemed better. Castiel had just said Sam was sick, when Jack had asked. Jack hadn’t fully believed him.
It’s silent, that night, and Jack can’t sleep. He had been dozing for most of the day, following Dean around like a lost puppy, in Dean’s words, and finding the softest bit of floor to lie on. He realizes that he should probably tell Dean how tired he’s been since he lost his Grace- at first he had thought it was just part of being human, or close enough, but as he thought about it, he realized it had been getting worse. He tossed and turned, but his body was restless, so he gives in and pads to the kitchen. The kitchen light is on, spilling into the dark hallway. Jack hears voices, and he pauses to listen, closing his eyes. “... gotta do something about this, man.” Dean’s voice, a deep, rich navy blue. A long pause. “Sam, it’s been months.” Castiel, pure angelic ivory, but soft. A longer pause, silence for so long that Jack almost gives up and turns back to his room. But then, “I know.” Sam, green stained bright red and blue and black, so quiet that Jack can’t help but shift closer. He could’ve sworn he was completely silent, but somehow Dean knows he’s there. “Jack, come here,” Dean calls. Jack grimaces and enters the kitchen, pausing to take in the scene. Dean is leaning his back against the counter, arms crossed. There’s a bottle on the counter next to him, and Jack is surprised that it’s not in his hand. Sam and Castiel are on one of the table benches, tangled together in a way that Jack has never seen either before. Sam is laying on the bench, with his feet on the floor and his head in Castiel’s lap. Castiel is sitting on the bench, but he’s twisted so he’s facing Dean, and he’s running one hand through Sam’s hair.
Dean makes a slight beckoning motion with one hand, and Jack crosses the room to him. He feels Sam’s eyes tracking him across the room, and he feels a little guilty about it, but he hops up to sit on the counter, close to Dean. Sam looks away once Jack is facing him again. No one says anything to Jack, and he bites his tongue and leans his head on Dean’s shoulder as his two and a half fathers continue their conversation. “Okay,” says Dean, “So what’s going on then?” His voice vibrates baritone as predictably as ever, and Jack takes comfort in it. Sam is staring up at the ceiling. “I’d rather not talk about it,” he mumbles. “Tough luck,” retorts Dean. “We tried that all winter. We’re losing you here, Sammy. Talk to us.” “You’re not losing me,” Sam spits, and it’s louder this time, venom in his voice. His next words are quiet again, the brief spark of fight leaving him just as quickly as it had come. “I’m just. I don’t know. I’m working through some shit.” “Uh-huh,” says Dean. He beats his fingers against his bicep restlessly, “Well it seems like the shit is working you.” “Dean,” Castiel admonishes, and Dean raises his hands in surrender. “We just want to help, Sam,” Castiel says, placing his free hand over Sam’s, where they rested on his sternum. Sam twists a hand to grab Castiel’s. “I know,” he says. “And I appreciate it, I do. But I can’t just- I can’t talk about this. I can’t, Castiel, please.” His last words sound odd, somehow, to Jack, but they seem to straight-up upset Dean. “Oh c’mon, Sam,” he says, “Don’t do that shit.” Castiel closes his eyes, and his expression looks pained.
“I’m sorry,” says Sam, and he does sound genuinely sorry, “But I can’t have that conversation. Not yet. Maybe not ever.” Dean sighs. “Fine. We won’t talk. Yet. But there’s gotta be something we can do, you’re turning into a fucking recluse. Do you wanna, I don’t know, work less? Work more?” Sam shrugs, but Castiel chimes in. “Out of our options, I do not believe working more would help. It would only push any-” Castiel glances at Jack, the most he’d been acknowledged since he entered the room, “Any problems,” he continues carefully, “Further into the future. I believe that’s how you got to this point in the first place.” “Gee, thanks for the psychoanalysis, Cas,” Sam says sarcastically. Castiel doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’m only trying to help,” he responds softly. Jack sees Sam squeeze Castiel’s hand. “Fine,” Dean says. “No taking on more work. Any bright ideas, shrink?” Castiel shrugs. “Rest. Talk about what you can. Start a non-hunting related project,” he says. Dean nods along, Jack can tell he’s calculating this proposal in his head. Castiel must see it too, as he says, “That goes for both of you.” Dean looks mildly offended. “What’s this got to do with me?” he snaps. Castiel answers patiently, but firmly. “Sam’s struggles are different from your own, Dean, but that does not mean you don’t struggle. I’ve seen how much better you’ve been feeling since you’ve been taking on building projects.” “Those are hunting related,” Dean points out. Castiel responds less patiently now. “You know what I mean, Dean. Build something that isn’t related to hunting. Start a garden. I don’t care. I have known you both for ten years now, and you both struggle when the world isn’t actively ending. You need to adjust your lifestyles, because you have people, other than each other, who need you now.” “Nu-uh, Cas,” growls Dean, shifting his weight so he was standing tall, no longer leaning against the counter, “You of all people don’t get to lecture me about coping.”
