Chapter Text
In the morning, Jack’s made a decision. He feels nauseous. He skips breakfast and goes straight to the library.
Sam glances up when he comes in. The clockwork is gone. Maybe it’s a lost cause without the right edition of that book. “Jack! Are you feeling better?”
“Why won’t you talk to me?” asks Jack, without preamble.
Now Sam’s head tilts up fully from the sheaf of papers he’s been leafing through, eyes wide and taken aback. “Of course I’ll talk to you, Jack. What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to talk about Lucifer,” says Jack. The forbidden name thrills rebellious in his gut and juts his chin up—the thing he knows he isn’t supposed to ask Sam about.
For a split second, Sam’s face changes. It slackens and goes blank, before he yanks his sympathetic expression back down over whatever’s beneath, like blinds over a window. But Jack saw. He’s always seen, if he thinks about it.
“What about him,” Sam asks, kindly.
“I wanted him to like me,” says Jack. It’s a challenge. He’s not sure why. He just wants to see something, anything, break Sam’s careful, rock-steady empathy. Sam’s acting like nothing’s wrong; or worse, like plenty is wrong, but that’s how it’s meant to be. Like Jack should shut up because this is the way of things.
Sam’s brow creases in a faint frown, as if Jack’s told him a mildly puzzling riddle. He doesn’t say anything.
“Because he was my father,” Jack continues.
“It makes sense,” says Sam slowly. “I don’t blame you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Jack swallows hard. “That’s not what I’m asking,” he says. “Why didn’t you warn me about him?”
Sam looks at Jack levelly, with gentle, deliberate assessment. The strange but certain sense of being judged and found lacking settles in Jack’s chest, a hard curdled lump. “It wasn’t fair to keep you in the dark,” Sam says. Sidesteps. “That was my fault. I’d understand if you’re angry.”
Jack looks at Sam’s earnest eyes and thinks, very clearly, about the things he could say. You don’t trust me. You’re afraid of me. I told you I love you. You told Lucifer I was family.
“Lucifer hurt you,” says Jack, instead. It isn’t a question, because he knows the answer, but he grits his teeth anyway to brace for the evasion he knows is coming. Sam could still act like Jack’s been imagining it, all of it. Maybe Jack just dreamed the conversation he overheard last night, but there are so many things he knows he didn’t dream—
“Yeah,” says Sam, without blinking.
Jack’s brain stutters over the easy acknowledgement. In his mind, he’d gotten a corkboard. He’d pinned up pictures and scenes and connected them with thumbtacks and colored string, like in X-Files.
“He did,” says Sam.
“You didn’t tell me,” Jack says dumbly, prepared evidence forgotten.
“And I’m sorry about that,” says Sam, not missing a beat. His eyes are soft and warm and sincere, as if this is casual dinner conversation. No earth-shattering revelations after a week of silence; Jack’s just sharing some mild anecdote about dropping a carton of eggs.
As if Sam’s said a single word about it since that night.
“You’re… sorry,” says Jack carefully, and something stirs in his chest: stirs, rises, and bursts into flames. For the first time since the moment he nearly killed Michael, Jack feels something other than miserable or muffled. He feels furious.
The fire comes out of him like an explosion; he brings both fists down on the table, hard enough to bruise his human flesh. “You’re sorry? I led him here!” Jack yells.
Sam’s eyes go wide. He’s jolted back, half-pushed out from the table and holding out a placating hand, babbling, “I know I should have told you, I know, but—“
“He nearly killed you! Dean’s GONE!” Jack shouts. He sniffs back the traitorous sting of tears. “Just tell me why!”
Sam’s mouth twists up in a grimace. “Jack,” he says calmly, grappling to regaining composure, “Jack, you’re a year old—”
“So what,” Jack hisses. “I’m not naive! I’ve fought in a war! I’ve watched my friends scream and die. I’ve killed people, remember?”
Sam shakes his head, knuckles white on the table. “That’s not what I meant. I mean—this was your father, Jack, that’s—it’s not fair to put that on you.”
“You thought I could be like him.”
Sam scoffs. “You’re not like him.”
