Rowena insists that there are absolutely no traces of magic.
Nevertheless, she tries lots of simple spells and and potions.
In the end, she recommends Alexa’s “Goodnight Classical music list,” hot tea mixed with local honey, and a long, "luxurious" bubble bath with a side helping of Epsom salts.
(But she promises to keep researching in case the insomnia doesn’t abate.)
Jack is starting to get very worried. He’d read that just twenty-four hours without sleep is comparable to having a blood alcohol content of 0.1%, which is above the legal limit for driving. And he’d also read that humans might die without sleep.
Jack is ashamed. His lack of control is just another failure in a long list of failures.
He'd thought that he was mostly human now, and that his grace was supposed to be recuperating--lying dormant. (He knows he's not completely human, because supernatural creatures still clock him as "angel," and he still doesn't need much sleep.)
So, had he accidentally tapped into his soul? (Cas would be furious if so.)
Either way, it's more evidence that he's got poor control--that even when he's weak, he's still a liability to their hunting team.
He has to fix this on his own. He has to.
So, he starts researching his own potions. He’s no Rowena, but the internet has a lot to say about sleep, Benadryl, and Melatonin.
By day four without sleep, Dean seems on the verge of tears.
He seems very offended when Cas offers to run him a "luxurious" bubble bath.
An hour later, Cas runs one anyway.
He seems to box Dean in as he bullies him down the hallway and into the room with the clawfoot tub.
Jack is investigating the magnolia, chamomile, lavender, and passion flower-flavored teas for his sleep potion when Cas reappears in the kitchen.
He peers suspiciously at the teabags in Jack’s hands.
“You were eavesdropping when Rowena was here last night, weren’t you,” he says with a raised eyebrow. "Which means you know about Dean's problem."
Jack actually hadn’t been, but he feigns guilt. “Uh, Yeah. Do you really think the tea'll help him?"
Cas seems to buy it. “Rowena says it might," he sighs. "But here. Let's make it anyway."
Instead of putting a saucepan on the stove, Cas opts for tap water in a ceramic mug and heats the whole thing with one steady palm. Jack stares at his hand wistfully, missing that kind of angelic power control.
“So...which tea?” Jack whispers, trying not to fidget.
“She suggested chamomile and valerian root.”
Jack hands over the chamomile bag in his hands and doubles back to the shelf to search for valerian root. When he finds it, he hands it over too and watches as Cas dips it into the steamy water. Next, he watches Cas squeeze a generous helping of honey into the brew.
“Why don’t you take this to him?” Cas suggests. “I’ll be there after I check in with Sam.”
Without giving him time to respond, Cas shoves the mug forward and stalks off towards the library. Jack hmmphs and resigns himself to facing Dean.
But first...he takes advantage of this perfect opportunity.
A tiny voice at the back of his brain urges caution--urges him to check in with Cas first--or to run the potion by Sam. It urges him to come clean about the little insomnia curse he'd accidentally set on Dean.
After all, if the potion works like it's supposed to, everything will go back to normal. And Jack had carefully read over the ingredients several times and checked with the Internet to make sure it'd be okay.
So, he takes a deep breath and adds dissolved Benadryl and ZZZQuill to the tea. He stirs it in with a teaspoon, tastes it to make sure it hasn't mucked up the flavor too much, adds a bit more honey, and heads down the hallway.
The door to the “spa room” is wide open, so Jack lets himself in without announcing.
Dean is reclining in the tub, eyes completely shut and nearly obscured by a cartoonish pile of soap bubbles. He’s got a blue towel-turban on his head. If you ask Jack, it seems like a stupid thing to wear in the bathtub. (And Jack doesn’t know why someone with hair as short as Dean’s would even need a head-towel in the first place.)
Dean looks like he might’ve fallen asleep, which could be a very good thing so long as he doesn't slump over and drown in the soapy water.
There’s a small stool pulled up near the head of the tub, so Jack decides to perch on it and wait him out. Even a few minutes of micro-sleep would be be good for Dean, right?
He seems to know that Jack's here, too, because his hand shoots out over the edge of the edge of the tub and makes a claw-like, grabby motion.
Jack tests the temperature of the ceramic mug to make sure it’s not too hot before setting it in Dean’s open palm. With an exaggerated noise of displeasure, Dean clasps it and brings it up to his mouth. Jack holds his breath, hoping Dean can't taste the secret medicine he'd added.
