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"Sam? Sam?"
The voice became bolder, more insistent.
Eventually, Sam realized the person saying his name was Jack.
"Yeah," he croaked. ""m here."
"Open your eyes." Jack sounded like he was both far away and very near. Young. Still so young, despite all his powers. "Please, Sam? You gotta wake up. I need your help, please."
He patted Sam's arm rapidly. Sam thought about responding, and decided, no, the relative quiet was nice, such a pleasant change of pace from the last twelve hours. No cannons. No swords clanging. No-one drunkenly singing about hoisting anchors or romancing whores. Why not just keep lying here, wherever here was, unmoving and unspeaking? Just chilling. Bliss.
"Sam, you have to wake up and help me get him back," Jack begged. "Sam. Cas is still on the ship."
At that, Sam sat bolt upright on the floor, the walls of the bunker wobbling around him until his inner ears recalibrated for his being back on land and alive in the 21st century.
"Shit," he said, looking at Jack with horror.
"Shit," Jack said, despite the relief on his face and the tricorn on his head. He grabbed up a nearby agate bowl and a knife Sam recognized as Dean's. "We've got three minutes."
Sam held out his hand, and Jack sliced open the palm. Sam winced, squeezed, and let the blood sluice over the bowl's ingredients: dried sage, iron coffin nails, raven bones, dirt from an unmarked grave, two or three other things of more obscure origins. He scrabbled around in his pocket with his other hand and fumbled out the last piece of the spell.
The coin nearly rolled away, though its path would've zigzagged due to its uneven edge. Jack slapped it down and picked it up.
The Spanish cross embossed on one side winked in the light as the coin fell into the bowl. Jack reeled off a spiel of Latin cut with something vaguely Celtic -- phrases borrowed from Rowena -- threw in a splash of holy water, and did something that made his eyes glitter as gold as the coin for a moment.
Red smoke billowed from the bowl. Sam grabbed Jack and pulled them both behind the nearest file cabinet. A few more spits of sparks and a sizzling, cracking noise originated above the bowl as the air seemed to bubble like peroxide in a wound.
A blinding flash. Jack hiccuped and Sam swore.
Finally, the silence returned and the smoke dissipated.
Sam peeked around the corner of the cabinet. "Oh, thank god."
He reached Cas on the floor at the exact moment Dean appeared in the doorway.
"Hey, what's with the thunder back here-- Holy shit what are you wearing," Dean said, his overnight bag thudding down by his feet.
"Clothes I stole from a dead soldier," Cas said, in his grouchiest tone. "Wet ones."
Sam helped Cas stand with a hand on his honestly sort of slimy shoulder. He hoped it was someone else's blood he'd just touched; the blousy shirt Cas had on seemed intact and Cas seemed cold and seasick but not exactly pained.
"Hi, Dean," Jack said, like nothing much was up. "How's Mary?"
"She's fine," Dean said, storming into the room towards Cas and catching him up in a hug. "What the hell?"
"It's a long story," Sam started, while simultaneously Jack said, "We opened a treasure chest, only it turned out to be cursed!" and Cas said, in an I Am Being Crushed voice, "A man with a peg-leg made me swab the deck."
Dean let him go to look at Sam, then Jack, and then Cas again. "Let me rephrase my earlier statement. What the fuck?"
Jack nodded. "See? He sounds just like Flint when he's mad-slash-scared."
"Ohhh," Sam and Cas said in unison, though frankly it had always been enough for Sam that Dean had sounded like their dad when upset. He didn't need to add comparisons to pirate captains to the mix.
"Dean," Cas said, obviously spotting a rant about to happen, "we'll explain everything as soon as we've taken baths."
Several minutes later, Jack was sweeping up a reside of ash and gold dust and putting it into the cursed (and soon to be properly disposed of) chest. Sam was bandaging his hand.
From the nearest bathroom, Dean's loud and incredulous words could be heard echoing off the tile: "What do you mean it was 1715? The year 1715?"
"I think he's just jealous he didn't get to go with us," Jack said.
Sam tried to think of something wise and paternal to say in response and eventually just gave up.