Sam wandered through the bunker, feet dragging on the floor as though they weighed too much. His whole body felt leaden and hopeless, after the news they'd received.

He didn't think he had a destination in mind. Despair had numbed his thoughts into a wordless, endless shout of panic. He could've walked right into a wall, and he might not have even noticed.

But if he had taken even a second to consider, there was really only one place he could go.

Jack was back in his own room, right next to Sam's. He lay in bed, motionless except the slight rise and fall of his chest. His lips had paled to the color of chalk, except for a small splatter of blood near the corner of his mouth. Dark gray shadows circled underneath his eyes. And was Sam imagining it, or had Jack somehow lost weight in the mere hours since Rowena had pronounced him a dead man walking? He looked gaunter, the bones in his face more prominent. Like he was...withering away.

The chair next to Jack's bed was empty. Cas had left just after Rowena, saying something about finding that shaman, finding answers, saying he couldn't just sit around and do nothing.

Sam was pretty sure that was what Dean was doing—sitting somewhere nursing a drink. Doing nothing, because according to Rowena, there was nothing that could be done.

Sam settled into the chair by Jack's bedside. This close, he could hear the faint wheeze accompanying Jack's every breath, the effort cost by just a shallow inhale. His fingers, resting on top of his chest, twitched minutely.

Sam could feel his eyes welling up. He took a deep breath, blinking back the tears that he'd been fighting for days now.

He couldn't lose Jack. Not after everything. Not after he'd fought so hard for him, this unexpected kid who'd popped into their lives and bowled Sam over like a tidal wave. Aside from Dean, aside from Cas, he didn't think he could care for a person so much.

Seeing this boy suffer, knowing he was in pain with no way to help him, was almost more than Sam could handle. He could feel a tightening in his chest, a shoring up of some deep emotion he usually tried to keep buried.

Something inside Sam was breaking. And if he lost Jack now, he doubted it could ever be repaired.

His turmoiled thoughts forced him to gasp in a trembling breath. Loud, too loud. One hand jerked upward to cover his mouth, so to not disturb Jack's uneasy sleep. His index finger, nail already bitten down to a nub, found its way to a familiar place between his teeth. He'd been worrying a lot lately.

"Sam?"

The query was hushed, so quiet Sam almost missed it. Jack's voice was so rough and hoarse it was nearly unrecognizable.

"Oh," Sam breathed, attention snapping into place like a rubber band. Jack's eyes were barely open, fluttering exhaustedly. Sam's hands hovered up and down Jack's prone body, brushing over his face, his forehead, his hair. "Hey, buddy. How're you doing?"

"Okay," Jack croaked. "Still...still breathing." He heaved another rasping breath, prompting a weak cough to rattle in his chest.

Sam's own throat tightened up in response. His hands finally settled in place, one on the kid's thin shoulder, the other on top of his arm. Jack's hands were freezing, he noted. He quickly adjusted the blankets to warm them up.

"G—Jack. Do you...do you need anything? Some soup? Water?" He swallowed fiercely, thinking of how Jack had glommed onto his big brother ever since his diagnosis. "Do you want me to get Dean?"

Jack's brow knitted in confusion. He shook his head, a feeble motion. "No. Sam, I...I want you to stay." One spindly hand, tiny in comparison to Sam's, gripped his wrist underneath the blanket.

Something that had been tightly knotted in Sam's stomach loosened a little at those words, little blooms of warmth pulsing through his torso. He exhaled, feeling the sting in his eyes once again. "Okay. I'll stay."

Jack's lips pushed upward in a ghost of a smile. Even that little movement seemed to cost him a monumental effort. His lungs strained for air, each wheezing breath sounding like his last.

When the next coughing fit came, fiercer than the last, Sam scooted closer, placing his arm behind Jack's shoulders and helping him into a sitting position. A tiny spray of blood showered his blanket, already speckled with red. Sam could hear the fluids rattling in Jack's chest, threatening to choke him any time he breathed too deeply. Jack's face screwed up with the effort to breathe through the rattles.

He helped lay Jack back on his pillow with gentle, delicate movements. Like he was made of porcelain.

The question burned in Sam's mouth as he voiced it, already fearing the answer. "Are you...are you in a lot of pain, Jack?"

Jack's smooth brow wrinkled in contemplation. "It depends. It...breathing hurts more now than, uh...getting punched. But less than—than a knife in my chest."

An invisible fist squeezed around Sam's heart at the reminder that Jack, back when he'd still been powerful and invulnerable, had not only survived a knife—multiple knives—to the chest, but had felt every ounce of pain that a human would in his place.

