To Thaw Cold Fear, for alyndra
Title: To Thaw Cold Fear
Recipient: Alyndra
Rating: G
Word Count: 4160
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: This one takes place after 14x15, "Peace of Mind" and started with the prompt, "Jack starts to hear everyone's thoughts and things get uncomfortable." I've twisted it just a little, so I hope you like the result. I really enjoyed mulling over your excellent prompts!
Summary: Jack has found a new way to help his friends and find peace in the night.
The mountainside was peaceful, blanketed by night, and Jack stepped onto the narrow path and turned to look up and then down the slope. A soft breeze ruffled his hair. When he looked to the sky, he saw many stars overhead, and he knew he would never visit any of them. He saw a patch of grassy slope, a break in the darkness. A clearing. He moved toward it.
He was confused. This seemed like a quiet place, and he couldn’t understand why it made Sam’s breathing hitch, his heart to speed up. Perhaps he could find Sam and ask him. Jack walked to the edge of the clearing and all was silent around him, until he heard the twig snap. A knife appeared in his hand.
The wolf was on top of him, its teeth gleaming in the moonlight, its muscles tensed and solid as its jaws snapped at his head, his throat. It knocked him over, dislodging the knife as he hit the ground, and he spun in the dirt to face it. He was keeping it away only by inches, with his forearm braced against its neck. He felt around him with his other hand, searching for the knife, the silver knife. Jack felt the animal’s growl vibrate into his skin and up through his chest as it strained to get at him.
He couldn’t find the knife.
He wouldn’t simply raise his hand and turn the wolf to dust. He didn’t want to scare Sam, should he arrive in time to see it.
His searching hand clenched into a fist, and--
A popping sound came from the trees behind him, and then the wolf was gone in a wet spray, its growl cut off, its body suddenly limp, swept off to Jack’s side. It looked like it had been switched off and pushed away.
There was wet on Jack’s cheeks, seeping into his hair, drizzling into his eyes. He turned his head to look at the wolf. It was still breathing in short, shallow gasps, and it stared back at him, its golden eyes hollowed with pain and anger. It rolled to its side, facing him, and tried to rise, but after a moment it collapsed back to the ground.
He saw that its snout was shrinking and its teeth seemed to retract under its lips. Its eyes lost their round shape and lengthened to ovals. It whimpered, its voice gaining a human sounding sigh as it panted and stared. He could see as it transformed that it was a young girl. A girl who looked a little like his friend Maggie. And she was suffering.
“Hey!” came a voice from the forest’s edge. Jack did not turn around to answer. He opened his fist, reached out, and placed the palm of his hand on the wolf-girl’s forehead. His own eyes flashed yellow and he allowed a trickle of energy to flow into her. He wanted to stop the pained whimpers. It was over quickly, and the wolf girl grew still under his hand.
“Who are you?”
Jack looked up. Sam stood beside him, his gun still held ready to shoot. He thought it was Sam, but he was very young, a loose-limbed version of the Sam he knew, with sharp cheekbones and his hair cut much shorter than he’d ever seen it, though still not as short as Dean’s. This Sam was trembling, he saw, the gun in his hand shaking as he pointed it at Jack, his eyes more focused on the wolf girl than on his target.
“I was supposed to shoot her again. I thought--every time this happens, I have to shoot her again--” Sam swallowed, hard. Jack rose to his feet, and Sam jerked his body back into a defensive stance and repeated, “Who the hell are you?”
Jack remembered to raise his hands away from his pockets, as the Winchesters had taught him, and turned to face Sam straight on. He didn’t know what would happen if Sam decided to shoot him in this place. “I’m Jack,” he said.
Sam opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. He was rooted in place, it seemed, but he lowered his gun. “Jack? I know you. But you’re not--you weren’t here. It was me and my dad. And my dad said it was time for me to--to--” he broke off, his eyes drawn to the corpse once more.
“I wanted you to feel better,” Jack said. “You weren’t resting. And you need to sleep.” He took a step toward Sam, who moved away from him and pulled the muzzle of his gun back up. Jack lowered his arms. “You’re safe now, Sam. Get some rest.”
Jack leaned down to the wolf-girl, ignoring Sam’s shout to stay still, and touched her shoulder. Through will and another small burst of power he backed himself out and away from the mountainside that was, after all, only a construct in his friend’s mind. He took the memory of the girl away as he left.
Jack came back to himself to find that he was leaning against the wall, just outside Sam’s room. He smiled at Sam’s door, satisfied that he’d been able to take the bad memory out of the hunter’s dream. He would sleep more easily, tonight, and Jack thought that this would make him happier. He pulled himself away from the wall and walked silently down the green-tiled bunker hallway.
Castiel was walking the halls, too, he knew, patrolling like a soldier. Jack had found the angel more than once staring at him from the end of an intersection, or through an open door. He knew Castiel was worried about him, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. Castiel, he thought, should stop.
