Chapter Text
Sam doesn’t have much time to think of a plan, because as soon as Jack realizes what’s happened (what he decided to do? Sam isn’t sure if Jack understands that he’s the one who transported them here) he’s on his feet, and talking.
“Deeeeeeeeeeeeee!” He shouts, and Dean lifts his bruised face off of his shoulder with great effort to look at Jack. Sam has watched his brother be killed, has held him while the light drains from his eyes. More than once, even. Dean has never looked as terrified, as defeated, as he does right now.
“Baby, no,” Dean groans, coughing a raspy wet sound that culminates in a helpless trickle of blood dribbling out of his mouth. Sam’s no expert, but he would bet real money that Dean is sporting several broken ribs. Beside him, Ketch’s similarly bloody face goes pale underneath, almost as white as the other man’s suit. His eyes flash over to Sam, then to Jack, and he looks bereft. The arm that’s been propping him up where he’s hunched on the ground slips out from under him, and he curls onto his side, pressing his eyes closed in what could be pain, but almost looks like grief.
“Well, well, well,” The man in white turns on one heel to look at Sam and Jack. “Samuel, is it? I hope you’re having a pleasant day. It’s come to my attention that you boys have something I want.” Sam fights not to roll his eyes at this guy’s ridiculous southern accent, which almost has to be fake. Of all the demons to take them all captive, it just had to be some asshole cosplaying as Colonel Sanders?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam hisses, even though Jack’s not even two feet away from him. The man rolls his eyes.
“On your feet,” He commands, and raises his palm, somehow forcing Sam to stand, like a marionette. “I am Asmodeus. Fourth Prince of Hell. I should thank you, for bringing your little lap angel in for a visit. We’ve been having lots of fun, but the party can really start, now that you’re both here.”
“You can’t do this,” Sam breathes, reaching out to Jack so hard that he feels veins popping in his neck. He’s just out of reach, and he doesn’t yet understand the stakes. The kid’s only four. He might not even be able to understand what’s going on here. Sam’s dying to move, but he’s rooted to the spot, useless.
“Oh, I can. And I will. In fact, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“Leave him alone,” Ketch rasps, pulling himself back up to a sitting position. From his new vantage point, Sam can see that Ketch is sporting a pretty nasty compound fracture of his tibia and fibula, leg cocked at a disgusting angle halfway down his left shin.
“Ah, Ketch. You had such a simple task. Well, two really. All you had to do was keep Gabriel on ice until I returned from an…important errand. But keeping an archangel prisoner proved to be…”
“Monumentally stupid?” Ketch interrupts, and Sam realizes that Ketch is goading him. Trying to distract him. Sam is pretty distracted himself, considering he’s just now finding out that Gabriel might be alive.
“Indeed.” Asmodeus glowers at Ketch before continuing. “So, I pivoted. Focus on getting my power from something a little less conventional, and a lot more potent. A nephil.” He shifts his focus to Jack, who’s standing, staring, watching slack-jawed at the confusing scene around him. “My boy,” He croons at him, and Sam fights fruitlessly against his invisible bonds. “Jack, is it? These men, they want to contain you. Stop you from reaching your full potential. Keep you hidden away. Locked up. But I can give you the world.” Jack’s gaze flickers onto Asmodeus’s face, then onto the faces of his fathers. Onto Ketch. Onto Sam.
Asmodeus is distracted by Jack, his gullible confusion. Sam sees a chance, just a small one, and he takes it. He tests the efficacy of Asmodeus’s bindings against his left hand, and finds it loose, like a magnetic field, or being stuck in a big puddle of mud. There’s resistance, but also give, at the right angle. Carefully, he slips his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out the demon killing knife, the one Ruby gave him so many years ago. And he flings it, from the hip, at Asmodeus.
The knife is right on target, cutting through suit fabric and skin, a bright red stain blossoming around the hilt where it’s buried in the demon’s hip. But Asmodeus just chuckles, pulling the knife out and letting it clatter to the floor.
