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"Little Alice fell down the hole, bumped her head and bruised her soul."
-Lewis Carroll
"He's made a deal. He'll know about the one we're hunting." Castiel says it with such vigor that Jack is momentarily startled, and he looks up at the angel with confusion, squinting towards the park and wondering if they're seeing the same person. The man in question is currently only looking at his phone, seeming bored as he flips through whatever it is he's reading. He has a receding hairline and a hard jaw, in a business suit that looks more expensive than Sam and Dean's FBI garb combined.
He looks...normal. Ordinary. Boring, if he's being honest with himself.
Jack frowns. "How can you be sure?" he asks, shifting somewhat from his position in the car. Castiel looks away from the man for a second, his expression flaring with open surprise. The blue eyes squint at him, as if Jack is pulling some sort of prank before coming to the conclusion that he isn't, and doesn't seem to know what to do with that information.
"Cas?" Jack asks hesitantly.
Castiel stares.
"I don't understand. He looks ordinary to me. If you could just explain…" Jack encourages, trying to back track and figure out what he said wrong. He doesn't think that he said anything offensive, but communication can be hard sometimes. Especially when Castiel speaks so differently from Sam and Dean.
"You can't see it?" Castiel asks.
"See...what?" Jack looks back at the man. Maybe it's in his hair. Can hair really say that someone has just sold their soul to a crossroads demon, though? He hasn't heard of that before, but maybe it's one of those "tricks of the trade" that Dean keeps talking about. Something that every hunter knows, so they don't bother to put it down in books.
"His soul, Jack," Castiel's gruff voice is thick with disbelief. Jack pulls his gaze away from the man's hairline to Castiel, squinting with confusion.
"Yes. We're looking for the demon that took it. Bought it, I mean. I already know this, I don't know why you—"
Castiel's hand shoots out suddenly, grabbing his chin in a grip that's tight, but oddly gentle all at once. Jack doesn't flinch back as harshly from the touch as he would have if Castiel didn't have such a firm grip on him. He's learning to be wary of touch, and though it makes him ache sometimes, self preservation has taught him better.
Castiel turns his head towards the man. "Look Jack. Tell me what you see."
Jack hesitates for a second, and Castiel releases his jaw. "He's...old," Jack starts carefully. He doesn't think there's a win in this situation, and that frustrates him. "He doesn't have facial hair. Dressed in a black suit with a red tie. He might have a scar next to his hairline...what?" Castiel is giving him an odd look, and Jack tries not to squirm beneath it.
Then Castiel exhales sharply. "You can't see souls."
Jack blinks. "Souls are people. I see people."
"No. You can't see souls," Castiel rubs his forehead, as if this is wrong. Jack tries not to let the familiar weight of disappointment settle in his stomach for not living up to the expectations placed before him. He bites on the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit he likes to think he learned from his mother, and waits for Castiel's verdict to come swinging.
It doesn't, and Jack pushes forward carefully. "Why is this a bad thing?"
"Angels see souls, Jack," Castiel says, as if that explains everything. It doesn't. At his clearly confused expression, Castiel appends, "You can't see souls. You're part angel, Jack. You should be able to see souls, like me."
The crushing weight settles happily inside his ribcage, giving a contented sigh. The low thrum of panic that always seems to be present whenever someone brings up something else inherently wrong with him begins to buzz loudly in the back of his mind. He can't help these things, and it frustrates him. He doesn't want to be like a malfunctioning computer, always in need of maintenance and repairs, but it doesn't seem like the list of things weird or wrong with him ever really ends.
Now that he's thinking about it, he remembers someone mentioning angels seeing souls. That's just their normal. And Jack, who is supposed to be part angel, doesn't have that.
Really that big of a surprise? A bitter part of him mutters in the back of his head.
Jack makes a slight noise, staring at Castiel's earnest expression. "Oh," he manages to voice. He thinks if he tries to say anything else he'll throw up. It's something he's seen Sam do, though he doesn't think he was supposed to. Sam builds up anxiety until he vomits, but usually only does that if Dean isn't present. For privacy, Jack assumes.
"It's…" Castiel pauses for a second, releasing a heavy, weighted breath, clearing trying to gather himself. "It's okay, Jack," he gives a smile that is clearly forced, even for him. "It just surprised me."
"You think that it's not normal." Jack says. And—look at that, a full sentence and he didn't vomit. The knot in his stomach tightens viciously, as if asking him if he really wants to tempt fate like that. "It's just...it's just…" something else wrong with me. Jack keeps that last part to himself. He's slightly afraid that Castiel would agree with him.