Jack swallows. It had been some time since he had come into the lives of Castiel and the Winchesters, and they were family to him. He loved them, and he knew they loved him. But as tensions and voices in the room were starting to rise, he was vividly reminded of the early months, the fighting and anger and confusion that had pervaded his life. Sam seems to notice his discomfort, saying “Cool it, guys.” Even if Sam’s warning didn’t have anything to do with Jack, he was grateful to Sam for it. Dean relaxed his posture, leaning back against the counter and allowing Jack to resume his position leaning on his shoulder. Castiel hadn’t moved, but he had tensed up, and he relaxes as well, resuming his combing of Sam’s hair. Dean sighs, and runs a hand over his face. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. We’ll start with rest. No hunting, for a little.” Jack allows himself to feel slightly pleased at that. He liked being on the road well enough, learning about new places and seeing the quiet, hidden parts of the states, but he cherished the Kansas spring. “And Sam,” Castiel says. “I think you should get rid of your cross, or at least move it out of your room. I know it was helping you, in a way, but I suspect it is starting to affect you more negatively.” Dean twitches a little like he wants to ask what Castiel was talking about, but he stays quiet. “Fine,” says Sam. Dean picks up the bottle forgotten beside him, and swirls it around. Finding it empty, he just shakes his head and says, “Well, I’m beat. Don’t do anything stupid,” addressed to no one in particular. And he walks out.
Jack lingers, unsure if his presence in the kitchen was welcome any longer. Sam sighs and sits up, and when his eyes land on Jack it’s like he’s noticing him in the room for the first time. “Jack,” Sam says softly, opening his arms, “Come here.” Jack goes to Sam, and lets the man hug him. He hesitates for a moment, but he hurries to hug Sam back as he starts to pull away, and Sam re-tightens his hold. Jack doesn’t want to move on from this moment, but he reluctantly lets go as Sam withdraws. He swallows nervously as Sam takes him by the shoulders and looks into his eyes. “Jack,” says Sam, still softly, quietly. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve- I know I’ve been distant. I’ll try to do better, okay?” Jack feels a lump in his throat and he can’t force words past it so he just nods. Sam lets go of him. “Are you okay?” Sam asks him. Jack thinks about his conversation with Dean earlier, about the blood and the exhaustion. He decides that it’s a conversation for another time. When Sam asks if he thinks he can go back to sleep, he just nods again, and doesn’t tell Sam that he hadn’t ever fallen asleep that night. He takes it as his dismissal. He glances back once as he leaves, to see Sam sinking back down and reclining against Castiel again.
Jack tells Sam that he thinks he’s sick a few days later, and Sam throws himself into research. He sees the way Castiel eyes Sam unhappily as he works, but Castiel researches right alongside Sam anyway. Jack feels a selfish, guilty pleasure at seeing so much energy and purpose return to Sam, twisting around with the guilt he feels at Sam’s return to sleepless nights in the library to form an ugly knot in his stomach. Dean patted Jack on the back, not quite gently, and reassured Jack that it was the right choice to tell Sam.
Sam burns the crucifix a week after that night in the kitchen. Jack follows him as he carries it outside in his bare hands, and watches silently as Sam stands and holds the little wooden thing for a long time before throwing it onto the fire he had built. He’s burning with questions, but he swallows them down, understanding that this was another give-Sam-space thing. After it’s done, Castiel goes to stand beside Sam, and Jack retreats to the garage where Dean had started stripping down an old motorcycle, hoping to fix it up and get it running. “Sam burned his cross,” Jack informs Dean. Dean nods slowly, but says, “Do you even know what that whole thing was about? I’m still clueless.” Jack plops himself down on Dean’s tool chest. “I think it was from that case in Flagstaff. You know, where we couldn’t find the ghost. And it snowed.” Dean shakes his head. “Of all the stupid-” he mutters. “Whatever. It’s gone now. If you’re gonna sit there, make yourself useful. I need an eighteen.”
Castiel doesn’t leave Sam’s side for days after he burns the crucifix.
