Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5094425.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage, Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural_RPF
  Relationship:
      Jensen_Ackles/Jared_Padalecki
  Character:
      Jensen_Ackles, Jared_Padalecki, Ackles_Family, Alan_Ackles, Donna_Ackles,
      Padalecki_Family, Sharon_Padalecki, Jerry_Padalecki, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_High_School, Established_Relationship, Teenagers,
      Teen_Romance, Teen_Angst, Teen_Jensen, Teen_Jared, Mpreg, Teen_Pregnancy,
      Young_Love, Family_Drama, Religious_Conflict, Teenage_Rebellion, BAMF
      Jensen, Small_Towns, Hurt/Comfort, Dysfunctional_Family, Explicit_Sexual
      Content, Underage_Sex, Top_Jensen, Bottom_Jared, Horny_Teenagers, Topping
      from_the_Bottom, Multiple_Orgasms, Song_Lyrics, Self-Harm, Police
      Brutality, Threats_of_Violence, Desperation, Implied/Referenced_Suicide,
      Solitary_Confinement, Hospitalization, Hurt_Jensen, Hurt_Jared
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-28 Completed: 2016-11-21 Chapters: 33/33 Words: 55524
****** Little Pieces ******
by compo67
Summary
     Jensen the Bad Influence is better known as the town hellraiser. He
     stays out late, skips class, and takes bets on chess games after
     school. His partner in crime happens to be Jared, raised in a strict
     Catholic-Protestant household, and reigning chess champion. Together,
     they've skimmed five hundred dollars from their classmates with no
     end in sight.
     If they can survive high school, conquering the rest of the world
     must be a piece of cake.
     It just happens that the world has something else in store for them--
     something no one planned for in a million years.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
 
“I wanna get a Jarrito,” Jensen declares, walking up to Jared’s locker. “Maybe
even two. And definitely some fried yucca. Hey, do you think if I ask them,
they’ll let me work there over the summer?”
A nose scrunch occurs, followed closely by a dismissive flashing of dimples.
“I don’t know.”
Three word responses do not happen from any Padalecki. Ever. If Jared’s mother
had to recite a grocery list, she’d add on her personal opinions about why she
buys French’s fried onions instead of the store brand for her green bean
casserole and other assorted casseroles that she freezes because she’s got
three kids to feed plus the hubby, and Lord knows she hasn’t got the time to
make anything the night of.
Jensen knows Jared’s mother fairly well. He can predict her response to pretty
much anything. She hails from generations of Irish Catholics, making her intent
on preserving those traditions down to keeping her first name a secret from
Jensen because proper young men do not call their elders by them. To him, she
must always be Mrs. Padalecki.
Mr. Padalecki isn’t very different; his line of Protestant ancestors goes back
as far as his wife’s lineage. Since Jensen met these two adults, he’s always
pictured their first meeting as being similar to a scene from his history book.
Mr. Padalecki probably asked Mrs. Padalecki’s father for permission first,
then, on their first date, they likely went to a quilting bee where a chaperone
sat between them while they made eyes at each other.
Every Padalecki family member has at least four or five opinions that need to
be expressed out loud at all times, even when they aren’t immediately relevant
to the conversation at hand. Jared has been intensely focused on chess for the
past few months. Jensen, by proxy, has learned everything about chess, whether
he liked it or not. Most often, it was not.
Though, it was Jensen who had the brilliant idea of pitting chess playing
students against each other afterschool in the far east corner of the parking
lot and taking bets.
His boyfriend remains the undefeated champ.
It’s the dimples. They lure people in and convince them they’re up against a
greenhorn. It doesn’t hurt that Jared amps that façade up by letting Jensen
initiate games and then commenting softly, “Chess? Well, I’ve only played once
or twice with my grandfather. I might be a little rusty.”
Maybe Mrs. Padalecki is right—Jensen’s probably not the best influence on her
youngest son. But they’ve made five hundred bucks off of spoiled, cocky
classmates who deserved what they got. Sophomores shouldn’t be able to fleece
seniors so thoroughly, but they do and Jensen has no regrets.
“You wanna come over after we get food?” Jensen takes Jared’s backpack and
stuffs his cluster of folders into it. He slings it over his shoulders to carry
for Jared, since he looks a little pale. Jensen could buy his own backpack but
he can’t be bothered.
Backpacks are for people who care about school.
His report card from last semester happens to be at the bottom of Jared’s
backpack still, but Jensen’s parents have been too busy flying around the world
filming nature documentaries to bother asking for it. He got straight A’s last
term just to fuck with everyone.
Shrugging, Jared mumbles, “I guess.”
Jensen bestowed his boyfriend with the opportunity to nag at him about cleaning
his room or taking Socks out for a walk. As far as Jensen is concerned, the
poodle can fend for himself.
Jared also never misses the chance to chide Jensen calling the dog Socks when
his actual name is Sparkles. Well, too bad; that’s what happens when every sock
in the house goes missing and is later found in the backyard, buried in mud.
“We can take Socks for a walk.” Come on, Jensen pleads silently. He lays out
obvious conversation starters in hopes Jared picks one up. “You can probably
run around with him like crazy on Mrs. Garcia’s lawn.”
Finally, Jared issues a response.
“Jen, I don’t feel so good.”
“What? Like how? Like… gonna throw up right now don’t feel so good? Or some
asshole gave you shit earlier and you haven’t told me about it until now don’t
feel so good?” Instinctively, Jensen’s fists clench. According to his guidance
counselor, that instinct is part of Jensen’s… issue. He gets too attached to
people who are easily influenced by his actions. And by people, his counselor
specifically means Jared.
So what if Jensen is a punch first, ask questions later kind of person? That’s
how the real world works.
He knows that from the way his dad argues with producers.
“I threw up during lunch,” Jared admits, a tint of green to his features. “I
kinda wanna go home and sleep.”
“You had pepperoni pizza, didn’t you?”
“…maybe.”
“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating that shit?”
“Shut up.” Jared’s tone disapproves, but he flashed a smile.
“Why?” Jensen holds out his arms as they walk down the hallway towards the main
entrance. “The bell has rung, my nauseous friend, they can’t do shit to me
after hours.”
“That is not true, Mr. Ackles,” Dave snaps, popping his head out of a science
classroom. “Regardless of your personal opinions on the matter, vulgarities are
not allowed on campus any time of day.”
Grinning, Jensen gifts Dave with a thumbs up. “Stunning performance,” he crows.
“Really, rousing, stirring, emotionally fulfilling work. It almost sounds like
you care about teaching here.”
“Thanks,” Dave cackles. “But really. I could send both of you to detention.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Typical for Jared to throw Jensen under the bus. Just
because Jensen might get them sent to detention a few or five times in a
semester does not mean he deserves such harsh treatment.
Dave likes to think he teaches Chemistry. In reality, he conducts Hunger Game
scenarios six hours a day, forcing students to compete for his favor. Of all
the adults to put up with throughout the day, Dave isn’t entirely bad. He
happened to find out about the chess ring and hasn’t ratted them out… yet.
“Aw, you know you don’t wanna do that,” Jensen shoots back, already trotting
past Dave.
Leaning against the doorframe, Dave sighs and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Oh? What makes you so confident?”
“Because you’ve got bigger fish to fry, Davey Crockett.”
“Jensen.” Dave’s voice transforms into Actual Teacher Mode in three
microseconds. “Spill.”
Part of being an urchin of the school means being privy to certain information.
And in order to make friends, vanquish enemies, and ensure survival, Jensen
knows exactly how to play people, especially high schoolers. He’s been to
premieres with his parents, seen movie stars passed out in the back of
limousines, and witnessed a variety of seemingly straight-laced people engage
in the most perverted activities when they thought no one was looking.
High school seniors make themselves easy game. It’s what they get for acting so
god damned superior.
Jensen whistles and politely coughs, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Oh,
nothing, nothing at all. I mean, it’s something, but definitely nothing I, nor
my companion here would be part of.”
“Definitely not,” Jared grumbles.
“Exactly,” Jensen continues. “We would never associate with a crowd of seniors
testing the versatility of condoms by filling them with chocolate and vanilla
pudding, then hurling them at cars in the parking lot.”
Dave moves so fast, there could be a dust outline of his form against the door.
“Are they really?”
“Are they really what?”
“Are seniors really doing that?”
“Well, yeah,” Jensen huffs with a smile. “But my memory’s fuzzy. Is it the
parking lot or behind the school?” He shrugs. “They’ll figure it out for
themselves.”
Jared excels at moving pieces on a board.
Jensen does a good job moving people in real life.
***** Chapter 2 *****
“You look like shit, Jay.”
“Thank you, Jensen, you’re so kind.”
“Hey, I tell the truth.”
“Tell it a little less, please.”
“You know what you need?”
“I don’t wanna know.”
“A good hour with me in my bed.”
“Hmm. You mean a good five minutes.”
Jensen’s eyes go wide before he bursts into laughter. “Oh my fuck, did you
just…? Holy shit, I’m rubbing off on you! And I mean that in the best possible
way.”
Despite his initial frown, Jared smirks and leans into the arm Jensen has
wrapped around his shoulders as they wait at the bus stop. “Just,” Jared sighs,
closing his eyes, “stop talking for two minutes.”
“What if I have important things to say?”
“Shh.”
“Like…” Jensen kisses Jared’s temple. “My dick misses your ass.”
Jared smells good. Like strawberry Poptarts and Dial soap.
Fused together in the marigold light of yet another early morning for school,
Jared repositions himself, tucking his head under Jensen’s chin. His cheek
rests against Jensen’s chest, arms wrapped around Jensen’s waist. This is
better. Ten thousand times better. Their surly ass bus driver will probably
yell at them again for public displays of affection, and Jensen will probably
have the millionth argument that the rule only applies on school property and
the sidewalk on Jensen’s block does not constitute as such… but. That’s okay.
Everything is okay as long as Jared finds his place against or near Jensen.
Bless freshman year math class.
“You still don’t feel so good?” With care, Jensen rubs Jared’s back.
Quietly, Jared murmurs, “Nuh uh.”
“Your mom?”
Tension usually runs high in the Padalecki house. Jared’s older sister is
running for some board for the city and only drops by to rant to her family
about how perfect they all need to be for her to have a chance against the
incumbent. Any failure on their part to preserve that image will, she assures
them, be the untimely death of her bright political career.
At the same time, Jared’s older brother has decided to drop out of college and
tour Europe with a girl he met three weeks ago. Jared has been sneaking over to
Jensen’s house to watch Nosferatu in the dark and make out on his bed a hundred
times longer than that and no one has given them permission to run off together
to Europe.
Then again, they haven’t exactly tried. Jensen mulls the option over in the
back of his mind.
“Probably,” Jared admits and lets out a shaky breath. “I’m gonna hurl, Jen.”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
“No.”
“You putz,” Jensen quips. He leads Jared over to the rose bushes lining some
neighbor’s lawn and positions Jared. Hunched over, Jared begins to cry like a
drunk college student after a bender. Jensen takes his place as Best Boyfriend
Ever and holds Jared’s hair away from his face, and rubs his back, murmuring
reassurances that he’ll feel ten times better after this is over.
Whatever stomach flu Jared managed to catch from the student body forces him to
hack and puke well past the arrival of the school bus. Jensen ducks behind the
bush, standing only when the driver gives up and continues their route. After
another couple of minutes, Jensen calls this whole thing quits and all but
carries Jared to his house. With his parents gone so often, Jensen’s house is
often their haven whenever situations that require privacy arise.
“Puke,” Jared blurts out, clinging to Jensen’s jacket. They made it to Jensen’s
mailbox.
“So puke,” Jensen answers. He maintains a firm hold on Jared as the mailman
chooses the best moment to drive up and gingerly hand Jensen the mail. “Drive
on,” Jensen says, waving his handful of mail, “nothing to see here.”
By the time they reach Jensen’s bathroom, Jared stops puking but continues dry
heaving. It sounds painful. Jensen kicks into a side of himself he’s only ever
shown Jared—and Socks. But only once with Socks. That was when Socks got caught
under a sofa during a thunderstorm and Jensen was the only one home. He held
onto the seven pound ball of snow all night, and didn’t once embarrass Socks by
mentioning that he peed all over Jensen’s lap twice.
He leaves Jared for a total of five minutes. One minute to dart down the stairs
and fill up the electric kettle in the kitchen. Another to pop two slices of
bread into the toaster. Another to refill Socks’ water dish even though Socks
hasn’t done anything for him lately. Another to make a mug of peppermint tea,
toss the toast onto a plate, put it all on a tray, and set everything down on
his bed.
Back in the bathroom, Jensen rejoins Jared, kneeling on the floor beside the
toilet.
“Hey,” Jensen whispers, hand on the small of Jared’s back. “Let’s get you
cleaned up and in bed.”
Jared’s fierce Catholic upbringing blazes forth when he weakly whimpers,
“School.”
“No way, Jay. Your face is on my toilet seat. You really wanna go to school
after this?”
Nose scrunch. “Ugh.”
“That’s right.”
“Carry me.”
“Only if your face doesn’t touch my face.”
“I’m sick,” Jared whines, wrenching himself from the arms of the toilet. “Be
nice to me.”
“Sorry, sorry, should I lick your face?”
“Euw.”
“Kiss you? With tongue?”
“Gross!”
“I know, kissing me is pretty gross.”
“That’s…” Jared gets to his feet due to Jensen mostly pulling him up. “…not
what I meant.”
“Things that are almost as disgusting as kissing me, but not quite,” Jensen
murmurs, supporting a little more than half of Jared’s body weight against his
in the journey to the sink. “I’ll go first: subway rails.”
After a cool splash of water to his face, Jared starts to relax. He manages to
add keyboards at the library to the list once Jensen hands him his toothbrush.
By the time they barrel over to Jensen’s room, five more items have been
thoughtfully added to the list. Jared sheds his carefully pressed school
clothes and shimmies into Jensen’s Marilyn Manson shirt. Not only does Jared
engage in premarital sex with Jensen the Bad Influence, he also wears shirts
with lyrics like, “I am the god of fuck,” on them.
“Drink.” Jensen tips the mug against Jared’s lips, his own anxiety waning as
Jared listens. Within two minutes, the tea disappears and Jared takes three
hearty bites out of the toast.
Tiny claws scratch on the hardwood floors of Jensen’s room.
“No one called for your services,” Jensen sniffs to the imposition. “Go back to
licking your butt.”
“Don’t be so mean to him.”
“You’re so quick to defend someone who spends all day licking their asshole.”
“I have to be, I’m dating you.”
“You wound me, Jay. Right here.”
“Don’t point at your dick, it’s not polite.” Jared reaches over the edge of the
bed and picks up Socks, who yips in pleasure. Socks never gets to sleep on or
near Jensen’s bed. He quickly makes himself at home, plopping down on Jared’s
stomach, tail wagging. Jensen sticks his tongue out at the ball of fluff.
Spoiled brat.
“Excuse me, did the dog haul your puking ass from the curb to the comfort of my
own bed?”
“Attack Jensen, Socks. Go on.” Yawning, Jared places one hand on Socks’ head,
and the other on Jensen’s knee. “Get in bed with me, Jen.”
Jensen rolls his eyes and stands up. “No way. You just told my own dog to kill
me.”
“Does he ever stop talking?” Socks sneezes. “I didn’t think so.”
Mid-undressing, Jensen shoots a text to his connection in the main office at
school. He needs a small favor. As he climbs into bed, his phone flashes a
confirmation. Done and done. They’ve been excused from school due to illness.
Jensen shows the text to Jared, and then places his phone on his nightstand,
next to his framed picture of Jared hanging upside down from a set of monkey
bars. In the black and white picture, Jared laughs, his shirt exposing his
belly button, and hair wildly draping down towards a sea of woodchips.
Moments after Jensen took that picture, he climbed onto the monkey bars next to
Jared and tried to sneak a kiss that way. He fell off, kicked Jared in the
face, and cut his own bottom lip open from the impact.
“If you puke, puke on Socks,” Jensen mumbles into Jared’s hair.
Taking a deep breath, Jared nods. He deposits Socks closer to the edge of the
bed, then turns onto his side so that he lays chest to chest with Jensen.
Strawberry Poptarts and Dial soap linger, despite this morning’s activities.
Something else dances there, and it takes Jensen a minute to identify it.
“You smell like me.”
Jared’s already asleep.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Three weeks later, Jensen skips fourth period gym.
He gets his exercise darting hall monitors, teachers that wander the hallways
like Pacman monsters, and nosey students who would squeal on the drop of a hat.
Narrowly, he avoids the Principal, ducking into a classroom with a teacher who
doesn’t yet know who he is. He bows to the class of what looks like freshman
English and exits a minute later, racing towards the one fire exit he knows
doesn’t work. The janitor can be plied for information, but his tidbits don’t
come free and experience does. Jensen knows better than to leave fingerprints;
he kicks the door open and bolts.
Free at last!
His jacket billows with the rush of wind from his steady, rapid strides.
Downtown doesn’t contain anything that worthy of ditching, but Jensen has an
idea and he must follow through. Besides, it wasn’t his decision for his
destination to close at three o’clock every day. Either he conducts a jailbreak
or he misses out on the opportunity to make Jared smile.
Running two miles past a myriad of houses and homes converted into day spas or
bed and breakfast joints, Jensen slows down at the intersection of Joy and
Luck. He didn’t have any say when the town decided to name its streets, either.
He catches his breath by transitioning to a quick walk. Some of the adults out
and about today know who he is and roll their eyes. There’s that Ackles kid
again. Up to no good. Probably hell bent on cow tipping. Jensen has never
tipped a cow before, but he would love to try if offered; it’s probably the
evilest thing most people in town can imagine him doing. Why tip over a
defenseless cow when he could encourage a group of teenagers that every silver
car downtown needs a good egging?
Most of the adults are too wrapped up in their own shit to pay any attention to
Jensen and that’s the way he likes it. Stay at home moms busily wrestle their
toddlers out of stores while elderly people argue about the price of gas or
milk and in their day they had to walk fifteen miles, barefoot in the snow, to
buy a pair of socks.
Halfway through fourth period, Jensen glides into Fanny’s Flower Farm.
“Fanny,” he announces, ignoring everyone else in the shop, “can you construct a
penis bouquet?”
Fanny glares at Jensen over her emerald eyeglasses. She has survived more wars
than anyone in town, and somehow, she has survived Jensen. So far.
“I don’t have flowers that small,” she snaps, cutting off a stem with more
force than needed.
Customers mill around, some shocked, some apathetic.
Sidling up to the counter, Jensen slaps down a twenty dollar bill. This is one
of a few freshly swiped bills from one of many hiding places his dad thinks he
doesn’t know about. It catches Fanny’s attention enough for him to place an
order. “Think, ‘I am fucking crazy stupid about you’ combined with, ‘with a
love that will echo through the ages.’”
His preferred florist accepts the cash and waves him off. Fifteen minutes seems
to be the wait time, which pleases Jensen as he’s in no hurry to get back for
fifth period English. He only shares one class with Jared and that’s not until
eighth period. Mrs. Padalecki was extremely insistent about keeping their
schedules opposite this year, so Jared could concentrate on his studies, since
he’s in a million Advanced Placement classes. Truly, her meddling knows no
bounds. Jensen’s parents asked him if he was still in school, he replied yeah,
unfortunately he was, and they wished him well.
Their families couldn’t be more different. Mrs. Padalecki works as a crossing
guard at an elementary school. Being paid to boss people around suits her;
she’s worked at the same school for twenty years. The few, select times Jensen
has been invited for dinner he noticed that she conducts dinner the same way
she presides over traffic. Scary.
Jensen walks around the flower shop and admires new stock out of his price
range. He’d enjoy surprising Jared with rare orchids one day, just for the hell
of it. But that’s a fifty dollar price tag and a little steep for some
amusement. Besides, for fifty dollars he could get many flowers, not just one.
And what would Jared do with an orchid?
Flowers of every color and size wave at him as he passes by. They give their
approval of skipping class, especially when he picks up a watering can from
under one of the tables and helps them out.
Fifteen minutes turns into twenty, and by the start of fifth hour, Fanny
hollers for him.
“You should be in class.” Her silver hair, tied back in a bun, shakes as she
lectures. “You wanna end up like my oldest son, living in my attic, surfing the
world wide web all god damn day?”
“I’m sure that Frankie is very busy being a productive member of society on the
internet.”
“The hell he is!” Fanny angrily ties a green bow around the packing paper she
used to wrap Jensen’s order. “I know what you boys do on those computers!”
Scissors point at Jensen. “Nothing but filth! Porn, porn, porn! You know, in my
day, if you wanted to see a set of hooters, you went out and paid someone to do
it. You know how you paid that gal? By getting a god damn job!”
“I will definitely get a job so I can pay Jared to let me see his tits,” Jensen
assures her, reaching out for his bouquet. “Can I see…”
Poking his hand with the pointy end of the scissors, Fanny snaps, “I am not
finished!”
“Okay… backing off…”
“And another thing—is it so much to ask for young men to dress halfway decent?
Look at you. Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Brush a god damn comb through
your hair.”
From telling Jensen he spends all day looking at porn on the internet like her
forty year old son, to ordering him to quit looking like a slob, Fanny looks
after him in her own way. She slips a card into the bouquet, the words inside
it elegantly tipped in India ink. After that, she gives Jensen a receipt and
passes her finished work over as if he were holding a baby.
“Don’t fuck this up.”
“I won’t drop it.”
“Not that, this.” She points at the card. “That boy’s the jewel of his momma’s
eye. Nasty woman. But I’m telling you, don’t fuck it all up.”
“Uh, okay.”
“Be nice.”
“I am nice. Why do people think I’m not nice?”
“Is that back talk?”
“No ma’am.”
“Get out of here before I call the cops.”
“I watered some of the tulips for you.”
“Go!”
“Thank you! Next time I’ll ask for a bigger penis!”
***** Chapter 4 *****
The flowers are a hit.
In fact, the power of the bouquet fast forwards them from Jared’s locker—where
he received it—to Jensen’s bed. Flat on his back, he drinks in the sight before
him. His eyes roam over the curve of Jared’s hips straddling his own, the plane
of Jared’s middle, the dip of his collarbone, and the rosy pout of his lips. He
lands on hazel eyes brimming with enthusiasm and excitement.
Jared makes his chest ache something fierce.
Long, firm fingers press against Jensen’s shoulders. Chestnut hair drapes down
as their lips meet. Kisses begin simple, sweet, and appreciative. Not all of
their motions are smooth, but Jared brushes past that, rubbing his fingertips
over Jensen’s chest, throat, and jaw. Touching is good. More than good. Arched
over Jensen, Jared rocks his hips back and forth at a languid pace, drawing out
the tempo.
They’ve been here countless times before, in the sapphire view of Jensen’s
room.
The bed creaks in response to Jared’s movements. Jensen reaches up, framing his
hands over the pert, round curve of Jared’s ass. Longing for skin to skin
contact, Jensen presses his mouth rough over Jared’s, squeezing his hands,
pushing them closer. Tasting peppermint gum, surrounded by the light scent of
Dial soap, denim straining against denim, everything becomes too much and not
enough.
Wickedly teasing, Jared straightens, separating their lips and looking down on
Jensen like a cat would a mouse. He smirks and dimples make their debut, all of
this chased by the most voracious tilt of his hips. Grinding down, merciless
with pressure, Jared coaxes hot friction from the rub of their jeans. He slips
his hands over Jensen’s on his ass and reciprocates every grope. Cerulean walls
provide protection. Every minute that passes, Jared relaxes, eases into Jensen,
and rides him with increasing fervor. Their breathing escalates. The headboard
thumps steady and demanding. Jensen gasps when Jared takes off his own shirt.
His legs buck right after, as Jared’s fingers curl around the zipper of his
jeans.
Every muscle in Jensen’s body begs for release of this torture, free to indulge
in every immoral act he can conceive of.
Jared makes him wait.
He makes him work for it.
Until they skim the edge of no return, both of them panting and kissing and
letting out uninhibited moans. Finally, Jensen peels off Jared’s jeans,
flipping them over so they lay side to side. He hooks his right leg over
Jared’s left, and grinds their cocks together, the sensation wringing out
noises from the back of their throats. Jensen stretches out, legs entwine with
Jared’s, and revels in the pleasure of being this close from head to toe.
Another tortuous minute passes as they fumble with zippers, shuck socks off,
and burrow underneath the comfortable supply of blankets. Jared laughs when
Jensen’s cock slaps against his middle, and Jensen pokes at Jared’s middle in
retaliation.
Fighting for control, Jared wins, straddling Jensen once more, this time
blushing as he settles his hips back. They shudder at the first sublime
sensation—Jensen’s cock presses hard and heavy against Jared’s ass. Jared lifts
his hips and arches back, eyes closed, moaning when the tip of Jensen nudges
between his legs. Both of them fight an ongoing battle to tease without pushing
too far past the edge.
“Stuff,” Jared murmurs, his hands on Jensen’s chest.
Jensen knocks over his lamp, alarm clock, and wallet foraging on his
nightstand. Finally, he yanks open the top drawer. Jared is warm all over.
Tantalizing patches of pale, flushed skin tease Jensen’s mouth. He must get
distracted, because Jared reaches over and grabs the necessary supplies
himself.
“Someone’s determined,” Jensen mutters, staring as Jared rips open the condom.
“Mmph… thought about this all day.”
“Really?”
“Uh huh.”
“You mean I could’ve scored without buying you flowers?”
“Probably.”
“Were you thinking about me during Math?”
“Shut up, Jensen.”
“Tell me. Were you hot for me during gym?”
“I’m not putting this on you if you don’t shut up.”
“My right hand can fix that.”
Jared swats Jensen upside the head, but there’s the hint of a smile, so
Jensen’s not completely a lost cause. Reaching back, Jared maintains eye
contact with Jensen as he rolls the condom over and down Jensen’s cock. He
shudders with every twitch Jensen gives, and his own cock bobs between them.
Jensen wraps his right hand around it and strokes in time with the delicate
motion of Jared’s fingers.
Lube always feels weird when first applied, but it makes Jensen cringe to think
of having sex without it. Jared applies a generous amount, both on himself and
over Jensen, then wipes his hand on his discarded shirt and takes a deep
breath.
It’s been a while. They had rushed, frenzied sex last week, cut short by
Jensen’s parents arriving home and ruining their fun. Prior to that, Jared
hadn’t completely shaken his nausea from that flu, and Jensen didn’t push. He
doesn’t have to tell Jared to breathe out as he lowers his hips; Jared’s thighs
tremble, his chest rises, and he tosses his head back at the first decadent
breech.
Inch by inch, Jensen fights to keep himself from thrusting up, groaning,
pressing indents of his fingers into Jared’s thighs.
“Don’t,” Jared cries out, eyes squeezed shut, “don’t move.”
After a pained exhale, Jensen murmurs, “I won’t, Jay.”
Raw, unyielding pressure clutches Jensen’s cock, kneading every inch of his
cock, all the way up to the bloated, sensitive tip. Jared lets out a moan,
sweating with the effort of adjusting, fully seated and resting on Jensen’s
lap.
Swiveling his hips, searching for an angle, Jared gasps when he finds it.
“Oh, oh, Jen…” He lifts his hips half an inch and works himself down a second
later. Rising and falling in cautious, restrained movements, Jared opens
himself up to Jensen. He bites down on his bottom lip and opens his eyes, the
message clear enough to be wordless.
One pulse deeper, fusing their hips together, and Jensen unleashes chaos.
He pounds into Jared, spreading his thighs and ass, thrusting up with as much
force as his hips and thighs allow. Alternating long, deep, punishing strokes
with short, rapid pierces, Jensen wrings out shouts and moans from Jared full
of lust, longing, and insatiable fever.
With the headboard slamming against the wall, Jared takes charge, stilling
Jensen’s hips. He moves on his own, craving nothing but the profound ecstasy of
fucking himself over Jensen’s cock. Like a man obsessed, he slams his hips
down, twisting and tilting his hips, riding Jensen so hard that the nightstand
begins to rattle in time with the headboard.
Every cry from Jared’s sumptuous mouth intensifies, until he’s shouting
Jensen’s name and leaning forward. Exhilarating and fervent, Jared tosses his
head back. He grabs Jensen’s hand, places it over his cock, and together, they
coax out the first spurt of come, striping Jensen’s stomach.
Awash in cutting, ardent pleasure, Jensen opens his mouth and groans out his
own orgasm, his cock spasming inside his tight, compressing confines. Buried
deep, he arches into Jared. He pulls Jared close and kisses him, rough, sloppy,
and messy. Jared’s breath hitches and he falls apart again, capable of a
refraction rate Jensen isn’t. He comes again, thick ropes of his orgasm
reaching Jensen’s chest.
“Again,” Jared pants, his hands in Jensen’s hair. “Fuck me again.”
“I…”
“Please,” he pleads. “Jen, please…”
Desperate, they switch positions, Jared on all fours, Jensen mounting him from
behind. Jensen can feel his cock struggling to stay hard. He’s hard enough to
push into Jared again, fucking him without any rhythm or tempo. Nothing but
instinct drives him, plus the starving, powerful moans of his name.
Jared seizes for a second, then his entire body seems to vibrate with the force
of his orgasm. He spills into Jensen’s hand, then onto the bed, and releases a
groan so guttural, Jensen’s eyes roll back to hear it.
No small effort goes into catching their breath.
They become a sticky, sweaty, raspy mess of limbs on top of the unfortunate
bed.
The walls around them fade into a shade of cobalt as the sun begins to set
outside. Jared’s hair curls wildly over Jensen’s pillow, a few strands tickling
his nose as they lay chest to back. For the longest and shortest time, they
bump against each other, sighing.
Jensen nudges the back of Jared’s neck with his nose.
“I would’ve gotten you flowers anyway,” he rumbles, voice wrecked.
Smiling, Jared nods. He pats Jensen’s hand on his chest. “I know, Jen.”
Unsurprising to either of them, they fall asleep this way, the bouquet of
flowers resting in a vase on Jensen’s desk.
***** Chapter 5 *****
A week later, Jensen’s dad swings by, on a layover to Los Angeles. He stays for
approximately three hours, one of which he spends taking a shower and shredding
junk mail, another where he pretends to mow the lawn, and finally, his last
hour he spends sitting with Jensen at the DMV.
While Jensen takes the stupid test for his license, he looks up to see his
father conversing with Mrs. Padalecki, who just happens to be at the DMV.
Great.
He hands in his test to the grumbling government employee at the front of the
room and fidgets as he waits for the results.
“Pass,” the guy grouses and hands Jensen a ticket. “Go over there.”
Over there could mean anywhere in the DMV, because the employee is just that
helpful, but thankfully Jensen can read the signs above each different desk. A
lady with bright orange fingernails takes his ticket and points to plop his ass
in yet another maroon plastic chair. Jensen bakes underneath fluorescent
lights, turning every now and then to make sure Mrs. Padalecki hasn’t attempted
to douse his dad in holy water.
When it’s his turn to have his soul eaten by the DMV’s digital camera, Jensen
doesn’t smile for his picture. He stands at the counter instead of sitting back
down to wait for them to laminate the rectangular piece of paper that will
allow him to legally drive. He’s been driving illegally since he was twelve,
but that was back when his parents rented a home in the country and rural life
was more forgiving. His middle school classmates all knew how to drive a truck,
tractor, and car. It was only fair that he catch up with them.
His driver’s license is still hot from the laminating machine when he kicks his
father in the foot.
“Let’s go,” Jensen insists. Mrs. Padalecki is nowhere to be seen.
Setting down the tattered copy of TIME back on the plastic chair, Jensen’s
father sighs and stands up, taking his sweet time.
This town is not quite suburban, not quite country, definitely not city
material. It likes to think itself the cultural epicenter of the universe,
hosting such prestigious events like The Nutcracker, an annual Geography Bee,
and Neil Diamond cover band concerts every first Monday evening of the month.
Wholesome seems to be the name of the game and Jensen’s family could never be
described as such. He knows the story of his parents’ well thanks to his
distant grandparents and bottles of wine that loosened their tongues over
various holiday meals. Jensen’s mother was still married to her first husband
when she met Jensen’s father. Donna was a PA, Alan was a writer, and it was
lust at first sight. She was blond, perky, and vibrant. He was handsome,
mysterious, and brooding. It was everything every romance author could hope
for.
Torrid love affair, messy divorce, having a child out of wedlock… no wonder
they spawned Jensen.
Although the nature documentary business itself isn’t quite that radical, his
parents have been funded by big names in Hollywood—celebrities eager to inflate
their reputations after scandals or bad reviews. At dinner parties and soirees,
Jensen learned how to buy drinks for the adults around him and skim change off
the top. That was his allowance. While kids his age were learning how to write
in cursive, he was hanging out with PAs and crew members who taught him how to
play blackjack.
In the parking lot, Alan tosses Jensen the keys to his white Nissan 370Z.
“Congrats, now don’t get us killed.”
“Great vote of confidence, pops.”
“Yeah, well, that woman sure loves you.”
Jensen jerks open the driver’s side door, wishing he could rip it off like the
Hulk. He slides in and pushes the seat back, preferring not to have his spine
so rigid while he drives. Donna’s car is a more conservative Mercedes CLA and a
stick shift. The Nissan is what Jensen learned how to drive on once he
graduated from tractors and busted Ford trucks. He can drive Donna’s car,
usually without grinding the gears, but why put in all that effort when the
Nissan works just as well.
“What’d she say? Did she have a bottle of holy water with her? Try to get you
to say a few Hail Marys? Suggest you invest in a crucifix for our living room?”
“Crucifixes did not come up in our conversation,” Alan sighs, running a hand
through his hand. “You sure you’re okay dropping me off at the airport?”
“Dad, would I offer if I wasn’t?”
“I don’t want you having sex in this car, please.”
“How’d we get from the airport to my sexual activities?”
“Jensen, just listen.”
“How long are you two gonna be gone this time?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Alan sighs yet again. “I don’t know. I’m
meeting your mother in Los Angeles, then we’re heading to Anchorage.”
“Without me.”
“You hated Anchorage.”
“Well, I’d hate it less if I could bring a friend.”
“Exactly,” Alan says, reverting to dad mode, “that’s my point. You’re dating
that woman’s son, you need to be careful.”
“Your point about me hating Anchorage was that I’m banging Jared?”
“I’m trying to talk to you.”
“You don’t have an appointment.”
“Do you need to see Dr. Howard again?”
“Don’t call him that. Your friend from college who dropped out of school with
half a psych degree is not a doctor.”
“You’re so hard on people, Jensen. Just like your mother.”
“Should I quote you on that, pops?”
“No,” he grumbles, reclining his seat. “Please don’t.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Fine. Tired. We’re both tired.”
“Old age catching up, huh?”
“How many years of therapy you think you’ll need to set you right?”
Jensen grins and switches lanes on the main road out of town. “How much you
willing to pay for?”
“Aside from your entrepreneurial spirit, what’s the scoop on this woman? Mrs.
Padawhatsit?” Alan stretches out, crossing one leg over another. He seems to
trust Jensen’s ability to drive them to the airport without too much injury.
“Mrs. Padalecki.”
“Yeah, that. She told me you’ve been running around raising hell.”
Eyebrows up, Jensen echoes, “Raising hell?”
“Alright, she didn’t put it exactly like that, but she was pretty intense about
increasing your supervision and how you’re influencing her son. I guess he’s
been moodier lately and she thinks it’s because the two of you are having
issues.”
On the expressway, Jensen tests the Nissan’s power. He has full use of both
cars while his parents are gone. “He hasn’t been moody with me.”
Alan laughs and shakes his head. “C’mon, Jensen, give your old man some credit.
You’re hung up on this boy. You mention him at least three times whenever your
mother and I call. I’ve never met him, but I could tell him what his favorite
color is, the weird thing he does with his nose whenever you swear, and how he
likes to wear your Manson shirt even though Manson scares the hell out of him.”
“It’s not weird,” Jensen insists. “The nose thing he does is not weird. It’s…”
He glares at the Ford Focus in front of them. “…fucking adorable.”
“See?” Alan motions to the road. “Why don’t we cut to the chase—have you slept
with this boy?”
“Can you define ‘slept with’?”
“So you have.”
“Yes. Yes, father, I have rocked his world,” Jensen grumbles dryly. “But for
your information, we’re not having any issues. We’re fine. But you know what’s
not fine?”
“I don’t want to hear it, Jensen. You’re not the boy’s parent, you don’t get to
make those decisions. If they want to raise their kid a certain way, they’ve
got that right. Just like I have the right to raise a no good hellraising smart
ass.”
“Handsome no good hellraising smart ass.”
“Don’t push it.”
“I get my good looks from you, pops.”
“Right, so don’t push it.”
A familiar sight looms into view. Departures suck, but Jensen would never let
on about that. He slows to the speed limit. “So what do you want me to do? You
really gonna cave to Mrs. Padalecki? I’ll hose myself down with holy water if
she wants, but it might burn.”
Phone in hand, Alan checks in for his flight. “Of course not, who do you think
I am? Some suburban pushover?” He pats Jensen’s shoulder and ruffles his hair
despite threats of death. “Just remember that there are two people in a
relationship and you have a lot of freedom your boyfriend doesn’t.”
“So… you’re telling me not to cause trouble for Jared?”
“Get the kid a prize, we’ve got ourselves a winner.”
That’s just about enough parenting to last for another six months or so.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Two days later, in English, Jensen stares at the copy of Othello laid out on
his desk.
Either their teacher has a hangover or they’ve given up their stint at
glorified babysitting. Their class has been assigned to write an essay about
their favorite Shakespearian character. Copies of the Bard were dumped onto an
empty desk upfront, free to pick through. Jensen saw the majority of his
classmates snatch up easy picks like Romeo and Juliet. Hanging back like a
vulture, he went through what remained and snatched up the only copy of
Othello.
However, no offense to the Bard, but three pages in and Jensen can’t
concentrate.
Typical teenage shit cements itself into the forefront of his mind, blocking
out homework, studying, and the horrifyingly boring present. Jared hasn’t
called or texted since Mrs. Padalecki conveniently cornered Alan at the DMV.
Jensen walked over to Jared’s house close to eleven last night and picked up a
few pebbles. The light was on in Jared’s room. Throwing pebbles at his window
was a system that had proven effective before.
Alan’s warning about getting Jared into trouble chose that moment to kick
Jensen in the ass.
He left, tossing the pebbles back onto the ground.
Every morning since, Jared hasn’t been at the bus stop, likely being driven to
school and back. They’ve exchanged a few words here and there in eighth period,
but Jared rushed out after and Jensen didn’t stop him. It was best not to make
whoever was picking him up wait.
Jensen looks around the classroom. Hellraising comes to mind when he spots a
fire alarm. But that would be way too easy and involve prints, unless he could
formulate a decoy. It could be done with some assistance so he extends his
view. A search for a proper partner yields nothing. None of these Shakespeare-
reading jerks could provide a decent distraction if their lives depended on it.
Hunched over his desk, Jensen briefly wonders if he really is as evil as Mrs.
Padalecki seems to think.
When he’s old enough to rent cars and buy dynamite, what can the world expect
from him then?
A knock on the door prompts everyone to look up. Jensen cranes his neck,
practically digging his nails into the desk.
Dave pops in and exchanges noncommittal pleasantries with the sad sack at the
front of the room. Small talk done, he scans the room and points at Jensen. “A
word, Mr. Ackles. Bring your stuff.”
Classmates giggle but Jensen ignores them. Even if the Principal wants to sit
Jensen down for a three hour lecture on how to conduct himself at school it’s a
better prospect than rotting in a desk. He follows Dave out and halfway down
the hallway. Dave’s shoulders seem serious. Maybe Jensen’s being expelled; he
can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.
Outside a set of bathrooms near the main office and front entrance, Dave stops.
He turns around and rolls his eyes at Jensen. “You’re not even afraid, are
you?”
“Do your worst,” Jensen murmurs, holding his arms out.
“What would scare you, I wonder?”
Bitterly, Jensen grouses, “Maybe you should get to the point, Dave.”
“I thought so,” Dave replies, a little too smug. “Fine. But I don’t want anyone
to know I was involved. Got it?” He leans towards the bathrooms and whistles.
Jared peeks out, his eyes meeting Jensen’s.
“Oh fuck no,” Jensen laughs. “Really, Jay?”
“Shh!” Jared embraces him, crushing their ribs together. “Did you drive here
today?”
“Well, yeah, but what…”
“Good.” Turning to Dave, Jared waves. “Thank you. I owe you one.”
Dave shrugs and pulls two purple pieces of paper from his back pocket. “Let’s
say Jensen owes me one. Here, you’ll need these. Now get out of my sight, you
two are disgusting.”
“I wuv you,” Jensen quips to Dave, making a heart with his hands. “You have a
soft spot for us after all.”
“Shut up, Jensen. Thank you, Mr. Chang. I really appreciate it.”
“I hope you appreciate it when I’m fired,” he sighs and waves them off.
“Go—don’t make me scream for a hall monitor.”
This time it’s their turn to bolt, leaving behind dust outlines of themselves.
They flash their off-campus passes at the two hall monitors guarding the front
doors and hop into the Nissan. It couldn’t be more perfect.
 