"It must be your human side, Jack," Castiel says. They always say that. It's the angel side or the human side like that's supposed to make a difference. "It doesn't let you see souls the way that angels do. Not that there's anything wrong with that," Castiel hastily adds, "Sam and Dean can't see souls, and they've gotten along just fine demon hunting."
Jack makes a slight noise, slumping down in the seat.
Castiel is quiet for a second before his hand rests on Jack's shoulder. Jack lifts his head towards him by habit, and sees the earnesty in the blue. "Don't worry about it. It's nothing you need to be concerned about."
"Yes, it is." Jack mutters, but forces himself upright anyway. He stares at the man, still looking at his phone, completely unaware that Jack's life has just taken another tumble. Sometimes it feels like he's not walking down the path of life, but being shoved, manhandled or dragged the entire way. He releases a breath and tries to smile for Castiel's sake. Then he turns himself back to the case, to the demon they're supposed to be hunting, because Jack wants to focus on that instead. "How can you tell that he's made the deal? Is his soul tied to the demon in some way?"
Castiel cants his head. "It's...hard to explain. Demon souls are naturally dark and scarred. Ugly. They're like...black ooze. When a human makes a deal with a demon, they allow the demon to brand them. The closer they get to the end of their date the darker the soul becomes. It's how hellhounds know what soul to chase down."
"I see," Jack says, even though he doesn't.
Castiel isn't an idiot, and gives him a pointed look. "Think about it like paint. The demon marks the soul. The closer they get to their death date, the more the paint spreads over it."
Jack nods slowly, looking back at the man, who has finally stopped looking at his phone to stare up at a group of children running past. Without looking at the angel beside him, Jack asks, "So you can see this paint on him?"
"I can." Castiel confirms. "I can also see the state of souls, if they're healthy or not. And those that are close to departing their bodies."
Jack nods, a few silent questions he'd always had being answered. He tilts his head slightly, brushing blond hair from his face when it falls into his eyes. "What do souls look like?"
"Depends on the person," Castiel says, gaze flickering across the scene in front of them. Distracted with whatever he's watching. "They look a little like Grace, I suppose," Castiel adds after a moment of thought, "but only as they exit or enter the body. Inside they're...I don't really have words."
Jack nods, releasing the inside of his cheek and trying to ground himself.
I can't see that. He realizes. All this time I had no idea I was supposed to.
"We should move," Castiel says, "Sam and Dean are waiting for us to gather information from this man. We don't know if he'll remain here for much longer."
Jack nods again. Castiel moves for the door, but Jack grabs his arm and Castiel stops as if stabbed, then looks at him, crease between his brow. "Jack?"
"What about my soul?" Jack blurts before he can stop himself. "What does mine look like?"
Am I tainted? Can you see the ooze on me as well?
Castiel's expression softens at once, in a way that Jack has never seen anyone but him and the Winchesters draw out. Castiel isn't a soft person most of the time; Jack sometimes has a hard time remembering that, because Castiel is always gentle with him. He's a warrior with thousands of years of battle experience to draw on at a moment's notice. Jack is learning that slowly. "Jack," Castiel says, with a slight tilt upwards on the corners of his mouth, "your soul is beautiful. It's why I had such faith in Kelly's decision to carry you to term. It hasn't lost it's glow, I promise."
Jack stares at Castiel's face for a long moment, trying to determine if he's lying, but he isn't. Castiel gently tugs his coat out of Jack's grip and gives another tight smile. "Let's go talk with him. We can discuss this later if you want." Castiel offers.
Jack nods, but knows that he doesn't want that. Not at all. It frightens him, if he's being honest with himself. Souls seem like something abstract, a sort of vague, odd idea. Not something that you can actually see or touch. Yet it tells the entire story of a person, all with one glance. There is nothing you can hide when someone sees your soul. Angels recognize each other despite a vessel because they aren't looking at the face, but the soul.
Soul. Soul. Soul.
Being able to see someone that raw almost feels like an invasion of their privacy. And yet...for the oddest reason, Jack wants that. He wants to be able to see what Castiel described. To be able to see those with demon deals, to see demons and angels without puzzling over their true nature until its revealed to him. He wants to see his own soul (if that's even possible.)
He wants to be normal.
He's supposed to be an angel.
This is supposed to be normal.
Jack hates being the odd man out. The freak. The ticking time bomb they all pretend they don't hear the clock for. It's only a matter of time before it combusts. But if he could just prove that he can do things that are normal...that he can be human and angel—the best parts of them. That he's not his father. If seeing souls is a way to do that…
Jack has to try. He'll learn. It can't be that hard, can it?