The bunker was much quieter, now that Maggie and the crew she hunted with were gone. The thought of the young girl brought a memory of his dismay at the sight of Michael burning her eyes and her soul from her frail body. But it was a distant thought, like the whisper of a breeze that could not ruffle his thoughts for long. He believed he had cared about her, but he was no longer sure how he was supposed to feel. If anything, he just wanted to feel peaceful.
Jack supposed he should at least remember her with thanks. Her dreams had been much easier to enter than Sam’s, and he had visited them several times, at first by accident in the nights just before they had all escaped from Michael’s world.
Maggie dreamed of houses. Jack had never asked her if she remembered anything from before the Apocalypse began. After seeing her houses, he thought she was probably lucky enough to have the before-times only in her dreams. Sometimes they glowed with light, their doors shut against the world, and everything was very tall and colorful. Someone in the house made everything safe, but Jack could never quite see the person’s face.
The first time he visited, though, the house was very different. The night before they all piled into the bus that took them back to the rift, he had been walking by one of the dilapidated cabins and heard a soft cry. He pushed the tarp over the doorway and found Maggie asleep on a cot inside. She whimpered as he approached, and he saw a tear roll down her cheek. All he had wanted was to comfort her, or maybe wake her up, and he reached out and touched her shoulder.
At the touch he was suddenly tumbling, pitching through the darkness and into an open doorway. He found himself in a house with black streaks of mold on the walls and cracked, nearly empty window frames. The door behind him stood ajar, its bottom corner jammed into what was left of a carpeted floor. And somewhere in the house Maggie screamed.
Jack began running through the house, trying to find her, as her cries moved from place to place. Finally, he’d turned a corner and there she was, wild-eyed, crouched at the end of a hallway. She clutched a knife in her hands, slashing at the air in front of her, at nothing that he could see. Without thinking he’d raised his own hands and pushed her with his power. He had only been aware of a need to get her out of this haunted house.
It had worked. Maggie screamed once more before she dissolved through the wall behind her. The knife thumped to the floor, and almost immediately the house began to fade around him. As the dream left him, he remembered flinging himself out a window that had appeared in the wall before him.
Then he opened his eyes. Maggie had turned in her sleep, and as he watched, she sighed and rubbed her tears away on her thin pillow.
When they were all back home, he would sometimes visit her again, sitting near her bedroom door, hoping to learn about how he had visited her dream. And he did. He soon found the part of his power that would allow him to open a door into one of her houses, without touching her or even being in the same room with her. From her dreams he also learned more about nightmares, and he got better at changing them. Of course, after Lucifer stole his power--
Jack turned towards the kitchen. It was good, he decided, to be able to help his friends with their dreams again. Even if he didn’t feel the satisfaction that had come with helping Maggie, it made the bunker a quieter place, and he was glad for that.
He would watch Castiel sometimes, too. His adopted father made himself unobtrusive, especially around the off-world soldiers. Sometimes though, he would offer to help heal somebody, and then Jack would watch as he put his hand to their temples and closed their wounds. After Lucifer, he remembered feeling envious that he could no longer do the same.
Once, after Michael took Dean away, he saw Castiel standing beside Sam as the hunter slept slumped over in a chair, shaking and mumbling to himself. Castiel had calmed him with his touch, and then had covered Sam with a blanket, all without Sam ever coming close to waking. Jack never questioned how he had done it. It seemed to him to be the same action as physical healing.
His dream-changing was different, he thought. He knew that, when they had brought him back, they would not allow him to use his powers for such things. They were afraid that he would use too much. None of them, except perhaps Castiel, could understand how his powers were like breathing, how difficult it was to hold them inside, filling every available space in his body instead of letting them flow in and out. It was like smothering. Now he was back to himself, and he loved being able to affect his world again.
He heard the door at the top of the iron staircase open and softly shut. Castiel. He felt the angel moving away from him, up through the long entry tunnel and out into the spring night.
Jack’s circuit brought him to the library, where a single light burned in a far corner of the room. He heard a groan and then Dean said, in a slow and weary voice, “I won’t.”
As he approached the pool of light, Jack saw the elder Winchester asleep on one of the leather armchairs that occupied the nooks and alcoves of the room. His arms were crossed over his chest and his chin dipped towards them, nodding at the book that lay open on his lap. Curious, Jack tilted his head to look at the open page. He read, “ON SOULS” at the top of the page. The lines beneath were typewritten on thin paper, and an Aquarian star appeared in a shadowy watermark, only visible because of the bright lamp that shone down on it. Some kind of Men of Letters report, he supposed. He drew closer, but jumped back when the book twitched. A moment later both of Dean’s legs jerked upward more violently, as if he had been startled, but he didn’t rouse.