Teenagers congregate at malls. Some magnet implanted into their brains draws
them in. In order to avoid arousing suspicion, Jensen drives forty-five minutes
to a mall one town over. Calling the structure a mall is being generous. There
are a handful of stores, a claw machine, and a minute-clinic.
But the best part of the sad cluster of buildings doesn’t have anything to do
with clothes.
“Slow down there, Speedy,” Jensen warns Jared, watching in awe as Jared packs
away a second paper boat of cheese fries. “You know, if you chew, sometimes you
can taste your food.”
Cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, Jared glares. He swallows his mouthful and
takes a long sip of Jensen’s Coca-Cola Icee. “I’ve… hic… survived on pot roast
for the past two days. Everything tastes so good. Are you gonna eat the rest of
those nachos?”
Jensen slides them over. “You know, I’m a little turned on.”
“Not now. Eating.”
“Wet blanket,” Jensen mutters. “Never let me have any fun.”
The cheese fries never stood a chance. Jared tosses the empty paper boat into
the black trashcan nearby. It joins the first serving of cheese fries Jared
tore through, both now nothing but husks. Jared starts on Jensen’s nachos,
shoveling food into his mouth, licking cheese off his fingers. Jensen rests his
elbows on the cheap table and bops Jared on the nose.
Smiling, he delivers more praise for Jared’s jailbreak. It was a brilliant
plan. The day remains theirs.
“Oof,” Jared groans and rubs his stomach. “Ate too much.”
“You ate like you’ve never eaten cheese before.”
“I had a headache before, I thought eating would help.”
“Are you still puking?”
Jared shrugs and collects trash onto their plastic tray. “Sorta. It kinda only
happens at night now. My mom thinks it’s hormones.”
“Are hormones the work of Satan?”
Nose scrunch. “That’s not what she thinks, Jen.”
With a snort, Jensen flicks a crumpled up napkin at Jared. No one in this mall
pays any attention to them. Jensen likes to think it’s because he looks a
little older than he is. Or maybe because Jared acts more mature than ninety
percent of students in high school.
“She just…” Jared catches the napkin and holds it in his hands, looking down at
it. “She’s concerned about my eternal soul and stuff like that.”
Here they go. Best to get shit out of the way right now. “That why you’ve been
MIA this week?”
He could do without the nod in response, but at least it proves he was right
about shit. Mrs. Padalecki wants to start cracking down. Problem is, as Jensen
fully knows, she’s way too late.
His arms wrapped around himself, Jared asks a question, quiet and almost
haunting.
“Jen, do you think my soul’s going to hell?”
Chapter End Notes
     my heart. oh my heart. ;-;
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The Cuban restaurant in town enjoys the reputation for being not only the best
restaurant, but the most out of place. Jensen asked Ilan what the hell drove
him to open up a Cuban shop in the middle of nowhere in a town where nothing
ever happens. That was the point, Ilan had said. He needed a period in his life
where he was removed from everything, where he didn’t have to worry about stuff
constantly going on.
Ilan built the place with the help of his brother-in-law, a big city contractor
and architect.
Three years ago, the restaurant opened and served its first batch of fried
yucca.
One of the best dishes on the menu involves white rice, fried potatoes, steak,
onions, and tomatoes. Jensen could eat that every day for the rest of his life.
Or, if he’s not in a steak mood, he can devour carton after carton of a side
dish called congris—white rice cooked with black beans. And when he’s really in
the mood for something on the go, Ilan prepares him a Sandwich Cubano. Wrapped
in foil, this is a concoction made of two kinds of pork, cheese, pickles,
mustard, and crusty bread warmed on a press.
To wash everything down, Ilan keeps a cooler stocked with Jarritos, a liquid
rainbow held in clinking, long-neck bottles. There’s rice water, coffee, and
juice available as well, but nothing tops a Jarrito.
Pineapple holds the title as best flavor ever.
“Two Jarritos,” Ilan reads off of Jensen’s ticket. “One Sandwich Cubano extra
cheese and pickles, two sides of fried yucca, one side of black beans and rice,
and four alfajores. Anything else?”
Ilan decorated the restaurant in hues of shortbread and arctic blue. Pictures
of his town in Cuba decorate the walls. Six tables with four chairs to each fit
in the front, with a bay window to sit at for anyone who wants to wait. Jared
plopped himself down onto the cushioned bench there, content to look out the
window while waiting for Jensen to order.
Back in town after school let out and it was safe to walk around, Ilan’s has
been their first stop.
“What can you offer me in a cheese sort of option?” Jensen asks, digging into
his right pocket. “My friend over there has a craving for cheese.”
At the first mention of cheese, Ilia started writing on the receipt. “Two
cheese and bean pupusas. Anything else?”
“Can you make it three?”
“Three it is. You want this to go?”
“Yeah, please.”
Jensen pays and takes two pineapple Jarritos from the cooler. He hands one to
Jared, who accepts it and makes room for Jensen on the bench. Thigh to thigh,
they sit in easy silence. Jared sighs and rests his hand over Jensen’s knee,
tracing circles. They rest like this for fifteen minutes. Three people saunter
into the restaurant, one of them a classmate of Jared’s, but they speak to no
one and no one speaks to them. It’s not exactly rare to see two boys together;
plenty of guys date other guys at school.
People just know not to bother Jensen and Jared when they’re together.
Ilan walks over with their order—two plastic bags stuffed with three containers
each and one paper bag with the sandwich, napkins, and utensils. Jensen tries
to tip Ilan; the older man shakes his head and declines. “Next time,” he says
like usual. “Always for next time.”
Exiting the restaurant, Jared and Jensen take their haul over to the park not
far from their houses. Typically, children run wild in the park, but ever since
some mysterious person set off fifty firecrackers by the tire swing, parents
have diverted their children to the park four blocks over. Jensen has no idea
how those firecrackers got there, or how they were set off without anyone
seeing who did it. He was comfortably at home, doing his homework and extra
credit. Well, he was at home that afternoon, but he was blowing Jared before
fucking him into the mattress. That first alibi sounded better to the cops.
Climbing onto a picnic table, Jensen rips open the first plastic bag. He sits
on the table while Jared politely utilizes the bench.
“Here,” Jensen says, shoving the container with the pupusas into Jared’s hands.
“Cheese for the cheesy.”
“You ordered way too much,” Jared complains. One of the pupusas magically jumps
into his hand, enroute to his mouth. “I’m still full from lunch.”
“Only you would call a gallon of nacho cheese lunch.”
Cheeks stuffed yet again, Jared grumbles, “I like cheese.”
“You’re past liking it, my friend. I’m gonna have to stage an intervention
soon. But help me eat all of this first. Cheese makes me gassy.”
“Gross, Jensen.”
“Farting is a natural bodily function. What you’re doing, inhaling two of those
things at once and speaking with your mouth full? None of that is natural.”
Jared blushes and tries to burp without Jensen noticing. “I’m just… really
hungry lately.”
“Eating like locusts is what we’re supposed to do, Jay, we’re teenagers.”
“Yeah, but then I just sleep all the time.”
“You gonna make me repeat myself?”
“Did you feed Socks this morning?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Jensen.”
“Jared—poodles have survived for centuries on their own. All that hunk of fur
has to do is hunt himself down a squirrel and bam, dinner is served. It’s
called self-sufficiency. See, I just bought us food without bothering anyone
for it.”
“You paid with your dad’s credit card.”
“Irrelevant. I am a hunter and gather, Jay. I hunted and gathered for you.”
“I suppose,” Jared sighs dramatically, “that this means you want sex now.”
Grinning wide enough to be visible from space, Jensen leans in and kisses
Jared’s cheek. “Well, if you’re offering, you bet that fine ass of yours I do.”
“But did you really leave the house without feeding Socks?” Jared bumps their
foreheads together. “Because if you did, Jen, I’m never speaking to you
again—or letting you touch my ass.”
Around them, the sun begins to bow for the day, giving way to another evening
of Jared pleading to his mother to let Jensen hang out in the living room while
they do homework. They can’t spend every evening at Jensen’s vacant house,
playing video games, having sex, and ordering junk food, though Jensen has
tried. Sometimes they have to bite the bullet and willingly sit at the coffee
table in Mrs. Padalecki’s living room, doing homework under supervision and
sitting at least a foot apart from each other like modern day saints.
“I fed him, you happy?” Jensen relents. “And I even said hi to him this
morning.”
Satisfied, Jared smiles, nods, and resumes inhaling most of what Jensen bought
from Ilan’s. He offers bites here and there to Jensen, who takes a few of them,
but otherwise leaves Jared to happily devour what he wants. When the containers
are depleted, Jensen throws everything away. He helps Jared stand up, both of
them laughing.
“I ate so much,” Jared groans and swats at Jensen’s ass. “Why’d you let me eat
so much?”
“Hey, hey, you touch my ass, you’re making a commitment to it.”
“Ugh.” Nose scrunch. “I’m gonna pop, I can’t have sex with you now.”
“Sure,” Jensen snorts. He leads them over to a patch of grass near an oak tree,
slightly away from the park. “Any excuse to keep me from tapping your ass.”
Eased down with help, Jared settles into Jensen’s arms, happy to stretch out
chest to back, their legs almost indistinguishable from one another’s. Warm and
content, he hums and reaches back, playing with Jensen’s hair, practically
melting when Jensen starts to rub his shoulders. After a few minutes, Jensen
starts to press kisses to Jared’s cheeks, nibbling his way down to Jared’s
neck, nipping lightly, scraping his teeth over a familiar, sensitive spot under
Jared’s right ear.
Sunset washes a strawberry hue over the sky, mirroring the scent Jensen inhales
deep and heady.
Their hands lock together, clasped over Jared’s chest.
Silence settles in the miniscule space between them. More than once, Jensen
squeezes Jared close to him, kissing his cheek, pressing his nose to the nape
of Jared’s neck.
He keeps his voice soft, in a tone reserved only for the boy reaching back,
returning every kiss, squeeze, and comfortable exhale.
“I don’t know where souls go,” Jensen murmurs into Jared’s hair. “I don’t
really wanna know. I want it to be a surprise—a big adventure just waiting to
start.”
Grass and oak are all they need.
“But I know, Jay, that wherever your soul goes, mine’ll be following after."
Chapter End Notes
     sniff. this chapter made me cry.
     thank you, as always to my wonderful betas, and thank you T for
     buying me lunch much like the one described in this chapter.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Ten minutes before dinner at the Padaleckis, Jared grabs Jensen’s hand and
leads him over to the creaky bridge. Climbing up, their sneakers storm over the
timber bridge and onto the platform of the big yellow slide. The mouth of the
slide has a plastic cover to grab onto before zipping down, cornered by wood
panels that allow some semblance of privacy.
Jared displays quite the energy for someone who ate half the menu of a Cuban
restaurant.
He grabs Jensen by the collar of his black jacket and draws them close.
Sneakers meet sneakers. Jensen’s mouth meets Jared’s. Their lips press and
smack together, followed by the alluring flicker of tongue against Jensen’s
bottom lip. Opening free and easy, Jensen moans as Jared slips in, intent on
kissing the hell out of Jensen. Long fingers curl into Jensen’s collar; their
hips bump together and Jensen reaches back to squeeze Jared’s ass.
In zero to sixty seconds, taking advantage of adolescent efficiency, they go
from making out to practically humping each other on the playground. Jared
shoves Jensen down onto his knees and looks down, smirking, his fingers teasing
at his belt buckle.
Two can play at that game.
Jensen licks his lips, shining them up, pouting for the full effect.
Then he flashes Jared his best crooked, prizewinning smile.
Knocked flat on his back, Jensen wheezes and laughs, smothered with heated,
rough, demanding kisses. Jared kisses sweet one second and filthy the next. He
grinds their hips together and leans down. With his legs straddling Jensen’s
hips, in one almost fluid movement, he rotates them to lay on their sides.
Chest to chest.
Jared’s hands dart down, skipping past pleasantries, and slip into Jensen’s
jeans. He gives Jensen’s ass one, two, three, four, five firmly thorough
gropes. After locking their hips, every rapid exhale curls together, mingling,
until Jared tilts Jensen’s chin up and kisses him wet and wicked.
What is breathing when kissing is so much better?
Every push forward Jensen gives with his hips, he fights for.
He groans into Jared’s mouth, eyes fluttering, the second Jared’s fingernails
scratch and feather up his shoulder blades.
This is not being on time for dinner.
“Fuck me, Jen.”
And that is not good boy Jared speaking.
That is raunchy, bad boy Jared, who wants nothing more than to get off on the
feeling of Jensen’s cock pounding into him over and over again.
“Fuck,” Jensen mutters with a shiver, arching into Jared. “Stuff… stuff, Jay.”
“My back pocket,” Jared purrs over Jensen’s mouth.
That is definitely bad boy Jared—prepared and ready with two condoms and a pack
of lube in the back pocket of his jeans. Jensen gives his ass a little slap of
approval, earning him a barrage of frenzied kisses and breathy whispers of his
name.
Jensen’s toes curl inside his sneakers.
He makes use of their surroundings, aware of their limitations. They need to
make as little mess as possible. While he’d love to fuck Jared on his back,
Jared’s legs wrapped around his waist or tossed over his shoulders, he opts for
a better position. Wrenched away from Jared for a moment, Jensen kneels and
unzips his jeans. Jared mirrors him, fired up, eager and practically predatory.
After another minute of clumsy, desperate kissing, necking, and groping, Jensen
hauls Jared onto his lap, turning them chest to back. He shoves Jared’s jeans
down to his knees, then his own. Jared’s round, generous ass bounces as Jensen
grinds his cock against it, leaving a wet trail of come over each pert globe.
Fueled by their mutual craving, Jensen rolls the first condom onto Jared, then
the second on himself.
They don’t have extra lube, but the condom Jensen uses has some already.
Jared braces himself on the plastic frame above the slide. He rests his thighs
and legs over Jensen’s. Heart rates accelerating, aching, piercing yearning
floods through them. Jensen spreads Jared’s ass, marveling at the tight, pink
muscle that is his to breech. Jared shudders at the first nudge of Jensen’s
cock to his hole. The burn that follows the first satisfying push is all glory
and passion.
Pushing his hips back, Jared cries out, his entire body thrumming.
Jensen wraps his arms around Jared’s chest, burying his face in the crook of
Jared’s shoulder.
Within a minute, Jared rests in Jensen’s lap, fully seated, panting and
rocking. Clenching, rolling pleasure surges around Jensen. His cock twitches
and swells. He slips his cock out halfway, and clings to Jared when Jared tilts
his hips. He fucks himself over Jensen’s cock, bucking, plunging, and twisting.
Whatever Jared wants, Jensen gives freely.
Harder. Faster. Deeper.
Eyes shut, Jensen moans into Jared’s shoulder, his hips working overtime. The
bloated tip of his cock drives against a bundle of nerves that cause Jared to
muffle his screams with his sleeve. Their muscles coiled and breathing ragged,
Jared remains ruthless in his rhythm, slamming down into Jensen’s lap,
challenging him to keep up.
Finally, Jensen slants their bodies backwards. He spreads Jared’s thighs out a
fraction more.
Holding Jared tight, Jensen fucks him through two thunderous orgasms.
Jared gasps. He screams into his sleeve. He tosses his head back and melts in
Jensen’s arms. His nails leave scratch marks on the plastic frame in front of
them.
The tempo slows for only a minute.
Until it rushes back, punishing and voracious.
Jensen fucks Jared to one last orgasm, his own orgasm starting. The entire
length of his cock swells, heavy and thick, and he fills the condom with rope
after rope of sticky, hot come.
Ecstasy seizes them and refuses to let go.
Neither of them fights it.
They float, together, like it should always be.
Jensen kisses Jared’s cheek.
Jared sighs his gratitude.
Chapter End Notes
     smut! yay! a shorter chapter, but with more on the way. :)
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“Are you sure you didn’t leave any marks?”
“Jay that is the fourth time you’ve asked in the span of ten minutes. No, you
putz, I left no marks.”
“Ugh. Why are we walking?”
“Because you need to act like you didn’t just have eight inches of cock up your
ass.”
“Pft. It’s not eight inches.”
“It so is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining.”
“Because it’s not eight inches.”
“I measured it this morning!”
“Jensen!”
“What? What’s the point of learning math if I can’t apply it to my daily life?”
“Why do I date you?”
“Fuck if I know. Maybe it’s for my eight inch cock. Figures you’d be a size
queen. The quiet ones always are.”
“Please don’t swear in front of my parents.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
“I won’t even tell them about how much I made you come tonight.”
“I… it felt so good.”
“…yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“But that might imply…”
“It’s always good, Jen. Trust me. Just… lately… all I do is eat, sleep, puke,
and masturbate.”
“You were so desperate for cock you skipped class? Wow, that is a problem.”
“Hey, you have no idea. I was going to hump you in the hallway.”
“Dave would’ve screamed.”
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind? Hello, you’re speaking to a teenage boy. This thing? Constantly up,
down, up, down, up, up, up. Oh, c’mon, don’t make that face. You know you’re
not exempt from this shit. Sometimes life is just all about eating, sleeping,
and fucking. Puking though, that’s a new one.”
“It doesn’t happen all the time.”
“Then quit worrying.”
“What’s it like not to give a shit?”
“Glorious.”
“Uh huh.”
“Look, just because your parents expect you to fit inside this rigid,
suffocating box, doesn’t mean you’re not gonna spill over once in a while. Or
at least try to peek out of it. You don’t have to be perfect all the time. If
you wanna spend a week or six drinking nacho cheese and napping, that’s no
one’s business but yours.”
“…”
“What?”
“I’m dating you.”
“Yep. Looks like it.”
“That’s like… setting fire to the box.”
“Hell yes.”
“Hmm. Am I walking okay?”
“Well, I guess. I can still tell you were thoroughly fucked, but you know, I
might be biased.”
“Ugh, whatever. You’re sure you didn’t leave any marks?”
“Jared!”
Chapter End Notes
     forward we go!
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Dinner churns by at an excruciating pace.
Mrs. Padalecki does not greet Jensen with any pretense of warmth beyond a
formal, “We only have three steaks.”
Promptly, Jared solves the steak dilemma by cutting his in half and placing it
on an extra plate. Jensen attempts to protest only to be shut down. Jared makes
the signal—tapping his chin once and glaring at Jensen. Well, the glaring isn’t
technically part of the signal, but it’s sort of like a packaged deal at this
point in their relationship. Shutting up and sitting down at the table, Jensen
decides it’s best not to comment on how he prefers his steaks medium-rare, not
well done.
The Padalecki household contains more crosses and candles than any church
within a one hundred mile radius. Saints and Jesus stare out at their audience
with an intensity rivaled only by the looks Mr. Padalecki casts across the
table towards Jensen.
There’s a prayer before dinner, which Jensen doesn’t participate in. He clasps
his hands out of civility, but he can’t murmur along with the words even if he
wanted to. It’s not for fear of bursting into flames; neither of his parents
practice any major religion. Prayers in the Ackles household revolve less about
some dude and his son, and more around Donna not finding out that Alan kind of
sort of maybe might have taught Jensen how to play blackjack at the age of ten.
Those prayers end in a distinctly different manner than the rumbling, “Amen,”
the Padaleckis utter in unison.
Conversation usually dominates Jared’s house, but since a sinner sits amongst
them, everyone focuses on eating so they can get this over with. Under the
table, Jensen nudges Jared’s foot. Jared frowns but his eyes say something
else. Jensen stops nudging, though he keeps his foot pressed against Jared’s.
Every wall in the Padalecki house holds some model of either Christ, the cross,
or Christ on the cross. Jensen doesn’t have too much against the dude, but it
must get boring watching Mrs. Padalecki serve the same under-seasoned, charred
steaks for dinner time and time again. Her mashed potatoes, which resemble
something more like wet biscuit dough, provide at least a little entertainment.
Tonight’s vegetable of choice lay on a large white platter, sorry stalks of
asparagus exhausted from their time in the oven. Ilan would die if he saw this.
And maybe give Jared an extra pupusa next time.
Neither adult says anything to each other through dinner. Mr. Padalecki rumbles
for Jared to pass the asparagus; Jensen ignores that he has to pass it to Jared
to do so.
If this is what Jensen is missing with his parents gone all the time—he’s
probably not missing much.
On the few occasions that his parents have been in town together and sat Jensen
down for a meal, dinner was either a splurge on a four course meal from
somewhere with a Michelin star or Burger King. There’s not much difference
between a Whopper and filet mignon, Jensen philosophizes, attempting to wrench
his fork out of potato quicksand.
One time, Donna forced Jensen to spend some quality time with her. This was
back in the country and Jensen must have been about twelve. She said every
teenaged boy needed to be scarred by their mothers at least once.
She took him to a dairy farm five miles up the road, to see the miracle of
birth.
Donna ended up puking her breakfast and lunch while Jensen wondered when he
could get back to masturbating to erotic novels their housekeeper kept stashed
in the defunct dumb waiter.
Dinner with the Padaleckis manages to be more boring and gruesome than waiting
for that cow to give birth to its calf. At least then he was able to crack
jokes to his mother about her crackpot ideas; if a joke landed on the table,
introduced itself, and slapped everyone in the face three times Mr. and Mrs.
Padalecki would ask it to pass the asparagus.
Hazel eyes make the torture worth it.
“We’ll wash up,” Jared offers at the end of the eternity that slugged on by.
Mrs. Padalecki barely disguises her fear of losing her good silver. However,
her son proves too quick, gathering up plates and practically racing to the
kitchen. Jensen trudges after, knocking their hips together at the sink.
“Out of the way,” Jensen sniffs, rolling up imaginary sleeves. “Let me show you
how a man washes dishes.”
Swooning, Jared presses one hand to his chest and the other to his chin. “My
goodness! Little ol’ me was about to lift that heavy sponge until you came
along! My big, strong man!”
Chest puffed out, suds covering his hands, Jensen lets out his after-dinner
burp. Before Jared can adequately express his disgust, Jensen clears his throat
and rumbles, “Yeah, that’s what big strong men do—we’re burping, macho, hunter
gather-er types that wash the fu—heck out of these here dishes! Now stand
aside, I’d hate to see a pretty little thing like yourself injured.”
Two things save Jensen from a harsh nose scrunching: not swearing and flexing
his muscles as he carefully sets a plate onto the drying rack. Jared’s eyes
instantly fixate on his arms. And with a well-timed stretch to grab more
plates, Jensen feels his shirt ride up just an inch, exposing a hint of skin
and the black band of his boxer briefs. If awards were given for subtlety while
staring at Jensen’s ass, Jensen remains content in his knowledge that Jared
would be finish last every single time.
By the time the dishes are washed and dried, bad boy Jared makes another
appearance, flirty and seductive, even while settling onto the living floor to
do their homework at the coffee table.
Only Jared could make the opening of a math textbook sexy.
He purposefully plays on all the things he knows drives Jensen absolutely
crazy—licks his lips, smirks, flashes those dimples, plays with the silky,
glossy mop of his hair, and runs his fingers from his ear to his exposed
throat.
Bad boy Jared doesn’t let up even after Mr. Padalecki settles his hefty frame
into one of the leather armchairs ten feet away.
The thrill of his boyfriend gone bad despite their chaperone’s watchful eyes
above today’s paper causes Jensen to short fuse. Who the hell cares about math
homework when the boy in front of him keeps making suggestive, hypnotic
movements with his fingers over the pencil he’s holding? Up, down, up, down—the
second Jared’s fingers rub over the eraser, Jensen shivers and chokes on spit.
Newspaper flutters to catch the source of the commotion.
“Breathe, Jensen,” Jared says, all innocence. “Way to choke on your own spit.”
Glaring, Jensen manages not to die. However, and maybe even worse than dying,
the urge to banter back something about showing Jared what he should really be
choking on instead becomes overwhelming. He shuts his eyes tight for a second,
definitely not imagining sucking bad boy Jared off. Nope. His mind fills with
the squiggles printed on the math textbook they share. Definitely not the
alluring idea of pinning bad boy Jared on the coffee table, yanking his jeans
down, and deep throating his cock, choking loud and keeping everything wet,
hot, and messy.
One of the perks of bad boy Jared is that he’s rougher than good boy Jared. He
would buck into Jensen’s mouth, arching up, squeezing his thighs around
Jensen’s head, pulling him in closer so he can fuck Jensen’s throat deeper.
He’d make the coffee table creak, twist his fingers into Jensen’s hair, and
come hard, forcing Jensen to breathe through his nose and swallow every last
scorching drop.
“Jen?”
“What,” Jensen blurts out, two seconds away from breaking the pencil in his
hand.
“Can you help me with number six?” Jared bats his eyes. “I think it’s a lot
like number nine, but I can’t figure it out.”
For a full ten seconds, Jensen just stares at Jared, open-mouthed.
Hazel eyes flash communicate complete, satisfied, smug knowledge of what Jensen
was thinking about a minute ago. Fucker.
Adding to the insult, Jared has conveniently circled the numbers six and nine.
Fine. If this is how Jared wants their evening to go, then two can play at that
game. And by playing at that game, Jensen means that he can carry on like
nothing at all; bad boy Jared’s charms won’t work on him. Nope. Not at all. In
fact, Jensen can actually do both problems, showing Jared step by step which
formulas to apply and how to move numbers around.
Jared pouts when Jensen slides his notebook back. “Thanks,” he mutters.
“Any time,” Jensen quips. “I got a little lost on six and nine too, but I
turned it around.”
Math homework conquered, they move onto a few other subjects, finishing up as
quickly as possible. Mr. Padalecki falls asleep in his chair, but their
reprieve dies as Mrs. Padalecki takes a seat on the couch directly behind
Jared. Every time Jensen’s eyes divert from his homework, he catches a glimpse
of Mrs. Padalecki by proxy—a fact so depressing, there aren’t words enough to
describe it.
Finally, Jared finishes. He goes through the routine of showing Mrs. Padalecki
his agenda and the completed pages. Jensen stuffs his work into his notebook
and hands it back to Jared for safekeeping. His homework is more or less done
and that’s good enough for him.
Since it might make one of the crucifixes in the house cry, the Padaleckis keep
the one television in their house shut inside a hutch. Any channel that hasn’t
been pre-approved by an adult is locked, with a setting to record what gets
unlocked and when in case anyone tries hacking it. Jensen’s presence in their
home tonight prompts Mrs. Padalecki to deny Jared’s request for television
time. She offers the use of the family radio instead, also locked to certain
stations.
“Radio’s cool,” Jensen says to Jared, shrugging. The absence of television does
not strike Jensen through the heart as much as the Padaleckis must think it
does. “Dibs on the station though.”
“You picked last time,” Jared huffs. He drags the old-time radio out of the
trunk in the corner of the room.
Jensen brushes some of the dust off of it after Jared sets it down on the
table. With their homework done, they’re allowed to sit a little closer
together and hold hands. Shocking stuff after what they did today.
“And I picked awesome.” A few turns and twists of the dials results in nothing
but static and choirs. Finally, after a few minutes of determined searching,
Jensen lands on a station playing casual jazz.
The house enjoys two songs of soft piano, harmonious coronet, and whispering
drums.
Tapping his fingers over Jared’s hand, Jensen gives it a squeeze once the clock
strikes eight thirty.
Through the speakers, one red blooded trumpet blares, chased after with a set
of upbeat, unashamed drums, cymbals, and fevered, rhythmic clapping. All of it
takes a backseat to the confident, grainy voice of Wynonie Harris belting out,
“Yes, it’s real gone, hand you my lovin’, you know what I mean! Feels so bad, I
built a lovin’ machine. Up to my house, I’ll show you what I mean. Well, I just
got wise and built me a lovin’ machine.”
Eight thirty marks a set change for the DJ’s who run this station.
It also heralds a wave of life and excitement into the Padalecki house.
Shaking his shoulders, Jensen holds his arms out in front of him, still sitting
on the floor. He shimmies to and fro, mouthing the words. “Well you put a
nickel in a slot, you hear some buzzin’, kisses wild and hot, five cents a
dozen! Well I got hip to the tip and built me a lovin’ machine.”
Jared joins in, lifting his arms above his head, rocking back and forth. He
mouths along, taking the next stanza. “Well you pull the lever on the right.”
He claps his hands in time. “Two arms jump out, wrap all around you, make you
scream and shout! Drop a nickel in!” The glance he shoots Jensen tells him that
if he could, he’d do exactly what Mr. Harris sings.
Without a worry, Jensen continues, bobbing to the sweet sound of the trumpet.
“You put a quarter in the slot, things light up, out comes your lovin’ in a
Dixie cup! When my machine finishes that ain’t all, out comes a bottle of…”
Mrs. Padalecki murders the radio, twisting the dial from on to off.
Instead of being the least bit remorseful, she informs Jared that it is getting
late and guests should respect his weekday bedtime.
“One more song,” Jared pleads, literally on his knees. “Mom, please.”
In an act of wisdom, Jensen stays out of this discussion.
“Jared, it is time for bed.”
“We still have half an hour, mom.”
“I will not repeat myself again, young man.”
Bad boy Jared takes the reigns in a surprising twist. “Mom,” he insists, tone
firm. “Please, we’re just listening to the radio. I’ll pick a classical
station.”
Tension swarms throughout the living room, affecting everyone. Well, except for
Mr. Padalecki, he’s busy snoring. Earthquakes and tornados couldn’t wake the
man up, or excellent music. But if Jensen leans in an inch too close to Jared,
he’ll wake up and bark at Jared to move over.
Whatever sways Mrs. Padalecki’s answer must be related to some form of
temporary insanity. She huffs and waves Jared off, adding that they get ten
more minutes and after that—that’s it.
Satisfied, Jared searches through stations, ear to one of the speakers. His
tongue peeks out as he concentrates on just the right selection. Jensen beats
away the urge to make Jared laugh or give him a raspberry on the cheek for
being so fucking adorable.
Jared settles for what he announces as Bach, and presses the envelope of his
mother’s rules by scooting an inch closer to Jensen. It’s odd how they’ve spent
most of the day touching, groping, kissing, and fucking, mostly in public
spaces, but in the privacy of a house, they fight for the permission to hold
hands. Kissing is totally out of the question. A hug might be appropriate for
the end of the night, but that is never a guarantee.
For the moment, Jensen tries to enjoy Jared’s thumb running over his knuckles.
The motion soothes some of the rage and frustration built up since dinner.
Towards the end of their ten minutes, Jared pulls Jensen to his feet and they
swing their hands.
“Walk me to my room?” Jared asks, softly, this time nothing but innocence in
his eyes.
His room waits on this floor, down the hall, second door on the left. It’s
still within eyeshot of concerned, prying eyes. Jared usually doesn’t see
Jensen to the front door, just to his room to say goodnight. One of his parents
leads Jensen to the front whenever he’s visiting, acting like wardens, locking
the door behind him once he’s out.
Sometimes, that corner of the park seems like a better place than this.
But Jensen knows it’s not his place to say that.
He simply returns Jared’s smile and nods.
The radio plays on as they linger, making their steps short and slow, taking
their time. Halfway down the hall, another song comes on. At first it sounds
like nothing in particular, just some boring piano music that might be used in
a day spa. Then the notes sound closer and closer together, transforming into
something like a march.
Jensen could laugh for days when he realizes what’s playing.
“Let me,” he begs Jared. “Oh please, pretty please, Jay.”
“Jen…”
“It’s a joke,” he whispers. “How can anyone not appreciate the joke?”
“…fine. But don’t drop me.”
“Drop you? I would never!” he declares, linking his arm with Jared’s. The
bridal march sees them to Jared’s room, the both of them trying and failing to
be discreet.
Just a few seconds and the hallway transforms into a cathedral decked out in
white silk bunting. Their jeans and t-shirts become tuxedos. The disapproving
stare from Mrs. Padalecki shifts into aisles and aisles full of people
cheering, hooting, clapping, and shouting their congratulations. They’re
running out of there, hand in hand, towards a bright blue door.
In a series of fluid motions, with only one slight second of stumbling
involved, Jensen picks Jared up. Jared’s legs swing, he clings to Jensen, and
he squeals in equal parts fear and joy.
“Don’t drop me!”
“I won’t!”
“This is… eek! Ridiculous!”
“You said… I’m… a big, strong man!”
“Yeah, for washing dishes! Jensen, be careful!”
His grip firm on Jared despite the one or two trembles of his forearms, Jensen
manages to stagger past Jared’s door. He huffs and puffs in the doorway, trying
to figure out how not to throw Jared down like a sack of potatoes.
“Don’t!” Jared shrieks in Jensen’s ear, laughing still. “I’ll do it! Just… move
your arm…”
Two minutes pass by as they awkwardly disentangle.
With his feet on the ground once more, Jared punches Jensen in the shoulder,
then sighs. “At least you warned me, I guess.”
“And who didn’t drop you?”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re redder than a tomato.”
“Well… I just… need to catch my breath is all.”
“Was I too heavy?”
“Nah, my muscles just… you know… maybe I should sit down.”
“Ahem.”
That’s the sound—time to call it quits. Mrs. Padalecki crosses her arms over
her chest as she stands in the hallway, two feet from Jared’s doorway. No more
extensions. No more time together for tonight. Jensen glances at Jared’s neatly
made bed.
He promises it—and by extension, Jared—that one day, their nights won’t end at
the doorway.
He receives his hug and the promise of school tomorrow. After Mrs. Padalecki
silently boots him out of the house, Jensen marches home, humming.
Chapter End Notes
     extra long chapter for y'all! and some schmoop and smut and
     disapproving glares lol. comments are love, thank you for reading! :D
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Sitting outside with Socks the next morning, Jensen reads a piece of mail sent
from the school addressed to his parents. He doesn’t bother trying to conceal
opening it; his parents have long ago stopped caring about details like that.
By the time they circled back to wherever they lived at the time and found out
Jensen had been given detention, he had already either served the time or
talked his way out of it.
Besides, he learned early on that it wasn’t what he was doing that was wrong so
much as getting caught for doing it was. Amateurs got caught sneaking into the
Principal’s office at night with one cage full of chickens, one bag of seed,
and no regrets in the world.
It was his flashlight that gave him away. Stupid flashlight.
Socks chases after his own tail for a few minutes before deciding to bark at a
squirrel. He barks with such conviction, his entire body shakes, fur puffing up
to create the visage of a small, angry cloud.
To quiet the tiny terror, Jensen crumples up the letter and whistles. Socks
bounds over, tail wagging at an absurd rate for such a pipsqueak. Jensen tosses
the letter and Socks immediately makes it his next target. Leave it to a poodle
to attack a piece of paper with the same ruthless instinct as a wolf. Better it
be appreciated that way than what Jensen was originally planning to do to it.
After refilling Socks’ bowl and locking up, Jensen stands on his front porch
and contemplates his day.
He could go to school.
But he happened to direct the attention of a certain girl at school to his
contact in the main office, so he’s got another favor due. If all goes well
between those two, Jensen could be seeing his way to a series of favors in the
future. So he would be an idiot not to seize this opportunity.
Jensen darts over to the bus stop.
One lone student waits there, reading a letter.
“About time you show up,” Jared mutters, not bothering to look up.
“Well, if I’m on time, you’ll start expecting that shit.”
“That’s right, how dare I expect you to be responsible.”
With a snort, Jensen growls, “Hey, get off my case. I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re planning on skipping.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but finds himself momentarily speechless. “…how
did you know?”
Finally looking up, Jared sighs. “I can tell, Jen. And I see that you don’t
have your letter. Tell me that you didn’t throw it away.”
Socks can’t squeal. “Not exactly.”
Jared thwacks Jensen on the shoulder with his letter. Hazel eyes blaze. “Jen!
What is the purpose of going to school if you’re going to keep doing that?”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Jensen snaps, swatting Jared away. “I did not walk my ass over
here to be lectured.”
“No, because you are so above lecturing.” The person before Jensen is not bad
boy Jared or good boy Jared. This must be someone Jensen only sees rarely:
cranky Jared. Or, potentially, pissed off Jared. Jensen’s gauge of the
situation fails him as Jared continues. “I know what you’re thinking—oh, Jay,
what’s the point of school anyway? Why don’t we just skip class and I can fuck
you in the backseat of my dad’s fancy car?”
For the first time in his life, sarcastic remarks completely fail Jensen.
He can only stare at Jared.
Sometimes, in the country, Jensen would mess around with boys and girls. He’d
wink at them, smile, and pick a few choice poses. Eventually, he’d find himself
in barns, beds, trucks, cars, or fields under a canopy of stars. He lost his
virginity the day he turned thirteen, to a senior girl in high school. She took
care of everything and invited him over to fuck in her room while her parents
were out grocery shopping.
And that was it. Half an hour of awkward, clumsy humping and moaning ended with
neither one of them speaking to each other again. It happened again and again
as his parents moved him from place to place.
No attachments were made. No promises exchanged.
Hell, he didn’t even bother to remember their names.
“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Jensen quips, his lips forming a
fractured, twisted smile. “I’d bet a hundred bucks that you’re probably
psychic, Jared. Now that you’ve figured out my dastardly plan, I guess I’ll
just have to jack off in the backseat of my dad’s fancy car all by myself. But
don’t worry. I know not to get come on the seats.”
Fuck. He wasn’t supposed to say that. He was supposed to say something like…
some kind of profession of… undying loyalty and what the hell is going on… His
response was supposed to make things better, not a hundred times worse.
All of his limbs move without his permission. He turns his back to Jared and
walks back towards his house and his yappy little dog.
The sound of the bus just a block away makes no difference to Jensen. His peers
are welcome to divvy up his education however they see fit. He definitely
doesn’t look over his shoulder to see the outcome of this morning’s craptacular
spectacle. There’s no need to confirm that Jared got on the bus and went to
school just to get away from everything.
It’s all that fucking letter’s fault.
Jensen never asked anyone to submit his test scores to some shitty national
achievement board.
How are his 99th percentile scores helping him now? Can they turn back time
like Cher and cram Jensen’s mouth with caulk so he doesn’t fuck up his first
and probably only relationship in his life? What’s after this, really? Probably
something like the stuff in sad sitcoms that get cancelled after two seasons
because the main character is just that pathetic. He’ll probably drop out of
high school, work odd jobs, and continue sleeping through the small towns he
flits through. He might even try to write a play or work as a car salesman—two
of the most depressing thoughts ever to course through Jensen’s brain.
Oh, this is too precious. Jensen kicks a rock on the sidewalk, sending it
flying onto the street.
Restless, he decides to change clothes before heading out to commit some
stress-relieving hellraising. He has his hand on the garage key pad, stabbing
in the code, when he hears a shout.
“Jensen!”
Creaking and groaning, the garage opens its cavernous mouth.
Hesitating, Jensen turns just enough to see the source of the shout. Jared runs
down the sidewalk, all long limbs and hair billowing behind him. He pitches his
backpack on Jensen’s lawn because it slows his down.
“I’m sorry, Jen,” Jared blurts, three paces away, charging with fevered
determination. “Holy crap, Jen, I’m so sorry.”
The collision nearly knocks Jensen off his feet.
Which is exactly how he felt the first time he saw Jared in freshman year math
class.
One kiss triggers a hundred more.
 