“S’ok for flowery shit,” he murmurs, so softly a regular person might struggle to hear it. Then, Dean suddenly furrows his brow, twists his mouth and juts his lower lip out. “Hot, though.”
(Jack gets the sense he’s complaining just to complain.)
"Hot," he repeats, more petulantly this time.
Jack frowns and doesn’t say anything back.
After a few seconds, Dean sighs and leans his neck way back like he’s stretching it. He looks kind of silly, to be honest, like he's Littlefoot reaching for a Tree Star. Keeping his eyes closed, Dean extends the mug out and sort-of demands, “Put an ice cube in it?”
Jack blinks. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but Dean’s acting weird.
He even sounds kind of weird.
Annoyed, Jack blurts, “Why don’t you just wait a few minutes? It’ll cool off on its own.”
Dean’s red-rimmed eyes shoot open, like he’s been electrocuted, and the water sloshes as he rockets upright. He retracts his neck and tucks it in, like he’s a sea turtle, and he sputters. “K-kid?!”
Jack frowns at him in confusion.
Dean sniffs, recovering quickly. “Cas said he was makin’ me tea.”
As if summoned, Cas appears at the doorway. “And Cas did make you tea,” he sasses, striding in. He nods at Jack. “Thank you for bringing it, Jack.”
“You’re welcome,” Jack says pointedly, eyes pinning on Dean.
If Cas weren’t in the room right now, Jack might be tempted to tell Dean to stop being a big baby. (But well, Cas is in the room, and it’s kind of Jack's fault Dean’s stuck with insomnia to begin with. So, he opts not to say anything else.)
Dean coughs and mumbles something that sounds like, “Whatever. Thanks, kiddo.”
Cas strides further into the room, but before Jack can vacate the stool, Cas opts to sit, perfectly balanced, on the edge of the bathtub.
Dean gets a little redder, and then he licks his lips before making a series of small splashes with his opposite hand. To Jack, it looks like he’s renewing the soap-bubble pile.
“Nothing new from Rowena,” Cas reports, clipped and business-like. “She suggests trying to sleep the old-fashioned way. And Sam bought you a 'Sega Starry Cove.' He says it will ‘relax’ you.”
Dean squints. “The fuck is—?”
Jack’s had that in his Amazon cart for ages. “It’s a star projector,” he explains happily. "It makes your ceiling look like the night sky."
It’s expensive, though, which is why Jack never bought it, not even in secret. (Maybe after all this blows over, and if Dean doesn’t like it, Jack can convince him to give it to him instead.)
“Okay, so it's like a juiced-up baby mobile. What’s next, a friggin' crib?”
Straight-faced, Cas fires back, “Actually, I thought we could try Baby Einstein Box Orchestra next.”
Dean rolls his eyes so hard that he almost loses his towel turban, and Cas winks at Jack. Jack is having trouble following their conversation. He knows who Albert Einstein is, but he doesn’t know what he has to do with babies or orchestras.
Cas grins. “Before you were born, I read dozens of parenting books.”
(Which doesn’t actually explain anything.)
“Music, kiddo,” Dean huffs. “Lame-ass lullaby music.”
“Oh,” Jack says. “Sounds nice. I mean, anything could help you sleep, couldn't it?”
Dean scoffs. “I’ve tried everything. Short of knocking myself out, anyway, but then...Cas tried that for me.”
Guilt feels like it’s working a hole through Jack's stomach, and he struggles to meet Dean’s eyes.
“Maybe you could try a ThunderShirt or--or a weighted blanket?” he whispers.
Dean misreads his nervousness. “Hey,” he says, softening in a way that makes the guilt squirm even harder in Jack’s gut. “I’ll be okay. I always am, you know?"
Jack swivels his eyes to Cas and finds the same warm reassurance reflected there.
If there were ever a time to come clean, that time is now.
“Uh,” he says. But that’s all that comes out. “Let me know if I can help,” he putters out lamely.
(He knows he should tell them the truth.)
If the sleep potion doesn't work tonight, he thinks, then I'll tell them.
Dean clears his throat and cracks a smile. “You can help me with the star laser shit later. K, kid? That'd help me out a ton."
Satisfied, Dean takes a huge sip of his tea. Then, he makes a theatrical expression of disgust. His mug shoots forward, just as it had earlier, but this time extended towards Cas.
“It got gross n’ lukewarm,” he complains.
He takes an experimental sip for himself and shoots Dean a disbelieving stare.