“Agh,” He regards the stain, nose wrinkled in disgust. “Look what you did to my suit!” While Asmodeus is distracted with scolding Sam for the wardrobe malfunction, Ketch gets in a lick of his own, throwing an angel blade with clinical precision to lodge at the base of the demon’s spine. Sam has no idea where Ketch has been hiding that all this time. But Asmodeus only turns, yanking out the blade and dropping it onto the floor as well. He wheels on Ketch, now genuinely angry.
“You’re ridiculous,” Ketch hacks up a bit of blood, spitting it in Asmodeus’ direction. The crazy British fucker is grinning, somehow.
“Oh, I missed you, boy. I’ll have to punish you rather severely, I’m afraid.” He steps closer to Ketch, bending down just enough to get a good look at his blood streaked face. Ketch’s face is stony, but Sam notices the way he trembles, just slightly. “You think you’re so high and mighty, better than the rest of us? You, Mr. Ketch, are more wicked than any demon in Hell. And I know ‘em all.”
“At least I’ve got a soul.” Ketch sputters.
“You think that’s gonna do you any good?” Asmodeus chuckles, standing back up to his full height to tower over Ketch. “Souls are all messy, all conflict. Confusion.”
“I know who I am.” Ketch grits out.
“Do you? You act like you’re some cold-blooded killer. But you know what I see when I look in your eyes? Fear. And regret. And pain. I see your chewy middle, boy. You want redemption, but you ain’t never gonna get it. You can’t be redeemed. These Winchesters can’t give you redemption, neither can this pitiful angel. Nobody can. All you can do is spread your pain around. You don’t know who you are, Ketch. But I do. You’re nothing.” He motions sharply with his hand, and Ketch’s other leg breaks, identical to the break Sam already noticed. He fights not to throw up at the crunch it makes. “And as for you,” Asmodeus spins back around to face Sam.
Cas and Dean are both looking at Sam helplessly, and all he can do is stare helplessly back, fighting against the invisible grip of their collective captor.
“Run, Jack,” Sam turns to plead with him, “Do what you did before, to go back out.”
“Sam?” Jack whimpers, on the edge of tears.
“Samuel, you’re not setting a very good example.” Asmodeus clucks disapprovingly before lifting his hand, making Sam float weightlessly for a brief second before dropping his hand, and Sam with it, crashing him at high velocity down onto the floor. Sam feels his elbows shatter where they connect with the floor, and at least one of his kneecaps, too. “You should keep your chin up,” Asmodeus wrenches Sam’s chin so that it’s held up off the floor, using only a flick of his wrist. “Put on a brave face.” He snickers.
Sam is certain that Asmodeus is about to snap his neck, to wrench his hand around and drop him graveyard dead right here in front of everyone. He clamps his eyes shut, because he can’t imagine having them open to witness his own death.
Instead, he hears his brother’s agonized voice warble out, “Holy shit,” and hears Cas grunt his son’s name in surprise. He cracks one eye open, and Asmodeus is just. Gone.
Or, upon closer inspection, not gone, exactly. His shoes are still here, right were he was standing. Each shiny white shoe is filled and overflowing with ashes. Around them on the floor, are more ashes. Sam has burned enough bodies in his life to know that what he’s seeing is roughly one adult man’s worth of ash. He tries to get up, but his injuries protest, and he sags back onto the ground, gasping through the pain.
“Sam?” Jack crouches down next to him.
“Hey, buddy.” He musters a smile for him, but Jack remains worried. “Was that you?”
“He was really mean.” Jack answers. Sam nods as much as the position allows. “Did he hurt you?”
“Yeah,” Sam figures there’s no use lying about it. Jack rests a warm hand on the top of Sam’s head, and he feels that bright hot warmth flow through him, in what is becoming a familiar sensation. When it subsides, he feels totally fine, uninjured, not even achey from the long car ride. He pulls himself up to standing and scoops Jack up into his arms, giving the ash pile a wide berth as he walks towards Dean, Ketch, and Cas. “Thanks, Jack.” He gives him a quick peck on the nose before tucking him against his hip, balancing him with one arm.
Sam starts with Cas, who besides the sigil and the cuffs is in the best shape. He picks the lock on the first set of cuffs easily enough and Cas helps pick the rest, making quick work of them as a team.