If it’s one thing teenagers can be relied upon, it’s eating through an entire
fridge within one viewing of The Price is Right.
When presented with the options of staying at Jensen’s or taking the Nissan out
for a drive, Jared selects staying in and glomming himself onto Jensen as they
curl up on the long couch in the living room. They argue over bets and the
traditional battle of Drew Carey versus Bob Barker. At the end of the program,
Jared walks away with the grand prize: a slap to his ass and two noogies.
Jeopardy and The Golden Girl reruns mark the rest of their leisure time on the
couch. Jared takes mental notes from Rose so he can keep up his act at
afterschool chess matches. No one has a better Rose Nyland impression than
Jared. He attempts a Dorothy, but lacks the sarcastic bite. Unsurprisingly,
Jensen can fill in as the rest of the cast. His Dorothy remains unchallenged,
his Blanche spot on, and his Sophia could win an Emmy.
“Have I given you,” Jensen snaps out, chest to back with Jared and hooking his
leg over Jared’s hips, “any indication at all that I care?”
Laughing, Jared presses back, carding his fingers through Jensen’s hair. He
relaxes into Jensen’s attempts to smother him with affection. “Maybe once or
twice,” he murmurs, pressing good boy Jared kisses to Jensen’s right hand.
Jensen bops his nose, always a favorite action.
Before another opportunity arises for Jensen to crow along to “Thank You for
Being a Friend,” Jared sits up and plants a kiss to his mouth.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Jensen’s hands settle comfortably over Jared’s hips. His eyes
meet hazel ones, treated to the kind flash of dimples on the way.
“Can I apologize again?”
“Nope. We’re done with that.”
“You sure?”
“Jay. It’s been two hours and you’re still blaming yourself? Blame yourself
once and move on.”
“Jensen!”
Cackling, Jensen wraps his arms around Jared’s waist and squeezes. His words
come out muffled into Jared’s chest, but he means every one of them. “Stop
apologizing, you putz.”
A frown prevents Jensen’s words from sinking in. “I don’t want to nag at you,
Jen, I just think you should let your parents know about things at school.
Well… things like that. They’d be really proud of you…” Jared bites his bottom
lip, looking away for a moment, then bracing his hands over Jensen’s shoulders.
“Just like I am.”
Eating is one thing. Discussing emotions? Totally different planet.
Jensen is certainly capable of feeling, but no one needs to know that shit.
After thirty seconds of awkward silence and avoiding each other’s eyes, Jared
speaks up. “Anyway, I was going to ask you… can I borrow some of your pajamas?”
“You wanna wear my jammies?”
“No, I’d like to borrow your pajamas.”
“So you wanna wear the clothes I masturbate in.”
“You don’t masturbate in clothes.”
“Dammit,” Jensen huffs. “You know me too well.”
Jared smirks and peels himself away from Jensen to stand up and unbutton his
jeans. “Way too well. C’mon, these jeans have been killing me.”
They head down the hall and up the stairs to Jensen’s territory. In comparison
to Jared’s room, Jensen’s might as well be quarantined and preserved for
archaeologists to discover thousands of years from now. They’ll discover the
typical room of a spoiled American teenager accustomed to barely any parental
supervision. Condoms litter his floor, because last night he had to search for
his glasses when he lost a contact and it involved dumping out the contents of
his nightstand drawer.
The perennial nose scrunch occurs when Jared sees the result of Jensen’s late
night search for his glasses and by proxy, his contacts.
Conducting a sniff test of various pajama and lazy, around the house pants,
Jensen ignores the comments Jared itches to say. This is his room and
therefore, if he wants bags of half-eaten Werther’s caramel coffee candy strewn
everywhere within reach of his bed then so be it. Tales have been told where
Mrs. Padalecki inspected how Jared made his bed as early as the age of eight
years old.
Jensen prides himself on sleeping buck ass naked, over a pile of sheets that
may or may not be clean.
However, his boyfriend seems to be on the verge of another cranky spell, so
Jensen quickly tosses him two items: a pair of clean, gray pajama pants, and a
present wrapped in newspaper.
“What’s this?” Jared asks, unwrapped the gift before changing out of the jeans
that are supposedly killing him. “Jen, if this is another box of fake poop, I’m
super gluing them to your face.”
“You used the first box I gave you.”
“No—you did!”
“Hmm, I can’t remember.”
“You stuck one on every windshield on the block.”
“Oh yeah,” Jensen laughs, running a hand through his hair. “That. I remember
now. Maybe next time you should accept the gifts I give you.”
Grumbling, Jared shucks off the last layer of newspaper. “The gifts you give me
are like the dead mice cats bring their owners.”
“Gee, Jay, you always tell me the most romantic things.”
Jared’s mouth opens to rebuff that comment, but stays open in shock as he
uncovers the present. It’s nothing too fancy, and really, nothing that special.
But Jensen figured he’d pick it up for a rainy day. Although it might not be
raining outside, clearly something happened at the Padalecki household this
morning to warrant a torrential downpour.
“You got me gel pens,” Jared says, his tone as soft as the thump he makes
sitting down on Jensen’s bed. He brushes his hands over the package of twelve
assorted Jelly Roll gel pens. “Oh, Jen. You’re such a sap.”
Pleased by the reception, Jensen takes a seat next to Jared, making no attempt
to hide his smile.
All they did the first week of math class freshman year was pass notes back and
forth to each other. Jared sat in front of Jensen, and he was the first one to
start writing with gel pens. They stood out more than regular pens or pencils.
Jensen resisted the move to gel pens and lasted about a day before he too was
trying not to smudge his latest attempt at winning Jared over.
Before afterschool chess was a thing, they sat on the steps and Jared drew his
notes onto Jensen.
Now, Jared opens the pack, selecting green. He draws a tiny heart on the back
of Jensen’s hand. The press of the pen elicits sensations in Jensen that manage
to feel simultaneously familiar and new. Jared fills the heart in, then traces
the outline in white. In the most striking way, hazel eyes look up, framed by
long lashes, and filled with emotions they’re not supposed to know anything
about yet. Words to express those emotions get caught in Jensen’s throat and
refuse to filter out. The blockage creates an ache in his chest echoing the
tickle on his hand.
“Thank you.” Jared places his hands on the outline of Jensen’s jaw. “For
everything.”
“I should be saying that,” Jensen murmurs. It’s instinct to lean into this
touch.
Dimples peek out. Good boy Jared shines through, all tenderness and affection.
He presses fluttering kisses all over Jensen’s face—on his cheeks, the bridge
of his nose, forehead, chin, and finally, his lips.
Words disintegrate. And their gentle caresses convert to carefree gropes and
electric, rousing kisses.
Jensen exhales pure thirst.
Kisses work into nips and bites and the fragmented hitches of breath that
kindle a single flame into wildfire. Jared tastes like strawberry jam and
toast. Jensen slides his hand up Jared’s thigh, seeking permission, groaning
when Jared grabs his hand and guides it to the swell of his ass. The bed creaks
as they shift and rotate together, their hips in revolution, Jared’s hands
brushing over Jensen’s thighs, stomach, and chest.
Unsure and uncaring of how, Jensen finds himself naked, flat on his back in the
best way possible—underneath the easy weight of eyes turned cobalt and a smile
heralding the return of bad boy mischief.
Who knew clothes could be taken off so quick?
And who knew the next few words could be uttered from a boy who attends church
every Sunday without fail?
“Fuck me in the backseat of your dad’s car, Jen.”
Chapter End Notes
     little bit of angst, in preparation for what's next!
     thank you all for reading! <3
***** Chapter 12 *****
Car sex can be awkward and uncomfortable.
Does bad boy Jared care?
Hell no.
He takes what he wants and what he wants happens to be between Jensen’s legs.
Kneeling in the foot wells, he blows Jensen sloppy and scorching. Pink lips pop
off with a smack, forming a challenging smirk. Tracing the tip of Jensen’s cock
with his tongue, Jared looks up, locks eyes with Jensen, and eases his lips
back over the swollen, drooling head.
Nothing takes place over seeing Jared’s cheeks puff out with the action of what
he’s doing.
One firm hand grasps Jensen’s chin and pulls him down.
Jared kisses him, slipping his tongue in, opening up and releasing a long,
loud, heated moan. The noise combined with tasting himself on Jared’s tongue
sends a shiver up his spine.
Next thing Jensen knows, his own mouth seals around one peaked, tight nipple.
He curls his tongue around the sensitive nub and increases the pressure. Figure
eights. Letters. Circles. Around and around and around, he works his tongue and
lips in sync with each other. Fingers grip his hair.
The rip and crackle of a condom barely registers to either of them.
With Jared straddling his thighs, Jensen grits his teeth at the first push,
gasping as Jared works himself down without assistance. The burn consumes them
both. All around him, Jared clenches, pulses, and contracts. He holds onto the
leather backseat, propped up, hips twisting and thighs working. Every window
fogs up and when Jared starts to actually move, the car’s suspension sounds out
in time with each corkscrew down.
They never left the garage.
In this private world within a world, Jensen reaches out, and with a satisfied
sigh, fuses their lips together.
Bad boy Jared responds in kind—biting, nipping, tugging on Jensen’s plush
bottom lip. He places Jensen’s hands exactly where he wants them: one on his
ass and the other on his chest. And after two motions, he shows Jensen the
necessary pace. Onetwothreeonetwothree.
Breathless, Jensen tries to keep up.
But it looks like that’s not the point here.
Jared rides him, wild and uninhibited, rough and assertive. He sets the pace,
measures the depth of each stroke, and holds Jensen inside him deep.
Mesmerizing and divine, Jared tosses his head back, baring every naked curve of
his chest and hips. Moaning, he comes untouched, messy and thick all over
Jensen’s stomach.
Trembling all over, Jared clings to Jensen’s shoulders.
Pressure. Heat. Sweet, saccharine, seductive stimulation. The suspension
creaks. Sweat builds over their bodies. Jared’s hair begins to curl at the
ends. Every heaving exhale produces more humidity, fueling the electricity
between them. Jensen’s thighs work, meeting each powerful slope of Jared’s
hips. The sound of skin against skin slapping together echoes through the car
until Jared squeezes his eyes shut tight and seizes, taking Jensen to the hilt,
hips swiveling.
In these last moments of any ability to think, Jensen seals his mouth over one
of Jared’s nipples, sucking rough and merciless on the peak, groaning as he
feels his cock twitch and swell buried inside Jared.
Screaming every swear word he’s ever heard Jensen say, Jared loses it. He comes
hard enough that one pearly rope lands on Jensen’s collarbone. All Jensen can
do as Jared rocks through his orgasm—and his own rips through him—is lay back
in absolute bliss.
Several minutes pass by before Jensen can coherently piece together thoughts or
words.
Eventually, they leave the Nissan, with promises to clean it later.
Jensen stumbles out, naked, glad that they never left the garage. Jared
follows, laughing easy, slinging an arm around Jensen’s shoulders and shutting
the passenger door.
“You’re a mess,” Jared hums out, pressing a kiss to Jensen’s cheek. “Let’s get
you cleaned up.”
 
