Chapter Text
Dean exhales into the chilly November air. His breath floats up into the air like a little cloud and evaporates.
“Is that smoke?” Jack asks. He has to make short little jogs every now and then to keep up with Dean.
Dean laughs softly. “Nah, it's just my breath, kid. You can do it too, like this:” Dean exhales harshly, watching another cloud disappear into the sky.
Jack follows suit, breathing out as hard as he can manage. He wheezes at the end starts hacking into his elbow. He doesn’t even get to see the cloud.
Dean steadys him with a hand on his shoulder. “Or, yeah, okay, maybe not…” (Maybe don't bring the fucking sick kid on a cross country trip in 30 degree weather with a coat that barely keeps him warm, Dean.) “Look, why don’t you just wait in car, okay? I’m just grabbing a few things, I’ll be right back.”
“Are you sure?” Jack rasps out.
“Yeah, go on. I’ll just be a minute.” Dean tosses him the keys and walks into the gas station stop, trying to block out the wracking coughs coming from behind him.
Dean wanders around the little shop for a while, grabbing shelf stable food, and cough drops, and some over the counter bullshit (it won’t work, he knows that, but he has to try to do something, not just watch Jack waste away.) He unloads his armful of drugstore crap and feels like a soccer mom.
“Sick kid?” The clerk asks.
“Something like that.”
“Hope he feels better.”
Dean swipes the bags off the counter, and tries not to make his words sound as heavy as they feel. “Yeah, me too.”
Jack’s already asleep by the time Dean gets back to the car. He’s curled up against the window, head pillowed on his arm, snoring lightly. Dean doesn’t mean to wake him, but he startles the second Dean opens the door.
“Well this was short-lived…” Dean's grunts.
“No, I'm fine!” Jack insists through a yawn.
“Kid, you don't have to do this, I can just take you back home--”
“No. No, I do have to do this. I want to.”
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. Stupid, fucking, stubborn ass kid. “Alright, but listen: this isn't giving up, okay? Sam and Cas are looking, and the second they call, I'm breaking every speed limit to get you back to Lebanon, understand?”
Jack rolls his eyes a little. “Yes…”
“Sam been giving you lessons? Jesus…” Dean mumbles, rifling through the plastic bag. “Here: I got you cough drops, and, uh, this.”
Dean tosses the bag of cough drops, and an overly fuzzy hat into Jack's lap. He half expects the kid to roll his eyes again, and throw it in the back seat, but his eyes light up instead.
“It's Chewbacca!” He says, already tugging the hat onto his head. One big curl of hair sticks out from underneath the fluffy beanie. Little tassels hang down past his shoulders, ending in ridiculous pom poms. Jack's never looked happier. “Thank you, Dean.”
Dean scoffs to hide a smile. “Yeah, whatever, you little nerd…”
He turns back out onto the road, and feels hopeful for the next hundred miles.
It doesn't last.
Jack leans out of the car as soon as it skids to a halt by the side of the road. He braces himself against the door frame, puking onto the strip of dry grass between the curb and the pavement. The fluorescent street lights illuminate his pale skin.
“You’re fine, kid…” Dean puts a steadying hand on Jack's back. He yanks off the stupid hat before the tassels get throw up all over them. “Just let it out, you’re okay.”
Jack had started coughing again, so hard that he was soon gagging, fumbling for the door handle. Dean has half a mind to not listen to a damn thing he says and turn the car back around, but the kid needs this. Dean’s just the chaperone.
Jack wipes blood off of his chin. “Where am I gonna go?”
“You… what?”
“After… am I going to be in heaven…? With my mother…?” Jack chokes out, gripping the leather seat.
Dean wraps an arm around Jack’s chest. “Back in the car, c’mon.”
Jack breaths come in staggering gasps. “I-I thought I might be, b-because I’m human now… and I wouldn’t go to purgatory, but—“
“Kid, hey—“
“But after what I've done, what if I’m—“ Jack’s voice keeps increasing in pitch, cracking and breaking at the seams. He runs a shaking hand through his hair, pressing his palms into his eyes to try and stifle the onslaught of tears.
“Jack, stop.” Dean grips his shoulders.
“I don’t want to go to Hell.” He says softly, and Dean wants to cry because he sounds like a kid. (He is a kid, Dean has to keep reminding himself, he’s only been in the world for a year, already beaten down to a pulp, about to be torn out of it kicking and screaming—)
“Jack.” Dean ducks his head to look him in the eye. “Look at me.”
Jack blinks against the stinging in his eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t. Just-- don't be sorry...” Dean says. “You’re not going anywhere. Not on my watch.”
“You don’t believe that.” Jack says miserably. “You don’t, you wouldn’t have taken me here if—“
“What you think I didn’t wanna just spend time with you?” Dean only half jokes.
Jack hugs his knees. Dean doesn't say anything about his shoes on the seat. “I’m scared.” He admits quietly.
“I know.” Dean cringes at his own words. They’re empty, and meaningless; he knows that. But how is he supposed to console the kid about Hell, when he still can’t forget the half a lifetime he spent there? So he doesn’t say ‘don’t be scared’, because he should be, and he doesn’t say ‘it’ll be okay’, because he doesn’t know that for sure. He just waits.
Jack sighs shakily. His breath puffs out into a little cloud and fogs up the window for just a moment. “It’s pretty.” He says. It’s a little broken, and a little hopeful, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into half a smile. “I'm glad I got to see it.”
Dean almost laughs. Almost cries. Almost screams and punches the dashboard. He turns the key in the ignition. “Yeah, well… let's go see something better, huh?”