Spring faded into summer. It had been weeks since they’d hunted last. Dean complained about getting rusty, so he and Sam had started sparring to keep their combat skills honed. “Don’t look at me like that, Cas,” Dean had said. “Just ‘cause the world ain’t ending don’t mean there’re no monsters to hunt.” Dean had also graduated Jack from blade training, and started teaching him how to shoot. Jack was outside, practicing on some cans and bottles now. Outside, because he hated the echoing in the shooting range. And it felt vindicating to explode all those brown glass bottles with lead. He sees Sam approach and stand off to the side, but he finishes his round before removing his headphones and turning to Sam. He’s nodding approvingly, surveying Jack’s targets. There aren’t many left standing. “Not bad,” Sam says. “Listen, Rowena thinks she might have found something. You up for a drive?” Jack shrugs. He’d probably fall asleep in the car, but everyone had grown used to that now. He pretended he didn’t see Sam’s concerned looks whenever he woke up disoriented in the back of the Impala. “Sure,” he says. “Right now?” Sam nods. “Car in ten,” he says, before turning and walking back toward the Bunker.
Rowena was only a few hours drive away, and they meet her in a fancy hotel room. Jack sinks onto the plush couch and lets their voices wash over him as Rowena bustles around, setting things up and pretending to flirt with Sam for only wearing a t-shirt in the summer heat. Her voice is iridescent, never as consistent as Sam, Dean, or Castiel’s, but beautiful, and Jack enjoys listening to her talk. Sam is muted, and Jack knows it’s because he’s stressed, but he still prefers these tones of Sam over the ugly bright-dark stains that had been there months ago. He’s roused from his meditations as Rowena places one of her hands on his shoulder, light as a feather. “Okay, Jack, darling, I’m going to need you to stay with us for this,” Rowena says. Jack nods and straightens up, trying to blink any tiredness out of his eyes.
Rowena then incites several incantations, systematically combining ingredients in a large golden bowl. Occasionally she has Jack repeat a phrase in Latin, or hold an ingredient for a moment before she adds it to the bowl. It’s finished with a lot of colorful sparks flying from the bowl, and a pleasant-smelling smoke. Jack peers into the bowl to see that all the ingredients had combined into a fine white power, of which Rowena scoops some into a small hex bag. She attaches a long cord, and has Jack hang the pouch around his neck. “Now,” says Rowena. “I’ll want reports,” she gives a stern glance to Sam, who nods once, “But what this should do, Jack, is surpass anything supernatural about you, and keep your human body healthy and functioning.” Jack rolls the small pouch between his fingers before tucking it away under his shirt. “I know it’s not an ideal solution, Jack,” Sam jumps in, “But it will keep you alive, and that’s the most important thing.” Jack just smiles gratefully at both of them. “Okay,” he says. “Thank you, Rowena.” The witch pats his cheek softly, “Of course, dearie.” Sam stands. “Want to wait in the car, Jack?” Jack doesn’t, but he can tell that Sam wants to talk to Rowena alone, so he agrees and leaves the room. He waits outside the car, soaking in the sunlight and listening to the birds. He can see mountains, very distantly, on the horizon.
Castiel deems the Winchesters (with a lot of convincing from Dean and reassurance from Sam) sound enough to return to work in the late summer. Jack is secretly a little disappointed. He had enjoyed their sabbatical, despite the unsettling reasons for it. He can’t complain, though. Rowena’s spell had worked, and while Jack still felt the loss of his Grace keenly, his body was no longer shutting down. Mary comes to visit, Jack doesn’t know if she had stayed away for so long of her own accord or if one of the brothers had told her to, and they work a case with her. It goes well, and she sticks around to spend an extra night. They have a fire, outside, in the warm summer evening, and Jack listens to the cacophony of ivory, navy, sage, dusky-headlight-orange. It’s silent in Jack’s room the next night, and this time he doesn’t linger hidden in the hallway before entering the kitchen. He gets himself a soda, and contentedly listens to his two and half fathers talk.
They never go back to hunting at the same rate that they had before. There were still nights that Jack hated. No amount of healthy habit building could break a hunter of their routine, their lifestyle, and Sam and Dean both have plenty of sleepless nights. Sometimes Sam would withdraw, get distant and closed off (dark, ugly stains, whorls of bright colors that didn’t belong to Sam). The cold months were especially hard on him. Sometimes Dean would get angry, his voice would be harsh, his quips would get more cruel (maroon and crimson, navy blue stitches). Even Castiel would get distant sometimes, paying Jack less attention or disappearing for days on end (dull, muted ivory, dark stains here, too). Jack slowly grew more accustomed to his practically human state of being, the pain of his lost Grace dulling but never fading. Guilt and anxiety would twist in his stomach, words would get stuck in his throat. As time went on, through exposure during cases or snatches of overheard conversations, Jack learned more about ugly words like suicide, and even though Sam tried to teach him that he shouldn’t let words hold any power over him, he could never completely dispel his aversion to certain topics. Jack soaks up whatever random facts Sam has for him like a sponge. Dean teaches him how to ride a motorcycle. He likes it even better than flying.