There are only a few places in town safe enough to hang out in unnoticed when
playing hooky.
“What did I tell you about not fucking this up?” Fanny growls from behind a row
of orchids.
Bells chime upon their entry into Fanny’s Flower Farm. Jared drops Jensen’s
hand in favor for paying attention to a section of tulips. For once, the flower
shop isn’t swarming with nosy adults or judgmental elderly people.
“This is not fucking this up,” Jensen clarifies. Careful, he stays just out of
Fanny’s reach with the scissors and watering can. “This is… a day of meditation
and study of the self.”
“You’re ditching.”
“Well, if you must put it that way, yes.”
Fanny eyes Jared for a moment, then resumes glaring at Jensen. “You gonna buy
anything or you just gonna hang around here like hooligans? This ain’t no
library. I could call the cops and they’ll haul your saggy jeans out of here
like that!”
Although many young scholars at school prefer their jeans three sizes too large
and to sit at their thighs instead of anywhere near their waists, Jensen has
never subscribed to that particular fashion trend. His jeans aren’t immaculate,
but they fit. What people his age have yet to understand is that no one can see
what lies beneath the jeans if it’s covered by swaths of denim. Jensen believes
his ass is a gift to the world, and more specifically, a gift to Jared.
“I’m buying something!” From a jungle of flowers, Jared chirps, happily
trotting towards the counter with a potted plant. “Jensen, pay the lady.”
“What?!”
“You heard him,” Fanny snaps. “That’s twenty-five, thirty if you want a care
package with it.”
Jared places the plant on the counter for Fanny to wrap. “Oh, what’s that?”
“Come with a book and a watering can. If you’re going to let that hellraiser
there touch this plant, you’ll want the book. Hyacinths need good care.”
Without a shred of hesitation, Jared nods and agrees to the extra five dollar
charge. He completely ignores Jensen’s grumbling about how they could be eating
like kings at Ilan’s for thirty bucks of his father’s money; instead, they’re
here, paying for a plant he can’t even eat.
“And you had to pick pink,” Jensen scowls.
Nose scrunch. “And what exactly are you trying to insinuate by that, Jen?”
“I hate pink.”
“Not manly enough for you?”
“Fuck no.”
“Oh, because you’re some big tough guy, right?”
“Hell yes. These could destroy my reputation.”
“Right,” Jared murmurs, turning to face Jensen, smoothing out Jensen’s shirt at
his shoulders. “Because clearly, I couldn’t at all be as manly as you.” The
second Fanny walks out of hearing range, Jared’s voice lowers. “I like the
color pink and I take eight inches of cock up my ass on a regular basis, suck
cock like it’s my job, and leave you one spent, satisfied wreck.”
“That’s thirty even,” Fanny declares, headed back to the counter from the back
room, where she went to get the care package.
Jared shoves Jensen away from him, thumping him on the chest. “You heard the
lady, cough it up, bad boy.”
If anyone’s the bad boy, it’s Jared. Jensen has done nothing to deserve his
reputation as town hellraiser. Nothing at all. He never ever repainted the
lines in the teacher parking lot at school so they were two inches closer,
leading to doors being dented and some teachers to climb through either windows
or sun roofs. And he certainly never decorated a weather balloon launched at an
assembly to reveal itself as a set of giant, flying tits.
“Quit your belly aching.” Fanny swipes the money from Jensen’s grip. “Follow
out back.”
“Don’t kill me in the back of your shop,” Jensen groans. “Not today.”
“Quiet, or I get out the lead pipe.”
“The lead pipe in the back of the flower shop,” Jared whispers and follows.
“How can you be so cheerful about my impending death?”
“I love Clue.”
“This is not Clue.”
“Tim Curry, Jen.”
“This is no time for Tim Curry!”
“It is always time for Tim Curry.”
“Just roll my body to the side, would you? Before you run off to meet your twu
luv Tim Curry.”
Fanny opens the door to the alleyway behind her shop and hisses, “I said
quiet!”
Jensen points at Jared, but it doesn’t help. Fanny hikes forth, knocking a few
empty crates and flower boxes aside. She must have had a shipment come in
recently; packing paper, boxes, and stems lie in ruins everywhere. Her footing,
however, remains as steady as ever. Not an earthquake could interrupt Fanny
when she’s lecturing Jensen. As she walks ahead, she mutters on about how
Jensen has to learn some god damn responsibility and it’s not good for young
men to stay inside all day looking at pornographic materials and never paying
any rent to their mothers who should have known better than to let their sons
move back in at the age of forty expecting turndown service and continental
breakfasts.
Exchanging looks of awe and fear, Jared and Jensen huddle a little closer
together.
They stop two steps behind Fanny, at a giant sheet of canvas draped over
something lumpy.
“Could be a coffin,” Jensen gulps.
“Too small to be a coffin,” Jared answers, looping his arm through Jensen’s.
“Not if she cuts me up into pieces.”
“What’s the point in that?”
“She couldn’t afford a big coffin.”
“You saying I’m cheap?” Fanny grumbles, hands on her hips.
“I’m saying you’re frugal,” Jensen says, revising his previous statement.
“Your mouth’s gonna land you in hot water one day, hooligan.”
Jared doesn’t miss the opportunity to chime in. “It already does.”
Traitorous boyfriend! Jensen moves in for a noogie, but stops when Fanny pulls
at the canvas sheet. She huffs out that they are welcome to watch her struggle.
Jensen and Jared scramble to help. Peeling back the sheet, the mystery reveals
itself, wonderful and not a coffin at all.
“A motorcycle!” Jensen gasps. “Holy shit!”
Coughing and waving away some of the dust that had settled over the sheet,
Fanny reaches into her apron and tosses a set of keys at Jensen. “No shit, at
least your eyes work as well as your mouth.” She throws a crumpled manual at
him next. “Let’s see if you can read.”
Holding the manual, his hands shaking from excitement, Jensen reads the cover
out loud. “Triumph Scrambler, 865cc eight-valve… oh fuck. Holy shit. I think…
I’m having a heart attack.”
“You’re not giving this to him, are you?” Jared asks, his eyes wide. “You know
what Jen will do with a motorcycle?”
“Spin out a few times and bust up that face pretty good, I bet,” Fanny replies,
one hand on the bike. “If I see him riding it without a helmet, he won’t have
to wait for an accident for me to bash his head in. Saw it myself on Route 66.
Guy thought he was so god damn cool going ninety and then—bam! Accident took
his head clean off. It landed a good thirty feet away, skull broke open.”
Jensen resists the urge to ask more questions about the decapitation. “Are you
pulling something here? Showing this to me just to get my hopes up?”
“My son’s had his eye on this since I had it hauled back from the desert,”
Fanny mutters with a sigh. “I bought this after my Trophy got smashed up. I let
my idiot ex-husband drive it the one time and… well, look. I’d rather see your
goofy, no good, hooligan ass apply yourself to something and take care of her
instead of watching my son think he gets everything I worked for handed to
him.”
“Were you part of the Angels?” Jensen asks, keys in one hand and manual in the
other.
Shrugging, Fanny declares that she ran into them a few times, maybe spent some
time with one or two of them that she won’t go into detail about because of
underage ears in her presence, but she mostly rode solo in her other life.
Only the sound of the bells at the front door interrupts their meeting.
She shoves them back into the store so Jared can grab his plant. On the way,
she sets up the rules to the Scrambler. There won’t be any backdoor way of
learning to ride; he’s got to get his parents’ permission to get his motorcycle
license, and before he can do that, he’s got to enroll and pay for a class
since he’s underage. Then, he’s got to spend time with Fanny afterschool to
learn how to care for the Scrambler.
And if she sees him riding it without a helmet and a jacket on, she’ll raise
hell like he’s never seen.
Shooed out of the shop so she can attend to customers who aren’t ditching
class, Fanny doesn’t accept any thank yous or vows of Godfather-like loyalty.
On the sidewalk, Jensen examines both things they left with: Jared’s potted
pink hyacinth and a Triumph Scrambler.
Even Jensen can admit that it’s been a pretty good day.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Ilan lets them eat lunch in the apartment above his restaurant.
He stores coffee, rice, and beans in this space. The smell of food being cooked
mixes in with the strong, heady scents of everything in storage. Sitting on top
of bags of rice, Jared and Jensen pass containers back and forth. Jensen moved
the bags closer to a bank of windows. Within a few minutes the draft in the
apartment can barely be felt. Sunshine and steam from containers of yucca and
congris warm them up, gradually replaced with nibbling kisses and embraces that
last longer than five seconds.
For once, Jensen doesn’t spoil the moment with sarcastic, crude remarks.
Jared reveals two gel pens hidden in the pockets of Jensen’s sweat pants. He
alternates kisses with drawings all over Jensen. Some of the drawings make
sense—their initials, some moons and stars, vines with flowers. Some of them,
like the gingerbread man on Jensen’s stomach, make no sense. Despite this,
Jensen makes no complaints.
At some point he turns over onto his stomach and allows the gel pens to draw
stained glass panels and feathers.
“My parents want me to go to a youth camp this summer,” Jared murmurs, filling
in a panel. “It’s this ridiculous place in an old church that teaches us to be
better servants of God.” His weight rests on Jensen’s ass comfortably.
Cheek against his forearm, Jensen laughs softly. “What a crock. Why don’t they
just tell you they’re sending you to a convent?”
“Convents are supposed to be peaceful.” Familiar fingers pause. “This doesn’t
sound peaceful at all.”
“Convents are supposed to keep the people inside from having sex with their no
good boyfriends.”
“It’s either that or I go visit my Aunt Kitty in Arizona.”
“That Aunt who devotes her life to painting saints?”
“The very one.”
“Your choices are bleak. I think you should stay with me.”
“Oh yeah, in your garage.”
“Hell no. You could sleep with Socks in the living room.”
“Don’t make me write bad words on your back.”
“I would love that.”
“Fine, I’ll write ‘teach me about God.’”
“Don’t, Jay. My skin will burn.”
“Do you believe in God, Jen?”
“…who cares what I believe in?”
Jared rubs Jensen’s shoulders, his hands over skin he left unmarked for this
purpose. The touch and release of tension in his back lull Jensen into a
deceptive calm.
Quietly, Jared replies, “I do.”
With a huff, Jensen closes his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s some
dude up there that interested in what I do with my right hand at night.”
“It’s more than that, you know.”
“Do I?”
“It’s about your soul.”
“And what does this dude care about my soul?”
“Don’t you think about these things at all?”
“Well…”
“No jokes.” Jared cards his fingers through Jensen’s hair, tugging lightly.
“What’s with these questions, Jay?”
“Maybe I just wanna know some stuff.”
Jensen rolls onto his side and looks up at his boyfriend. “What if my answer is
stupid? Or wrong?”
Hazel eyes soften. One hand moves to cup Jensen’s cheek. “Your answer could
never be stupid. And what if… what if we’re all wrong?”
Eyes closed once again, Jensen murmurs, “I think I just wanna try to be a good
person. In ways that really matter.”
“Yeah? Like what ways?”
“Like this.”
Maybe Jensen’s not winning a student of the year award any time soon. Maybe he
should quit manipulating his classmates, ease up on supergluing fake shit onto
windshields, and cut back on tampering with weather balloons. Maybe he should
actually go to school five days a week.
But if he has to think about life and the bigger picture, he believes that
moments like this one matter so much more than grades, tests, and assemblies.
He grabs a gel pen and draws a heart on Jared’s right wrist.
Locking eyes, Jensen smiles, pressing a kiss to Jared’s palm.
The smile he receives in exchange makes the entire universe and afterlife worth
it.
 