He doesn't know it then, but he does later: this is the moment that the entire mess begins. Sitting in the car with one hand on the latch and a vague idea forming in his head as Castiel crawls out of the truck without a word, conversation clearly over for him. But for Jack? For Jack it's just begun.
000o000
They catch the demon, who doesn't have any of the information that Sam, Dean, or Castiel wanted, but an exorcism and a trip to the hospital later has them all returning back to the bunker to ride out the next few days or week until someone pulls up a case and they leave. Jack only goes on the odd one—milk runs, Dean calls them—but enjoys them all the same. It's meant to be a learning experience, but Jack likes not being left behind in the bunker. Not that they leave him alone that much. Someone usually stays behind to babysit. Which is fine. Jack doesn't mind the company. Usually.
After barely thirteen hours since they returned, Sam pulls up a possible werewolf case and Dean tells him to get some sleep. It isn't completely obvious that he's been up all night, but Dean and Sam can read each other in a way that seems inhuman sometimes, and Jack has long since learned how to get used to it.
Dean takes Castiel and they leave.
And Jack sees his chance. Before Sam can turn in for a few hours, Jack slides into the chair opposite him on the table, tilting his head so he can see Sam's face beyond the lamp. "Sam," he starts, clasping his hands together and resting them on the tabletop. He squeezes a little harder than necessary, trying to get this anxious feeling out somehow.
"Mm?" Sam asks, still flicking through the tablet.
"Do you know where I can find information about souls in the bunker?" Jack questions. He's already been through most everything on angels—pathetically little, it would seem. Angels hadn't been interacting with humans much until the averted Apocalypse, so it's not that surprising—and has been trying to section of souls, but it's spread out and scattered throughout the pages. Frustrating, but Jack needs to do this.
He's normal.
Not evil.
Normal angels see souls. Jack can be a normal angel.
Sam sets down the tablet and looks at him, something slightly puzzled on his face. Sam does that sometimes, Jack has noticed, staring at people like they're something he needs to solve. Not usually in an annoyed way, more curious, like he's trying to re-assess how the pieces fit together so he understands.
"Do you mind if I ask why?" Sam asks.
"You can ask." Jack assures, "I just don't want to answer. It's private."
Sam's lips press together, and his hand rubs against an old scar on his left palm. An unconscious habit that he doesn't seem to be aware of anymore. Jack mimicked him on it a few times until Dean pulled him to the side and gently, but firmly, told him to stop. He never gave an explanation, even though Jack asked for one. When Jack went to Castiel later, Castiel had gotten tight-lipped and looked like he might be slightly sick. Jack stopped asking after that.
"Alright. Just...let me know if I can help you with whatever it is, okay? You don't need to be embarrassed." Sam says, getting up to his feet. He powers off the tablet and sets it on the table, clearly intending to return. Jack frowns somewhat, knowing how insistent Dean was that Sam get some sleep. But he shakes it off, guilty.
Seeing souls, knowing souls, it suddenly seems like the most important thing in the world.
I am not my father. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not.
Sam brushes hair out of his face tiredly and leads Jack down into a small room lined with books that he hasn't seen before. Some of the shelves are completely cleaned, books sitting in neat piles underneath them. Seeing Jack eye the mess, Sam explains, "I'm organizing. It's taking a while."
Ah.
Jack nods and Sam gestures vaguely towards a shelf, then the one beneath it. "This is the scattered bits about souls I've been able to gather together so far. Hopefully it helps." Jack nods and gives his thanks, moving for the books. Sam turns towards the doorway, but stops, twisting around to look back at him. "Jack," he says quietly. "I'm open if-if you need an ear, alright?"
Jack looks up from the title he's holding and smiles. It doesn't feel that forced. "I know, Sam," he promises. "I'm curious about them"—not entirely a lie—"and I want to know without having Dean worried I'm going to start feeding."
Sam winces.
Jack grits his teeth, feeling the now familiar pull in his stomach. Compressed pressure. Pulling the Dean-Distrust card is one he never likes to, but sometimes it's a necessity. He doesn't even know why he's going to such great lengths to hide this. It's not like he's doing anything wrong. But admitting that he needs to learn how to see souls would be admitting that he can't in the first place, and he doesn't know if he can take another stare like Castiel's.
This gift seems so inherently angel, and to not have it is like not having any toes: Not outside of the realm of possibility, but not something anyone wants to experience.
Sam still looks a little confused, but gives a slight nod, clearly too tired to fight him. Not a big surprise. Jack only sleeps if he wants to, or if he hasn't eaten for a while, but Sam and Dean need sleep frequently. All humans do. It frightened him when Castiel explained that humans can die if they don't sleep. Ever since then he's been a lot less lax with his attitude regarding it.