Jack watched his friend, uncertain whether he should awaken him or simply leave. He had only tried to smooth Dean’s dreams once before. When he’d opened the door he had found himself quickly lost in a maze of stone walls, with shrieks ringing in his ears, a red mist hanging over everything, and no Dean in sight. That time he only managed to dispel a little of the mist, which let him see further down the corridor by the dim light of a torch set into the wall. He hadn’t realized that opening a path for himself would also allow whatever lived in Dean’s dream world to see him as well. The screams grew louder as he peered into the mist, and he saw a huge misshapen shadow creeping towards him just at the edge of his vision. He had fled, ashamed of the sudden fear that welled up inside him.
The book jerked again and fell to the floor with a clunk, but Dean paid no attention. He was grimacing now, and he grunted and curled in on his stomach. Jack wondered if he was dreaming of fighting and he smiled at this thought. He had never tried winning a dream fight. And, too, Donatello had told him to do what Sam and Dean would do. Jack knew that neither of the Winchesters would leave someone to fight by himself. Dean grunted and winced again, and Jack decided.
He pulled a chair over to the alcove and placed it so that he could face the sleeping hunter. He closed his eyes and pushed his power out towards Dean, feeling his way into the other man’s psyche, searching for one of the doors that almost everyone leaves open when they dream. Dean’s doors were almost as hard to open as Sam’s had been, but Jack finally found a small one, to his mind’s eye not much more than a grate, that was standing open. It beckoned him. He crouched and crawled through it, hearing it clank shut as he rose to his feet on the other side.
He was in an alley, standing next to a damp brick wall that closed the area off to traffic. A floodlight was fixed to the wall, far up beyond his reach, and it shone down on a sign someone had painted just below it. SUCKER! The sign proclaimed in blocky black letters over a field of white that stretched from one side of the alley to the other.
It had just rained, he thought, looking along the pavement at puddles spilling over cracks in the asphalt all the way to where the mouth of the alley opened out to a quiet street. The place was not lit, except for the floodlight he stood under, but out on the sidewalk a dim yellow pool of illumination reached into the alley on the left. On the right, a red splotch of light hit the sidewalk and reflected off the puddles, turning them a shade of rust. He realized that the red light was coming from a neon sign, and he walked towards it. He couldn’t hear any sounds of fighting, and idly wondered if that was a bad thing as he navigated the grey shadows of the alley.
He turned onto the street and looked up at the red sign that flickered and sputtered before letting him read what it said. It was one word, ROCKY’S, and underneath the name a cartoonish arrow pointed down towards a door at the corner of the building. Jack paused to look up and down the empty street. The sign was the only spot of color in a scene that could have come from one of the old crime movies Dean sometimes watched on his laptop. Wet pavement, gray buildings crowding in on him and covering the sky, streetlights spaced far apart and casting shadows more than light. He saw no people, and heard no fighting.
The silence was so complete that Jack jumped when a single loud bang rang out from somewhere on the other side of Rocky’s door. He whirled to look at the darkened doorway under the red arrow, straining to hear. It was silent again, until--
Another booming BANG rattled the hinges of the door. Jack took a deep breath and walked up a short set of concrete steps that led into the building. BANG! His hand was on the doorknob, which vibrated with the noise on the other side. He hesitated, but he had promised himself that he’d do what the Winchesters would do. They would go inside, he thought, so that’s what he did.
The room inside was quiet and like everything else in Dean’s dream, poorly lit. It was a bar, at least he could see that, but it looked as though it had been abandoned. Tables without their chairs dotted the space. Only the long serving counter that took up most of the side of the room still had a couple of stools and a few bottles on the mirrored shelf behind it, though it was covered in a thin layer of dust.
The BANG sounded again, reverberating from the back of the room. Jack moved past the empty tables, following the booming echoes of the noise. In the gloom he could make out a door. Another door, he sighed to himself. This one looked sturdy and larger than most, with wooden panels and a long lever for a handle. A tool of some sort had been pushed through the padlock holes in the lever, and a chain was wrapped around it, fixing it in place. A glint of light fell on a metal bolt plate screwed into place halfway between the handle and the top of the door. The bolt was held fast by a thick padlock. Then something on the other side of the door pounded it again. The padlock clattered against the wood, and the ends of the chain swung with the force of the blow. The something bellowed, a howl without words.
Jack hesitated, but then closed the distance to the door. He put a palm on its wooden panel, and did not pull back when the BANG came again. He pushed a bit of his grace against the door, stilling the rattling metal of its locks, before leaning in and putting his ear to the wood. The something made no sound, and he wondered if it had been surprised to feel his power. He could still sense it in there, waiting, listening.
“What’re you doing here, Jack?” The voice behind him was gruff and tired. Jack did not startle at it. He turned to face Dean.