On the walk from Jensen’s to Jared’s at around four, their conversation
lightens up.
Summer looms over them, just three months away.
“What if I go to the youth program?” Jensen kicks a rock on the sidewalk.
“Heh, that’d be interesting to say the least.” Jared kicks the same rock.
“How long you think I’d last?” Jensen kicks it again.
“Oh, maybe a few days.” Jared.
“Few days? C’mon, give me some credit. I bet I could last a week. Especially if
I got a chance to fuck you in a confessional booth thingy.” Jensen.
“Ugh, is that all you think about?” Jared.
“No, I definitely do not spend my time thinking about dark booths with an old
judgmental guy on the other side of a piece of cardboard. I spend it thinking
about that sweet ass of yours.” Jensen.
“This sweet ass is currently wearing sweat pants.” Jared.
“My sweat pants, which automatically makes them ten times hotter on you.”
Jensen, but he misses.
“You’re just saying that.” Jared stretches and kicks the rock straight ahead,
back in play.
“I would never ‘just say that’ about your ass, Jay.” Jensen.
“So you are serious about some things.” Jared.
“Things that matter. Like your butt. And my butt. And possibly our butts
together.” Jensen.
“Does your butt want your sweat pants back now or later?” Jared.
“Eh, keep them. I’ve got plenty.” Jensen.
“Thanks. My mom must have shrunk my jeans again.” Jared.
“Or you’re going through a growth spurt. Remember last summer? You shot up like
a weed.” Jensen.
“Not all of us glided into adolescence like a runway model, Jensen. We are
finally the same height thanks to that unpleasantness of last summer.” Jared.
“I’m gonna end up taller than you. Just wait and see.” Jensen, though he kicks
a little too hard.
“Whatever. I just can’t button any of my jeans without laying on my bed first.”
Jared.
“You wanna borrow some of my jeans?” Jensen.
“My mother would have a fit and you know that. Your jeans are all ripped.”
Jared.
“It’s called fashion. Besides, she’d have a fit about something sooner or later
related to me.” Jensen.
“True. Hey, would you be able to drive me to the mall tomorrow after school? I
have some Easter money left and I could buy some new jeans.” Jared.
“Ugh, you said after school.” Jensen.
“I have a test in History, Jen, I can’t miss that.” Jared.
“Yeah, yeah. Fine, after school we’ll hit up the mall. Way to harsh my buzz.”
Jensen.
“Oh yeah? Here’s another harsh to your buzz.” Jared.
“What?” Jensen.
“We’re here.” Jared.
“Oh.” Jensen.
“Yep.” Jared.
“Can I come in?” Jensen.
“You gonna behave?” Jared.
“Promise me you’ll let me blow you during lunch tomorrow.” Jensen.
“If you must.” Jared.
“Don’t make it sound like that. You love it.” Jensen.
“Yeah, I kind of do…” Jared.
“I’m keeping this rock.” Jensen.
“We kicked it pretty far.” Jared.
“Wonder what that means.” Jensen.
“It means you wanna wash the dishes again, my big strong man.” Jared.
“Sure does. Step aside. Or should I carry you in again?” Jensen.
“No, I’m good, thank you.”
“You think I can make a necklace out of this?”
“Sure. I’ll help you.”
“You want me to drop off your plant later?”
“Sorta… but I think it has a better chance of surviving if it stays with you.”
“Great, first I get to pay for it, now I get to water it.”
“That’s right. It better not wilt.” Jared punches in a code to his garage.
“Read the book that came with it.”
Rolling his eyes, Jensen replies that since that care package thing whatever
cost an extra five bucks he’s going to not only read it, but potentially craft
monuments in its honor.
Inside the garage, they wind and twist their way around Mrs. Padalecki’s Honda
Odyssey, a purple behemoth Jensen has only seen the inside of once. A few
months back it rained enough for the street to flood. Jared begged his mother
to give him a ride home instead of making him walk. She was kind enough at the
time to give in, though only after a solid fifteen minutes of begging. Jensen’s
still fairly certain she doubts his ability not to drown in the rain like a
turkey.
Jared leads and Jensen follows.
The Padalecki household perpetually smells like laundry detergent and the
inside of a church.
Walking towards the kitchen, Jensen adjusts to their limited surroundings. They
no longer hold hands. Two feet of space muscles its way between them. With
every foot step closer to the kitchen—where Mrs. Padalecki waits in her usual
place by the island—anxiety takes its dastardly hold on each of them. Jared’s
shoulders tense and his spine straightens; Jensen’s stomach regrets that second
helping of congris.
However, the thought of spending an afternoon under the unforgiving glower and
all-knowing gaze of Mrs. Padalecki pales in comparison to the real deal.
Not a small woman, her personality only enhances the figure she cuts in any
room.
Any of the previous lightheartedness to their day becomes a bleak, dismal
shadow.
Even the crosses and crucifixes survey their territory with more scrutiny than
usual.
Something doesn’t feel right.
Well, nothing ever feels right in this house to Jensen, but the sensation
weighs on him more than usual. It drags his entire body down. His footsteps
slow, yet his breathing accelerates. Judgmental apprehension consumes every
molecule of air. Harsh, uneasy, silent stillness throughout the house assails
the senses.
They have nowhere to go in this structure than straight to the kitchen.
Jensen briefly thinks of grabbing Jared by the hem of his shirt and suggesting
they go to the park.
Anywhere but here.
But he can’t explain the manner of his actions or the reason behind them, so he
follows, rounding the corner, stepping onto the pale beige tile floor of the
kitchen. Spotless appliances and cutlery form an audience, sullen and
overwhelming. They lead to their singular master, sitting on a bar stool at the
granite island, her hands gripping what looks to be a plastic bag.
Frigid eyes land on Jensen. A flicker of anger blankets those eyes.
She had expected to do this without anyone else home.
Now, with the source of her turmoil present, Jensen witnesses her plans take a
hard right turn down a hazardous road.
Quicker than either boy can react, her hand extends, gripping onto Jared’s
right wrist. Her nails dig into his skin like talons, piercing the gel pen
heart. Frightened, pained shouts shrivel up the moment their echoes hit her
ears. Uncompromising, she drags her son forward, his sneakers scraping the
floor. Muscles underneath the crossing guard uniform flex—relentless and firm.
The sound of everything competes with the horrific image.
Desperate, Jared twists, crying out, banging his right shoulder against a wall.
She knows every manoeuver, her senses so acute to his pain, and manages to
shove her son into the guest bathroom.
In fuming, remorseless rage, she throws the plastic bag at his feet.
She slams the door. The next mandatory steps understood by the teenager sobbing
in the bathroom.
Jensen hears it at the same time she does—the fumbling, terrified opening of
cardboard, the accusing crinkle of plastic, followed by soft, wounded sniffling
and another personal sound.
Before he can register what that all amounts to, polished fingernails dig into
his scalp. Meaty, vicious hands pull at his hair, pinning him in place as if he
had any intention of fleeing. Attempts at silencing his traitorous mouth fail;
she catches him by surprise and therefore, his own resonance of pain joins
Jared’s, buried under a conservative carpet rug.
Premature, the bathroom door wrenches open.
Jared holds his jeans in one hand and the product inside that box in another.
He only had time to pull up his briefs. His face distorted with anguish and
horror, he screams for his mother to let Jensen go.
Every motion and movement escalates in horrendous energy. Clawing fingernails
release Jensen and reach for a more important target. Her hands move to grab
it, her body thundering, fingers flexing like the skittering arms of a
cockroach.
Within her clenching hands, she holds one pregnancy test.
Louder than the bells tolling in a cathedral, she bellows the results.
Jensen sees the next scene unfold before Jared does. Frantic, incensed with
fury, he dives forward.
But he’s too late.
The brutal smack against Jared’s cheek releases a tidal wave of blood from his
nose. It leaves behind the most sordid bruise, followed by foul language
commanding the word of God, the Holy Scripture, the putrid evils of sex before
marriage, and the damned future of the innocent life Jared and this filth have
brought into this world.
Jared’s sobs pause for nothing.
He clings to his jeans, making efforts to pull them up, sobs mangling the words
he tries to utter. Slammed against a wall once more, he stumbles to his knees,
crawling away from his mother towards Jensen. But her hawk eyes and insect
limbs prevent contact.
Their afternoon ends in godly agony spurred by this monstrous crusade.
Locked in his room from the outside, Jensen catches a glimpse of Jared’s
fingers frantically sticking out under the door. He can hear his name shouted,
but it doesn’t register to him as much as that tortuous visual. Somehow, he
finds his body pushed away from where it needs to be, from knocking the door
down and showing everyone in this fucking town just how much hell he can raise.
A hushed reminder speaks louder to Jensen in his head than the vile, tainted
words Mrs. Padalecki spits out at her front door.
Don’t cause more trouble for Jared. “Depart from me, you accursed, into that
eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels”
The front door crashes to a close behind him.
Only the rattle of a familiar window, palms pressed against the glass, remains.
Chapter End Notes
     and here we are!
     i'm in awe of this story just because it came out of left field for
     me. thank you T for inspiring it, thank you J for beta'ing it. thank
     you all for being here to read it. <3
     comments are love!
     also, i was raised catholic. not all catholics or religious folks are
     like this. i am well aware. this is fic.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Evicted, Jensen runs.
Festering ghosts chase him, haunting every movement, slithering up the
sidewalk.
The houses on the block stare at the desperate, frenzied figure he cuts.
Shutters turn sinister. Closed doors repel his presence. Mailboxes act as
silent skeletal witnesses to his tears, gasps, and frantic, frightened grasps
for his phone.
Smothered by spidery, splintering anxiety, Jensen’s sneakers barely touch the
ground. He doesn’t register fumbling around with the key to the front door or
ignoring Socks’ concerned barks.
Words and all their meanings tie around him from head to toe. They snake their
way past his skin, exhuming every nauseating fact, pushing out the bleak,
blinding, inescapable truth: Jared is pregnant.
Staggering, Jensen’s shadow casts a startling image in the hallway.
His joints and muscles seize. Every limb stiffens.
Paralyzed by his own realizations, his mind releases overwhelming, gagging,
unavoidable statements. Jared is pregnant. Jared is pregnant. Jared. Is.
Pregnant. Jaredispregnant. Jared is. Pregnant. Jared. Is Pregnant. Jared-is-
pregnant. Jared is pregnant. Jared is pregnant.Jared_is_pregnant. Jared_is
pregnant.
Jensen pitches himself to the ground, kneeling on the hardwood floor to press
his forehead against it, bowing before the rising tempest of thoughts splitting
his head in two.
Jared is pregnant.
It doesn’t matter how this is said, whispered, screamed, cried, or thought.
Nothing changes.
Useless tears pool over mahogany boards. There’s no reason to cry. Tears won’t
fix anything. His twisted, tumultuous gasps for breath won’t provide answers to
any of his question. His fingers digging into the meat of his palms will do
nothing but contaminate him further. This is all his fault. The transgression
is his. The trouble is his. The blame is wholly his.
Guilt cracks through him like fault lines. He should have checked the condoms
better. He was the one penetrating, so he should have taken better care of
Jared. None of this would have happened had he kept his hands off of Jared to
begin with. It just never seemed like this would happen to them.
How many times have they had sex and nothing happened?
All of Jensen’s rationalizations wilt. They extend on the floor, mimicking his
body, lying flat on their backs and exposed to the wild, inscrutable truth.
He got Jared pregnant.
This is something he did to Jared.
Staring up at the waxy ceiling, Jensen sinks into the howling recesses of his
thoughts. Baby. Jared. Jared. Baby. Pregnant. Baby. Jared. Baby. Condoms. Sex.
Baby. Jared. Fifteen. Jared won’t turn sixteen for another four months. Where
are they going to be in four months? What’s he going to look like in four
months? Jensen doesn’t know the first thing about pregnancy or babies. Will it
look anything like that calf? What exactly is the miracle of life? Did he miss
the portion of health class where their teacher talked about this? What does he
do? What role does he play? Does he have any say in this at all as either a
minor or the father? Wasn’t a condom enough? Why wasn’t it enough? It’s been
enough every single time up until now…
Jensen sits up. His thoughts scatter like insects.
They were careful. Every time. Or at least, they thought they were. With a hand
in his hair, he thinks back, the past cursing his memory, warping it into
something foul and repulsive.
He was mouthing off day. They were here, on his bed, making out and skipping
school and hungry for each other. Jared had him pinned down, beautiful,
breathless, and beaming. Alone time together was precious. But then Jensen had
to start talking. He had to mention a scene from a porno he’d discovered by way
of snooping around his last Principal’s desk. It was nothing more than a
story—a badly written story at that—about a middle aged man receiving a blow
job from his twenty something secretary.
Maybe they should act it out, Jensen suggested. He could be the secretary.
Jared laughed at him. They fought over it in kisses and gropes and on the spot
auditions. All too convincing with his dimples and good boy voice, Jared won
the role of secretary. What else did she do? Was it just a regular blow job?
Nah, of course that wasn’t it. No one keeps bland porn in their desk at work.
It had to be something kinky enough to risk it.
The secretary just happened to have a very gifted mouth. She was everything any
middle aged man wanted—an expert with her lips, tongue, and eyes. Of course,
after the blow job, she would beg him to fuck her over his desk or in his
business chair.
Laughing, Jared didn’t believe Jensen. People read this? They fantasized about
it?
Jensen’s response was to hand over a condom. He hadn’t said the porn was good.
But it did have one redeeming point, one thing that made it slightly
passable—the secretary rolled the condom onto the guy with her mouth.
Bad boy Jared scoffed at the challenge.
Piece of cake.
It was Jensen’s idea.
If he hadn’t brought it up. If he had insisted they swap out the condom. If he
hadn’t…
Jarring realities invade his mind once more, screeching out the verdict of his
unquestionable guilt.
Burying his face in his hands, Jensen curls up, spoiled in his solitude. Shit
happens and here he is, crying like a baby when he has neither father nor
mother to fear. He isn’t the one trapped in his room, subject to the word of
the Lord, and worse, vulnerable to the actions of the Lord’s work through
tangible hands and parental control.
He’s just the selfish asshole that got Jared pregnant.
 
Two hours pass before Jensen attempts any action.
He spends those two hours sequestered in his room, sitting on his bed, gaping
at the collection of money he scrounged from various hiding places throughout
the house. Every piece of technology, except his phone, joins him on the bed.
His XBOX 360, his PS4, his Gameboy Advance, his iPad, and his laptop reflect
his image back to him on their blank screens.
Four hundred dollars cash.
Maybe another four hundred from the electronics, if he can talk up the pawn
shop.
His bicycle might provide another hundred.
And the videogames to each console, plus his collection of DVDs and comic books
have a good shot at yielding another hundred, even a hundred and fifty if he
goes to the used bookstore in the next town over.
It all puts him at a thousand dollars, most of it only a specter.
Hospitals will bill. They have payment plans. There’s a midwife and doctor in
town. They can be convinced to make payment plans, or even write shit off.
But how much is a case of diapers? Is there anything else Jared might need
until then? Is baby food expensive? How much do babies eat? But wouldn’t the
baby breastfeed for a while? Or do babies breastfeed and eat pureed green beans
at the same time? And clothes. Do babies grow fast or can they wear a onesie
for a while? How many outfits does a baby need? One? Two?
What if there are complications?
What if he loses Jared?
Or the baby?
What if Jared doesn’t keep the baby at all?
What if he does?
Endless questions seethe at the walls of Jensen’s mind. They dismantle every
logical thought and all of his rational processes. Like locusts, they pit
themselves against any positive notion, devouring every last scrap of hope.
He owns not one of the items on his bed or in his room. He didn’t buy them or
pay for them with his own money. Half of the cash he excavated from his
father’s stash. The other half were bribes from school or bets he hadn’t yet
spent at Ilan’s or Fanny’s. Disgusted, Jensen grabs the wad of cash and pitches
it at the opposite wall, screaming nonsense at the bills as they flutter to the
ground.
Then he creeps out of bed and crawls over to the closest bill—five dollars.
He picks up each one, shaking, peeling them off the floor and stuffing them
into his pockets.
His fingers graze just one of a multitude of dangerous options. The case over
his phone feels unforgiving and sharp. When he pries the phone out of his
pocket, the backlight hurts his eyes.
One simple swipe of the screen and his contacts loom on display.
For once, it is desperation that fuels him, not confidence.
His thumb punches the second name on the list.
“Hello?” After three rings, the voice that answers does not belong to Donna.
“Carlo?” Jensen croaks.
Donna’s assistant shouts to people in the background—on set most likely—to shut
up. The line crackles. “Jensen? Is that you?”
“Yeah.” Could it not be? Could this be someone else’s conversation?
“Miss Donna is shooting right now, honey.”
“Where?”
“I told you to shut up! Jensen is on the phone! I can’t hear him—don’t look at
me like that Owen or I will tear out your eyes and pee on your brain.” Carlo
clears his throat. “Sorry, honey. We’re on set in Argentina, somewhere outside
of Buenos Aires. Your father just left for Peru. You want me to take a
message?”
He could keep this from them.
“Some crazy lady called earlier,” Carlo relays. “She said something about an
emergency with you. But then she said something about the devil—crazy, crazy
woman.”
Or not.
He shouldn’t.
He shouldn’t even think about that.
Ashamed of his thoughts, Jensen keeps his head down.
“No message… Carlo, I… I really need to talk to my mom.”
Chapter End Notes
     so, i kind of wrote myself in a little hole last chapter lol. i just
     felt like nothing could top last chapter and i got all nervous. but,
     after a break, here we are! onward!
     thank you for being here!
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Donna Ackles rarely repeats herself.
However, on a satellite phone call to her son fourteen hours away, she can’t
help ask the same question three times in a row.
“Are you sure?”
Jensen doesn’t know how much more certain someone can be that they’re pregnant.
Jared peed on a stick. It said positive. Everything that they’ve been
dismissing as adolescence or stress now stems from something that should have
been more obvious. But condoms. They were using condoms. Thousands of condoms,
probably. Hell, Jensen was probably keeping the pharmacy on Main Street in
business because of how many condoms he bought a month. And when he learned he
could buy them in bulk online for cheaper, it was a blessed day.
He thought he knew everything about condoms.
After all, he was no stranger to them. Never put more than one on at the same
time. Check expiration dates. Never use a condom you didn’t buy yourself. Use
water based lube. Never use a condom more than once.
“Jensen, are you sure?” Fourth time.
“He took a pregnancy test, mom!”
Crackling, muffled noises erupt from Jensen’s phone. This could be due to the
spotty connection or his parents wrestling for airtime. Whatever it is, Alan
wins out. His dad voice manages to steamroll through the speakers despite the
voice of origin being some thirty thousand feet off the ground. While rarely,
if really ever, used dad voice commands Jensen’s immediate attention.
“Jensen,” Alan snaps. “Are you telling me that you got this boy pregnant?”
Socks couldn’t whimper better than Jensen at the moment. “…yeah.”
“Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t we have that talk, Jensen?!”
“What talk?!” Jensen shouts back, gesturing to no one with his free hand. “You
said not to have sex in the backseat of your car—great talk, pop!”
“I told you to be careful and here we are!”
As Jensen spits out as many sarcastic comments as possible, his parents resume
their fight for control over the phone. His call for help has clearly been a
mistake.
“Stop it—just stop. No, I mean it, Alan. Not another word. Jensen?” Now Donna
sounds the way she does when talking to producers she’s about to fire. Could
she fire her own son? “Did you see the test?”
Did he? Everything happened so fast.
“Also,” his mother sighs, “over the counter pregnancy tests aren’t one hundred
percent accurate. It could be a false positive.”
Jensen blurts out his answer. “I-I don’t know! What other way do you even
check?”
“With a doctor, Jensen.”
“Sure,” he hisses into the phone’s mic, “let’s just get Jared to a doctor.
That’ll be real fucking easy while he’s under lock and key in his own house!”
“Language!” Alan gripes in the background.
“Oh stop,” Donna mutters. “Jensen, they’ve got this boy locked up?”
“He has a name.”
“I’m sorry—Jared. His parents have him locked up?”
“Yeah. Mom, I don’t know what to do…” Without Jensen’s permission, his voice
cracks and falters. He curls up on his bed, surrounded by the things he means
to trade for quick cash. Socks is definitely not beside him being clung to like
the one living creature in the world he has access to for comfort.
“Just wait,” Donna breathes, “just wait and we’ll be there as soon as we can.”
If only everything was just as easy.
 
