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Sometimes, if the cocktail of alcohol in his system is just right, Jack can forget about the car. He can turn the headlights into strobe lights, can drown out the human screams and the car's screeching wheels with music. If he's drunk enough, he can pretend that his life is fine, that he isn't a murderer, and that his little sister is at home with their parents, just waiting for him. But sometimes the alcohol doesn't help. Sometimes it makes the headlights all the brighter, the noises louder, the feeling like he's out of control only cementing itself back into his brain. Those are the nights he'll cry, sobs shaking his body like he's nothing, like he's a piece of paper in the wind. Those are the nights that he'll wipe his face like a child would, not caring how he looks. And those are the nights that Koz and Pitch will wrap their arms around him and pull him close. Pull him into that cocoon of comfort and love he wants but isn't sure he deserves. They'll hold him and kiss him, wipe his face to clear it, stroke his hair and rub his back and keep him pressed between them both. They'll do this until he tires himself out and then they'll tuck him in, still held between them.
Jack will wake up the next day with a headache and hangover, Koz armed with aspirin, Pitch with water, and they won't talk about it. But those two dorks will be more affectionate than normal and Jack will soak it in, grateful to have two people who understand.
It's good to be loved.