The hunter sat in a corner near the entrance, barely illuminated by reflected light through a tall window over his head. Jack could see the halo of his hair, a flash of nose, and the knuckles of the hand that loosely cupped a tumbler of whiskey on the table in front of him. Dean waited unmoving and as quiet as the locked-away something had become.
“I wanted to help. I thought you were in a fight.”
The something pounded, more softly, on the door. Dean’s shoulders twitched at the noise. Jack asked, “What’s in there?”
“Not what. Who. And who do you think?
Jack considered. “Michael?”
Dean leaned forward, shrugged and gave a single nod. Jack caught a glimpse of his hooded eyes.
“But--I don’t understand. Michael’s gone. I killed him.”
The something stirred and he felt it on the other side, brushing its fingers against the door. “Jack,” it said in a deep voice. “No hard feelings, nephew. What do you say we open this door and hug it out?”
Dean cut in. “He’s never gone. He’ll always be--right here.” He tapped the side of his temple, the violence of the gesture so strong that Jack could hear it from across the room.
“Jack--eee,” crooned another voice from the other side, a high sibilant whisper. “C’mon in and say hello to me-e.”
Dean’s head dipped forward into the shaft of street light from the door Jack had left open. The corner of a lip Jack could see twisted upward, but he wasn’t smiling. “And he ain’t the only monster in there.”
Jack dropped his hand and took a couple of steps away from the door. On the other side, Michael screamed in rage, his voice now joined by others. Dean watched him approach.
“Who else?” he asked.
“No one you want to meet.” Dean leaned back into the gloom, tilting the glass to his lips as he did. “Doesn’t matter to you, though, does it? They’re mine to--” his tongue tripped over his words, and he stopped, taking a breath before saying, “They’re my responsibilities, okay?”
The somethings’ howls subsided to whispers that still echoed through the room.
“They don’t have to be. I killed MIchael, and took his grace. I can get rid of them now for you. I can take them all away for you, too.” Jack now stood at the older man’s table, and Dean blinked up at him, his face a gray shape in the gloom.
“No.”
“Dean--”
“I said no! Look, kid, I’m glad. I’m grateful to you for saving Sam and Cas and me. I’m okay with you eating Michael’s grace to do it.” Jack smiled, but Dean waved at him to stay quiet. “The thing is, you shouldn’t a-had to. I shoulda been stronger. Or--hell--” he paused. “Sam shoulda taken precautions that day when I didn’t wake up.”
“You mean, you wanted him to put you in the box.”
Dean shrugged, and Jack shook his head once. “I don’t think Sam even thought about the Ma’lak box.”
“All I’m saying is, it didn’t have to go down like it did.”
“I don’t regret it,” Jack said.
The hunter slammed the tumbler down onto the table, and the blow shook the surface almost like a rifle crack. Michael and the others fell silent for a moment. “You should. You lost your goddamn soul! I can’t--” He broke off and took another deep breath.
“I can help. You don’t have to keep them here.”
“No, Jack, you can’t. You can’t take them. Cause they belong here.” Dean stood up. “I’ve got them, and you are not going to open that door.” He stared down at Jack before spinning back to the table to pick up his drink. “Thanks. But no thanks.” He raised his glass in a half-mocking salute to Jack. “Time you were going. Have a drink before you take off, alright? It’s on the house.”
Dean began to walk past him and without thinking, Jack grabbed at his arm. Dean’s dismissal was cutting at him in ways he didn’t understand. “Wait--” he said, his golden eyes flaring.
Inside the door, he heard the high-pitched voice chuckle. Jack raised his hand at the door and the noises stopped as his will pushed silence between them and the things. “I don’t need your permission--” he started.
“So, what? You’re gonna rip the door off its hinges?” Dean wrenched his arm out of Jack’s grasp. “Eat up all of my nightmares? What would that make of you? Huh?” Dean’s voice faltered, became softer as he went on, “And where does that leave me? And what if you fail? It took me so long--”
Jack decided then, and acted. He lifted his hand and laid it on Dean’s shoulder. “I just want you to rest,” he said, and brought his other hand up to Dean’s temple.
“Wait--don’t--” the hunter pleaded, but Jack sent him away. He hoped that Dean would land in a happier spot.
Jack took Dean’s chair in the corner under the window and dismissed the wall of silence he’d made. He listened for the creatures on the other side of the door. They remained quiet.
He took a sip of Dean’s whiskey.
What would Sam and Dean do?
They would take some of the load. So that’s what he was going to do. The bar, the gloomy street, the door and what lay behind it, all of this he would leave, because Dean wanted it that way. At least for right now. But he could still help. Jack smiled, proud of himself for giving in to Dean’s choice for the moment, as he took another sip. It didn’t mean he couldn’t try to help his friend forget about this place and find a better dream.
Tonight, then, he would keep watch. For a little while, at least, until he felt Castiel returning to the bunker. He felt sure, this is what Sam and Dean would do.