“What’s the sigil?” Sam asks, realizing how quiet it is now that Asmodeus isn’t yapping.
“Enochian. To limit my abilities. Mostly the ability to heal myself.” Before Sam has a chance to respond, Jack has reached down to Cas and dropped his hand down on the back of Cas’s neck, since he’s bent down picking a lock on his ankle. Cas sits upright again as soon as Jack’s hand leaves him, his eyes wide in shock. It’s rare for Cas to be so emotive, but Sam supposes it’s also rare to see your son’s new superpowers in action. “Jack, did you…heal me?” Sam looks down at Cas’s chest, no longer even bloody, just smooth and muscular like usual.
“It looked ouchy.” Jack explains. Cas smiles at him, eyelids drooping to their usual hoodedness.
“It was ouchy.” Cas confirms before standing up, finally free of the ensorcelled cuffs. He reaches out his arms, and Sam moves to transfer Jack into his father’s grasp, but Jack clings tighter to Sam, burying his face in Sam’s shoulder.
“You wanna stay with me a little longer?” Sam asks, and Jack nods. Cas smiles at both of them, and Sam isn’t sure how he doesn’t take that personally. Maybe one of Cas’s superpowers is being magnanimous.
Cas crouches down beside Dean, who’s barely clinging to consciousness, one eye swollen shut, drooling blood onto his shirt.
“Dean,” Cas murmurs, achingly soft, and it makes Sam’s heart do something funny, hearing the raw tenderness there. He knows Dean and Cas are in love – like, cosmically, world-bendingly – but they’re honestly pretty tame on a day to day basis. When things like this happen, and he’s reminded just how deep things run between them, he can’t help but be moved. He almost thinks he wants something like that, someday, but not quite, because he isn’t sure he could handle something that enormous, something that breaks time and cheats death like that. But it’s a nice thought.
He doesn’t need to look at them to know Cas is healing Dean. Sam and Jack just move on to Ketch, who’s taking slow deep breaths and wincing on every inhale.
“Hey, Ketch,” Sam greets him, plopping down beside him so Jack can sit more properly in his own lap, and to give his arm a break.
“Sam,” Ketch acknowledges him breathlessly, dipping his head slightly.
“Thanks, for drawing fire out there.”
“It didn’t help very much.” Ketch deflects.
“Yeah, it did.” Sam assures him. Jack twists around in his lap and grabs Ketch’s forearm with both hands.
“Uncle Ketch!” Jack exclaims, squeezing the poor guy’s arm. Ketch, to his credit, somehow manages to flash him a genuine smile, despite his cracked ribs and broken legs and god knows what else.
“Hello, Jack. You showed up to save the day,” He congratulates Jack, before glancing up at Sam, “and you brought your trusty steed.”
Jack’s laugh bubbles out of him, and before Sam knows it, that golden light is building again, under both of Jack’s palms where they connect to Ketch’s arm, and just like that, Ketch is perfectly fine.
“Better?” Jack asks.
“Absolutely.” Ketch confirms, smiling. “You’ll have to show me how to do that, sometime. It would be quite handy in my line of work.” He stage-whispers conspiratorially, flashing Sam a wink. Sam rolls his eyes, but it’s hard to be in a bad mood with how everything shook out. He should probably be terrified, that Jack can apparently vaporize people on a whim – not just people. Princes of Hell. Presumably he can vaporize anything on a whim. But all Sam feels is relief. His brain must be broken, because he’s just relieved and proud, that this kid is so good and loyal and loving and brave, and he gets to be a part of his life, every single day.
Cas interrupts this train of thought by stomping over, all business again.
“I thought you told us you’d handled this demon years ago.”
Dean is standing behind Cas, hand on the angel’s shoulder, as if to pull him aside for a quick word.
“I did.” Ketch sighs, levering himself up to standing. Now the only one on the floor, Sam follows suit, scooping Jack up into his arms, then up higher, letting him sit on his shoulders in a piggy back ride, hands on top of Jack’s thighs to anchor him in place. Jack folds his arms in front of himself and balances them on Sam’s head, resting his own face on top. “As Dean and I discovered, just a fraction too late, Princes of Hell can be reincarnated, under the right circumstances. Some rather ardent Satanists conjured him, not far from here. He threw himself back into what he’d been doing when I killed him – searching for Jack.”
