Living with Boys

Jack left the two-room clinic through a side door. The night air slapped him with a cold breeze that hit his chest and cheeks. It stung the skin on his stomach where the cut pulled at him even though it was now clean and bandaged, but he let the door swing shut behind him anyway. He couldn’t listen to the man who was not his father mumbling to himself, saying the same name over and over again—“Teddy, Teddy—” Sam said that the man was disoriented and in pain. Jack just knew that the man laying on the examining table wasn’t Lucifer, or at least, wasn’t him anymore. He also wasn’t supposed to be here.