Recipient: Alyndra
Rating: G
Word Count: 4160
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: This one takes place after 14x15, "Peace of Mind" and started with the prompt, "Jack starts to hear everyone's thoughts and things get uncomfortable." I've twisted it just a little, so I hope you like the result. I really enjoyed mulling over your excellent prompts!
Summary: Jack has found a new way to help his friends and find peace in the night.
The mountainside was peaceful, blanketed by night, and Jack stepped onto the narrow path and turned to look up and then down the slope. A soft breeze ruffled his hair. When he looked to the sky, he saw many stars overhead, and he knew he would never visit any of them. He saw a patch of grassy slope, a break in the darkness. A clearing. He moved toward it.
He was confused. This seemed like a quiet place, and he couldn’t understand why it made Sam’s breathing hitch, his heart to speed up. Perhaps he could find Sam and ask him. Jack walked to the edge of the clearing and all was silent around him, until he heard the twig snap. A knife appeared in his hand.
The wolf was on top of him, its teeth gleaming in the moonlight, its muscles tensed and solid as its jaws snapped at his head, his throat. It knocked him over, dislodging the knife as he hit the ground, and he spun in the dirt to face it. He was keeping it away only by inches, with his forearm braced against its neck. He felt around him with his other hand, searching for the knife, the silver knife. Jack felt the animal’s growl vibrate into his skin and up through his chest as it strained to get at him.
He couldn’t find the knife.
He wouldn’t simply raise his hand and turn the wolf to dust. He didn’t want to scare Sam, should he arrive in time to see it.
His searching hand clenched into a fist, and--
A popping sound came from the trees behind him, and then the wolf was gone in a wet spray, its growl cut off, its body suddenly limp, swept off to Jack’s side. It looked like it had been switched off and pushed away.
There was wet on Jack’s cheeks, seeping into his hair, drizzling into his eyes. He turned his head to look at the wolf. It was still breathing in short, shallow gasps, and it stared back at him, its golden eyes hollowed with pain and anger. It rolled to its side, facing him, and tried to rise, but after a moment it collapsed back to the ground.
He saw that its snout was shrinking and its teeth seemed to retract under its lips. Its eyes lost their round shape and lengthened to ovals. It whimpered, its voice gaining a human sounding sigh as it panted and stared. He could see as it transformed that it was a young girl. A girl who looked a little like his friend Maggie. And she was suffering.
“Hey!” came a voice from the forest’s edge. Jack did not turn around to answer. He opened his fist, reached out, and placed the palm of his hand on the wolf-girl’s forehead. His own eyes flashed yellow and he allowed a trickle of energy to flow into her. He wanted to stop the pained whimpers. It was over quickly, and the wolf girl grew still under his hand.
“Who are you?”
Jack looked up. Sam stood beside him, his gun still held ready to shoot. He thought it was Sam, but he was very young, a loose-limbed version of the Sam he knew, with sharp cheekbones and his hair cut much shorter than he’d ever seen it, though still not as short as Dean’s. This Sam was trembling, he saw, the gun in his hand shaking as he pointed it at Jack, his eyes more focused on the wolf girl than on his target.
“I was supposed to shoot her again. I thought--every time this happens, I have to shoot her again--” Sam swallowed, hard. Jack rose to his feet, and Sam jerked his body back into a defensive stance and repeated, “Who the hell are you?”
Jack remembered to raise his hands away from his pockets, as the Winchesters had taught him, and turned to face Sam straight on. He didn’t know what would happen if Sam decided to shoot him in this place. “I’m Jack,” he said.
Sam opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head. He was rooted in place, it seemed, but he lowered his gun. “Jack? I know you. But you’re not--you weren’t here. It was me and my dad. And my dad said it was time for me to--to--” he broke off, his eyes drawn to the corpse once more.
“I wanted you to feel better,” Jack said. “You weren’t resting. And you need to sleep.” He took a step toward Sam, who moved away from him and pulled the muzzle of his gun back up. Jack lowered his arms. “You’re safe now, Sam. Get some rest.”
Jack leaned down to the wolf-girl, ignoring Sam’s shout to stay still, and touched her shoulder. Through will and another small burst of power he backed himself out and away from the mountainside that was, after all, only a construct in his friend’s mind. He took the memory of the girl away as he left.
Jack came back to himself to find that he was leaning against the wall, just outside Sam’s room. He smiled at Sam’s door, satisfied that he’d been able to take the bad memory out of the hunter’s dream. He would sleep more easily, tonight, and Jack thought that this would make him happier. He pulled himself away from the wall and walked silently down the green-tiled bunker hallway.
Castiel was walking the halls, too, he knew, patrolling like a soldier. Jack had found the angel more than once staring at him from the end of an intersection, or through an open door. He knew Castiel was worried about him, but he wasn’t entirely sure why. Castiel, he thought, should stop.