“Actually, I kinda want iced tea.”
Cas heaves a dramatic sigh and gets to his feet.
Dean watches him go with an impish smile. (Jack thinks that it’s the same kind of look he gets on his face when he wins a game of Wordle.)
Jack stays to make sure Dean doesn't accidentally fall asleep and drown. Content to sit until Cas returns, he pulls out his phone and continues researching Melatonin. He even asks Google if ThunderShirts work on humans. (According to Google, sometimes humans find the compression soothing; other times, it triggers claustrophobia.)
“What’re ya playin there? Minecraft or somethin?”
Jack freezes, “Uh. No.” He thinks fast and picks a lie that will hopefully bore Dean to tears: “I’m, uh, reading about wind shear and meteorological soundings.”
Dean pulls a predictably faux-horrified face.
“Seriously? That’s gotta be Sam’s doing. Yeesh.”
(Actually, Sam doesn’t like meteorology that much, not outside of demonic omens.)
Dean doesn't ask any more questions, and he actually seems content to hang out in companionable silence after that.
When Cas comes back with iced tea and Dean’s fresh-from-the-dryer gray dead-guy robe, Dean drops his disgruntled act and shines with naked relief.
It makes Jack notice the sunken circles around his eyes. (Hoepfully, the potion will help him with that.)
Cas hands off the iced tea to Dean and makes to take up his perch on the edge of the tub again.
Jack hops up. “Uh, wait, Cas. You can have your seat back now. I'm done 'being the Lifeguard.'"
Dean scowls at the metaphor, but Cas's eyes crinkle in amusement. He nods and retakes his stool.
Jack hovers nearby for a few minutes, wondering what he could possibly do to help. He peers down at where Dean's hands encircle his mug. His fingerpads are super water-logged and wrinkley.
"You're getting really pruney. You should probably get out soon."
"Hey," Dean shoots back, “You're the--prune."
Jack ignores him and crosses the room to grab two fresh towels. He drags over one of the lightweight surgical tables closer to the tub and plops the towels down on the surface.
"Thank you," Cas murmurs, setting the gray robe next to the towels.
"Neither of you should rush me," Dean huffs. "After all, Rowena said I need to relax."
"If I recall correctly, just two hours ago, you refused to entertain the possibility of relaxation, much less a 'girly-ass bubble bath.'"
Dean shoots Cas a cheeky smile and gulps down his tea.
(Cas inspects Dean's throat as he drinks, so Jack looks, too, but he doesn't see anything out of the ordinary.)
Dean finishes with a little "ah!" and hands the empty mug over to Cas. "Well, two hours ago was before I had you two as my royal handmaidens."
Cas sets the empty mug next to the towels.
"If two hours of light pampering makes you this spoiled, I imagine you'd make a rather nightmarish princess."
Jack can't help it. He laughs.
Dean shoots him a glare, and Jack stifles it quickly.
(He'd read that sleep deprivation could make people really cranky, after all.)
“Maybe Sam and I could go get everyone some stuff from Jiffy Burger?”
Cas turns to him in surprise. “That’s very thoughtful, Jack." He beams at him proudly, and the guilt stabs Jack in the gut again.
Dean, likewise, seems to sag with relief. “Yeah, that--that'd be awesome.”
Jack grins and fires off a text to Sam before heading towards the doorway.
In the meantime, the potion can be taking effect, and Dean will hopefully be asleep by evening.
Jack pauses at the threshold. One last time, he contemplates coming clean about the whole fiasco.
Jack balks. What would Sam say in this situation?
What would Sam say in this situation?
Jack does his very best Sam: "Just wondering if you need a special order, Your Majesty."
"Just the usual, pageboy. And shut the door behind ya."
After Jack closes the door, he walks down the hall a little ways, only to stop when he hears Dean and Cas start talking in low, urgent tones. Something about it feels alarming, and he finds himself immediately straining his ears to hear them.
The exhaustion is easier to hear in Dean’s voice now: “You sure you can’t check—”
“I said no.” Cas’s voice is sharp.
“Even if you trust me, Dean. I don’t trust me. I don’t have the control I used to have.”
What if what, Jack wonders.
The sentence hangs, and they go silent a long time.
Jack's phone pings. (It's from Sam, a messages that urges: "Yeah. Let's hurry and go before the dinner rush.")
But just before Jack gets out of range, he picks up Dean’s voice, “What if something's up with my soul?”