Midnight covers up the wrinkles of daytime.
Pale, milky pavement guides each sneakered step.
Jensen could make the walk over with his eyes closed. In fact, he tries a few
times, closing his eyes for a few seconds at a time, hoping that what he finds
when they’re open has transformed into something better. He resists Donna’s
questioning about being sure.
A few, limited facts make more sense now—it wasn’t food, it was morning
sickness; it wasn’t a growth spurt, it was cravings; it wasn’t just hormones,
it was…
A sleek, black SUV towers over the modest, beige sedan Jensen knows belongs to
Mr. Padalecki. He’s seen this SUV before, but he can’t quite place it. As he
approaches the house, Jensen ducks down, keeping his footsteps light and
movements just as quick. This mission holds a thousand times greater risk than
any previous nocturnal escapade. Dressed in black, with a navy baseball cap on,
he navigates the driveway, mindful not to touch either car.
Soon enough, details reveal themselves, subtle, but glaring once recognized.
The polished, silver rosary hanging on the rear view mirror taunts Jensen. It
has the nerve to dangle there, calm as can be, while the contents visible from
the driver and passenger’s windows prove that the situation inside has been
anything but. Darkness prevents Jensen from reading the spines of the thick
books haphazardly stacked on the seat. However, he can make out one word and
it’s enough for him to stop messing around and get to the fucking point.
At the edge of the lawn, Jensen runs into a major problem.
Lights.
From the looks of the six that he counts, each light hammered into the lawn
activates by motion. They’re off now, but Jensen has seen these before. The
second someone or something crosses in front, beams of light will propel
against the house and straight into the Padalecki’s living room.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Avoiding the lights seems to be impossible; perched on the far edge of the lawn
opposite of Jared’s room, no matter how Jensen approaches that one window,
he’ll step in front of a light.
If a light goes off, who knows what the person driving that SUV will be
encouraged to do.
Maybe this isn’t the best idea after all. Besides, what can he do? What comfort
or condolence or empathy can he provide?
Staring at Jared’s dark window, then up at the stars, Jensen exhales and closes
his eyes.  
Frigid air enters his lungs like sharpened porcelain—smooth at first, painful
in the end.
The second he opens his eyes, a faint flaxen fire ignites behind the window.
Hope stutters inside Jensen’s throat, welling up, reaching his eyes. A
flashlight. A flashlight! They didn’t think to take it away from Jared because
how harmful could a flashlight be? What could he do with it if the house were
under surveillance and he was under lock and key?
Adults are so stupid.
Jensen flashes his phone, standing on the edge of the lawn. He holds it up with
the brightness turned as high as it will go. From there, he turns on the
flashlight app to his phone. It isn’t as bright as what Jared shines through
the window, but Jared can see it and that’s all that matters.
In a splinter of minutes, they send each other fragments of what should be
sentences.
Morse code commands attention to detail.
“2mor,” Jared flashes onto the lawn. Tomorrow. “Nine.”
Each message has to be either read or sent backwards; Jared makes it as easy as
possible for Jensen to understand and sends them backwards for Jensen to read
correctly. Long dashes receive two seconds of light. Dots receive a flash. This
was a system created last summer, when they had a sleepover in pup tents
outside in Jared’s backyard. His older brother was their chaperone for the
night, sleeping in Jared’s tent with him while Jensen had his own thirty feet
away. For an hour, they messaged back and forth, until Jared’s brother ruined
their fun and took the batteries out of Jared’s flashlight.
Fortunately, he never mentioned to his parents what had annoyed him so much
about their sleepover.
Jared’s messages stop for thirty seconds. Jensen’s heart stops along with them.
If the sidewalk beneath him opened up and swallowed him whole, he’d fight to
hang onto to the world just to figure out what—what will happen tomorrow at
nine?
Bursts of light rush out over blades of evergreen.
“Hosp. Dr. 2mor. Twelve. Pars.”
“Pars?” Jensen frantically shines, cursing the lack of strength on his phone’s
light and his failure to bring his own flashlight. What could pars mean? What’s
Jared going to the hospital for? To see a doctor, but why? For another test?
They couldn’t… he can’t mean… his parents would never.
But would Jared?
“Go,” Jared fires, his flashlight unsteady. “Go now.”
Jensen refuses. There has to be a better way to go about this. He can figure
out this maze of motion detectors and climb up the siding by the gutters
attached to the side. And if not that, he can think of something else, some
other way to whisper to Jared that he just needs to hold on, don’t buy into
what his parents are telling him, don’t believe them, don’t do anything less
than what’s right for him—
The front door opens; its sound lacerates the neighborhood’s midnight calm.
A shadow stretches across the driveway, laid out morphed into something eerie,
exaggerated in size. Voices echo from the front step. Jensen has less than
thirty seconds to bail or get caught.
He takes his chance.
Rushing, he flares out his message—the first of its kind.
..
. - ..
---
. . . –
.
- . - -
- - -
. . –
“I love you.”
Aegean darkness hurries him home.
Jensen falls asleep on the pile of his things to pawn.
His parents arrive at six thirty in the morning, bags under their eyes heavier
than the ones that carry their camera and sound equipment. The cab driver from
the airport receives a hearty tip in exchange for helping them haul eight
suitcases inside. Jensen knows this because he wakes up to two things.
“Jensen,” his mother whispers, carding her fingers through his hair.
She isn’t the wrong person to wake up to; she isn’t the right one either.
“For the trouble,” he hears his father say, followed by the distinct flutter of
bills being doled out. It used to be one of Jensen’s chores to bring in the
luggage after a trip. He’d get paid five dollars a bag, an outrageous amount to
give to any snot-nosed nine year old.
With his face plastered against the cold plastic of his XBOX, Jensen could
almost laugh at his nine year old self buying trading cards, candy, and cheap
soda that gave him the ability to burp ten times in a row on a good swig. But
at least his nine year old self was capable of earning money and exchanging it
for goods and services. What can he do now? Nothing much has changed in the
world since he was nine. These are the realities he tells himself.
What he’d give to be offered those five dollars now.
Though, what his parents offer now seems like something far more valuable.
“Let him sleep,” Donna warns Alan as his footsteps near. “We can talk later.”
“He’s just a kid.”
“Right. So let him sleep.”
Gentle hands pull Jensen off the assortment on his bed, backwards, onto the
nest of his blankets, pillows, and mattress. A place where not long ago, he was
kissing Jared like it was the end of the world.
The sheets still smell like him.
His parents close his door.
Their voices retreat down the hallway.
Chapter End Notes
     sorry for any typos. posting late at night and about to crash. it's
     been a good day though. :)
     if y'all celebrated the holiday last week, happy thanksgiving. :D i
     have a ton of comments and emails to catch up on, so expect replies
     later today. now to sleep. leave me comments to wake up to! <3
***** Chapter 16 *****
Jensen wades through dreamless, deep sleep.
It traps him until the sunlight on his face accumulates—piling high like pads
of greasy butter. Waking up confused and desperate, the disgraceful flutter of
a thought passes through his mind: was it all a dream? What really happened
yesterday and how? In what order? Flashing lights pound from the stem of his
brain all the way through until they reach the eggshell curvature of his skull,
right behind his eyes.
Shoving away the meager collection of items on his bed, Jensen surges against
his useless limbs, moving too quick for his body to catch up.
What time is it?
Why didn’t his alarm go off? Why didn’t anyone wake him?
“MOM!”
Tripping over something—could be shoes, clothes, his own feet, who cares—Jensen
stumbles out into the hallway, shouting until he receives an answer.
“Jensen!” Donna exhales at the end of the hallway, hand to her chest. “What is
it?!”
With a thud, Jensen collides into the wall, however, it does little to stop his
momentum or panic. “Nine o’clock—mom it’s ten thirty! Why did you—I have to
go!”
Jensen has towered over his mother for a few years now. Despite this, nothing
screeches him to a halt quicker than her stepping in front of him, arms crossed
over her chest.
“We flew fourteen hours on a last minute flight out of Lima,” his mother
announces. “And that’s after my three hour flight from Buenos Aires to meet
your father.” Not that Jensen would dare at the moment to mention it to her
face, but she does kind of still have the scent of international travel on her.
Inching forward, Donna drops her arms, but not before running a hand through
her hair. She takes no measures to mask the worry in her expression. Never let
them see you sweat—always one of her mottos.
“The three of us,” she continues, “need to talk before you go anywhere.”
“Okay,” Jensen snips, now with his arms crossed over his chest. “Morning mom,
nice to see you. Say hi to pops for me. Great, nice chat, gotta go…”
The hint of a smile flashes. “Oh no, I don’t think so, Jensen. I’m sure that
everything going on is important—and we’ll get to it in time—but I am the least
of your worries.”
“What?”
Socks skitters up the stairs, tail wagging at speeds NASA would love to
document. Bright-eyed and fluffy from the brushing he must have received this
morning, Socks looks refreshed and ready to face another day of chasing his
tail and eating goose shit. At least someone in their house had a good night of
sleep and an excellent, relaxing morning.
Donna kneels down and scoops Socks up. Kissy noises appear and Socks yips in
glee.
Turning to go back downstairs, dog cradled in her arms, Donna says the last
perfect piece of Jensen’s fabulous, fantastic, fun start to his day.
“You still have to talk to your father.”
 
Growing up in the industry, Jensen knows a few things.
A jump cut involves an abrupt, disorienting transition in the middle of a
continuous shot. The action advances noticeably in time or cut between two
similar scenes. This can be done by accident—a technical flaw or the result of
a piss poor editor—or purposefully. On purpose, a jump creates discontinuity
for artistic effect. Jump cuts must be used sparingly, with care, and at the
right moment.
They require a gentle touch.
“That fornicator,” Mrs. Padalecki booms, her hoarse voice detonated within the
walls of the Ackles’ living room. One manicured finger juts out, harsh as an
uppercut to the jaw, pointed at Jensen’s heart. “Blaspheming, corrupting,
heathen…”
In their minivan, the Padaleckis showed up at twelve on the dot.
The living room has never felt so cramped before. Mrs. Padalecki takes up most
of the room, shouting, chest heaving, gesturing wildly with the force of
hellfire behind her. Despite the brittle, croaking quality to each gouging
howl, her energy never lessens, never cedes to the terrified expression in her
own son’s eyes.
Jared sits on what used to be their favorite couch to have sex on. His parents
stand.
Despondent, exhausted, scarlet-rimmed eyes stare only at the verbal onslaught
his mother unleashes and the blank hardwood floor. Only once does Jensen make
eye contact with Jared; the second they do, Jensen fears nothing else but the
look he receives—regret.
Alan didn’t yell at Jensen over breakfast. In fact, he hardly said anything.
He sighed. And sighed again. And sighed some more.
“Ma’am, that is ENOUGH,” Alan shouts. His voice doesn’t command a room like
Mrs. Padalecki’s, but after his silence, this burst of force draws attention.
“That fornicator—as you so wonderfully put it—is my son! And may I remind you,
Mrs. Whatever, that it takes two fornicators to turn a pregnancy test
positive!”
Jensen sits on what used to be their second favorite couch to have sex on. Alan
stands to his left while Donna holds the right. Jared’s parents stand together,
with Jared at the end of the couch.
Conversation turns to mustard gas—poisonous, painful, putrid.
“Your son did this to our boy,” Mrs. Padalecki hisses, chin out, shoulders
back. Her pointer finger twists to a new audience—Jared. “He talked Jared into
it, he bought these and told him to keep them in his back pocket.” A crinkled
condom lands on the coffee table between both families. It yields evidence that
Jensen immediately wishes he’d been more careful about. He should have checked
Jared’s pockets before they left the park. He should have remembered.
Donna nudges Jensen’s sneaker with her own.
She asks him a question in the most unsteady voice he’s ever heard from her.
“Is this true?”
Each pair of eyes in the room lock and load onto Jensen, even the most
important one. They all wait for his answer as the condom’s mutilated form lies
on the table, curled up at the edges, surely broken.
Tension thrashes in Jensen’s shoulders. The tortuous craving to reach out and
touch Jared, ask him what he wants, what he truly wants, overwhelms his senses.
How can he sit so close to Jared and be so far? How can one drop of bodily
fluid create so much so fast?
He admits the truth. It is his. That’s his brand. He might even have the
receipt somewhere for the box that particular condom came from.
Lowly, Alan says his next piece with great care. “Are you accusing my son of
raping your son? Because let me tell you this now, Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki,
you’re going to want to tread carefully.”
In a relentless roar, Mrs. Padalecki’s chest heaves to lurch out her next
speech. The force of her bleating causes the skin on her face to shake and her
eyes to bulge out. “Do you think a fifteen year old honor student, top of his
class, would willingly fornicate with… with that?” Her finger swivels back to
Jensen.
“And our son,” Alan snaps in reply, “would never throw himself on anyone!”
“How do you know that? Are you here to witness what your son does in your
absence? Do you have any idea what he’s capable of doing unsupervised? Of his
whereabouts? Of the… people he keeps company with? How well,” Mrs. Padalecki’s
voice drops, “do you know your son?”
In their silence, Jensen can tell that his parents have lost their footing.
They’ve been ambushed.
They only know what Jensen has told them.
For a moment in time, he knows his parents are asking themselves what Mrs.
Padalecki has now accused him of doing—could Jensen be capable of…
“Jensen didn’t rape me!”
A new voice peppers the battlefield, weak on the first word, firm on the last.
It struggles against a wave of instructions to shut up, but it wins, high-
pitched, followed by a flood of sobs. “He didn’t! I wanted it, every time! He
bought the condoms because you wouldn’t give me any! I’m sorry, I…”
“Honey, calm down,” Donna blurts out, rushing to pour Jared a glass of water
from the pitcher on the table. It seemed like a stupid detail to put out water
and glasses for everyone, like people were coming over for tea, but the method
unfolds behind the madness. Water sloshes in the glass, passed over from one
set of hands to another. Jared accepts the glass but takes no more than a sip.
Now the Padaleckis have lost their footing, ambushed by their own inconvenient
truth.
Donna seizes the opportunity to speak without interruption. She doesn’t have to
raise her voice or turn her tone sour. “Why don’t we discuss some of our
options, instead of tossing around more hurtful accusations? You must have
wanted to meet with us for more than this.”
No. The expressions Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki reflect says it perfectly.
Unfazed, Donna continues. She references a thin stack of papers on the coffee
table. “We will gladly pay half of what it cost for Jared to visit the doctor
today. My husband and I appreciate the professional opinion. We will also
pay—in full—for Jared to pursue whatever option he chooses. Though, I would
like it if my son had some say in this as well.”
Fists clenched and jaw set, Mrs. Padalecki motions for her husband to fork over
the manila folder he’s been holding. He drops it on the coffee table. Jared
hiccups, turning away from the table, eyes shut.
Alan picks it up. He holds it so that both Donna and Jensen can see its
contents.
Contrast no cinematographer could reproduce gazes up at them.
Against a pitch black background, one faint sliver of ivory presents the curve
of the baby’s head.
Words on the border clarify: Padalecki, Jared. M. 15. 15 wks.
Jensen hears his mother gasp. Or is that him?
“Jared.” Donna’s voice, tight and quiet, replaces all the previous yelling.
“What do you want to do?”
An answer does not come.
Persistent but gentle, Donna continues, “You have options, Jared. Jensen will
support you no matter what.”
“That won’t be…” Mrs. Padalecki starts.
“You’ve had your turn,” Donna quips with a bite. “Now it’s mine.” She turns
back to Jared, daring to take another step towards him. Her voice softens once
more. “This is about what you want, Jared. No one else. Whatever you want,
we’ll make it happen. You can put the baby up for open adoption. You can keep
the baby.” Taking a deep breath, Donna says the final option. “Or you can have
an abortion.”
Medium shot. Conventional camera shot filmed from a medium distance that
focuses on the human figure from the waist up.
The shirt Jared’s wearing has holes in the sleeves.    
It’s one of Jensen’s.
Detail shot. Known as a close-up. A shot taken from a close distance in which
the scale of the object becomes magnified, filling the entire frame to focus
attention and emphasize its importance. An extreme close-up—XCU—can be used to
emphasize further detail.
Mrs. Padalecki’s eyes blaze at the suggestion of an abortion.
“It’s an option!” Donna yells.
“Not in our family!”
“You can’t possibly think… what if your son’s health were… we are not done
here!”
“Take a good look at those pictures…”
“We have responsibilities to that baby and your son!” Alan shouts, chasing
after the Padaleckis.
They drag Jared first, then eventually shove him to the front, his sneakers
skidding on the driveway. His voice tries to float above the waves of adults
arguing—and Jensen tries to reach it.
“You had your ‘responsibilities’ to your own son, look at its end. It isn’t
your boy who will give birth out of wedlock, it isn’t your boy who will go
through this. We are done.”
Donna decides to screw hospitality or manners. She darts in front of the
Padaleckis, blocking their minivan. “What option would you want, then?! We’re
open to anything. We aren’t trying to lay this all on Jared, but Jensen is the
father…”
“Get out of our way.”
“Not until you give us a chance. We may not see eye to eye…”
“This is beyond disagreement!”
“So what?!” Donna screams, her face red. “What was the point of this? For you
to hold this all over our heads? Listen to me, Jared, you don’t have to do
anything you don’t want to. No one can force you…”
“Take your hands off of my son!”
“Then just listen to us!”
“There’s nothing more to be discussed. Nothing.”
“So what, you’re going to send your son away so no one sees him pregnant? This
isn’t the fifties. We can talk about open adoption, or homeschool, or…”
“You want to talk about options? Options? We’re sending him exactly where he
needs to be and what we do with this baby is our business.”
Climax—the highest point of anxiety or tension in a film. The protagonist
faces, confronts, and deals with the consequences of all their actions. Or, the
protagonist confronts the antagonist in a climactic battle or final engagement.
Also called a film’s high point, zenith, apex, or crescendo.
The doors to the minivan open—cavernous and dark. Duffle bags sit on one of the
backseats, pillows piled on top, revealing that the next stop is not just
around the block. The force of shouting, yelling, and arguing grinds against
sinuses and ear drums. Even the sky reflects back a murky cement color.
Distress contracts in the frenzied motions of each adult. Only some words make
sense, pounded out by breathless, shrieking lungs.
Abomination, God, never, ours.
Stop, can’t, please, don’t.
Every accusation slithers over the pavement, spreading out and searching for a
victim. Fanatic, malicious, sinister, fleshless—they take on rotten, blackened
forms, racing towards Jensen. This is his fault. His fault. His fault. All of
it. And there is nothing he can do. Nothing he can say. Nothing. And now he’s
lost it all, lost everything…
Jared breaks free.
One, two, three, four strides over the pavement, across the driveway, and he
collides with Jensen.
The accusations fall dead. Tears take their place. Tears and desperate, shaking
kisses. For less than a minute, Jared holds Jensen close, gripping onto his
shoulders, giving a sharp, firm squeeze for Jensen to pay attention, focus.
“They’re taking me away… Jen, don’t forget me, please… I’m sorry, I can’t…”
Merciless hands rip them apart.
“Let me go, I just… I wanna say g… you said I could…!”
No more flashlights. No more lunch at Ilan’s. No more flowers. No more nose
scrunches.
The minivan slams closed.
No more Jared.
Only the picture on Jensen’s nightstand and the copies of the ultrasound on the
coffee table.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Exposure to Hollywood gifts Jensen with certain memories his peers won’t
understand until their mid-thirties. Early twenties, if they’re lucky.
He’s been witness to grown men sobbing in the backseat of limousines, wringing
their tears out of silk ties and begging for another connection, better
networking, a larger budget, or a more capable crew. Adults with confident
exteriors typically crumbled at the mention of fiduciary trouble, cosmetic or
aesthetic issues, or two terrifying words: contract terminated.  
Hollywood supports itself on the backs of actors and crew who live paycheck to
paycheck, gig to gig, ulcer to ulcer—never knowing when work will come along
next, if it comes at all.
Stress drove Donna to a series of acupuncture sessions in a spa somewhere in
Los Angeles Jensen didn’t bother to remember. He was twelve, and captured the
details of it, but not the location; everywhere in L.A. looked the same to him.
The same fake people, the same toil of small talk and name dropping, and the
same tiny dogs shoved into expensive purses that were also probably fake.
Curiosity drove Jensen to follow his mother to one of the sessions. His mother
made him turn around while she undressed and climbed onto what was referred to
as the plane of relaxation.
It looked like someone just draped a piece of cloth over an old exam table.
Regardless of his and Alan’s skepticism, Donna proceeded to lie down, giving
Jensen permission to turn around again. She might have messed him up in a lot
of ways with their nomadic lifestyle, but she could at least report to her own
uptight parents that her teenaged son had never seen her naked. That was a lie,
of course, because twice he’d walked in on her dressing for events, but those
didn’t count. Accidents happened. Acupuncture was happening.
Her specialist strutted in shortly after Jensen made some remark about being on
pins and needles.
Rocco was his name, acupuncture was his game.
He introduced himself just like that.
Jensen rolled his eyes as hard as he could at Rocco. What was he? Wannabe soap
actor? Wannabe model? Wannabe singer? Or wannabe triple threat—singer, actor,
dancer? Or maybe, one of the most interesting and narcissistic creatures of
all—wannabe director?
Every question dropped dead to the floor like flies once Rocco shut up and
started working.
In awe, Jensen watched his mother’s skin receive needles all over her back and
shoulders. Neatly, they stood up in rows. At first it seemed as if the
locations were random. Upon closer inspection, Jensen noticed they followed
patterns. Each needle had a colored tip, becoming their own miniature flags.
Some were spread apart, some were less than half an inch apart.
Donna showed no signs of distress.
As the minutes passed, she only sighed, until her breathing evened out and
Jensen knew she was asleep.
“You wanna try?” Rocco offered, twirling a needle in his hand without the
slightest hint of effort. It didn’t seem prudent to trust someone named Rocco,
who hardly cared about stabbing himself with a needle or the risk of Donna
waking up to find him staring at her shirtless son.
Stretched out on his belly, over a row of chairs, Jensen closed his eyes and
waited for two things: the feel of Rocco’s hands on him and pain from the
needles.
Only one of those things occurred.
There was no pain at all.
No discomfort. No scream-worthy response to twenty needles sticking out from
his neck, shoulders, back, and to the edge of Jensen’s ass that remained
somewhat uncontroversial should anyone see. Rocco took his time and was smart
enough not to talk. Jensen wasn’t interested in understanding pressure points
or Eastern medicine or why a thirty-something year old man would pass his time
hitting on a twelve year old boy. Unlike a majority of Rocco’s clients, Jensen
didn’t care about Rocco’s personal life, his hairstyle, or his pedicured feet.
All he cared about was the lack of pain.
Until about fifteen minutes in.
Across his shoulders, white hot stabbing sensations sunk into his skin, singing
delicate nerves. His lungs responded with an excruciating inhale, while the
chambers in his heart assaulted the closest ribs with each battering
badumbadumdbadumbadum…!
Gasping, Jensen gripped onto the table, flinching underneath the flimsy,
threadbare towel that covered questionable areas. Rocco was talking but his
voice was distant and unhelpful. Jensen’s senses latched onto the shivers of
agony, wrapping his entire consciousness around it. The needles were no longer
innocuous; they became barbs bent on slaughtering his nervous system.
Pain, tension, and pressure wrung themselves out of his muscles, flooding the
surface of his skin.
Two needles shifted. Almost instantly, relief slashed the throbbing.
Every feeling before that slight shift of pressure points…
This is what it feels like without Jared.
Jensen rages against his parents for hours after the minivan sped off. They had
to try—try something. Anything. Lawyers. Money. Police.
That evening, Donna delivered the news. Not only did her lawyer turn up squat
that they could do, she and Alan were grounding him. No cell phone. No access
to either cars. Nothing but taking the bus to school, with the threat of
further punishment if he disobeyed by skipping. To reinforce their
measurements, they somehow manage to put every single project on hold, and for
the first time since Jensen was eight years old, Donna and Alan stay home for
more than two days in a row.
Four days without Jared, Jensen gets back at his parents.
He gets back at them, at the Padaleckis, at the education system, and at every
pathetic individual in town whispering about him in plain sight. He gets back
at everyone the best and only way he knows how: by dropping out of high school.
No one can argue; he’s already sixteen. No one in the office even tries to
deter him from doing it.
The only person sad to see him go tells him he’s cutting his future short.
Jensen tells Dave to fuck off.
After presenting his parents with the official news and papers of his latest
done deal decision, Jensen stalks off to the library. He has a handful of
keywords: pregnant, Catholic, teen, convent. Wherever they’re holding Jared, it
can’t be anywhere Google can’t find. Surrounding towns and counties have to
yield something. Anything.
Jensen plops down in an office chair and swipes his library card through the
card reader to access the internet. He isn’t technically supposed to be in the
library—there were a few unfortunate misunderstandings between him and one of
the librarians about teenagers flipping through nude art books—but not one
person inside the brick building has the guts to tell him otherwise. The
biddies at the information desk prefer to whisper away amongst themselves. From
what Jensen hears, they have their stories half wrong.
For the moment, he leaves them be.
Pregnant. Catholic. Teen. Convent. Local.—Nothing.
Pregnant. Catholic. Convent.—Nothing.
Convent. Catholic. Wedlock.—Nothing.
Convent. Catholic. Pregnant. Adoption.—Nothing.
Scrubbing his face, Jensen exhales. Adding quotation marks does nothing.
Expanding his search out to three major cities, the search results only yield
open-adoption policies and education. Without any kind of location, how can he
begin to look?
Curled up in the computer cubicle, Jensen buries his face in his hands.
Nightmares have plagued him without fail every time he has attempted sleep.
Twisted, shadowy things lurch from the back of his mind into each of his senses
until something forces him awake, nauseous and disoriented. Anxiety never
releases its hold either, gnawing at him, repeating the facts over and over
again until his thoughts come out warped and malignant. Jared will always,
always have been pregnant.
And Jensen will always, always have been the father to this baby.
Tomorrow won’t change it.
Nothing will ever change the fact that somehow, the two of them made
something—someone.
“Fuck all of this,” Jensen declares, forcing the computer to shut down and
muscling out of the cubicle. Utilizing the library isn’t getting him anywhere.
Without a cell phone, without a car, without anything more to go on except the
rush of his blood, he’s going to have to do this the only way he knows how.
 