"Good night, Sam," Jack says pointedly.
Sam's lip quirks up. "Night Jack. Happy reading."
Sam's footsteps retreat inside the bunker and Jack expels a breath he didn't know he was holding. Then, he flips open the book and starts to read.
000o000
Sam doesn't bother him for the better part of ten hours, only entering to tell him that Dean and Castiel have made headway on the werewolves, but it's looking like a two-day stay and then returning back to bed. Jack considers making him food, but can't shake off this drive just yet and remains where he is. Despite all their teasing, Sam and Dean can read a recipe, and Dean wouldn't be a half bad chef. Dean downplays it often for reasons Jack doesn't always understand, but it's not really his place to complain.
Jack doesn't get up. He's slightly stiff from sitting for so long, but he's been through seven books and has found almost nothing. People explaining what a soul is, how it can be used in spells, how to drain a soul, all useless information to him. There's a brief section about the soulless that Jack skims over, but ignores for the most part. It's not like it will ever be relevant for him. No one in his family is missing or soul, or ever lost one. From what he understands, they don't grow back like a liver can. (Not that a liver can grow from completely from scratch, but that's beside the point.)
Finally, Sam arrives in the room with a cup of coffee and wearing socks, not shoes. A telling sign of how tired he still is. Jack only glances up at him once before returning to the books, and Sam takes a seat on an empty crate, taking a sip of his drink. The smell makes Jack wrinkle his nose. It's not a bad smell, per se, just strong. And strong smells are overwhelming sometimes. Especially when he has a headache.
Sam tilts his head, managing to read the cover of the book Jack is flipping through without much trouble. "Huh. Never found anything in there useful myself. You found the answer to your quest yet?"
Quest. Quest makes it seem like something noble. This is anything but. It's selfish and petty, almost like a game Jack refuses to lose even though the winner's already been decided.
"No." Jack's voice is flat. Irritation spikes through him at this. Speaking rudely isn't going to solve anything. Maybe it's time he grabbed food. Or took a nap. The words are blurring together enough Jack worries he might need both. Jack releases a hollow breath before looking up at Sam. "How are Cas and Dean?"
"Fine. Dean texted me about twenty minutes ago. Said they think they know who the wolves are and they're going to make their move. Should be back for dinner if everything goes over well." Sam explains.
Jack idly wonders what time it is. It seems like it's early morning, but he doesn't know.
Jack nods. His eyes actually hurt from staring for so long. That's funny, but in a painful way. They almost burn as he closes his lids together. He forces them open. "That's good."
"Yeah."
Silence.
Jack flips a page, Sam drinks from his coffee, then Sam sighs and asks, "Do you want any help?"
Yes. But I can't get your help for this. Jack pouts miserably over the thought for a second, but bathes in its truth. Castiel's face flashes through his mind, and he bites on the inside of his cheek again, trying to draw comfort from the action.
"I might've come across the information you're looking for already. It could shorten some reading time." Sam points out. Logical. Always with the logic. Sometimes Jack hates his logic.
Jack sighs, trying not to be too annoyed as he closes the book and rests his hands on the spine for a moment, then lifts his eyes up to Sam's hazel ones. "I'm trying…" he swallows the words, suddenly unable to get them out. Sam waits patiently, and Jack tries again, blowing out a heaving breath. "I'm trying to learn how to see souls."
He waits, staring at Sam's face for an expression like Castiel's, but it doesn't happened. Instead, Sam's face tilts slightly as his eyes fill with an unbearable sorrow for a long moment. Then it clears and he presses his lips together. "Okay."
Okay.
Okay?
"That's all you have to say?" Jack asks, confused. How can he not have more questions, or be accusing Jack of being more Devil than Kelly, or whatever comparison he wants to make. Where is the accusation!?
Sam drinks from his coffee. Then he looks Jack directly in the eyes. "Cas told us, Jack. About what happened with the soul-seller you were hunting."
Jack flinches.
Sam sighs, "We're not mad, Jack. To be honest I'm surprised it hadn't come up sooner. I guess...I know I haven't thought about it one way or the other. Sometimes you're more angel than human, and vice versa." Sam shrugs, nonchalant, when Jack almost wants him to rise to his feet and start shouting. "You keep surprising us, Jack."
Surprise doesn't necessarily mean that's a good thing.
Jack runs a hand through his hair, tired, but not able to let this go. He breathes out through his teeth, trying to muster up strength before he looks up at Sam. "Do you know how? I can learn to see souls?"
