#Because this all started because she made a throwaway comment wondering where Jack got his laptop

[monkeysatemylastrolo]

The first laptop started out being more about practicality than anything else. They had just returned to the bunker for the first time after- Well, just after. Cas was gone, and Jack was here, and Jack deserved some way to entertain himself, for those times outside of training, because expecting him to just sit in silence all the time would have just been cruel. It wasn’t until he told the kid that the laptop had originally been Castiel’s that he truly understood the precise nature of the task he had undertaken.

Because, where Sam had just seen a painful reminder of a lost friend, Jack had seen a single, tenuous link to the father his mother had chosen for him. A memento of a father he would never have an opportunity to know. And the look on that young face- so young yet already so familiar with the dark taint of a Hunter’s world- had been more than enough for Sam to just know.

Jack was his to protect now. Not just for Castiel. Or for Mom. Or for the safety of the world. But because Jack deserved better. Because Jack deserved a family.

—

That was then. And this was now. And now Castiel was back. Jack had his father. They had each other. And Sam, while happy, couldn’t quite banish the bitter feeling in the depths of his chest. The slow, sinking sensation of dread. The tiny voice whispering in his mind, reminding him over and over that Jack didn’t need him anymore.

And that? That hurt.

Despite his better judgement. Despite his own joy over Cas’ return. Despite his happiness on both Jack’s and Cas’ behalves. It still hurt. To think that this one connection he had somehow come to cherish so much was suddenly going to be gone.

So call it stupid, or call it sentimentality, but for some reason or other… he wanted to give Jack something to remember him by.

…Which was why he found himself, shortly after checking in, excusing himself from the hotel (under the pretext of checking out the neighbourhood), trekking over to the city’s Sears and immersing himself in the computer section. Less than thirty minutes later (because he knew computers, and he also knew he hated browsing for long periods of time) he left the store again, brand new laptop firmly in his possession.

He didn’t reveal it to anyone when he got back, though, choosing instead to tuck it safely into his duffel for now. When they finished the case, he could present it to Jack as a sign of congratulations, and then they could all move on with their lives. Cas and Jack would likely head off to do their own stuff, and Dean would feel better now that the “Anti-Christ” (a term he still insisted on using even though he knew it was inaccurate) was out of their hands, and Sam… well, Sam would just have to forget how it had felt to have a (kind of) son of his own.

They would move on. And he would make do. That was the plan. And, in the meantime, if he got the chance to arrange the partnerships so he got to spend just a little time around Jack alone, to reassure himself that the kid would be okay? Well, then, he would take that chance gladly.

And, for a short time, things went well. Relatively speaking.

…And then Jack tried to help, and the guard stepped out at just the wrong moment, and suddenly Sam’s own feelings didn’t seem all that important anymore.

And he tried. Both he and Cas. They tried in the car. They tried again when they reached the Bunker. But it was too soon, and Jack wasn’t ready to hear it, so they sat instead where they knew Jack would be able to see them- to reach out to them- at any time, and waited for the moment when Jack (when his son, that traitorous voice still whispered) was ready to hear that he wasn’t a monster. That a mistake didn’t mean he was evil.

…They forgot to take into account that Jack could fly.

—

The first night was the hardest. That’s what he’d always heard.

What a load of crap.

Because the pain and the worry? They didn’t fade or go away. They just got worse. Cas left, deciding that doing something was better than just sitting around feeling useless. And Sam? Sam did what he did best. He researched. He searched online. He used every virtual tracking method he could think of.

And still nothing.

And it felt, especially after Mom, kind of like it did whenever Dean died- like some part of him had been ripped away, and like he could never breathe quite right, and like the entire world was just that tiniest bit dimmer in the weight of what he had lost. The only positive thing was that Dean (while his reasons were different) also thought Jack needed to be found and, as such, never questioned Sam about either his motives or his urgency outside of merely saying that he should “at least take a break while we’re on a damn Hunt, Sammy. Geez, you’d think you were actually worried about the kid or something. You forgetting that he can’t even be hurt?”

Sam didn’t bother to remind him that lasting injuries weren’t the only indicator of pain.

He also didn’t bother to tell him that ‘worried’ didn’t even come close.

—

It wasn’t until they returned from their third Hunt (a simple salt-n-burn in Western Colorado Dean had kind of enjoyed because the widower had practically plied them with home-made pies in gratitude) that Sam even thought about the laptop again. But he needed a change of clothes (because he’d been kind of remiss on the laundry front lately) and, while digging around, his fingers pressed against the cool, hard plastic.

