Chapter Text
"There was a time when I was alone
No where to go and no place to call home
My only friend was the man in the moon
And even sometimes he would go away too
Then one night, as I closed my eyes
I saw a shadow flying high
He came to me with the sweetest smile
Told me he wanted to talk for a while
He said Peter Pan that's what they call me
I promise that you'll never be lonely"
Jack spun and rolled down the hill slope along the back side of the Bunker. He'd found the season of Autumn amazing. Like the story of 'Goldilocks & the Three Bears', the weather wasn't too hot, it wasn't too cold. He thought it felt just right.
After his stomach informed him it was lunch o' clock, he'd gone back out for more fall fun involving examining, smelling, crunching and rolling in the plethora of lovely, multicolored foliage. He simply adored being outside, yet quietly admitted to himself that occasionally it would be nice having someone with whom he could zoom down the multicolored leaf covered hill, maybe even race. Brushing himself off, he realized he'd forgotten to offer his fathers a sandwich. So he made his way back inside, turning on the bluetooth to his earbuds, contentedly moving to the eighties Aha! song's rhythm and singing in jovial exuberance.
"We're talking away
I don't know what
I'm to say I'll say it anyway
Today's another day to find you
... ...
Take ooon mee! Take Me on!"
"Jack! Dude!" Dean hollered from the study.
"Oops, sorry!" Jack apologized, hitting the pause button for the Beats pill Sam had bought him, under the suggestion from Dean he should be studying music as well as popular cinema.
"Anybody want some lunch?" He offered to his family..
The replies came one at a time, like a roll call from the study.
"No, thank you."
"I'm good."
"Thanks for asking though!"
They'd been practically sleeping next to the ever growing pile of dusty books which by day, they combed through with a fine tooth comb, desperately searching for a way into Apocalypse world to rescue Mary.
Cruising into his room, he set the music devices down on his dresser Dean had given him when he expressed an interest in music, in nearly every genre. Obviously he hadn't anticipated the bunkers halls echoing with various decades of tunes Jack loved, in addition to all the music Dean didn't.
Marvelous. Since that infernal racket has ceased, to whom do I owe my gratitude?
Jack stopped dead in his tracks, knowing it wasn't Sam, Dean, Castiel or anyone else on that plane who'd uttered those words. Sitting on his bed quietly, he listened.
Although nothing more was said for a long while, he continued to sense an unfamiliar presence, lingering on the fringes of his cognitive periphery. He also became aware of an unusual urge to draw. It'd never happened before, so why now, was he experiencing a sudden case of inspiration? Jack decided not to question, but just go with it.
Leaving his earbuds and bluetooth speaker in his room, he traipsed into the study where his fathers were nearly eclipsed by piles upon piles of aged monographs. Not wishing to disturb them, he quietly looked through a large desk and found pencils, pens, crayons, and a suitable, blank sketchbook, then retreated to the library.
Once comfortable in a cozy nook, he realized that in addition to never having been inspired to create something, he'd never actually done the creating itself, either. Holding a pencil as Sam and Dean did, Jack pressed the sharpened lead to the page and it snapped. Taking another pencil, he tried again with less pressure, yet it still snapped. He willed himself to calm, inhaling a deep breath, letting his frustration bleed out of him and float away. Jack surmised this would be akin to when he'd learned to move a pencil with his mind .
"Time and patience. That's what this will take," he stated to himself, huffing out air.
I think you'll find that all the best things do.
Again, it wasn't Sam, Dean, or Cas. He'd met friends of theirs, their voices and speech patterns didn't match up. This voice had a palatable gravel and a hint of sarcasm.
Anything worth doing at all Jack, is worth doing well.
Jack found that sentiment very appealing. He realized it was a philosophy to which his fathers subscribed and lived by in everything they did and so decided he would as well. Curiosity about who this voice belonged to was clawing at him, and if it was an acquaintance of his fathers.
Perhaps it's time for a story.
Jack was vibrating with curiosity, "Yes! Would you? I'd really like to hear it, or several. But, who are you?"
Worked for Hell once, then I ruled it. I'm an old friend of those clad-in-plaid neanderthals you call your fathers. Even worked some cases with Feathers.