"So, it's not the worst pain I've ever felt," Jack concluded. "I'm okay."

I'm okay. The kid was undoubtedly one of them—he was dying, and still categorized his pain as I've had worse.

"You're not okay," Sam murmured. He pressed his lips together to dispel the building lump in his throat.

This wasn't like anything else he'd been through with Jack. When he'd been trapped in the apocalypse world with Mary, Jack had been powerful. There had been nothing that Sam knew of that could hurt him. His worry had been focused on getting him back, getting him home.

And back in that church, with Lucifer looming over them both, Sam had known what to do. Protect Jack as much as possible from Lucifer. Draw the devil's attention away from his son. Offer Jack the knife, give him his life just for the chance to survive, to beat the devil.

But this...

Sam didn't know what to do. Jack was dy—

He flinched involuntarily. This wasn't Lucifer's sick dogfight, the devil watching hungrily as Jack pressed the blade deeper and deeper into his stomach—after saying to Sam 'I love you.' That nightmare had only lasted a few seconds, anyway, before Dean had come.

Sam was going to have to watch as Jack grew weaker and weaker, in pain so much pain, while he was helpless, powerless, to do anything.

"Sam." Jack's voice grew a little stronger. A little more resolved. "When I—" he paused to gasp in another breath—"When I'm gone, I don't...I don't want you to be sad. I don't want to hurt you...any more than I already have."

Sam's answering huff of laughter was half astonishment, half sob. He felt a disbelieving smile grow on his face. "Jack, you're not hurting us. And you're not going to...to..."

The words were stuck on his tongue. He couldn't force them through his quivering lips.

"Don't cry." Jack stared up at him, clearly devastated by the effect he was having on Sam. "Please don't cry."

Sam laughed again, lifting his eyes to scan the walls of Jack's room aimlessly. They were still bare, austere and blank, even though Jack had moved in over a year ago. At one time, he'd planned to help him decorate—Star Wars posters, Harry Potter, anything Jack wanted.

Of course they'd never gotten around to it, what with Dean's disappearance, then Jack catching the hunting bug, and now...

Too late, he felt the moisture slip down one cheek, then the other.

Under the blanket, Sam felt Jack's fingers curl around his own. His thumb stroked Sam's knuckle in a soothing pattern. "Sam? Hey."

Sam let out a weary chuckle. "Ha—sorry. I'm sorry, Jack. It's just...hard. Hard for me to think about not—not being able to save you." His last sentence came out half strangled, pinching in his throat, trying despairingly, desperately, to not saying it aloud. Saying it out loud...was one step closer to it becoming reality. He ran one hand down his face, swiping the tears away.

"Hey," Jack repeated. His gaze pleaded Sam's attention. His voice, still almost dizzyingly faint, sounded like an echo of Sam's own soft, comforting tone. "I told Dean—I've had a good life. I'm okay with...with all this."

Sam's mouth twitched miserably as he stared into his kid's dark-rimmed eyes. You might be. But I'm not.

"And, Sam?" Jack's half smile mirrored Sam's so perfectly that Sam almost shivered. "I'm glad I've had you in my life. Thank y—thank you."

His lips opened and closed soundlessly then, gulping for air like a fish out of water. His eyes squeezed shut.

"Jack?" Sam's voice raised in volume with his panic. "Jack, you still with me?"

Eyes still closed, Jack raised one hand in a vague thumbs-up. After a few seconds, Sam breathed a sigh of relief as he heard Jack's wheezing, shallow breaths once more.

Sam gently pushed Jack's hair back from his forehead—it was damp, somehow sweaty despite him being ice-cold—and let his hand linger there. He willed Jack to inhale, exhale, in, out, breathebreathebreathe please—

...

"Hey, Dean? Do we still have that oxygen tank? Y'know, from that time with the asphyxiation spell."

Dean barely lifted his head from the library table. "For Jack?"

"Yeah. He's...he's getting worse. Having trouble breathing."

Dean was silent for a moment before he replied. "S'in the sick bay."

Sam nodded his thanks, then headed to retrieve the precious treasure.

He wasn't going to lose Jack. Somehow, there had to be some way. Sam would save Jack—or die trying.

So the show is driving me up the wall with its lack of Sam & Jack scenes, and those were the only ones that kept me breathing last year, so I finally snapped and wrote my own. Let me know what you think! Reviews feed my SOUL. I'm on tumblr too, hop over and talk to me about SPN!