He couldn’t think of the last time he’d been so close to breaking over someone who was (because Jack was- he had to be) still alive.

In somewhat of a daze, Sam moved the couple of steps over to his desk, setting the laptop down almost on autopilot and opening it up, logging in to the as yet un-password-protected main account. Before he even really knew what he was doing, an empty document was open on the screen, and his fingers were dancing their way back and forth across the keyboard.

‘Jack,’ they typed, ‘I don’t know if you’ll ever read this- or even why I’m doing it, really. But video messages are your mother’s legacy, and I don’t want to intrude on that. Well, that and Dean would probably take the piss out of me for weeks if he ever found me making one. I just… I miss you, Jack. And I understand why you left- I really do- but I still wish you were here. I’m looking for you, and so is Cas, and even Dean’s doing his bit here and there, but in the meantime… just be safe, Jack. Please.’

After saving it, he closed the laptop again, and that was that.

—

Or, at least, it should have been that.

Instead, the messages became a regular thing. Every day (sometimes twice a day) he would make a new one- some short, some longer and more detailed, but always just… honest. Yes. Maybe that was the best word for them.

Honest.

‘We got a call from Cas today. He said he saw someone who was wearing that same jacket you were when you… left. He knew it wasn’t you, of course, but he said that still didn’t stop him from going over anyway. Just in case.

…I just realised you didn’t take any clothes with you. I hope you’ve found somewhere to wash yours, or maybe a few new sets. Be safe, Jack.’

-

‘Jack, I’m sorry. That night you left, I stepped back, and I know what that looked like. But I’m not scared of you, Jack. I promise. I’ve had a lot of bad experiences over the past few years, and I don’t always react well to confrontational tones or snapped words because of it. But it wasn’t because of you or your powers, Jack. I hope you know that. You are not a monster, Jack. A couple of mistakes don’t change that, and I’m sorry if I made you think they did. I’m sorry I didn’t do more to help you understand that.’

-

‘I nearly stepped on your pencil earlier. It had fallen on the floor next to your usual chair. I’ve put it in your room for you- just in case you want it when you get back.’

-

‘Did I ever tell you that I tried some tracking spells on you, in those first few days? None of them worked. I have this theory that it was because you didn’t want to be found, so your powers protected you. Some of the ingredients are a bit hard to come by, but I’ve decided I’ll keep trying. At least once a week. That way, when you’re ready to be around us again, we’ll be able to get to you fairly quickly, even if something bad has happened to you.’

-

‘Jack, I told you that mistakes don’t make you a monster. Perhaps I should have told you why I know that. You see, I’ve probably made more mistakes- and bigger mistakes- then you’ll ever be able to make. If you come back, maybe I’ll be able to tell you about a few of them.’

-

‘You know what, maybe I don’t need to wait until we’re face to face to tell you. So here are just a few of my mistakes:’ (That one was particularly long, spanning five whole pages. And still he didn’t manage to get past some of the biggest, most obvious ones. He could only hope that Jack wouldn’t think less of him when he read it.)

-

‘Wherever you are out there, Jack, I hope you’re doing alright. Come back whenever you feel ready.’

-

‘Please be safe.’

—

And so it continued. Day in, day out. He took to keeping the laptop in Jack’s room, just on the off-chance Dean wandered into his own uninvited and happened to get curious (or mischievous) enough to poke around a bit.

Until, three months, fifteen days and eighteen hours after Jack disappeared…

…

…

…

Sam was taken.

—

(Part two) (Part three) (Part four) (Epilogue)

[biihoebi]

@newsiesgiftexchange

for @what-goesaround-comesaround for the Newsies Winter Gift Exchange 2020

aaaah ok so this unbetad because usually I bully you into betaing my stuff so it's quite stream of consciousness but whateverr. also maybe I took some creative liberties on the historical accuracy but who cares

(its kind of a shit show but shhhh Irish Spot)

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read on ao3 here

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While it was Jack's father who taught him not to starve it was his mother who taught him the value of his heritage. Which is why when the new kid at the lodging house was sitting at the end of his bed, distressed over a throwaway comment Albert had made, Jack was doing his best to comfort them.

"He said I was losing my accent" Rua had all but wailed. "How can I be Irish without me accent. And Granda said he used to have flaming hair like mine before it went dark with age. Then I won't even look Irish." they continued.

