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Dean startled, pulled from sleep by a sound he hadn’t expected to ever hear again. Not in his own home, anyway, and definitely not in the middle of the night. It burned him to think he had spent enough time with Lisa that, even after years apart, there were certain parts of the life they had shared that were hardwired into his brain. But he couldn’t think about that, because the sound that had often woken him up on the occasions Lisa babysat her niece was still coming down the hall.
Dean threw his blankets off and stumbled out of bed, half-conscious and relying on muscle memory to carry him toward the sound of need. He lumbered into the hall and braced a hand on the wall, shuffling down a few doors to the room he had been trying not to think about for the past few days.
Briefly, it occurred to Dean that he was walking toward the bedroom of one Jack Kline, whom Dean could barely stand to actually be in a room with, but that train of thought was buried beneath the sound of a baby crying.
Dean twisted the doorknob and let himself in, eerily unsurprised at the lack of a young man and the presence of a baby. It was almost like he had been expecting to find Jack transformed into a one-year-old child—give or take, but that was Dean’s best guestimate—which, in a way, he supposed he did.
What did it say about his life that ‘young man spontaneously turned back into a baby’ was a more likely explanation than ‘someone with a baby broke into the Bunker?’
“Come on, man. It’s, like… early.” Dean hadn’t even checked the clock. “Turn back into a dude.”
But Jack continued to cry, kicking his little legs in the tangle of sheets and oversized shirt. He was old enough to look over when Dean spoke, old enough to process that it was, in fact, Dean standing there, and old enough to reach out a tiny hand and grab at the air, but he wasn’t old enough to do anything but cry about it some more.
“Look, kid…” Dean rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh, but there was really only one way Jack was going to stop crying. “Okay, okay… just calm down.”
Dean crossed the room and reached down into the blankets, grabbing Jack under the arms. He lifted Jack into his arms and held Jack to his chest, bouncing slightly and patting the damp backside.
“You couldn’t have used the bathroom and then turned into a baby?” Dean wasn’t even remotely bothered—by the sweat or the urine or the drool and tears and snot that were no doubt getting all over his shirt—but he knew the same couldn’t be said of Jack. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Jack kept on sobbing, little fingers curling through Dean’s shirt and pulling on it intermittently. His legs kicked against Dean’s sides, and he turned his head so his face was nestled against Dean’s neck.
“You’re lucky I haven’t had coffee.” Dean walked into the connected bathroom and turned on the hot and cold water, letting it run. “If I was in my right mind, I’d be trying to kill you. Figure you’re easier to kill like this, otherwise you wouldn’t have magically grown up in the first place, right?” He put his wrist under the water, but it was still too hot, so he adjusted the knobs and continued to hold Jack. “But before coffee, I am certifiably, legally insane, so…”
Jack was still crying, but it was growing progressively softer, and he had started to chew on Dean’s t-shirt, which seemed to be making him happy.
Dean checked the temperature again, and when he found it suitable, he plugged up the drain. He waited a few moments for the water to start collecting, and then he set Jack in the sink, holding him up with one hand a wrestling the baggy shirt off with the other.
Jack started crying again, reaching up for Dean, but Dean wasn’t having it. He started mumbling under his breath, stupid little nothings, and the mumbling soon became humming. REO Speedwagon. Kansas. Bon Jovi. Billy Joel. The Beatles. What the Beatles were doing in that mix, Dean didn’t know, but he didn’t question that kind of thing before noon.
Jack let Dean rinse him off, occasionally hitting the water as he tried to hum along to tunes he didn’t know. He kicked his legs a little, and then he stopped, looking up at Dean with watery eyes and a wobbly lip.
“What’s your problem?” Dean muttered, cupping his hand to grab some water and pour it over Jack’s head.
“A’ssel,” Jack whimpered, hiccupping quietly as his tears started up again. “A’ssel.”
Dean stopped, watching the water slowly drain out between his fingers. He pressed his lips together, eyes suddenly glassy, and then he heaved a sigh.
“Yeah,” he muttered hoarsely, grabbing another handful of water and pouring it over Jack’s head. He sniffed and cleared his throat. “Yeah, I miss him, too.”
Jack sniffled to himself, whining quietly as he teetered on the edge of crying. He didn’t try to move the arm Dean was using to hold him upright, but the other one trailed through the water aimlessly before coming up to his mouth so he could chew on it.
“Wait, wait, wait…” Dean pulled the hand out and turned on the spigot, rinsing the hand before handing it back. “There. Something tells me that’ll taste better.”
Jack chewed—or gummed—his hand and continued to whine, kicking his legs a few times as Dean continued to wash him up.