“It was harder than before,” Dean adds, “Because Ketch has been spreading so many red herrings and false flags over the years.” Cas glares at Ketch, then chances a glance at Dean, over his shoulder, before relaxing somewhat.
“I understand.” He sighs, and Sam smiles, remembering his earlier train of thought about Cas’s deliberate sighs. “It’s difficult, worrying all the time about something like this. We’d felt so secure for so long. To be caught unaware like this, it was horrifying, of course. But it also made me feel quite foolish, for believing we were safe.”
“You are safe – now, anyway.” Ketch replies.
Everyone smiles, at that, and Dean leans in for a brief kiss from Cas. Ketch rolls his eyes, but Sam can see the fondness there.
“You know,” Sam whispers to Ketch as they make their way out of the building, “Jack’s been asking about you. He wants you to stay and visit a few days.”
“Is that so?” Ketch asks, face unreadable aside from the sudden blush flaming up his cheekbones.
“Yeah. So, is Uncle Ketch going to hang around for a little bit, or should I tell the kid that he’s busy?”
“I believe I could spare a day or two, if you wouldn’t mind a guest.” Ketch whispers back.
“I’ll put sheets on one of the guest beds, then.” Sam replies, unable to hide a smirk.
Back at the cars – just the truck and the Impala, since Ketch’s motorcycle is back at his motel room – they decide how to split off for the ride home. Sam will drive Cas’s truck, and Cas will ride in the Impala with Dean. Dean will give Ketch a ride back to his motel so he can pack his things, and so Ketch can get his motorcycle.
Jack somehow manages to get them all into a group hug, and they stand there in the middle of a craggy old parking lot, arms around each other, Jack happy and snug in the center of all four men.
When they pull apart, Jack lingers on Dean, who’s murmuring something into his little ear as they embrace.
“Alright,” Sam bites his lip, preemptively nervous and tired for the long drive home. “I guess I’m gonna get on the road, then. I’ll see y’all back at the bunker, okay?”
“Drive safe, Sammy.” Dean nods, and Sam knows this is one of the many ways Dean says ‘I love you’. Cas smiles and waves. Ketch gives him the slimmest of knowing smiles.
But Jack breaks away from his father’s grasp and runs to Sam.
“You’re leaving?” He sputters, eyes wide and blue and aghast.
“Yeah, buddy. I gotta drive Cas’s truck back.” Sam explains, but Jack keeps pouting. “I’ll see you when we all get home.”
“No.” Jack shakes his head, then turns to face the others. “I’m going to ride with Sam.” He issues it like a royal decree. Cas cocks an eyebrow, but otherwise doesn’t react. Ketch looks like he’s barely suppressing laughter. Dean doesn’t succeed in keeping his own laughter at bay.
“You sure, baby?” He asks, and Jack nods resolutely. “You can’t change your mind, halfway through.” He cautions.
“I know. I want to ride with my Sam.” He explains. And Sam’s heart just about explodes.
“Oh, he’s your Sam, is he now?” Dean chuckles, crossing his arms in silent challenge.
“Yeah,” Jack reaches up and grabs Sam’s hand, craning his neck to look up at Sam’s face. “He is.”
So that’s exactly what happens – Dean and Cas get some rare alone time on the drive home, and they’re about three hours behind Sam when they do finally arrive, so he can assume they made at least one amorous pit stop along the way. Sam and Jack eat pretzels and golden raisins and go back and forth on their guessing game for hours on end, and Sam feels more content than he knows what to do with.
And he thinks, while Jack’s snoozing in the back seat, long after the sun’s buried beneath the horizon, the only sound the rumble of the tires on the highway and the soft hum of the radio turned way down low, that it doesn’t much matter whether Jack calls him his uncle, or if he calls anyone else his uncle, for that matter. Because he knows, without a doubt, that he doesn’t call anyone else his Sam.