"But yer Irish by blood not by hair or by voice. I mean my hair ain't red but you'd be hard pressed tryna tell me I isn't Irish." Jack sighed. "Look, I've never stepped foot in Ireland, youse is ahead of me there, but my Mam kept it alive in the stories she told. Some were legends and some were just memories of her and her siblings getting into all sorts of trouble in the fields. And I can speak Irish just as good as the next guy, no matter what Spot Conlon says" he finished. Rua let out a short sniffle.

"But my Mam works in a factory. I never see her no more" they said wiping their face with their sleeve.

"We ain't the same, I'm Irish sure but I was born here. Youse is better off asking Spot about this, he was born in Dublin, didn't come here til he was about 8. And seeing as Albert started this whole mess he can be the one to go to Brooklyn to deliver the message after he's done selling. Now it's time for newsies to go to bed, you ain't no use selling if your half asleep." Jack declared.

——————————————————————–

To a bright eyed and bushy tailed Rua morning couldn't come soon enough and neither could the circulation bell nor could the final sell of the day. By the time Albert left for Brooklyn every newsie in Manhattan knew about it and was sick of hearing about it.

"Just because Albert's gone today, don't mean Spots gonna visit today. Heck he mightn't even visit at all. Do youse really think this is a big enough deal for the King of Brooklyn to take time out of his busy sche-

"Stop shit stirring Boots" Jack interrupted sternly. "Just because Spot doesn't like Brits like you doesn't mean he won't help out a fellow Paddy" he joked. At that Boots straightened his back

"I'll have you know Mr Kelly that Spot Conlon said I's is the best 'Brit' he knows" he said, smugly straightening an imaginary tie.

"Best of a rotten bunch" a new voice chimed in. Every newsie in the room suddenly started scrambling to look half presentable. "I got your message Kelly, now where's the young wayne?" the person continued. In response Jack stepped aside revealing Rua, who had been hiding behind his legs.

"I-I'm Rua" they stuttered out. The man crouched down to their eye level.

"I'm Spot Conlon, but I thought youse was supposed to be Irish. Where's me 'dia duit'? It's like you ain't even tryin'. No wonder youse losing yer accent" Spot said. That did nothing to help the already nervous wreck that Rua was.

Spot shot up suddenly, shooing everyone but Jack, Rua, Crutchie and Race out. He sat down on the middle bed and kicked his feet up, gesturing for everyone to follow. Ever the rebel Race decided to lean against the bunk instead while the rest settled into the surrounding beds. "Look, Jack says youse is struggling with moving on with yer life while staying Irish. I went through the same thing when I first came 'nd look at me now, King of New York"

"King of Brooklyn" Race coughed out which Spot shot daggers at him for.

"I'se is the King of New York, don't let no street rat tell you otherwise" he spat "but I wasn't always, I was once a youngin like you, fresh off the boat with only my poor parents and a sack full of stuff between us…"

——————————————————————–

The dock bustled with workers and passengers alike. Some leaving but most stepping off boats and into their new lives. Among those coming off was a young Seán Conlon. With wild hair and big eyes filled with the wonder and excitement of seeing somewhere beyond the slums of Dublin. It was an outbreak of TB amongst the tenements that did it in for his parents.

Seán didn't have long to admire the new world he had just entered before his hand was grabbed and he was dragged off into a long line filled with fellow immigrants. Hours passed before the tired young boy would make it through the front door to his new home. It was a small one room apartment completely unlivable by today's standard but to someone from the worst slums in Europe it might as well have been Buckingham. "Go bhfoire Dia orainn, tá sé linne!! Níl aon theaghlach eile ina gconaionn liomsa?" Seán gawked in awe.

"Tá, ach bí curamach, níl cead agat bí ag caint as gaeilge nuair a tá tú taobh amuigh" his father responded.

"Cén fáth?"

"Mar ní maith a lán daoiní, duine eile ag caint as gaeilge agus sin é sin a bhfuil."

"Ceart go leor"

That night Seán lay awake in his bed wondering why anyone could dislike speaking Irish. Well besides the British but Uncle Seamus always said that their opinion didn't matter and that he and a few of his friends from the Irish Republican Brotherhood would soon rid Ireland of them. Whatever that meant. His father would always laugh alongside and say 'that would be the day' while his mother would give out to him for encouraging Seamus.

It wouldn't be for a few weeks that Seán would find out what his dad was talking about. He was out selling papers to help make ends meet, as small as the room was all three of them had to work hard in order to pay for it. He stood there waiting at the gate for the circulation bell to ring, when it happened. On his first day one of the older kids taught him a few tricks and gave him a few pieces of advice. One of those pieces was 'stay away from Acton Williams'. An unspoken rule he had managed to avoid up until that point.