The bunker was much quieter, now that Maggie and the crew she hunted with were gone. The thought of the young girl brought a memory of his dismay at the sight of Michael burning her eyes and her soul from her frail body. But it was a distant thought, like the whisper of a breeze that could not ruffle his thoughts for long. He believed he had cared about her, but he was no longer sure how he was supposed to feel. If anything, he just wanted to feel peaceful.
Jack supposed he should at least remember her with thanks. Her dreams had been much easier to enter than Sam’s, and he had visited them several times, at first by accident in the nights just before they had all escaped from Michael’s world.
Maggie dreamed of houses. Jack had never asked her if she remembered anything from before the Apocalypse began. After seeing her houses, he thought she was probably lucky enough to have the before-times only in her dreams. Sometimes they glowed with light, their doors shut against the world, and everything was very tall and colorful. Someone in the house made everything safe, but Jack could never quite see the person’s face.
The first time he visited, though, the house was very different. The night before they all piled into the bus that took them back to the rift, he had been walking by one of the dilapidated cabins and heard a soft cry. He pushed the tarp over the doorway and found Maggie asleep on a cot inside. She whimpered as he approached, and he saw a tear roll down her cheek. All he had wanted was to comfort her, or maybe wake her up, and he reached out and touched her shoulder.
At the touch he was suddenly tumbling, pitching through the darkness and into an open doorway. He found himself in a house with black streaks of mold on the walls and cracked, nearly empty window frames. The door behind him stood ajar, its bottom corner jammed into what was left of a carpeted floor. And somewhere in the house Maggie screamed.
Jack began running through the house, trying to find her, as her cries moved from place to place. Finally, he’d turned a corner and there she was, wild-eyed, crouched at the end of a hallway. She clutched a knife in her hands, slashing at the air in front of her, at nothing that he could see. Without thinking he’d raised his own hands and pushed her with his power. He had only been aware of a need to get her out of this haunted house.
It had worked. Maggie screamed once more before she dissolved through the wall behind her. The knife thumped to the floor, and almost immediately the house began to fade around him. As the dream left him, he remembered flinging himself out a window that had appeared in the wall before him.
Then he opened his eyes. Maggie had turned in her sleep, and as he watched, she sighed and rubbed her tears away on her thin pillow.
When they were all back home, he would sometimes visit her again, sitting near her bedroom door, hoping to learn about how he had visited her dream. And he did. He soon found the part of his power that would allow him to open a door into one of her houses, without touching her or even being in the same room with her. From her dreams he also learned more about nightmares, and he got better at changing them. Of course, after Lucifer stole his power--
Jack turned towards the kitchen. It was good, he decided, to be able to help his friends with their dreams again. Even if he didn’t feel the satisfaction that had come with helping Maggie, it made the bunker a quieter place, and he was glad for that.
He would watch Castiel sometimes, too. His adopted father made himself unobtrusive, especially around the off-world soldiers. Sometimes though, he would offer to help heal somebody, and then Jack would watch as he put his hand to their temples and closed their wounds. After Lucifer, he remembered feeling envious that he could no longer do the same.
Once, after Michael took Dean away, he saw Castiel standing beside Sam as the hunter slept slumped over in a chair, shaking and mumbling to himself. Castiel had calmed him with his touch, and then had covered Sam with a blanket, all without Sam ever coming close to waking. Jack never questioned how he had done it. It seemed to him to be the same action as physical healing.
His dream-changing was different, he thought. He knew that, when they had brought him back, they would not allow him to use his powers for such things. They were afraid that he would use too much. None of them, except perhaps Castiel, could understand how his powers were like breathing, how difficult it was to hold them inside, filling every available space in his body instead of letting them flow in and out. It was like smothering. Now he was back to himself, and he loved being able to affect his world again.
He heard the door at the top of the iron staircase open and softly shut. Castiel. He felt the angel moving away from him, up through the long entry tunnel and out into the spring night.
Jack’s circuit brought him to the library, where a single light burned in a far corner of the room. He heard a groan and then Dean said, in a slow and weary voice, “I won’t.”
As he approached the pool of light, Jack saw the elder Winchester asleep on one of the leather armchairs that occupied the nooks and alcoves of the room. His arms were crossed over his chest and his chin dipped towards them, nodding at the book that lay open on his lap. Curious, Jack tilted his head to look at the open page. He read, “ON SOULS” at the top of the page. The lines beneath were typewritten on thin paper, and an Aquarian star appeared in a shadowy watermark, only visible because of the bright lamp that shone down on it. Some kind of Men of Letters report, he supposed. He drew closer, but jumped back when the book twitched. A moment later both of Dean’s legs jerked upward more violently, as if he had been startled, but he didn’t rouse.