On foot, Jensen stomps across town.
His sneakers pummel the pebbly sidewalk until they reach a set of apartment
buildings the color of stale tortillas. Small children playing on the front
steps of the largest building scatter as soon as Jensen’s shoulders and stride
come into view. A man with a toddler decides that this is the best moment to
scoot over to the park.
It took less favors than Jensen thought it would to wrangle the required
information. He traded Jimmy Hutchinson two vintage copies of Playboy Jensen
had swiped from the stash box at school, knowing they would come in handy one
day. That’s the good thing about teenaged boys—they’re not picky when it comes
to porn. Once Jimmy had what he wanted, the wheels were set into motion and a
diversion took place long enough for Tyler Johansen to zip into the
administrative office and take a picture of one of the files. It was Jimmy’s
responsibility to satisfy Tyler’s requirements for the job, but Jensen managed
to mutter out something that sounded like a thank you.
If Jensen could have, he would have skipped this all together and hacked into
the school’s server to access permanent records. Unfortunately, he himself had
never been much for hacking or figuring out the technological side of shit; he
was more of a sweet talker, climb through the window kind of operative.
Jared had been the one to take care of what Jensen referred to as the nerdy
crap.
Permanent records were in a locked room that would require time, planning, and
more than a handful of favors. It also wouldn’t be a solo job and Jensen knew
it.
Faculty records, however, were easy marks—out in the open and ripe for the
picking.
Apartment 2C doesn’t answer on the first knock.
“I got a pen knife and credit card, don’t make me use them,” Jensen growls
through the particle wood door.
The door swings open to reveal Dave standing there in ratty sweatpants and a
Pink Floyd shirt.
Arms crossed over his chest, Dave fails at trying to look authoritative. “Does
it ever bother you how well you’d fit into juvie? Or prison? Because at this
age, you could get tried as an adult.”
Jensen slaps the palm of his left hand onto the door, propping it open and
leaning forward. “You’re not my teacher anymore, let’s cut to the chase.”
“You never treated me like a teacher,” Dave snips, standing his ground. “And
how’d you find out where I live, anyway? You think that just because you
dropped out you…”
“Shut up.”
“Get out.”
“You first.”
“I live here!”
“And I know it!” Jensen storms inside, arms spread. “I don’t care what you’ve
got to say about jack shit…”
“You had the highest grade in my class, there was potential! I’m sorry that
Jared is pregnant, but you don’t have to throw your future away…”
“Shut.” Stepping forward, dangerously close, Jensen’s words slash through the
inch and a half between them. “Up.”
The apartment looks exactly like Jensen imagined it would—the space of a
twenty-something male teacher who spends more time grading than cleaning up or
organizing. Jensen notes the dirty crates full of manila folders on the bare
hardwood floor, stacked haphazardly, with dirty socks hanging on the edges. If
Jared saw this, he’d forever forgive the state of Jensen’s room.
Just the thought or mention of Jared makes Jensen’s chest squeeze in a painful
way.
“Tell me where they took him.”
“I could lose my job.”
“And I could lose my temper.”
“You’re threatening me?”
“No,” Jensen murmurs, making more space between them. “Never. I’m just saying,
that if one day, you find your car egged and the tires slashed that would be
unfortunate.”
Dave tilts his head. “I don’t like this side of you.”
Sighing, Jensen shrugs. “No one does.”
“Tell me you’ll reconsider school.”
“I am not telling you shit until you tell me where they took Jared.”
Desperation shrieks in the cavity of Jensen’s chest. His muscles scream; his
eyes water; and his mind volleys towards an edge he could never come back from.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this…” Dave runs a hand through his hair and motions
for Jensen to shut the door. “I’ll write it down.”
Chapter End Notes
     hi! thank you for your patience! i hope you enjoy this chapter.
     unbeta'ed because i was so excited to put this up. :D
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Four hours away by car.
A million hours away on foot.
Within an arm’s reach in his mind.
Jensen turns the house upside down the second his parents leave for what they
say will be a quick trip to Los Angeles. In all the years Jensen has been able
to decode his parents’ speak, he knows that a quick trip can be anywhere from
three days to two weeks. Along with their note, they’ve left him cash on the
kitchen counter, and a reminder to please walk Socks.
“If you find the keys,” Jensen huffs to the ball of fluff, “I will personally
make you an entire pack of bacon.”
Socks tilts his head, tongue out, and yips. Jensen muscles him out of the way
to continue the search.
No doubt his parents took their own sets of keys so he couldn’t drive either
car. But he knows there are spares hidden somewhere in their house. There have
to be. Adults lose things constantly. They misplace shit and search, all the
while grumbling to themselves, “I swear I had it here…” If only Jensen can
remember where here was.
Could his parents have discovered the loose floorboards and created a system
like his?
The only person in the world who knows Jensen’s system…
Better not think that way.
“Arf,” Socks chimes in. “Arf, arf.”
“Not now,” Jensen grumbles, his right arm fishing underneath his parents’
dresser. He taps his fingers, hoping to hear evidence of a hollow place.
Failing to yield jack shit, his fingertips wrestle with the grooves of each
individual floorboard. Meticulous, he tests every imperfection, applying
pressure at numerous angles. One board seems to move a fragment of an inch, but
it halts the second he tries to pry it up. Not an indentation, depression, or
crack responds to his search.
Getting nowhere, Jensen expands his search to obvious places. He finds a few
things he doesn’t want to know about his parents and what they do behind closed
doors. Under some of his mother’s shirts he finds a squeaky toy and tosses it
to Socks so the fur ball will stop hovering at his heels.
Skidding down the hallway, Socks barks, oblivious to Jensen’s increasing
desperation.
Jensen flies downstairs in a frenzy. He grabs couch cushions as if they were
Mr. and Mrs. Padalecki—barraging them with swears, his fingers digging in,
shoulders tensing to send the cushions flying. Lifting, hurling, pelting,
pitching, not a single cushion escapes his ambush.
Morton Grove. Fastest way to get there involves taking Route 5—nothing but
country road full of gravel and dilapidated barns.
The place isn’t exactly legal, so security keeps a tight watch. Motion sensors
and other complicated crap help the rent a cops maintain order. It’s more than
a job at school or in the neighborhood or even attempting to hotwire his
parents’ cars when he finally admits that they probably took the spare keys
with them.
Inside each car, and then under each hood, Jensen runs into one of the problems
of his parents owning newer models: they can’t be hotwired without extensive
work beyond his knowledge. He could lift something from the eighties or
nineties; hell, he could even probably figure out how to wind up a cop car
given the right amount of time and tools. All his efforts reward him with are
greasy, dirty hands and wildly building anxiety.
Socks perches himself on top of the coffee table, typically off-bounds for him.
He rests his head on his newly found squeaky toy, looking up at Jensen and then
glancing over to the kitchen.
Sighing, Jensen stomps over a mountain of couch cushions and refills Socks’
food and water bowls.
“You didn’t find the keys,” he mutters, digging around in the fridge. “But I
guess someone around here deserves something good.” From a plastic bag of
leftovers, Jensen fishes out a slice of bacon.
While Socks munches on his treat, Jensen paces the kitchen, his footsteps heavy
and impatient.
He needs a plan. Actually, he needs several plans. But first, he needs a car.
Hotwiring one and borrowing it for eight hours will most likely land him in
more trouble. If the whole town is talking about him, then it’s no stretch of
the imagination to think that the cops would be more than happy to charge him
for jaywalking. They’d probably get a real kick out of busting him for grand
theft auto.
Older brothers or sisters of his connections are out. They might squeal. It’s
too obvious what he needs the car for. And if word gets out that he’s on his
way to Morton Grove, getting out there will be useless.
It might even trigger something worse.
The circumstances he’s trapped in pulverize his usual methods. There’s more at
stake here than his criminal record or even his own well-being. With good
enough lawyers, his parents could probably make a felony disappear and they’d
just move to a different spit of land somewhere else or back to Los Angeles.
It’s a privilege that stirs up nausea.
Jared doesn’t have that.
All he’s got is his own resolve to hang on.
Dave skimped on the details—purposefully. The place looks like a church. But
what church has barbed wire and ten foot fences, disguised by ivy and roses?
Half of the lot functions as a church for the individuals locked inside; the
other half functions as a hospital.
“Arf!” Tiny nails scratch at the screen door to the backyard. “Arf!”
Exhaling, Jensen unclenches his fists. It won’t help to punch the cabinet or a
wall. He lets Socks out, eyes emptily watching Socks’ puffy tail billowing
behind him. There has to be an option he hasn’t considered. Some avenue he
hasn’t thought of treading down.
Socks pees all over a cluster of Donna’s flowers.
“Inside!” Jensen hollers the second Socks puts his leg down. “Home! C’mon, get
your furry ass inside!”
Shutting the screen door, Jensen races to the fridge and tosses Socks another
piece of bacon.
 
Jensen doesn’t steal.
He borrows.
Sometimes, he’s had to borrow a few things longer than he had originally
anticipated. Like that one time he borrowed a golf cart from a studio lot and
did donuts on an empty set until he threw up. It took time to clean out the
vomit from the golf cart, so he returned it kind of sort of late. But the point
was that he returned it and he returned it sans vomit. He also had to borrow a
few bottles of Evian water from the top billed actor on a set of some god awful
soap opera, but Jensen figured the incident could be good reference material
for method acting. The guy could use it.
With his one hope of transportation in place, Jensen begins to plan shit out in
his head, grabbing as many supplies as he can stuff into his backpack. He
stuffs two cartons of cigarettes into the front pocket, having unearthed them
from their hiding place in the second floorboard on the right from his
nightstand. Standing, he looks around his room and finds a crumpled pair of
boxers covered in dust. His parents never come in here and Jared knew why this
particular piece of underwear could never be moved.
X marks the spot. Jensen pockets the contents of this floorboard: a pocket
knife, mace, and his lock picks.
Dressed in black from head to toe, he puts on the final piece of his outfit.
His black, fingerless gloves fit perfectly. A pair with fingers rests in his
backpack, but he hates driving with them on.
Black jeans, black boots, black shirt, black leather jacket Alan was going to
throw out but Jensen rescued it and patched up the shoulders. It’s not
camouflage, and he sneers at himself as he walks up to the hallway mirror. He
borrows his mother’s impromptu makeup kit for sets and puts on his face. One of
the best makeup artists in the industry used to let Jensen watch her work
whenever his parents dragged him on set. He was probably eight or nine years
old when he’d sit in the second chair, listening to her and a string of actors
talk shit, swap gossip, and argue over colors.
Attentive, Jensen managed to learn a few things. He replicated one of her
masterpieces in a school once; he showed up with bruises, scars, and burn marks
all over his face for the fifth grade nativity play.
Donna had to show two police officers and a hoard of teachers that it was
makeup. Jensen can’t remember how he was punished, but it doesn’t matter now.
His techniques could use some work, but he’s still got a good touch. Just a
faint hint of a scar or two here, accenting the crinkles around his eyes there,
and a dab of dark eyeshadow under his eyes. He goes from sixteen to somewhere
in his mid-twenties without the hassle of growing up.
Jensen rushes out, slinging his backpack on, and plotting his route to town.
He’ll stay off main roads, which will take twice as long on foot, but at least
no one will spot him. It’s three, which means school has let out and it’s
possible he can blend in with his ex-classmates walking home. He can’t
run—it’ll give him away quick—but his footsteps hit pavement with renewed
confidence.
Hopping a fence or two along the way, he weaves through the neighborhood.
To get a good view of inside the shop, Jensen climbs up a fire escape to peer
in. Three customers, all of them mothers who know his face. Fuck.
He goes for his second option.
In the alleyway, Jensen knocks on the shop’s backdoor. When no one answers, he
knocks harder, persistent.
“Hey, c’mon lady, delivery!” he barks, keeping his voice gruff.
Ripping the door open, Fanny shouts, “The hell is your problem?! Deliveries
ain’t until… holy fuck.”
Jensen presses a finger to his lips, then starts to spill. “Look, I don’t have
a lot of time to explain…”
“Like shit you don’t,” Fanny hisses and looks over her shoulder at the shop.
For the moment, things are fine. But she reels back and unleashes quiet,
tempestuous fury. “You know who I got in there? My god, how stupid are you,
Jensen? I told you to be careful. I told you not to fuck this up and what do
you do? The total opposite. Whatever you’re doing, turn around and do it on
your own.”
He can’t intimidate, threaten, or play her like Dave.
“Stop,” he blurts out, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Please, just…
listen to me for a minute.”
Fanny’s eyes narrow and her lips purse. She yells in his face. “One minute,
ladies, I just got a last minute orchid shipment! Damn delivery drivers never
give two craps that I’ve got a business to run.” Her pitch drops. “I know what
you’re doing and I know where you’re going, Jensen. I’m fixing to smack you
back to last week.”
Inhaling sharply, Jensen clings to Fanny on instinct. “You know?”
Pain surfaces in the pools of her tired, violet eyes. She looks away for a
split second; it’s long enough for Jensen not to press for more information. He
already knows the address, the route, and the basics of what to expect.
“We were careful,” Jensen mumbles. “I swear. I know I’m a piece of shit in
other ways but not in that sense.”
Laughing coldly, Fanny waves his hands off her. “That’s what they all say. Now
you’re just one of them.”
“No,” he vows, speaking with conviction exhumed from the pile of guilt and
anxiety in his gut. “I’m not.”
What hurts more?
Her original accusation or the disbelief in her eyes?
He stuffs that sting back down with everything else and begins to beg her for
the Scrambler. He could hot wire it easy, but he doesn’t want to steal from
her. It’s sitting where it was, under its tarp, just waiting there for his
hands to bring it back to life.
The first answer he sees about to fall from her lips incites a rupture in his
chest. Jensen closes his eyes, pained, exhausting his last option.
“You do the right thing, do you hear me?” Fanny grumbles, stepping towards the
shop.
“And what is that, exactly?!” Jensen snaps. “What is ‘the right thing’ here?!”
From behind her wire screen door, Fanny enlightens him.
“Whatever Jared wants to do.”
She heads back into the shop.
Jensen stands in the alley, shoulders hunched, a storm raging inside him.
“Ladies, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to send you packing. This delivery man doesn’t
know shit from dirt and he’s got three orders screwed up, including the lilies
for your piece, Claire. Oh, don’t you worry, when I get through with him, he
won’t know what’s left or right. Yes, right now, terribly sorry, but as soon as
I sort this out, I’ve got to get on the horn and call Greg for a new order and
who knows how long that will take. No, you’re best going and being spared from
the language I’m gonna use. See you two tomorrow and I’ll be calling you, Mrs.
Rohloff. Thank you.”
Two seconds later, a set of keys hits Jensen in the face.
“There’s no time to teach you more than the basics,” Fanny mutters, rolling up
her sleeves and taking off her work apron. She pulls the tarp off the Scrambler
in one fluid motion, putting her a hand on her hip.
“Well? You gonna get your ass on it or not?”
Two pointers in and Jensen crashes to the ground, face to the pavement.
Chapter End Notes
     yay for some time to write! the holidays were awful this year. i was
     just nonstop running and working. but i'm recovering! glad to have a
     chapter of these two. :D
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Notes
     "I Hope that I Don't Fall in Love With You" and "Kentucky Rain" by
     Tom Waits later in this chapter.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Last summer, Donna and Alan dragged Jensen to Vegas for what was supposed to be
a family vacation.
It was on that vacation—where he dodged his parents’ supervision ten minutes
after checking into the Bellagio—that Jensen witnessed one of the most
remarkable, literally tremendous acts ever put together.
He was known as Fat Elvis.
Larger than life, five hundred pounds, decked out in white leather and gold
fringe, and surrounded by a line of gorgeous, plumed women. Fat Elvis
delivered—he sang renditions of Elvis songs that made the most diehard fan in
the audience, a twenty something year old man covered in Elvis themed tattoos,
bawl like a baby. There were lights flashing, drinks clinking, and people
cheering, with Fat Elvis in the center of it all.
Jensen’s first ten attempts to ride the Scramble may just top Fat Elvis in
terms of entertainment.
He wipes out every single time.
And he doesn’t just fall over. That would be too fucking easy.
By the time Fanny gives up on him and prepares to send him off, he’s covered in
scrapes and bruises. In the span of thirty minutes—within the perimeter of the
alley—Jensen manages to not break a limb. Fanny tells him not to hold his
breath for the same happening on the course of his four hour trip.
She digs out an old helmet from her backroom and unceremoniously plops it on
his head.
“You look the part,” she mutters, dusting off his shoulders. “But you can’t
drive worth a damn.”
“I drive cars just fine!”
“Does this look like a car to you?”
“You could lend me your car so I don’t potentially become roadkill.”
“…do you even know what your fool ass is gonna do when you get there? Have you
thought that part out yet?” Hands on her hips, Fanny takes no issues with
lecturing Jensen to hell and back. “This isn’t detention, kid. Money’s
involved. Parents pay thousands to have this place cover shit up.” She zips up
Jensen’s jacket with more force than necessary and looks at him directly.
“What’s your plan?”
He tells her half of it.
Then he leaves her, shaking her head and turning back inside the shop.
Jensen makes it a mile out of town before he takes his first spill. He pockets
a rock with his blood on it as a souvenir.
Even Fat Elvis can’t boast that kind of merchandise.
 
The Scrambler handles the road just fine.
It’s Jensen who can’t handle the Scrambler or the road. Gripping each handle,
he finds himself closing his eyes right before wiping out. And just like his
seven year old self learning how to ride a bicycle, he screams the second he
crawls and claws his way back onto his feet. Hand clutch. Spark advance. Gas
tank. Engine. Exhaust pipes. Foot gear shift. Starter pedal. Oil tank. Rear-
wheel shock absorber. Muffler. Brake rod. Fender. The mix of familiar and
unfamiliar mash around in his head until they become as thick as his blood
drying on leather.
Every few miles, he careens to a stop and spits out amber.
Halfway through the journey he has mud and blood on his face. Actual scars line
his face from the impact of gravel and cement; despite his gloves, the palms of
his hands become howling, open, and tenderized. Not for two seconds does he
ride without the helmet, but it too begins to betray him. Sweat mixes in with
the blood on his face, all of it rendering into something stifling and raw.
On an open stretch of rural road—idyllic, serene, pastoral and all that
crap—the Scrambler tosses Jensen off, forcing him to chew on a mouthful of
roadside dirt.
As the miles agonizingly unfold, no part of the journey becomes Jensen’s
original dream about taking a badass bike across country. Although the leather
jacket provides a tough layer between him and the pavement, when he’s not
spinning out he’s sweating in it. Despite the helmet, bugs still manage to get
through and fly into his mouth or up his nose. The first four or five times
that happened, he swerved and immediately lost his shit. Hour two and a half
sees the beginning of a new relationship with the corpses of insects in his
face; he has no more fucks to give.
Hunched over, surely mortally wounded, and chaffing like a motherfucker, Jensen
pulls over halfway into his trip. He had estimated four hours by car; while the
Scrambler can go as fast as a car, Jensen can’t drive it above fifty-five
without shaking and spilling a mile later.
Incredibly scientific calculations put his time at closer to six hours—five if
he can stop riding like a baby.
The sun sets without comment or acknowledgement. Gradients paint the sky,
reflecting what must be a pretty picture for fuckers who have time to wax
poetic on that type of crap. Jensen doesn’t care. He keeps his focus on the
Scramble, pleading with her to let him in on the language. If she’d just cut
him a break and translate one or two things, maybe his crotch wouldn’t feel
like it was about to detonate.
Sprawling to another harsh stop, Jensen screams out his frustration while
wearing his helmet.
Then he yanks the helmet off and blasts every single scream once more, out into
the open, dark countryside, fields of grass and shrubs swallowing them up.
Loneliness hooks his legs back onto the Scrambler.
Anxiety bears down on the starter pedal.
No phone, no car, and nothing but the hundred dollars of cash in his wallet and
the supplies in his backpack. Hurled out into murky curves of road, Jensen
skids, resists, and staves off another wipe out. Beneath and all around him,
the Scrambler bucks.
Leaning left to bend right, Jensen wields his own weight against her.
They parry, thrash, and wrestle forward, blasting past broken tractors and
ramshackle farms that carve mammoth silhouettes in the evening sky.
In these solitary hours, two trucks run him off the road. The Scrambler recoils
against his inability to fight for his space; she swerves towards the trucks,
volleying closer, hooking him onto fear until his mouth is full of it—until he
stops screaming, stops squeezing his eyes shut, and stops struggling when she
knows better.
All the while, Jensen knows that this is nothing.
Passing through towns dotting Route 5, he avoids attention and drives speed
limit. Mile after mile, spill after spill, Jensen answers the Scrambler. He
heaves her off of gravel, grips his bare hands onto her sleek handles, and
rides her in a holler.
Five and a half hours.
She murmurs underneath him as they slow to a smooth stop. He’s not fool enough
to park right out front, and he knows better than to stick around gawking like
an idiot. But he has to see the place for himself; for all the details gathered
and gifted to him, people miss shit all the time. Adults don’t look for
weaknesses in a security system if they respect it in the first place. They
don’t notice that a recent rain created a slight dip in the soil at the base of
the monstrous fence.
With the Scrambler hidden some length away, Jensen crawls over to the cruel
iron barrier. On his hands and knees, working in darkness, he wrenches open the
wound, gutting and gouging in desperation. Like Dave said, roses spider up and
down the iron fencing, blooming suspended and slightly warped. Jensen hacks at
a thick, thorny cluster of them with his pocket knife. A thorn buries itself
under his fingernail; Jensen muffles his yelp and bites at it—prying it out
with his teeth.
He pushes top soil back into the hole and arranges roses around the bottom,
threading this all together to make this patch of fencing appear completely
untouched.
On his feet, he listens for any sign that his movements have set off alarms.
Nothing.
Running to the Scrambler, Jensen remembers as much as he can, hoping it won’t
be necessary. He can touch the roses and the ground around it, but he can’t
touch the fence. Night shift includes three guards up front by the entrance,
and two on watch at the back. The sides remain open, however, they also remain
dangerous. Any threat to the fence and both sets of Paul Blart wannabes will
waddle over.
Jensen walks alongside the Scrambler for half a mile in a ditch on the side of
the road. He tramples through mud, roadkill, and the remnants of belongings
that must have been discarded upon arrival to this place.
A single grimy sneaker lies on the slope of the ditch. Jensen doesn’t touch it.
He keeps his head down and pushes towards his second destination: Rose’s Bar.
 
Six months ago, on a search for money, Jensen searched through Alan’s closet.
Jared was there. He was opposed to the original plan, but caved once Jensen dug
out something ancient.
“Junk,” Jensen declared and shoved it aside.
“No way,” Jared gasped and grabbed it back. “Your dad still has one of these?”
Jensen remembers how he stared at Jared. “Really? Coming from the guy whose
family gathers ‘round a radio on a nightly basis?”
Nothing could stop Jared from cradling the record player close, not even the
layer of dust on the cover or the musky, dank smell to it. Ignoring any and all
of Jensen’s attempts to continue the search for money to order a pizza, Jared
rooted through the closet, finding an outlet. It was fortunate for him that the
record player had its own speakers, saving him the process of hooking them up
to anything else. The lid creaked open and Jared checked the needle—still good.
Deep in the cavern of the closet alongside Jensen, Jared pushed around luggage,
boxes of scripts and shit from sets, scrunching his nose when Jensen didn’t
immediately offer to help yank out one specific, very heavy crate.
“They’re gross as fuck.”
“They’re well-loved.”
“He let them rot.”
“…maybe he just didn’t know how to store them.”
“Uh huh, sure.”
“Some of these are rare—oh my god, he’s got Closing Time.”
“You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here?”
“Not a scratch on it. Move.”
“Why should Imove?!”
“Because you’re in my way!”
“Oh, thanks, nice of you to put your ass in my face.”
“And it would do you well to thank me for it, jerk.”
“Yeah, sure, but not in Alan’s closet. I saw bellbottoms back there, Jay. I
shit you not.”
Jared looked at that record the way he looked at an A+ on one of his tests. He
didn’t care about the tattered edges of the album cover, he ran his fingers
over it, shook his head, and put the record on the table. The needle dropped,
creating a soft pop and a crackle. Alan’s suits and ties acted as a canopy. The
first few seconds of music filtered out scratchy, like a wheeze. It was
difficult to hear the whisper of a guitar under the needle skimming across the
grooves. Then there was a man’s voice, distant and haunting, counting out,
“One, two, three four.”
On each side of the turntable, they sat there in the closet, listening to a
voice as grainy and gravely as the device it played on. Distinctive and pained,
the man sang in tones that altered on a dime; heavy and balmy one second,
breathy and vulnerable the next. The tempo took its time, in no hurry or rush,
allowing the exquisite fizz from the needle and record to build up, creating a
nest for the music.
“Well the night does funny things inside a man. These old tom-cat feelings you
don’t understand. Well I turn around to look at you, you light a cigarette. I
wish I had the guts to bum one, but we’ve never met. And I hope that I don’t
fall in love with you.”
Jensen can’t remember how long it took him to realize Jared was singing along.
Hushed, he murmured the lyrics slightly off-tempo, so they came out at a pace
like a prayer.
“I can see that you are lonesome just like me, and it being late, you’d like
some company… Now it’s closing time, the music’s fading out. Last call for
drinks, I’ll have another stout. Well I turn around to look at you, you’re
nowhere to be found. I search the place for your lost face, guess I’ll have
another round.”
Breathing in deep, eyes closed, Jared exhaled the last line.
“And I think that I just fell in love with you.”
Jared reached over and took the needle off the record before the next song
could play. Even in the inky darkness of the closet, Jensen could tell Jared
was blushing something terrible.
He grabbed Jared’s hand and placed it on his own cheek.
Maybe he was blushing too.
 