Sam's brow furrows. "Um. I...I'm not sure. I know what they feel like, but I've…" Sam trails off, eyes going distant for a moment before he seems to center himself. Jack's head tilts with confusion. How can Sam know what a soul feels like? "When I was...a soul feels almost like the center of a person. Like you're pushing past all the curtains to see what's really inside the building. Maybe seeing a soul is just standing at the window, not necessarily going inside."
That's...that makes sense. In a way. If only Jack knew how to get to that point.
Jack blows out a long breath, then looks up, hopeful. "Sam," he starts carefully, but tries not to make his tone reach too heavily on begging. "Would you mind if I tried to see your soul? I don't know if I could succeed, but I need to start somewhere. Maybe this would be better than reading for instructions that aren't going to be there."
It's not exactly like angels need a self-help book for something they were born with.
Sam shifts uncomfortably. When he looks at Jack, his eyes are weighted with something Jack doesn't understand. "I...don't think that would be a good idea, Jack," Sam says after a long second.
"Why not?" Jack asks. "Your soul must be beautiful, Sam. It would be the perfect place to start."
There's not even a hint of humor in Sam's face. The light has seeped from his eyes as well, making him seem to age several decades in front of Jack. There's a tautness to his fingers that wasn't there before, as if Sam has lost all warmth. The shadows seem suddenly darker, and Sam's eyes linger on a spot above the wall above Jack for a long moment, jaw set. The transformation took less than a second, but leaves Jack more unsettled than he cares to admit. He hardly recognizes him.
"Sam?" Jack asks after a second. "Sam, you're frightening me."
And just like that, Sam seems to snap back together like a rubberband. His eyes lose the haze and though he clasps both hands around the cup, there's no evidence that he was absent a second ago. His lips press together. "I think you should probably learn how to do this with Cas." Sam says.
"I want to know how before I see Castiel," Jack admits. "He seemed so disappointed, I didn't like that."
"You can't learn with me." Sam's tone is flat.
"Why not?" Jack pushes again. He doesn't understand. Everyone here is all too happy to give half answers or no answers, and it frustrates him.
"You just can't, Jack."
"Why?"
"I said no."
"Sam—"
"No!" Sam rises to his feet, and it strikes Jack how big he can make himself. Sam is lanky by default, never quilt filling out his frame like Dean did, but his height normally makes people discount that. But Sam isn't tiny, and Jack suddenly feels impossibly small. But annoyed. And frustrated. And tired.
Tired of not understanding.
Tired of the half-truths.
Tired of everyone trying to protect him, but never saying why.
Just show me what you mean! Jack wants to shout, Just tell me! STOP HIDING!
And just like that—the entire world seems to fold. It's almost like he's changed filters on a camera, but not as instant. Almost like and ocean wave, crashing over his vision. The world goes a golden hazy and Jack's gaze flies over everything before landing on where he knows Sam would be. He tries to get his mouth to work, to call for help because this isn't right—but his gaze lands on Sam. Or what he thinks is Sam. But that can't be Sam because—
No.
That's not—
There's no one else in the room!
That can't be Sam.
That can't—
Jack can't tear his eyes away from the raw, flayed, twisted thing. He remembers the first time that he saw a dead body, and how it had made him feel sick to his stomach. How cold the corpse was, with the raw wound of death. People shouldn't look like that, he remembers thinking, and casting a glance up at Sam and Dean for comfort, but their faces said they'd seen this a hundred times.
People shouldn't look like that.
Jack opens his mouth, the slightest noise wheezing from him.
People shouldn't—
He can't take his eyes off it. The tortured, scarred thing. Jack's never seen a soul before, but he'd always gotten the impression that they were a sight to behold. This feels like it will be seared into Jack's eyelids for the rest of his existence, a stain no amount of bleach will clean out.
People shouldn't look like that.
Jack opens his mouth, his limbs suddenly failing him. That twisted, demonic thing comes closer—Sam trying to grab him, to stop him from falling—but Jack just wants it away. He pitches backwards, trying to scramble, but his limbs are without strength. The horror of what he's seeing is draining any last reserves he had dry.
People—shouldn't—like that.
The flayed thing tries to grab him.
Jack screams, and the world erupts around him.
000o000
"—I can't get him to come out. He's been hiding in there for hours," Sam's voice is explaining to someone Jack can't see. Not that he can see anyone. Jack has carefully positioned his back away from facing the door, back pressed against a shelf as he hides in the corner and pretends that he can't speak English.
