Chapter Text
Dean woke up to the sound of a muffled crash echoing down the hallway. Bolting upright, he snatched his gun and stumbled to the door, leaning against the frame.
“Dean, it’s fine,” said a voice from his bed.
Dean whirled around to see Cas wrapped up in Dean’s favourite blue blanket.
“Sam’s making breakfast. He most likely dropped the pancake pan.”
As if on cue, Sam’s voice echoed from the kitchen. “I’m fine!”
Dean exhaled and put his gun down, moving back to the bed and flopping facedown on the sheets. “Good morning,” he mumbled.
“Good morning, Dean,” Cas replied amiably. “It is 8:16 a.m. and the weather report says it will be sunny.”
“Uh, cool,” Dean said, still half-asleep.
He woke up entirely when Cas tossed the blue blanket aside, revealing a t-shirt that said I Killed Hitler in messy Sharpie marker. Dean had forgotten that a) he had made that shirt in drunken celebration and b) Cas had borrowed pyjamas from him last night.
“Looks good,” he said, immediately regretting saying it out loud. Had he really just spent the whole night in the same bed as Castiel?
“Thank you,” said Cas, looking surprised. “You…look…good, too.”
Dean surprised himself with the smile that spread easily across his face. It was relieving to know that the past night had been real, that Cas was still alive and it wasn’t all just Dean’s wildly addled imagination. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Are you hungry?” Cas stood up and grabbed his trench coat and shoes.
“You know you don’t have to wear those to the kitchen, right?” Dean asked, sitting up to grab his dead-guy robe. “You can wear whatever you want, but like…you can be casual.”
Cas tilted his head. “I am not in possession of any other clothes.”
Dean gestured to his closet. “There you go.”
Cas looked between the closet and Dean for a moment, then smiled in a way that Dean was not prepared for. “Thank you,” the angel said warmly.
The two of them dressed and went into the kitchen, where Sam was preparing four breakfasts at the counter.
“Hey, guys,” he said, turning around.
Dean pretended not to see his brother’s expression when he noticed Cas wearing the I Killed Hitler shirt and a pair of Dean’s sweatpants.
“Where’s the kid?” Dean asked, sitting down at the table. Cas sat next to him.
“Still asleep,” answered Sam. “I think he’s really tired.”
“He had a tough day yesterday,” Dean said. “Let him sleep as long as he wants.” If it were up to Dean, he would put this new Jack in a glass box and never let him out again. The awful choking noises he’d made when Cas’s grace was climbing out of the Empty were too freshly ingrained in Dean’s memory.
Sam snatched his hand away from the hot stove. “Damnit!”
Dean laughed and got up, grabbing an ice cube from the freezer. Cas stood up as well and took hold of Sam’s wrist, inspecting the little mark. With a touch, the burn had disappeared and Dean was standing in the kitchen with a useless ice cube dripping down his hand.
“Thanks, Cas,” Sam said, and brought the plates to the table.
Dean realised that they had their magic healer angel back, which meant that Sam didn’t need him to do it anymore. “Yeah, that’s a good—that’s good,” he said. He threw the ice cube in the sink and sat down again.
The three of them had a very nice breakfast, catching up on banter and stupid puns and found themselves half ready to start a food fight when Cas’s eyes glowed bright blue.
In the doorway, Jack stood with rings of orange flickering, as if he and Cas were having a standoff. He was fully dressed, complete with the brown patterned jacket that the sheriff had given the original Jack. Dean thought about that Jack, and how clueless he had been at first—how he’d copied Dean’s every move in a crash course of being human. Then the orange and blue lights died out. The new Jack reached towards his own throat as if remembering the feeling of Cas’s grace from last night.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Cas said aloud. “Sam made breakfast. Would you care for any?”
Jack looked at Dean, who nodded in reassurance. Sam held out the fourth plate (filled with rather cold bacon and eggs) and leaned against the counter so he looked shorter. Jack took the plate from Sam and, to Dean’s astonishment, sat right next to Cas.
“It’s you,” he said simply.
Cas nodded. “Your grace and mine reacted because I was very close with the other version of you. I think our emotional bond carried over into your existence, and thence my awakening and resurrection. I am sorry if that caused you pain.”
Dean blinked. “Wait, wait, wait, you’re saying that Jack—this Jack—has similar grace to the other Jack’s and that’s what woke you up?”
“Yes,” said Cas. “We could sense each other, just like our version of Jack and I could.”