Jack watched his friend, uncertain whether he should awaken him or simply leave. He had only tried to smooth Dean’s dreams once before. When he’d opened the door he had found himself quickly lost in a maze of stone walls, with shrieks ringing in his ears, a red mist hanging over everything, and no Dean in sight. That time he only managed to dispel a little of the mist, which let him see further down the corridor by the dim light of a torch set into the wall. He hadn’t realized that opening a path for himself would also allow whatever lived in Dean’s dream world to see him as well. The screams grew louder as he peered into the mist, and he saw a huge misshapen shadow creeping towards him just at the edge of his vision. He had fled, ashamed of the sudden fear that welled up inside him.
The book jerked again and fell to the floor with a clunk, but Dean paid no attention. He was grimacing now, and he grunted and curled in on his stomach. Jack wondered if he was dreaming of fighting and he smiled at this thought. He had never tried winning a dream fight. And, too, Donatello had told him to do what Sam and Dean would do. Jack knew that neither of the Winchesters would leave someone to fight by himself. Dean grunted and winced again, and Jack decided.
He pulled a chair over to the alcove and placed it so that he could face the sleeping hunter. He closed his eyes and pushed his power out towards Dean, feeling his way into the other man’s psyche, searching for one of the doors that almost everyone leaves open when they dream. Dean’s doors were almost as hard to open as Sam’s had been, but Jack finally found a small one, to his mind’s eye not much more than a grate, that was standing open. It beckoned him. He crouched and crawled through it, hearing it clank shut as he rose to his feet on the other side.
He was in an alley, standing next to a damp brick wall that closed the area off to traffic. A floodlight was fixed to the wall, far up beyond his reach, and it shone down on a sign someone had painted just below it. SUCKER! The sign proclaimed in blocky black letters over a field of white that stretched from one side of the alley to the other.
It had just rained, he thought, looking along the pavement at puddles spilling over cracks in the asphalt all the way to where the mouth of the alley opened out to a quiet street. The place was not lit, except for the floodlight he stood under, but out on the sidewalk a dim yellow pool of illumination reached into the alley on the left. On the right, a red splotch of light hit the sidewalk and reflected off the puddles, turning them a shade of rust. He realized that the red light was coming from a neon sign, and he walked towards it. He couldn’t hear any sounds of fighting, and idly wondered if that was a bad thing as he navigated the grey shadows of the alley.
He turned onto the street and looked up at the red sign that flickered and sputtered before letting him read what it said. It was one word, ROCKY’S, and underneath the name a cartoonish arrow pointed down towards a door at the corner of the building. Jack paused to look up and down the empty street. The sign was the only spot of color in a scene that could have come from one of the old crime movies Dean sometimes watched on his laptop. Wet pavement, gray buildings crowding in on him and covering the sky, streetlights spaced far apart and casting shadows more than light. He saw no people, and heard no fighting.
The silence was so complete that Jack jumped when a single loud bang rang out from somewhere on the other side of Rocky’s door. He whirled to look at the darkened doorway under the red arrow, straining to hear. It was silent again, until--
Another booming BANG rattled the hinges of the door. Jack took a deep breath and walked up a short set of concrete steps that led into the building. BANG! His hand was on the doorknob, which vibrated with the noise on the other side. He hesitated, but he had promised himself that he’d do what the Winchesters would do. They would go inside, he thought, so that’s what he did.
The room inside was quiet and like everything else in Dean’s dream, poorly lit. It was a bar, at least he could see that, but it looked as though it had been abandoned. Tables without their chairs dotted the space. Only the long serving counter that took up most of the side of the room still had a couple of stools and a few bottles on the mirrored shelf behind it, though it was covered in a thin layer of dust.
The BANG sounded again, reverberating from the back of the room. Jack moved past the empty tables, following the booming echoes of the noise. In the gloom he could make out a door. Another door, he sighed to himself. This one looked sturdy and larger than most, with wooden panels and a long lever for a handle. A tool of some sort had been pushed through the padlock holes in the lever, and a chain was wrapped around it, fixing it in place. A glint of light fell on a metal bolt plate screwed into place halfway between the handle and the top of the door. The bolt was held fast by a thick padlock. Then something on the other side of the door pounded it again. The padlock clattered against the wood, and the ends of the chain swung with the force of the blow. The something bellowed, a howl without words.
Jack hesitated, but then closed the distance to the door. He put a palm on its wooden panel, and did not pull back when the BANG came again. He pushed a bit of his grace against the door, stilling the rattling metal of its locks, before leaning in and putting his ear to the wood. The something made no sound, and he wondered if it had been surprised to feel his power. He could still sense it in there, waiting, listening.
“What’re you doing here, Jack?” The voice behind him was gruff and tired. Jack did not startle at it. He turned to face Dean.