Sam just arrived back here after leaving for a sort time. He's been sitting in the room and trying to coax Jack out since he woke up from the surge of Jack's powers. Jack had seen him fly across the room, had heard the impact, but all he'd been able to think was good, at least it's away from me.
Jack bites on his lower lip as he hears Dean's soft baritone, words too low for him to make out. He can sense Castiel just beyond the doorway, likely standing behind Dean or in front of him. Not that Jack cares all that much. He presses his hands against the sides of his head and tries to breathe. The image is haunting him, pushing up into his consciousness when he thinks he might be able to leave, then rooting him to the spot a second later.
"Let me talk to him," Castiel suggests, "it might be better this way."
There's more talking, but Sam and Dean eventually leave with clear reluctance. Castiel's soft footsteps pad across the room before Castiel sits down on the other side of him, back pressed against the wall. Even behind his closed lids, Jack can see the dull thrum of his soul.
Jack doesn't like this. Seeing souls. He doesn't understand how Castiel can stand it without going mad. Sam—he twitches. He hates himself for this, but the further Sam is from him, the better. He had no idea Sam's soul was so damaged. He hadn't wanted to know. He doesn't even know why it happened. Sam is one of the best people Jack knows, how can he be so tattered?
"It's overwhelming," Castiel says without warning. "Seeing them. Especially human souls. They're different than angels."
Jack moans.
Castiel reaches out a hand and rests it very carefully on Jack's drawn-up knee. "It gets easier, I promise." He reassures. Jack has his doubts about that. It just sort of seems like the thing you're supposed to say to someone suffering, but you don't really mean. Those sayings confuse him.
Jack blinks several times, and slowly raises his head. He winces, expecting more pain or horror from seeing Castiel, but though his soul hurts, it's not in the aching, tortured way of Sam's. His is more bruised, like he's been beaten down and put back together. Jack's breath hitches as he sees the wings. They're more bone than feather now, folded snugly against Castiel's back in a way that speaks of a lifetime of habit, rather than choice.
Castiel is different than Sam. It's clear he's been pained and stained, but he isn't human. His soul feels more...natural, almost. Painful, but normal.
Rebellious tears slip down his face and Jack keens slightly. "Hurts," he whispers in admission.
Castiel's grip on his knee tightens. "I know," he says softly.
"What...what do I…?"
"Just breathe through the pain." Castiel says. "The more time you spend around them, the easier it will become. It used to leave me breathless, too," Castiel admits, and bites on his lower lip like he didn't mean to say that. It's reassuring, almost, but just as frightening. Castiel couldn't handle it any better than he could.
Jack presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I thought...I thought they would be beautiful." He whispers, "Castiel, Sam's soul was horrifying. His was the first I saw, and I knew it was wrong. What happened to it?"
Castiel is quiet for a long time. So long that Jack doesn't think that he'll answer, but he does in a voice that is soft and mournful. "You know that Sam jumped into the Cage with Lucifer to stop the Apocalypse?"
Jack nods.
"Sam's soul remained there, in the Cage, for over a century." Castiel says quietly.
Jack's brow furrows. One of Castiel's wings twitches somewhat, and Jack flinches, leaning back. The longer he stares at Castiel, the harder it becomes to hold the gaze. He wishes he could turn this off. He hates this. He hates this so much.
"Your father tortured him ceaselessly for more than a hundred and fifty years," Castiel's tone betrays none of what he's thinking. Jack's heart clenches in his chest. Cold horror washes through him. Lucifer...Sam…
Oh.
Oh.
It makes sense. It makes a horrific, awful sense. Sam's odd little flinches, how Jack will sometimes show him a crime scene photo, and Sam will make a face of pain like he knows how to die that way, regardless of the wound. Sam's weariness. Sam's soul. Dean's mistrust of him, because of what Jack's father did to his brother.
Lucifer.
Jack thinks he might be sick. Sam's soul must have been beautiful before Lucifer did that. Before he scarred him so irreversibly that his soul is tainted and still so wounded. A scar that didn't heal right, leaving it malformed and ugly.
"My...my father did that?" Jack has to work his tongue around the words. His voice is barely audible. "He did that to Sam?"
Castiel gives a single dip of his head. "He did. Without, as far as I have seen, nor to I suspect it, any remorse. He'd do it again."
Jack feels his stomach heave. He bites sharply on the back of his palm to distract himself. He presses his lips together sharply, unsure if he can find the words to describe his horror and disgust. He can't believe that someone could do that to another person. He can't...he doesn't understand how any angel could treat Sam cruelly after seeing that. How anyone could. Why they would want to.