Jack smiled. "A demon..You worked with Castiel? I'll keep practicing while I listen to you. Will you tell me how you met Sam and Dean?"
Barring interruption, I've nothing else to do today. Practice makes perfect. Now let's see.
"Are you in the Empty?"
I am. My name is Crowley.
Jack felt a warm smile spread across his face. "It's very nice to meet you, I'm Jack."
Likewise.
"Sam and Dean miss you."
I highly doubt that. Nevertheless, it kind of you to s—
"Miss who Jack?" Sam queried from behind Jack in the hall.
Jack didn't want to be untruthful, yet the amount of emotional grief still rolling off of both Sam and Dean supported the truth he knew in his soul. Bringing up their recently deceased friend would bring Sam more heartache. He was already experiencing enough, especially worrying if his Mother was still alive.
"I'm just talking to myself. Hey Sam, do you know how to draw?"
Furrowing his brows, Sam was easily deterred. "Depends on what you're wanting to draw. Sigil and spell work, yes. Landscapes or sports cars, no. But YouTube has plenty of tutorials."
None of those items Sam listed were what Jack had in mind, yet he watched the videos with him, finding them somewhat helpful. Later he tried putting what was in his head onto the page.
Dean was on his way to the kitchen through the library donning an apron and licking his barbecue sauce coated fingers. The food on the tray in his arms smelled tempting.
"Those ghosts or true form demons? Not bad kiddo."
Jack confessed, "I'm not sure yet."
He couldn't blame Dean for not knowing what it was he was drawing. He barely knew himself. But he did know he had to keep trying. As a reward for all his almost hard work, and also giving into his cravings, Jack prepared a piping hot beverage that night before he and Castiel left for their evening stroll. He grabbed two travel mugs from the cabinet and prepared a treat for them both before meeting Castiel in the garage.
The stars were out by the thousands and twinkled down upon him and Castiel when taking a brisk walk. Jack liked to imagine they were the souls of people Sam and Dean loved dearly, happily waving to him and his father during their chilly stroll.
Offering Castiel a warm mug, he informed, "Autumn Creme Rooibos sounded like a yummy idea tonight."
"Thank you, Jack. With some of my grace missing, I'm able to taste more than just molecules," he took a small sip then softly continued, "The scent of burning leaves pairs nicely with...hmm cinnamon, apples, and pumpkin. There's other flavors in there I can't identify, but this is very acceptable."
"I like hearing the leaves crunching underneath my feet," Jack stated, pointedly pressing his toes through his shoes harder onto the patches of leaves resting atop the wet grass, while trodding through the small wooded area behind the bunker.
Castiel carefully hopped, landing upon a small pile. Jack heard the ensuing crunch, and laughed, happy his father wanted to try.
"See?"
Smiling in that particular way which Jack had come to associate with Castiel being proud of successfully 'humaning', he amusedly replied, "It's very satisfying, yes."
Castiel jumped a few times more, delighting in the sounds and play, every bit just as much as Jack.
"Do you think Sam and Dean crunched leaves when they were little?" Jack wondered aloud.
"It's a shame if they didn't," Cas issued matter of factly.
"There's so much about them I don't know. It's nice I can ask you questions about when you were...not growing up, um, just learning things I guess?" Jack wasn't sure how to articulate his exact sentiments, but Castiel seemed to understand what he meant.
"I was never a child, so I'm afraid I've nothing to draw from experience or memory wise like Sam and Dean do."
Jack almost mourned for Castiel, because he liked being younger and knew it wouldn't last forever. "I want to ask them what it was like. They miss their mom so much. I miss mine too, but Dean knew Mary for longer than I knew Kelly. He still hurts over her, so it's not a good idea right now to ask him these questions."
"But you'd still like to know, wouldn't you?"
Jack nodded, admitting he did. A chill rippled down his spine and as he took another sip of tea, he thought he caught a playful shadow flying across the brightly illuminated night sky.
Castiel made a pleasant offer. "I'm happy to relay what I know from the stories Dean and Sam have shared with me. Even a few from Mary herself. Would that be sufficient for now?"
"Yes, thank you." Jack allowed Castiel time to collect his thoughts.
