it hadn't been long since jack kline was born into this unholy world, a hunted, and dangerous, nephilim.

his mother is dead, despite your best attempts to keep kelly kline alive. she was a beautiful, courageous woman, and you wished she would've been able to stay. not even just for her son, but for herself.

that failure rests heavily on your shoulders as you lay in sam's bed, curled up in his sheets, watching him pace around.

dean is half-mad with grief, losing his mom, and cas, hell, even crowley, and doesn't want to interact with jack in the slightest. that leaves sam, who empathises with the poor kid. he knows what it's like to feel like the root of everybody's problems, with the demon blood in his veins, and being lucifer's true vessel, sam has been a problem for both man and angel alike, just like jack.

you also feel awful for jack, but that godforsaken angel conditioning still lingers in your brain. he's still a nephilim, still a threat to angelkind. even the angel radio in your brain has been going haywire, it has been since jack was concieved by lucifer himself.

you've tried your hardest to turn that off, but the screeching can be persistent at the worst times.

you want to care for the kid so badly. you want to do kelly and cas, and sam, even, proud. god knows this is hard for san, looking after the kid of the man who once used his body and tortured him in the cage. sam has always been stronger willed you, and you're not ashamed to admit that.

sam hates when you think like that. you've confessed it just the once, one sleepy night after dean had killed cain, and he had professed his love for you in a tired, sad way.

but even now, over a year later, he can see that look in your eyes.

sam rakes his large hands through his hair, dragging it back. he looks exhausted, and you can't ignore his grief, either. it's blatant.

dean wasn't the only one who lost a mother.

“sam, come to bed.” you say, voice still flat despite the years of being much more domesticated than you ever were back in heaven.

“i'm not tired.” he lies, rubbing the heels of his palms over his eyes.