Castiel sighs, almost as if he knows what Jack is thinking. Then he says softly, "The easiest way, though I regret it, is exposure. If you can return your sight to normal, that would be ideal, but until then, avoidance won't help anything."
Jack grimaces.
Castiel squeezes his knee in comfort. "Jack," he says the name carefully, "Dean won't be any easier to face. Both of them have been through much, and it weighs heavily on them. Dean, too, has been to hell. I pulled him from it."
Jack lifts his gaze to Castiel's. "I...didn't know. They never talk about the important things."
Castiel's lips lift in a mirthless, tired smile. "They seem to find the most comfort in not talking about things they should," he admits, then shakes his head fondly. He gets to his feet and lifts out a hand for Jack to take. After a moment of hesitation, Jack grasps it. Castiel hauls him up, and keeps a hand on his shoulder as they move from the room.
Sam and Dean are in the hall, but far enough away that they likely didn't overhear anything that was spoken. Jack braces himself, but it doesn't really help. Sam is still the raw, open wound, and Jack flicks his gaze to Dean for respite and doesn't receive it. Dean's soul is not as tarnished as his brother's, but no less trodden on. The scars are deep, thick, and pained. It's darker than Sam's, and Jack remembers Castiel describing paint. He knows about the Mark of Cain, and that Dean has made a few demon deals.
This must be some of what Castiel was talking about.
Still. His soul makes Jack no less nauseous than Sam's does. Biting on the inside of his cheek hard, Jack flicks his gaze to Castiel, seeking comfort. He doesn't really find it. All these men are scarred. All of them at least a little broken.
Then from down the hall Dean says, "You okay, kid?" and Jack feels himself crumple.
000o000
Souls hurt.
Seeing souls is torture.
He understands why most angels are unpleasant. If Jack had to see how damaged people at such an intimate level all the time, he thinks he, too, would be a jerk. Eventually, they resort to a blindfold. Jack couldn't stop hyperventilating, and Dean had been adamant. Breathing is important, and Jack being calm enough to stay in a room with them equally so.
It's embarrassing and degrading having to do so, but Jack can't look at them. Too many scars. Too much pain. It didn't get easier with time, like Castiel promised. It only got worse.
So here Jack is, six days out from his initial soul peak and sitting on the couch miserably picking at a thread on the edge of his shirt, eyes open and staring into nothing. Dean is at the other end, probably texting someone from the way his fingers are tapping lightly against his phone screen. Jack's legs are pushed up against Dean's thigh, and though at first he thought the touch might be overstepping his bounds—Dean is comfortable with a very limited amount of people touching him, and removes appendages of those he isn't—Dean had simply rested his arm on top of Jack's feet and that was that.
"Good news," Dean says suddenly, breaking the silence, "turns out that this is normal in archangels. And it's pretty much like an on/off switch."
Relief floods through him.
This is normal. He is normal.
"That would be good news," Jack agrees, "but I have no idea where this switch is."
"Yeah, neither does my source," Dean admits, shifting somewhat, "but they're pretty confident about it. Cas can't. Not unless he's human or depleted on Grace, but neither of those are our problem. You said you just sort of...pushed for it, yeah?"
"Yeah," Jack says miserably. A terrible decision, that has left him miserable and shaky. Even the memory of looking at their souls makes him want to heave. He's certain he's supposed to look beyond the souls and see the beauty beyond the cracks, but all he can see is the damage. He doesn't know how Castiel can stand this.
People aren't supposed to look like that.
"Maybe you can...I don't know, pull back? If you had to push, there was something to push." Dean says.
"I don't even know…" Jack sighs, rubbing at his forehead. It's like being an untrained pilot in an airplane and told to land it without any prior experience or what most of the flashing lights mean. "I don't know what to push. I want it to stop. It hurts."
"I know," Dean says solemnly. No jokes. No quips. No teasing. Just a seriousness reserved for situations that warrant it. Jack never thought this would be one. Dean is quiet for a long moment, as if thinking. "Jack, listen, I'm sorry. That you have to see this. I know that me and Sammy aren't exactly the poster children for mental health, but I'd never...I'd never really considered what our souls looked like. Cas must be a mess."
"He doesn't seem to mind it." Jack mutters.
"Maybe it's archangel senses," Dean suggests, "or he's just used to it by now. Sam and I haven't exactly been a hundred percent since he met us. Honestly—I don't know if we've ever been a hundred percent since we were born. I'm just...sorry you had to see that."
"It was my decision. I pushed Sam when I shouldn't have." Jack states blankly. At least he knows why Sam was so hesitant to let him test-run on him. He must have known a little about the damage his soul was carrying.
"Still." Dean sounds tired.