When he was ready, they sat on a large boulder nestled in a grove of birch trees bathed in silvery light. Castiel spoke of Mary with reverence, telling him how she hadn't wanted the life of a hunter after she married, especially not for her children. He recalled how Dean said he loved her stories at bedtime in the nursery. Every night she followed her routine of putting away the toys, singing he and Sam rhymes and other songs dear to her heart, like "Hey, Jude" by The Beatles. Jack really adored hearing the part where she promised Dean that angels were watching over him.
"That was you Castiel, wasn't it?" Jack animatedly exclaimed.
Jack watched as his father's cheeks turned scarlet.
"It was and it wasn't. What Mary imagined angels were like is very different from the truth. Nevertheless, she did what she thought was best for Sam and Dean."
Hearing from Castiel what had happened that fateful night and how it irrevocably changed their lives was difficult to hear. Learning how that night had set their course to where they were now, wasn't any easier. Yet, it allowed Jack to understand them better, and if possible, he loved them even more.
As he sat at the library table that night, sipping more tea in his warm Star Wars pajamas and extra thick socks polka dotted with burgers and french fries, he stared at his sketchbook. Jack could still feel a presence that'd taken up rent in his headspace.
It's quiet, yet steady benevolence was welcome, reminding him of when he and Sam would quietly sit side by side in the library, each with their respective books. They didn't really discuss what they were reading, they didn't discuss anything at all. Yet the enjoyment of the others' silent companionship was soothing.
With his cup of tea beside him, it's steam rising in pretty curly cues, he began anew with the crayon carefully grasped in hand, pressing lightly.
Earlier, Castiel had left on an errand. Sam and Dean had retired for the night to their rooms and not a peep had been issued from within them. The night was silent, yet for the first time in a long time, for Jack it wasn't lonely.
He could even hear the scratches from the crayon wax as he dragged it from point A to point B, connecting lines over the paper's miniscule imperfections. It was peaceful, satisfying.
The form of a man slowly took shape. Rather than celebrate with a cookie from the kitchen, Jack simply redoubled his focus. It wasn't until well after midnight that he put his utensils aside to really examine what he'd drawn.
Despite its rudimentary style, he liked it . He was even proud of creating something recognizable.
As you should be. Your effort and determination seem to have yielded the desired results, that is what matters most.
"Oh, hello. I'm glad you're still here," Jack calmly expressed.
As am I.
"What do you mean by 'what matters most'?"
Why your approval, of course. If you don't like what you've created, why do it at all? And yet here you've set yourself a goal, taken your time, expounded tremendous effort on something you like. It's a noble pursuit, if ever there was one.
"It could use improvement," Jack admitted, knowing it was the truth.
A mature attitude, for one so young. To recognize in the vein of constructive criticism, what one can adjust or ammend, is quite positive. Even grown adults can lack that perspective. I applaud your efforts in the endeavor.
"Thank you. I'm happy with it's beginning."
Satisfaction in the beginning of one's journey is a fortuitous thing. However, it's how you maintain this fortunate perspective throughout the entire endeavor itself. That's what serves as the test by which it's true success shall be measured.
"If this is me, beginning a journey," he started to say but finally yawned, then softly declared, "I'm going on an adventure."
Jack felt an abrupt sensation of alarm from Crowley, almost as if it was a swiftly building urgency before uttering a hurried reply.
Safe travels then Jack, until next ti—
"Crowley?"
"Mister Crowley, is everything alright?" He asked no one.
Crowley's presence in his mind was no longer there, and despite him remaining silent for most of the day, Jack was startled by the deafening sound of his absence.
He peered at the picture looking back at him. The man he'd taken so long drawing had dark, well groomed hair and a beard. The bottom of his coat reached thigh length and his red tie popped in impeccable contrast to his dark suit. Below his form where his feet should have been was a thin purple line and underneath that, a purple square next to the words, "Goodness Level."
Jack didn't completely understand what that was about, but like the very thing which had sparked his inclination to begin this "adventure," he sensed he should lean into it.
Yawning once more, he closed the sketchbook and tucked it under his arm, schlepping down the hall to bed.
One thing was certain. He was determined to continue drawing the following day.