“Wait, you and Jack—that Jack—whatever—could sense each other?” Sam looked confused. “What does that mean?”
“Our graces can spread over a large area,” Cas explained patiently. “Sort of like your Wi-Fi network. Angelic presences acknowledge others.”
“It felt familiar but not,” Jack said, mouth full of egg. “In my world, you didn’t exist.”
“I am sorry for the death of your world,” Cas said gravely. “If I knew—”
“You didn’t,” Dean interrupted. “None of us had a clue the others existed, til now. Can we not beat ourselves up about it, please?”
“Dean—”
“No, come on,” Dean said. “I know you all wish you were stronger or all-knowing or just all-around better, but we’re doing our best. Just remember that.”
Cas and Sam exchanged a look, one that seemed to say a lot that Dean wasn’t privy to. Jack kept his head down.
“We are doing good,” Cas said. “We are doing what we can.”
Dean stabbed an egg with his fork. “Yeah, we are.”
The awkward silence stretched out, broken only by the sounds of chewing. Jack put down his fork, leaving half the food on his plate. When Dean tried to get him to eat more, he pushed the plate away.
“Uh, so…” Sam said, clapping his hands. “Should we clean this up and figure out what to do today?”
“Cas should rest,” Dean said. “Jack should too. Then we can see about finding a case.”
The angel frowned. “I’ve rested enough. Being dead is not exactly vigorous activity…”
“I’m not tired,” Jack said. “But what do you mean, finding a case?”
Dean’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t go on cases in your world, with the other of us?” He shifted so that he was facing Jack, though it was a tight move with Cas in between them. Sam, on the other side of the table by himself, held in a smile.
“No,” Jack answered. “I stayed in the Bunker. I learned how to knit. I knitted a scarf that was twenty-five feet long.”
“You—you knitted while the other us hunted?” Dean couldn’t believe it. If he wasn’t sure the other versions of himself and Sam were assholes already, he knew it now.
“Dean hunted,” Jack corrected. “Sam…was on business.”
Sam’s eyebrows were raised, too. “Business?”
“Yes,” Jack said, looking down.
When it was clear that he wasn’t planning on elaborating, Cas put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What do you mean?”
Jack frowned at the table. “Thank you for breakfast.” He got up and put his dish in the sink, then disappeared into the hallway.
The three at the table sat there listening to his footsteps fade away in various states of disbelief.
“He learned that from you,” Sam said, and got up to clear the dishes away.
Dean scoffed, then realised that he was probably right. “Whatever. Someone—Cas—can you go see if he’s alright?”
“I think we will let him be for a while,” Cas replied. “Whatever this ‘business’ of the other Sam’s was, it is clearly something he doesn’t want to talk about. I suggest we find him some books or a movie and have a relaxing day.”
“Jeez…” Dean ruffled his own hair. “Okay, sure. What—what do we get? What does he like?”
“You’re the one who has spent some time with him,” Cas said.
“You’ve spent the most time with him,” Sam said.
Dean shot Sam a look. “Okay, he likes Star Wars. And drawing. Let’s get him a Star Wars colouring book.”
“And a jacket,” Sam said, rubbing his palm.
Dean asked, “What’s wrong with his jacket?”
Cas put a warning hand on Dean’s chest. “Yes, and a jacket,” he directed at Sam.
Sam nodded and left the kitchen.
“What the hell is wrong with the kid’s jacket?” Dean complained.
“I imagine it is because it was Jack’s,” Cas stated. “Dressed like that, he looks exactly like our—like the first Jack.”
“Christ,” Dean swore. “I didn’t even think of that.”
“I suspect Sam isn’t doing as well as he appears,” Cas said, moving his hand to Dean’s back.
The two of them were still sitting next to each other at the table. Dean suddenly realised that they were very, very close.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, wanting to simultaneously run away and pull in closer. “Probably…”
“You should talk to him,” Cas said, putting his hand down. “He seems sad.”
Dean frowned. “Of course he’s sad. I’m sad. Everyone’s sad.”
“I know,” Cas said, rolling his eyes. “But you can’t let him flounder.”
“He always wants to talk,” Dean said. “But never about what actually matters.” In a daring moment of despair, Dean rested his forehead on Cas’s shoulder. “And I don’t know what to say to him, anyway. ‘Sorry the new version of Jack is afraid of you? Sorry the other version of you was clearly a huge douche and Jack will never get over it?’”
“Probably not,” Cas said seriously. “Maybe something like, ‘we’re all in this together and we make each other stronger.’”