Jack feels tired. He sighs and settles down further in the couch. "I'm going to sleep," he declares, effectively declaring an end to the conversation. Dean doesn't comment, only pats his feet and lets him sleep.
000o000
In the end, there is no magic push or pull. Jack's mind seems to pull itself together while he's out, and when he wakes up, his vision has returned to normal. Anticlimactic, but a relief. He doesn't know how to work the on/off switch, but knowing that it's there makes him much more conscious of souls.
Looking at Sam, Castiel and Dean after seeing the battered things they carry inside them is different. He feels connected deeper to them somehow, but strangers all the same. He treats them more carefully after that, less like something immovable and unbreakable. They've all been broken, several times. They deserve better.
They're in so much pain.
Sometimes he'll look at their eyes, and thinks he sees a glimpse of the horrors branded inside them, but it's always fleeting. They don't talk about what Jack saw, and a part of him is grateful. He doesn't even know where to begin or end a conversation like that.
Their souls...
People shouldn't look like that.
000o000
Apocalypse World happens. Jack almost forgets about the soul incident in the midst of everything, helping Mary and fighting Micheal while he learns about his powers and tries to connect with people. No one quite clicks with him like Sam, Dean, and Castiel, but he tries anyway. Souls seem miles away, so he doesn't really think about it.
Then Dean, Castiel and the others show up after going through the mines, without Sam.
There's a brief reunion, then tears, then the pain of having lost Sam before he shuffles into camp with Lucifer on his heels. There's a haunted, exhausted look in his eyes that ages him decades and suddenly Jack remembers those long days hiding from the souls. The conversation hidden behind a bookshelf with Castiel.
My father did that to Sam?
Dean moves to grasp Sam's shoulder, a reassurance of his livelihood, and Jack watches Lucifer approach with something wild glinting in his eyes, but a mock sorrow on his vessel's face. Jack's fists tighten, his jaw tight.
People shouldn't look like that.
Lucifer approaches him like a wild animal, and he's right to. Castiel steps between them, and, indignant, Lucifer snaps, "Hey—I want to talk to my son. You can't deny me that right."
And Jack feels the last hold on his temper slip. "I am not your child." Jack snarls, shoving past Castiel to get into this man's face. His vessel is about as tall as Jack is, but it doesn't matter. Lucifer looks slightly surprised at the lash out, then he gives an easy smile and lifts up his hands. "Whoa. Feisty one. That's good, will help you get places in life, kid."
Jack punches him across the face, hard. His knuckles will probably bruise, but it's not like he can't heal that.
Lucifer stumbles, then looks up at him, anger lashing out behind those eyes. "Hey!"
"How did you think this was going to go down?" Jack snaps, rage coiled tight inside him because people shouldn't look like that—"Did you honestly think that after what you did to everyone that I would just...be okay with that? What you did to Mary? To Sam?" he leans the last word in as a threat and sees Lucifer's eyes dart towards the man in question.
Jack's eyes follow despite himself. Sam clenches tighter, drawn up like a bowstring. Already half a step behind Dean, the older Winchester steps in front of him further, looking ready to fight.
"Oh." Lucifer gives a frustrated smile, "See, I can explain that. It was just that I'd waited a really long time to be free from this cage, you know, and Sammy-boy just sort of hopped us both in without a second thought. It really...rubbed me the wrong way."
Jack scoffs, sickened. Without, as far as I have seen, nor to I suspect it, any remorse. "Have you seen his soul?" Jack whispers, memory sliding across his mind like a noose. "What you did...there's no excuse for that. Rot in hell. It's the only place you deserve to be."
Lucifer rears up, eyes flashing a bright red for a moment. His jaw clenches with rage, but Jack shakes his head. He's not afraid, just angry. "You're not my father." Then he turns on his heel and storms back to his real family.
000o000
He learns to see it. The beauty in the cracks.
Where Sam is broken and raw in so many places has given him empathy. An understanding for suffering that most people are baffled at. He doesn't anger easily. Though there is a sorrow in his eyes, he holds himself up and smiles anyway.
Dean makes people laugh. His quips are often ill-timed, but well needed. His words are sincere, even if they bite, as if he has grown tired of lies. Dean, too, has an empathy for the hurting, though he's less vocal about it than Sam.
Castiel smiles gently, with a broken edge but a smile nonetheless. As if he has had to learn how to be happy through great suffering, and still sometimes finds it hard to see the beauty in so much pain.
Their tarnished, tattered souls will haunt Jack until he dies. But they will also give him strength. Because if they can be so broken and whole at the same time...maybe he can, too.