THE FIGHT WAS FINALLY OVER and for jack, it meant life was just beginning. life was fickle and since he was no longer worried about god coming down to smite him, he figured he might as well focus on other things. his powers had grown stronger, and truthfully, he could have been the next god, but it just wasn’t for him. he was a kid. he wanted to be a kid. he wanted to explore. and most importantly? he was now in a world where dean was dead and sam had slowly started to gain a life for himself after the death of his brother.
CASTIEL also came to check on him from time to time, but truthfully. he wanted his family. not the one left behind. but the one he had wiped off the face of the earth. if there was one thing jack knew about people? they deserved second chances. his mother. dean. and most importantly, his father. his biological one at that. the empty wasn’t his greatest fan, but he knew waking people up in the empty caused problems. so he had to do this correctly. the ritual was long. it was strenuous and most importantly, he was the final ingredient. at least his blood was.
the next several hours were a blur for him. he had gathered everything, including nick’s body after he brought it back, slit his hand open, and drizzled a decent amount of his blood into the offering in the middle of the floor. for jack, doing this right meant not just popping down into the empty and pulling lucifer directly from his slumber. truth be told, if his father wasn’t awake this wasn’t going to work in the first place. but the sudden appearance of the rift forming in the middle of the floor made him realize he may have actually done this correctly. the RED eyes are what grabbed his attention first as the essence formed into a crudely shaped figure standing before him.
jack didn’t move, instead, he gestured towards the body on the floor. the golden hue in his eyes flashing briefly. if his father tried anything, jack wouldn’t hesitate to send him back. @headoffices
you know- coming back to life sucks. he almost- key word: almost -doesn’t want to. it’s like he’s swimming in syrup, or in the matrix, but that one famous scene. you know the one. lots of bullets, a very limber spine. yea, that one. he’s sluggish, heavy, hardly able to focus on anything. save for the promise behind that pompous little glare. if there’s anything lucifer is good at, it’s reading the room. so he takes his time, his oozy, undulating tar-like form standing his ground for a long time, his own pit of hellfire gaze watching jack carefully, not unlike a cornered animal. watching for a trick, no doubt. a trap. why else would he be here again? ...wait. why is he here again? hasn’t team free will 2.0™ had their fill of his demise yet? there’s a fetish for that kind of stuff, if he’s not mistaken. lets not go there.
the movements are slow, sluggish, like he’s thousands of miles underwater, in the deepest part of the ocean, but eventually, those sunken red eyes of his start to leave jacks form and take in their surroundings. had he eyelids, they’d be squinting, questioning. no dumb, no dumber, no castrated attack chihuahua. when the devils attention turns back to his son, to the familiar corps splayed out on the floor, almost like an offering- the ‘ voice ’ that comes out of the slop that is his current, pitiful state, is all kinds of wrong. it’s distorted, muffled, so very far away, almost like he’s lost out in the endless void of space. which, really, isn’t all that far from the truth, but we’ll digress.
“ not good enough to watch from the sidelines anymore? ” different planes of reality or no, nothing can overpower the bitterness in his tone. the tiredness, the sick-of-it-all-ness. “ pass. ”
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