[ jack doesn't notice they're getting food until there's a crinkling bag being held out to him, jack pulling his eyes from the window and outside world to quickly grab at the bag when he realizes dean's been waiting on him to take it out of his hand so he can drive.
the smell of food makes his stomach ache, reminding him he hasn't had a meal in a hot minute. in the rush to hurry up and grab the stuff, he's not as careful as he should be with his hands. jack's going to have to remind himself to start wearing gloves in this place, because when he grabs at the bag, hands curling around the plastic, his hand overlaps some of dean's fingers, skin on skin for a few horrible seconds.
for jack, it's not too bad. he gets dean's current emotional state, which seems vaguely irritated, but mostly focused, solving problems, making plans, figuring out how to take care of the both of them. there's that constant, underlying ache that is dean winchester, because dean carries all kinds of hell around in his bones, and the impressive concrete wall between dean and the things he doesn't want to feel right now.
but it isn't New Soul. it isn't wanting to crawl out of your own skin. it isn't wishing the ma'lak box had been strong enough to hold him at the bottom of the ocean forever. it isn't holding your body tight and tense so you don't start shaking, the echo of pain on the backs of his hands, where the sharp edges of the sides of his knees were pressing in painfully on the smaller, brittle twigs of bone in the backs of his hands to hold them still there.
for a few brief seconds, the air's been sucked out of the car and jack's breathless, completely helpless to stop the heartbreak, the self-loathing, the despair, the guilt so thick he's choking on it. he meets dean's eyes and he sees mary pleading with him, and sam with fear and regret in his eyes. castiel, ready to damn the whole world if it meant keeping his child safe. he remembers the distance in dean's eyes when they called him to the bunker, and the cold, steely hatred in his eyes when he leveled the gun on him.
it's suffocating, and jacks' doing everything he can to keep his head above water, now, for nothing. all of it floods out of him and there's nothing he can do to stop it but abruptly yank his hands back, dropping the bags of food somewhere on the middle console.
the mess it makes is enough to snap him out of it, and jack's attention is devoted entirely to cleaning up the mess, picking up the thankfully wrapped up tacos from the car floor, the napkins and whatever else was stuffed in there. ]
Sorry, I'm sorry- [ jack mutters out, head ducked while he cleans ] I wasn't looking.
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the smell of food makes his stomach ache, reminding him he hasn't had a meal in a hot minute. in the rush to hurry up and grab the stuff, he's not as careful as he should be with his hands. jack's going to have to remind himself to start wearing gloves in this place, because when he grabs at the bag, hands curling around the plastic, his hand overlaps some of dean's fingers, skin on skin for a few horrible seconds.
for jack, it's not too bad. he gets dean's current emotional state, which seems vaguely irritated, but mostly focused, solving problems, making plans, figuring out how to take care of the both of them. there's that constant, underlying ache that is dean winchester, because dean carries all kinds of hell around in his bones, and the impressive concrete wall between dean and the things he doesn't want to feel right now.
but it isn't New Soul. it isn't wanting to crawl out of your own skin. it isn't wishing the ma'lak box had been strong enough to hold him at the bottom of the ocean forever. it isn't holding your body tight and tense so you don't start shaking, the echo of pain on the backs of his hands, where the sharp edges of the sides of his knees were pressing in painfully on the smaller, brittle twigs of bone in the backs of his hands to hold them still there.
for a few brief seconds, the air's been sucked out of the car and jack's breathless, completely helpless to stop the heartbreak, the self-loathing, the despair, the guilt so thick he's choking on it. he meets dean's eyes and he sees mary pleading with him, and sam with fear and regret in his eyes. castiel, ready to damn the whole world if it meant keeping his child safe. he remembers the distance in dean's eyes when they called him to the bunker, and the cold, steely hatred in his eyes when he leveled the gun on him.
it's suffocating, and jacks' doing everything he can to keep his head above water, now, for nothing. all of it floods out of him and there's nothing he can do to stop it but abruptly yank his hands back, dropping the bags of food somewhere on the middle console.
the mess it makes is enough to snap him out of it, and jack's attention is devoted entirely to cleaning up the mess, picking up the thankfully wrapped up tacos from the car floor, the napkins and whatever else was stuffed in there. ]
Sorry, I'm sorry- [ jack mutters out, head ducked while he cleans ] I wasn't looking.