Acton had walked right into him, dropping a strange wooden item in the process. Seán liked to think that his mother raised him right so he apologized and bent down to pick up the trinket

"Brón orm" he mumbled as he crouched, item in hand.

"The fuck you say to me?" Acton grunted. Seán froze realising his mistake and everyone went silent at the sound of Acton's voice.

"I was just saying sorry" Seán rushed out, trying desperately not to get baited so soon after joining the newsies. Acton let out a laugh.

"That's not what you said though is it?" he said " see I think youse was speaking some stupid language from the stupid country you came from. So I'mma ask again 'the fuck you say to me?"

"I said 'brón orm', you heard me the first time," Seán said, gaining confidence. It was one thing to be intimidated by an older kid who would definitely knock your block off but his Nan taught him better than to let someone talk shite about Ireland. Acton scoffed.

"I pity the Mum who raised such a rude brat " he spat taking a step towards Seán.

"Yeah well I pity the Mam who gave birth to such an ugly ogre"

And they were off! Acton could easily outrun Seán's tiny legs so his only hope was to lose him with twists and turns through the back alleys and busy streets. After what felt like hours of running, Seán finally ran into a deadend. Turning to face a panting Acton, Seán gulped and started reciting any and all prayers he could think of to any saints that popped into his head. In fact it wasn't until Seán went to clasp his hands in prayer that he noticed what he had picked up earlier.

A slingshot!!

Grabbing the nearest rock Seán loaded the sling. 'Dear St Anthony, pleeaassee help me find the ability to aim well' he prayed as he scrunched his eyes shut and released.

The next thing Seán heard was the large thump an unconscious Actons body made as it hit the ground. Opening his eyes to examine the noise he had heard Seán was shocked to see his feeble attempt at fighting back was actually a success. Seán quickly pocketed the slingshot and left before Acton had time to wake up.

——————————————————————–

"...and that's what it means to be Irish" Spot finished proudly

"Beating up British people is what it means to be Irish?" Rua said in awe of Spot's story. Spot grinned.

"See, this kid gets it" he joked, ruffling Ruas hair.

"That was a lovely story yer highness but how is that surppsoed to help 'em keep their accent" Race chipped in.

"Well what about you then Higgins if you have so much to say? D'you have any stories worth listening to?"

"What about being Italian? Well I-"

"Italian? Are ye not Irish?"

"No? What made you think that?"

"Yer surname is Higgins"

"Yeah, Higgins is a classic Italian name"

Jack and Spot made eye contact for a good minute before bursting out laughing. "Yer telling me this entire time youse never knew you was Irish?" Jack choked out between laughs. Even Rua stifled a giggle.

"My own mam was a Higgin, Racetrack" Spot roared. "Yee just can't make this stuff up" he said wiping a tear from his eye. Race's face was a brilliant red as he sputtered out excuses.

"Yer just joking, right guys? Right guys??"

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BONUS :

At the gates the next morning Seán stood there absolutely shitting bricks. What had happened yesterday had been a stroke of luck but if Acton decided to continue the fight he was dead meat.

"Wait, is that Williams? No way what's with the giant bruise on his forehead?" a voice spoke interrupting Seán's train of thought.

"No way that's a bruise, he doesn't get those" another shot back. Soon a whole symphony of voices were arguing over whether it was a bruise or not.

"Wait a minute, weren't you getting chased by him yesterday, newbie? How come there's not a scratch on ya, and why's there only a big bruise on him?" the first voice said piecing the puzzle together. Soon everyone was crowding around Seán, looking for the story of what happened.

"Look nothing really happened" Seán reassured trying to downplay the situation "he chased me for a bit before I eventually shot him with this sling and he passed out on the spot."

Apparently telling them he knocked out the bully of the newsies was not the right thing to say to defuse the situation. Some started cheering for him others just rolled their eyes at his story.

"He clearly made that up on the spot" one voice chiming in.

"Nah, look at Acton, that's a massive bruise, obviously from being shot with a sling" another rebutted. Eventually the crowd settled a bit and someone had the common sense to ask for his name.

"Oh! I'm Seán." he responded. Everyone groaned.

"Not yer real one, yer newsies one" someone said. After Seán told them he didn't have one, everyone put their thinking caps on.

"Let's call him Spot, 'cause we'll never really know if he knocked him down on the spot or made up that story on the spot."