Dean heaved a sigh and pulled the plug on the drain, letting go of Jack for just a moment to pull his shirt up over his head. Dean took Jack out of the sink and used the t-shirt to pat him dry, wrapping him in the fabric and carrying him back to the bedroom. He put Jack on the bed, letting him sit up on his own, and then opened drawers until he found a plain, white t-shirt.
Jack looked up at him with wide, hazelnut eyes, no longer crying, but babbling quietly to himself on the bed. Jack had yet to take his fist out of his mouth.
Dean tugged the shirt down over Jack’s head, not bothering to make the kid put his hands through.
“Okay, here we go.” Dean grabbed Jack and picked him up, resting the boy on his hip and walking out of the room. He began patting Jack on the back when the whining started again, and it was an effective gesture. “Easy there, Jackie Boy. We’re going back to bed in just a second.”
Jack kicked a little against Dean’s sides, clearly not trying to inflict damage, but simply trying to get a feel for the world around him. He hit Dean on the chest a few times, and then the shoulder, and then Dean’s face.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Dean grabbed the hand and lowered it.
Jack reached right back up and hit Dean’s face again.
“Hey. No.” Dean put the hand back down. “No, Jack.”
Jack reached right back up, but that time, he grabbed Dean’s ear. He tugged on it a bit, and then he reached out to touch Dean’s cheek, squeezing the skin.
“Yeah, it’s fascinating.” Dean arrived in the kitchen and opened the junk drawer, grabbing the roll of duct tape. “Many people find themselves unable to look away. It’s a pretty good-looking face.”
Jack giggled, squeezing a few more times and then going for Dean’s mouth. He pulled on Dean’s lower lip, cooing and squirming in Dean’s arms.
Dean sighed and walked over to the couch, laying Jack on the cushions and prying the hands away from his mouth. “Yeah. Hysterical.” He grabbed the front of the shirt and tucked the lower hem between Jack’s legs, grabbing the back of the shirt and pulling it up in the opposite direction. He tore of a strip of tape and slapped it—gently, of course—where the t-shirt overlapped. “Boom. Onesie.”
Dean sighed and picked Jack back up, tossing the tape aside and beginning to pace. He rubbed Jack’s back and almost bounced him a little, humming quietly.
Jack grabbed at Dean’s face a few more times, but then he yawned and slouched against Dean's chest. “Dee.” He fisted a bit of Dean's shirt and tugged, babbling quietly to himself.
“Mhm.” Dean rubbed Jack's back and slowly eased himself onto the couch, sitting first and then sliding into a laying position.
Jack laid his head on Dean's chest, wiggling a bit before settling in with a contented string of coos.
Dean sighed and continued rubbing Jack's back, stopping only to pull the blanket down from the back of the couch. He spread it over the both of them and heaved a sigh, eyes already drifting shut. “You know, you only got to meet Cas after he was relatively cool. When I met him, he was a total dork.”
Jack kicked a little, tugging on Dean’s shirt before going still again.
“Okay, to be fair, at first, he was really cool.” Dean ignored the sharp pain in his sternum; he had to talk about Cas, even if it was to a baby. Or no one. “Swoops into this old barn all, 'I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.’ But it was all a sham, because he was actually a total dork.” He just had to talk about all the things he missed. “First time I tried to work a case with the guy, he held his FBI badge upside down.”
Jack made a confused cooing noise.
“I know, right? Oh, and later, on the same case, I ask him what he’s gonna do for his last night on Earth, and what does he say?” Dean dropped his voice half an octave. “I was just going to sit here quietly.”
Jack giggled, but the sound was weak and quickly tapered into a sigh. It wouldn’t be long before he was sound asleep.
Dean snorted. “Like, for real? Who does that?” He stopped and sighed then, tears burning the backs of his eyes. “He did that.”
Jack uttered a quiet hum and tucked himself under Dean’s chin, his breathing growing slower and steadier by the minute.
“None of us would be here without him, y'know? Not me… not Sam… not you…” Dean inhaled deeply, trying to clear the moisture from his eyes. “I remember this one time, uh, way back when we were trying to stop the Apocalypse…”
The first thing Dean realized upon waking up was that Jack was big again.
The second thing Dean realized was that Jack was awake and pretending—very poorly—to still be asleep.
The third thing Dean realized was that, for the first time since they lost Cas, he had slept without being disturbed by nightmares.
So, against his better judgement, Dean situated his arms around Jack’s body and settled down for another round of sleep. And when Jack snuggled closer in his 'sleep,' Dean might have let himself smile.
Just a little bit.