Dean lifted his head. “Dude, you saw High School Musical?”
“You did too?”
Dean snorted and put his head down again. “Hey, Cas?”
“Yes, Dean?”
“When did our lives turn into such a mess?”
Cas stayed silent. He took Dean’s hand and traced the lines of his palm, breathing steadily. Dean closed his eyes. Cas was alive. They made each other stronger. They were doing their best.
“Hey—woah—uhh—sorry—”
Dean cracked an eye. Sam stood in the doorway awkwardly, holding Dean’s jacket and the car keys.
Usually, Dean would shift away from Cas and pretend nothing happened. But he was tired of it. He was tired of a lot of things, actually, and it just so happened that pretending not to love Cas was exhausting as hell.
“Son of a bitch,” he murmured, still leaning against the angel.
They were still holding hands.
“Ready to go shopping?” Cas smiled at Sam as if nothing was happening and got up, pulling Dean up with him.
They walked over to the doorway. Dean snatched his jacket and the keys from Sam. Cas kept holding Dean’s hand, looking perfectly natural doing it. Dean only hoped it was the same for himself.
“Uh—yeah,” Sam replied, looking at their clasped hands. He looked at Dean, as if to ask him, This is what’s happening now?
Dean raised an eyebrow. Got a problem?
Sam backed off. Nope. Then he grinned, as if to say, Finally!
Dean rolled his eyes at his little brother and shoved him out of the kitchen. The three of them found Jack in his room, reading a book that the first Jack had cherished. It was called An In-Depth Analysis of Every Chewbacca Appearance in Canon.
“Hey, kiddo,” Dean said, leaning into the doorway. “Wanna get some new clothes? We could go to the art store, too.”
Jack looked up. “I…I don’t know. We’ve done so much.”
Behind Dean, Sam wilted against the wall. Dean let go of Cas’s hand and gave both of them a look, one that propelled them to step back. Dean closed Jack’s door, shutting Cas and Sam out into the hallway for the moment.
“Jack,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Reluctantly, Jack put a bookmark between the pages of his book and set it down.
“You don’t have to tell us anything,” Dean said quietly. “I know that you’re carrying a lot right now, and we can help you, but you don’t need to tell us a thing.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Jack stressed. “I just…I’m trying to…”
“What?”
“Get used to it all,” Jack said, worrying the edge of the bandage around his torso. “It’s just…everyone’s too nice. You let me pick what to do, and the music in the car, and you’re telling me that—that—that I don’t have to—”
“Do anything you don’t want to do?” Dean finished.
“Yes,” Jack said, close to tears. “I—I don’t—”
“Know how to handle it?” Dean guessed. He could relate. When Dean had first come back from Purgatory, the normal, everyday routines seemed so terribly mundane and yet overwhelming. He had reverted to functioning on autopilot, except that his autopilot had changed in Purgatory to become constantly moving, constantly on fighting edge. The slow hop from motel to motel had been both relief and torture. Dean could only imagine what Jack had gone through. The sudden shift from one world to another was probably one of the most terrible things to happen to the kid.
“I wish I could help more,” he told Jack, “but I ain’t going to let you go through this alone. If you can’t handle anyone else, I’m here for you.” When had Dean turned into such a sap? He patted Jack’s head, unsure of how to drive the point home. Sam would probably hug the Nephilim, but Dean had nearly forgotten Jack’s sore ribs before and didn’t want to bruise him further.
“Thanks, Dean,” Jack said. “I—I just need time.”
“I know,” Dean assured. “I know.”
Jack leaned into Dean’s side and they sat there, breathing. On the other side of the door, Sam and Cas waited patiently for them. A shopping trip awaited. Further in the future, Dean would see about teaching this version of Jack to hunt. Perhaps the kid would open up more, and perhaps he wouldn’t. Dean could feel the comforting thrum of Cas’s power through the air, and he hoped that Jack could feel it too.
Dean reflected on the kid in his arms. From a sodden world full of evil creatures to a slightly less sodden world full of evil creatures, Jack had, in a way, returned to the Winchesters. The first Jack would always be their son, but maybe the second Jack could be, too. Dean already knew he would fight for this Jack; in more ways than one. The second Jack had a lot of healing to do, as did the rest of the Bunker’s inhabitants. Dean knew things had to change, and that change needed to start with himself.
He dropped a light kiss on Jack’s forehead. They sat there, healing, and around them the Bunker was quiet.