Jack knows Sam is lying. The night he met Sam, Jack had asked, “Father?” and Sam had recoiled. Sam had recognized something in him, Lucifer’s lingering grace, a filmy residue lining his veins.
Jack growls, “Then tell me. Tell me what he did.”
Sam glances back down at his papers. Reports, notes? Jack doesn’t know. It’s something to fight Michael, because it’s always something to fight Michael. Then Sam’s lips tighten, and he pushes his chin up to meet Jack’s eyes in a crisp, deliberate movement. “Jack, you’re right, I owe you an explanation. I’ll—I can tell you everything, if you want to hear.”
He pauses. Jack stares at him and waits.
Sam’s gaze flicks down and away again. On the stack of papers, his fingers are knotted together, tense and pale. His mouth opens, then closes; he wets his lips and takes a breath.
Jack imagines making golden cracks spiderweb their way across Sam’s face and into his eyes, the way he did with Lucifer—yanking out the truth, reaching down Sam’s throat and dragging secrets from his unwilling tongue.
The bottom drops out of Jack’s anger; a cold rush of horrified shame floods in.
“Wait,” he rasps, “wait. I’m sorry, you don’t have to.”
“It’s okay,” says Sam. His expression is pinched and kind. “I don’t mind.”
“I don’t want to hear right now,” Jack mumbles. He doesn’t need the details. It’s nauseatingly clear, what Lucifer is. It’s also clear what Jack is: he’s the last piece of Lucifer. What he almost did to Sam—would have done, if he’d still had his powers...
The fractured relief on Sam’s face is badly hidden. He doesn’t say anything, just nods and slumps back into his chair. Rubs his hands over his deep-shadowed eyes and unshaven chin.
“You were so afraid of me,” says Jack.
“It wasn’t your fault,” says Sam. He kneads at his temples, stretching the skin blue-white at the edges of his still-closed eyes. “I'm sorry I didn’t do better by you.”
Jack wishes Sam would stop apologizing. It's Jack who's sorry. It's Jack who betrayed them all. He’s gone from feeling nothing to feeling everything at once, in a jumble of horrific confusion.
“I’m the one who deserves to be punished,” murmurs Jack, tasting the truth and knowing Sam can hear it too.
Sam sits upright. “No, Jack—”
Jack wonders if the entire week was simply leading to this blank confession that Sam already knows: “I’m the one who should be gone.”
“No,” says Sam, standing and finally showing an ounce of anger, “no, it’s Michael’s fault, and Lucifer’s. Not yours.”
“It’s been a week,” whispers Jack. “Why are you acting like I didn’t betray you?”
Sam’s shaking his head. “You didn’t,” he says, “please believe me.” He pulls Jack’s hands into his own. Jack’d been pressing on his stomach again. He hadn’t even noticed.
This time, Jack doesn’t pull away. He swallows past the lump in his throat.
Sam’s hands tighten around his. “Jack. Lucifer’s fooled me too,” he says firmly.
It’s an offer for an answer, but Jack finds he can’t bear to ask the question.
Sam squeezes his hands. “It’s not your fault.”
Jack can’t speak. He nods.
Sam’s grip flutters, then releases. Jack lets out a breath and nearly stumbles, as if the solid, warm grasp was the only thing tying him down to earth.
Sam says, “So, uh. Do you want to help me with this?” He gestures at the books on his table, tentative, like Jack might storm out again.
“Yeah.” Jack scrubs a hand over his eyes.
“Outillage de L’Enchanteur,” Sam says, “turns out there was an incredibly helpful chapter on how the Men of Letters manufactured their prototype banishment devices, back in the day.”
“Oh,” says Jack.
“I think if we combine these—” and Sam stacks more manuscripts— “and reference here—” and then Sam’s explaining a plan, outlining how he wants to reverse engineer some kind of magical invention.
It’s more than Sam’s spoken to him all week. Jack drinks it in, even if it’s not quite what he wanted.
Sam pauses, thumb in the pages of the book Jack found. “You know I don’t mind you asking me about stuff, even if it’s hard, right?”
He smiles. It doesn’t go to his eyes.
“I know,” says Jack.