The hunter sat in a corner near the entrance, barely illuminated by reflected light through a tall window over his head. Jack could see the halo of his hair, a flash of nose, and the knuckles of the hand that loosely cupped a tumbler of whiskey on the table in front of him. Dean waited unmoving and as quiet as the locked-away something had become.
“I wanted to help. I thought you were in a fight.”
The something pounded, more softly, on the door. Dean’s shoulders twitched at the noise. Jack asked, “What’s in there?”
“Not what. Who. And who do you think?
Jack considered. “Michael?”
Dean leaned forward, shrugged and gave a single nod. Jack caught a glimpse of his hooded eyes.
“But--I don’t understand. Michael’s gone. I killed him.”
The something stirred and he felt it on the other side, brushing its fingers against the door. “Jack,” it said in a deep voice. “No hard feelings, nephew. What do you say we open this door and hug it out?”
Dean cut in. “He’s never gone. He’ll always be--right here.” He tapped the side of his temple, the violence of the gesture so strong that Jack could hear it from across the room.
“Jack--eee,” crooned another voice from the other side, a high sibilant whisper. “C’mon in and say hello to me-e.”
Dean’s head dipped forward into the shaft of street light from the door Jack had left open. The corner of a lip Jack could see twisted upward, but he wasn’t smiling. “And he ain’t the only monster in there.”
Jack dropped his hand and took a couple of steps away from the door. On the other side, Michael screamed in rage, his voice now joined by others. Dean watched him approach.
“Who else?” he asked.
“No one you want to meet.” Dean leaned back into the gloom, tilting the glass to his lips as he did. “Doesn’t matter to you, though, does it? They’re mine to--” his tongue tripped over his words, and he stopped, taking a breath before saying, “They’re my responsibilities, okay?”
The somethings’ howls subsided to whispers that still echoed through the room.
“They don’t have to be. I killed MIchael, and took his grace. I can get rid of them now for you. I can take them all away for you, too.” Jack now stood at the older man’s table, and Dean blinked up at him, his face a gray shape in the gloom.
“No.”
“Dean--”
“I said no! Look, kid, I’m glad. I’m grateful to you for saving Sam and Cas and me. I’m okay with you eating Michael’s grace to do it.” Jack smiled, but Dean waved at him to stay quiet. “The thing is, you shouldn’t a-had to. I shoulda been stronger. Or--hell--” he paused. “Sam shoulda taken precautions that day when I didn’t wake up.”
“You mean, you wanted him to put you in the box.”
Dean shrugged, and Jack shook his head once. “I don’t think Sam even thought about the Ma’lak box.”
“All I’m saying is, it didn’t have to go down like it did.”
“I don’t regret it,” Jack said.
The hunter slammed the tumbler down onto the table, and the blow shook the surface almost like a rifle crack. Michael and the others fell silent for a moment. “You should. You lost your goddamn soul! I can’t--” He broke off and took another deep breath.
“I can help. You don’t have to keep them here.”
“No, Jack, you can’t. You can’t take them. Cause they belong here.” Dean stood up. “I’ve got them, and you are not going to open that door.” He stared down at Jack before spinning back to the table to pick up his drink. “Thanks. But no thanks.” He raised his glass in a half-mocking salute to Jack. “Time you were going. Have a drink before you take off, alright? It’s on the house.”
Dean began to walk past him and without thinking, Jack grabbed at his arm. Dean’s dismissal was cutting at him in ways he didn’t understand. “Wait--” he said, his golden eyes flaring.
Inside the door, he heard the high-pitched voice chuckle. Jack raised his hand at the door and the noises stopped as his will pushed silence between them and the things. “I don’t need your permission--” he started.
“So, what? You’re gonna rip the door off its hinges?” Dean wrenched his arm out of Jack’s grasp. “Eat up all of my nightmares? What would that make of you? Huh?” Dean’s voice faltered, became softer as he went on, “And where does that leave me? And what if you fail? It took me so long--”
Jack decided then, and acted. He lifted his hand and laid it on Dean’s shoulder. “I just want you to rest,” he said, and brought his other hand up to Dean’s temple.
“Wait--don’t--” the hunter pleaded, but Jack sent him away. He hoped that Dean would land in a happier spot.
Jack took Dean’s chair in the corner under the window and dismissed the wall of silence he’d made. He listened for the creatures on the other side of the door. They remained quiet.
He took a sip of Dean’s whiskey.
What would Sam and Dean do?
They would take some of the load. So that’s what he was going to do. The bar, the gloomy street, the door and what lay behind it, all of this he would leave, because Dean wanted it that way. At least for right now. But he could still help. Jack smiled, proud of himself for giving in to Dean’s choice for the moment, as he took another sip. It didn’t mean he couldn’t try to help his friend forget about this place and find a better dream.
Tonight, then, he would keep watch. For a little while, at least, until he felt Castiel returning to the bunker. He felt sure, this is what Sam and Dean would do.