Rose’s is nothing like that song.
And if Jensen doesn’t pull his shit together, he’s gonna end up screaming
Kentucky Avenue.
In the parking lot, Jensen ignores the shaking of his hands and uses one of the
bottles of water he brought with to wash the blood and sweat from his face.
Standing under a smashed light post, he doesn’t waste a drop. The water runs
off of him the same color as the bricks that make up the bar. Shattered copper
and emerald bottles crunch under his boots as he hauls the Scrambler to the
back. She deflects every prickly threat to her tires, rougher than their
attempts, capable of making it unharmed to the drippy, pathetic back of house.
Greasy fossilzed crates form a wall beside the dumpster Jensen tucks the
Scrambler behind.
He’d punch a crate.
But his nail is still bleeding on his right hand and he can’t swing for beans
with his left.
And he knows better than to sit on one. Plopped down on the uneven cement,
Jensen tilts his head back, his body thumping against the dumpster. He should
probably be careful not to sit on broken glass.
“Fuck,” he croaks, closing his eyes.
Without Jared, without a turntable, Kentucky Avenue plays, a treacherous,
damned ghost of piano scales and violent, angry wails.
What did he need the water for?
Grabbing his left arm with his right hand, Jensen curls up, muffling yet
another sound.
I’ll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials in my arm. And I’ll show you
how to sneak up on the roof of the drugstore. I’ll steal a hacksaw from my dad
and cut the braces off your legs. And we’ll bury them tonight out in the
cornfield. Just put a church key in your pocket, we’ll hop that freight train
in the hall.
This has to work.
We’ll slide all the way down the drain to New Orleans in the fall.
God, this has to work.
 
Chapter End Notes
     i can't remember how i happened upon Tom Waits, but i'm forever
     grateful. i can only listen to a little at a time and these two songs
     were perfect for this fic. if you can, you should listen to them.
     thank you for reading! i hope you're enjoying what was supposed to be
     a one-day, 5k word fic lol. <3
     here's to a new year of writing for the spn fandom! :D
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
No one in town will sell Jensen a bottle of booze.
And they definitely wouldn’t sell him four.
Sacred bottles glisten—turpentine rubies and emeralds—on the depressed shelves
of Rose’s. The liquor levels out mortgages, banks, and holy institutions of
employment and responsibilities. No music. No flashy lights. No talk of who’s
alive this week and whose pink slip’s in the mail next week.
Shoulders worthy of Sandburg poems shield a singular front of house.
A Colonel of Cuervo with a rag in one hand and a glass in the other.
A General of Jack in studs, leather, and a red bandana on her thick, right
bicep.
General of Rose’s—Rose.
Raven wing-tipped eyes appraise the newcomer like a pig arriving at the
slaughterhouse. The curve of her upper lip determines whether this offering
gets stuck in the throat once and only once, sprays of its blood showering
layers of its predecessors, or if it warrants an ending much faster.
Slit from belly to the pulsing river of his jugular, Jensen receives
acceptance.
Time doesn’t wait for relief or celebration. The first part done, Jensen grunts
at the offer of his own gem, slid over the bar without a label or cap. His
breath smells like gasoline. More than the General’s eyes rest on his throat in
the first three pulls. No newcomer, no fucking greenhorn, Jensen swallows the
riot and the slosh. Fake ID’s aren’t worth shit if there’s nothing to back them
up. A place like Rose’s would never card; prey walks in, prey gets hunted out
quick.
Ten. That’s his preliminary count. Rose would be one shot short from the devil
if she doesn’t have a man in the back—or a rifle under the bar. Company isn’t
muscle from mills or quarries or caves. But they match Jensen in height, every
one of them, and drinking time started hours ago.
Muscles in Jensen’s shoulders scream in his position. His ribs require rest.
The raw palms of his hands stick against the bar. Energy from barreled reserves
rebuff these complaints and refocus. Composure is everything. Expression could
betray him. Concentrate. Glean. Empty the bottle in hand and watch. Wait for
the reveal. Allow the tension to build—don’t give anything away, not yet. More
or less in the middle, three sit on his left and five on the right, with two
near the door.
This has to work.
Once, it worked without even trying.
Now it’s his turn to use it.
Unfurled from the cover of his sleeve, Jensen spreads out the dynamite. His
lungs squeeze and ribs twinge. This has to work. Because the only problem with
his dynamite is the lack of control in lighting it. He doesn’t hold the matches
here—they do.
It was hell painting in the parking lot. He had to take some care and make it
look good.
Dynamite Red is what the bottle read. OPI. Two coats.
Eternities shriek around his barstool. What if they don’t take the bait? What
if they’ve put away their matches? What if these aren’t the same kind of rural
people that hauled him out, beat him up, and told him to go back to Hollywood?
What if he placed his chips on red when black was the better…
On Jensen’s left, a corporal intends to pitch the first throw.
His flat, coarse palm charges towards Jensen’s shoulder, meant to shove and
knock the newest pig off its stool and away from the trough.
But Jensen doesn’t belong here.
Not with these assholes.
Triggered, Jensen ignites. His hands snap against the bar, biceps tightening,
working overtime to propel himself backwards. Dodging the shove, Jensen doesn’t
have time to witness it assail the bar fly that had been on his right. His legs
twist the stool and hips match the pace, allowing him to walk away from the
stool without broken ankle or pulled muscle.
And one by one, the flies fall like dominoes.
Rose’s explodes.
Fist after fist after jaw after eye after gut after throat after grabbing a
stool and cracking it on the bar in an attempt to get to Jensen… Bottles burst
into fragments, scattering on the floor like roaches. Bone meeting bone sounds
out louder than the General’s warning. Jensen throws three rights and one left.
He catches a pummel to the gut, winding him, forcing bile up his throat like
toothpaste being wrung from the tube.  
Pain latches onto his ribs, burying its teeth and constricting until he folds.
Crumpled.
Hands thump over his chest. In one swift motion, Jensen ascends from the floor
to the bar again. Harsh shouts and furious barks batter against his ears. One.
One guy’s got him. Just. One. The rest hover. This is just one. Just.
There’s no way Jensen can match the uppercut of a forty-five year old farmer;
but he wore these boots for more than just because they look good.
Jensen rams his steel-toed boot into the guy’s groin.
Running for the exit, Jensen stuffs his jacket with four bottles of whatever he
can grab. He makes it half a mile down the road when the first sirens headed
for Rose’s wail.
Gunning it, Jensen laughs.
 
Insanity or passion fuel Jensen’s efforts to dig another hole on the opposite
side of the compound.
After the third thorn causes his hands to bleed, he decides that it’s probably
a good mix of the two. Scratches and bruises and a possibly fractured rib can
be dealt with later. Forcing the ground to open underneath his fingers provides
an outlet for a mixture of shit: anxiety, anger, and something else he refuses
to gift a name. He won’t say it. He felt it in Rose’s and that was fine. But
this is where he repays the Padaleckis for their trouble.
Drowned in afflicted earth, dynamite red takes on a shade to match the sky
above: a beastly, spidery indigo.
Midnight materializes, murky in the painful grottos of his sinuses. Time takes
on the form of an oracle—prophetic, high, and cruel. Jensen treads the horizon,
hands guiding the Scrambler. He keeps his shadow close. The form he cuts on the
horizon emerges like a banshee.
Barbed wire on the top. Wired fencing and roses twisting, looping, threading
inside. Two guards in the front and two in the back, from the visuals Jensen
snatches. No dogs. Stakes of light driven in the ground follow a pattern: four
up front, all pointing at the building. Four of the six in back point at the
east side of the building, which also has the least amount of windows. Why
concentrate there? Why not on the north or south sides, where there are rows of
windows?
The Scrambler waits in the grass without her kickstand. She blends into the
blades like a snake. Exhaling, Jensen preps, lying beside her, on his stomach.
Not every sound receives his attention. He sends commands to his hands to stop
shaking and to his lungs to cease their complaining.
All the east side floodlights point a cluster of three windows for a reason:
that’s where they sleep.
Stuffing his backpack under the Scrambler, Jensen runs through his list.
Bottles. Check. Matches. Check. Flashlight. Check. There isn't any need for the
Marlboros. Not that kind of situation.
And last, but not least, a really fucking heavy rock.
Back at the original hole, not a clump of dirt appears disturbed, and none of
the roses have moved. Jensen pokes the roses out of the fencing with a stick.
They’ll fall in his way, but he’d rather not risk setting something off by
grabbing them. Working with the rock, he scoops out the first layer of soil he
packed in before leaving last time. He wipes his forehead with the back of his
right hand and continues. His motions remain in sync with the sounds of boots
that are not his own. Tunneling further, leaving the earth gouged wider,
Jensen’s muscles signal his limit.
This has to work.
One by one, each bottle of liquor slides under the fence and into the compound.
For thirty seconds, Jensen lies in the dirt, unmoving and waiting.
Nothing.
He uses the stick again to push the bottles up the sloped edge and away from
the hole. This is either his best plan or his worst. At least, he thinks to
himself, crawling on his belly, there aren’t any worms. Trenches have more
space than this hole. For a second, Jensen thinks his jeans snag on the fence.
Freezing, he listens, wanting to scream at his heart to shut up for a second.
Nothing.
He’s in.
Victory meets a short end. One guard from the front makes their way from the
front to the back. Is it because of him? Was he too loud? Did he trip something
else? Anxiety grazes at the skin from his chin down to his collar. With every
pound of boot against the lawn, Jensen’s muscles tighten in response.
Nothing.
This episode works in his benefit. Whatever the reason for leaving their post,
the guard left his partner alone up front. Instead of dodging two, Jensen only
needs to evade one. Piece of cake. Piece of chocolate cake with motherfucking
sprinkles.
The one element Jensen hadn’t entirely planned for was the moment when his plan
kicked into high gear. He hadn’t expected it to start so noiseless, without
much, if any transition from breaking in to raising hell.
There’s no soundtrack, no special effects, and no green screen.
Jensen races for the front. He is nothing more than a teenage boy wearing a
leather jacket. Rounding the corner of the compound, he slows to a walk. Half-
filled bottles slosh against his chest. He spots the second front guard some
hundred feet away. Thirty seconds. Maybe less. That’s all Jensen has before the
shape of his jacket looks wrong or his profile doesn’t match expectations.
At twenty seconds, he pitches the first part of his plan straight into the
nearest window.
Goodbye, fucking heavy rock.
As if conducting an orchestra, Jensen raises his hands in joy of the resulting
sounds.
Crash!
Bang!
Boom!
Allegro! Fortissimo! And whatever other words dead guys with wigs use to
describe music! It’s the fucking 1812 Overture, complete with canons, bells,
and Jensen at the helm of it all. Blasting, earsplitting alarms shriek,
followed by the scorching flare of floodlights. Whips of white light the color
of bleached bones wrap around Jensen’s ankles. But he doesn’t care. He gives
zero fucks.
In a moment, the rock through the window will be the least of anyone’s
problems.
Longer than any of the guards expect, Jensen remains near the scene of the
crime. His hands work in perfect time and rhythm with the frantic music playing
at full volume in his head. Tchaikovsky would be proud.
Solid in his left hand, Jensen cradles one of the four prepared bottles.
The match in his right hand kisses the side of his boot with a hiss.
He needed the booze from Rose’s to soak the rags stuffed into each bottle. But
once that was done he poured it all out and replaced it with something even
better—gasoline. All it took was his pocketknife to jack open the gas tanks on
two of the trucks in the parking lot and a rubber hose. Of course, he didn’t
need all the gas, but he figured it might help to drain them in case anyone
felt like following.
Clean, beautiful fire seizes the rag.
Jensen hurls the burning bottle into the broken window. As it hits the floor,
the Molotov cocktail ignites, sending glass and flames flying.
What was only property damage becomes a full-fledged emergency.
Shock from the wall of howling, golden fire fends off the guards long enough
for Jensen to pursue his next target. Four bottles. Three distractions. The
second bottle obliterates another window, this one on the second floor. Fire
alarms screech and sprinklers kick into action—all according to plan.
For a compound this size, the evacuation time is impressive.
Smoke and salt from sweat pricks at Jensen’s eyes. His boots barely touch the
ground, running from the front of the building now consumed in flames.
Vengeance and satisfaction churn through his muscles, joints, and limbs. The
floodlights, once his enemy, become his friends. They make it easy to spot what
he wants in a confused, frightened crowd.
Two guards. Ten nuns. Five staff.
Twenty pairs of young, bewildered eyes.
Jensen only has to lock eyes with one.
He shines the flashlight twice, pointing left. Staff shove to form a barrier
against the kids, all of them crowding left.
Jared darts to the right.
The third bottle contains no rag. Jensen uncorks it with his teeth and
overturns it. As he runs past the crowd, gasoline sprays out on the lawn,
mostly in a line. Another match. Another blazing wall.
Pelting the ground underneath, Jensen’s boots catch up to Jared’s sneakers.
Not a word.
Not one pause in sprinting. Not one moment for their hands to touch or
shoulders to bump.
Fire reflects back in Jensen’s eyes. They’re not out of the clear. Just a
little further… a few more steps…
Without feeling or pity, the guards advance, shouting to each other to cut them
off. For the first time tonight, Jensen feels how cold it is outside, a fierce
chill charging down his chest and piercing his spine. It could be because he
catches one glimpse of the figure next to him wearing paper-thin, white
hospital clothes.  
This is right.
This is so right.
A sadistic streak stirs inside Jensen. One bottle left. Better make it good. He
gives the signal used for evading teachers, administrators, and other nosy
adults during a raid—rock, paper, scissors. Jared breaks to the left. Jensen
breaks to the right. They crisscross and loop, ambushing those who follow and
heading straight for them. It’s a game of chicken. Jensen’s legs carry him,
sturdy and sure. He lets out an inhuman whoop, holding up the last bottle and a
lighter.
Hounds of hell couldn’t catch him—or Jared.
Careful with his aim, Jensen pitches the last bottle, this one with the least
amount of gasoline.
It lands five feet from the circle of evacuees.
Savage chaos unleashes enough confusion and misdirection for Jensen to grab
Jared by the arm and pull him in the opposite direction. Back. Back this way.
They don’t run off alone, but they have a head start.
At the hole, Jensen shouts for Jared not to touch the fence.
“It’s not big enough!”
“It is! Don’t worry!”
“No, Jen… the…”
“Go!”
“I won’t fit!”
“You will, Jay! Just go!”
“What about you?!”
Footsteps batter the earth, thundering closer and closer by the second.
Jared claws at the ground, wedging himself into the hole, awkward and slow.
Panicking, Jensen shoves at him from behind. Their desperate cries ring in his
ears. Too small. Should have dug the hole bigger. Should have replaced the
condom. Should have asked Jared at the park to empty his pockets after they had
sex. Should have left Jared alone. Should have…
“RUN!” Jensen uses the last of his voice. “TEN STEPS!”
Ten steps to the Scrambler.
Ten seconds until the guards reach the fence. Jensen struggles, muscles
seizing, uncooperative and traitorous. He can’t get in the right angle. His
feet refuse to push.
Hands grab Jensen’s arms.
In one rough motion, Jared lugs Jensen out of the pit. The Scrambler roars to
life. There’s only one thing different about her this time.
Jared drives.
Chapter End Notes
     thank you for your patience! <3
     comments are love. :D
***** Chapter 21 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The scene is quieter that Jensen expects.
For the first few minutes, he hears nothing. Feels nothing. Sees nothing.
And for one small stretch of blurred, distorted road, he fears nothing.
Keep her shiny side up.
Hammer down.
Life ignites from the 865cc eight-valve engine.
Thrust forward. More torque. Low revs.
She’s the kind of machine meant for escape.
Thundering.
Slaughtering.
Commanding the road like an Empress.
Tubular steel, twin cradle frame, 36/40 spoke tires.
High-level stainless steel headers and chrome silencers.
Obsessed with the road.
She owns it.
She destroys it.
Because her driver ain’t no squid.
Cherry toppers clock in. Cops. At least three cars.
Stupidly quick. Underdressed. Imminently dead.
Oil couldn’t be darker than the road ahead of them.
Corn stalks serve as imminent wardens.
The donut patrol advances.
They’re closing in fast.
Are they at max?
Out of gas?
Has Jared changed his mind?
Or lost it?
Hounding, one cop car catches up.
Jensen could spit on it.
Siren lights throttle her.
Closer and closer.
The long arm of the law…
Extending in an ambush…
The noose is out…
Doesn’t Jared know how close they are?
How few the inches?
They don’t have very long.
Closer.
Closer...
Faster!
If they don’t speed up, this’ll be the end.
There was one and only one guy before Jensen. His name was Thad. He was as much
of a douchebag as his name suggests. On his gleaming Velocette Viper, he road
into town with ten bucks to his name, a tattoo on his bare bicep that said,
“BABY,” and a thing for young, naïve, boys. The first glimpse he got of Jared
was at the town’s public pool—all red swim shorts and long, lean legs. Jared
asked him who baby was, and good old Thad replied, “You are, baby.” He promised
Jared freedom. A life on the road. The ability to do whatever he wanted
whenever he wanted without consequence. All Jared had to do was let Thad see
exactly what was under those cute little swim shorts. Jared laughed every time
Thad made his pitch; he laughed and smiled and flipped his hair and quoted from
the Bible and asked Thad to explain how motorcycles worked. Was Thad the next
James Dean? Did Thad’s muscles grow before or after he starting driving the
Viper? What did a 349cc engine mean? Thad ate it up. Every chance he got, he
snuck Jared away from the pool and took him for a ride. And one day, the day
Jared wore his swim shorts a little too low, Thad asked Jared if he wanted to
drive. “Oh. Oh… are you sure? Me? Drive? I wouldn’t even know how.” “Ah, ain’t
no thing. I’ll show you.” “You’ll be behind me, right? You won’t let go?” Thad
wouldn’t have let go if lightning had struck him. From June to August, he got
to strut his stuff and show off. He showed Jared how to burnout, doughnut,
stitch a line, dodge tar snakes, and sweep down twisties. They rode every day
in the sun—Jared getting tan and Thad’s erection bumping and grinding against
Jared’s ass. The afternoon arrived when Thad couldn’t stand those red swim
shorts anymore. He had to know. Had to see. Had to do everything to it that he
had been creaming his jeans over at night every night for those two months. Out
on the road, he peeked and groped and slid a hand up Jared’s thigh. Second
mistake. Because Jared can speak to scoots; their language is his language is
the language of smooth pavement without traffic on an endless horizon. The
Viper and Jared worked together. Thad was dust. He flew off the Viper—smashed
into a guardrail. Jared circled back, taking his time, and calmed the Viper for
a minute. He put her on the kickstand and walked over to a bloody, bruised, and
disoriented Thad. “Try it again,” Jared said, crouching down, smiling. “You’re
not wearing a helmet and I can make it look like an accident.” First mistake.
Very first mistake was taking Jared for a sucker.
Jensen’s first mistake.
Well, it depends on who’s asking.
But his first mistake is doubting the driver.
The front bumper of the first police cruiser meets the back wheel of the
Scrambler.
They don’t have very long.
The jig is up.
Faster…
Underneath Jensen’s arms, Jared’s lungs expand. His chest rises from one deep
breath. The Scrambler shifts two inches to the right. Tires squeal. Rubber
smokes. Jared pulls the clutch and uses the front brake only.
Dust and debris swarm.
Braking.
Stopping.
In between two cruisers, the Scrambler screeches to a stop, both sides
separated by mere inches.
They’re wanted men.
Jared changes gears. The Scrambler howls.
Propelled, they dive straight into the cornfield.
Chapter End Notes
     short chapter, but an experimentation with form. :D
     comment, please! love hearing from y'all. <3
     snippets of "Renegade" by Styx are in this chapter.
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Heroes are everywhere.
Even on a motorcycle, wearing nothing but a helmet, cotton scrubs, and shoes no
thicker than house slippers. Sirens yowl in the distance. Flood lights hunt for
clues from the road. Lost.
Jared renders them invisible.
And he takes the law into his own hands—handling the Scrambler with ease,
talking to her, reconciling the tension between her and Jensen. Stalks of corn
seem to make a path for her and Jared, understanding that neither will hesitate
to run them down. Hands firm, legs secure, shoulders back—Jared works with
commanding precision and accuracy. Solid. Tough. Resolute.
Throughout life, there are continually reoccurring themes.
Sirens and lights behind them, Jensen knows that life is monstrous.
With his arms wrapped around Jared, forearms and hands resting below his chest
and over the existence of a budding swell—he understands an addition to that
theme.
All life is powerful.
The Scrambler glides to a halt, smooth as fresh poured concrete.
A billboard towers to their left. Corn remains at a distance, creating a circle
of clear ground and gravel. It’s an old stakeout spot, vacant and available.
Windblown, shaking, and nauseated, Jensen doesn’t immediately register the
silence from the road and the Scrambler. In this haze, as fumes settle, he
notices the elegance in Jared’s legs as he hefts off the Scrambler.
Confident arms lift up, hands ready to shuck the helmet.
Despite his right hand bleeding, the piercing ache in his ribs, and the thunder
of reality approaching, Jensen’s chest squeezes at the sight of Jared, all
grace and poise, slipping off the helmet in one fluid motion; chestnut hair
tinted by indigo nighttime tumbles out, sweeping to the side with one shrug of
his shoulder.
Jensen forgets that Jared didn’t kickstand the bike.
And Jared is no longer on the bike.
The Scrambler lets Jensen tip over and crash onto the ground.
“You’re so stupid!”
“…what?” Jensen croaks out, blinking, eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
Grabbing the Scrambler by her handlebars, Jared lifts her, uncaring if Jensen’s
limbs are or aren’t attached to her. “You!” Jared shouts, pitching up the
kickstand. His hands fly up in a frenzy, practically waving, trying to flag
down a satellite to capture this moment. “You could have killed yourself! Not
just… what the fuck, Jensen?! Molotov cocktails?! Really?! You’re so STUPID!”
Still on the ground, Jensen can only absorb the world’s most epic verbal
thrashing, handed out to him behind a decaying billboard out in the middle of
nowhere.
Jared paces back and forth. Gravel scatters, fleeing from the rampage.
“You must be dumber than a box of rocks, Jensen. I cannot believe you would
drive the bike all the way out here by yourself with a plan like that. What
were you thinking?! Were you thinking?! You know, somewhere along the drive I
think your cheese fell off your cracker—Molotov cocktails! Shit, and I thought
you were a few sandwiches short of a picnic before, but holy FUCK!”
The ground trembles as Jared stomps forward. He kneels, energized by rage, and
grabs Jensen by the collar of his jacket. Nose to nose, Jensen braces himself
for climactic, hormonal fury.
Hazel eyes look hard and brutal at Jensen.
They search out regret.
Within seconds, they find none.
“Some village,” Jensen wheezes, carefully placing his hands on Jared’s
forearms, “is missin’ an idiot.”
Jared snorts and closes his eyes tight, pressing their foreheads together. The
grip he has on Jensen’s collar turns his knuckles nearly white. Jensen moves
his thumbs in light circles against Jared’s bare arms.
Their eyes meet once again. This time, they exchange something softer,
something infinitely quieter than the placid, ethereal road. It’s all Tom
Waits, playground woodchips, Cuban sandwiches, cold Jarritos, white orchids,
faded blue jeans, radio dial, Dial soap everything.
The first kiss shocks Jensen, as if he’s thrown off the Scrambler again.
Hot, warm, and rough, Jared slams their mouths together and demands Jensen let
him in. They might be all teeth and nose and desperate huffing for the first
thirty seconds, but every prized press of skin against skin sings out in a tune
no less than divine.
Behind the billboard on an inconsequential road, the pressure points in
Jensen’s body unwind, welcoming familiar muscle, skin, and the ravenous force
of another heartbeat.
Jensen kisses back with every ounce of strength he has left. He opens his
mouth, tilts his head back, and moans low as Jared straddles his hips, grinding
down, voracious for their contact to be closer and closer. The taste of
toothpaste meets traces of gasoline and a hastily chewed piece of spearmint
gum. Jared moans back, breathing in deep, his hands pushing up Jensen’s jacket
and sliding under his shirt.
Close could never be closer enough.
“Now,” Jared exhales, lips against Jensen’s mouth. “Please.”
The best he do for words in a sentence tumble out slurred. “I… don’t… nothin’.”
No condoms. No lube. They weren’t the kind of supplies Jensen packed. His mind
wasn’t…
Jared unzips Jensen’s jeans, letting his hands and mouth guide him. Sucking
down Jensen’s cock in one vigorous gulp, he draws out a holler and a gasp from
the fortunate recipient of the world’s fastest and best blow job. Head bobbing,
throat working, Jared coats Jensen in spit—all the way from the thick, aching
base to the leaking, flushed tip. His lips work to apply pressure at the same
time his tongue circles around the twitching head. Not three seconds later, he
opens his mouth wider and Jensen reaches the limit of how deep he can take him.
Sopping, soaked, and slick, Jared pops off, breathing hard.
He asks without asking—here, now, behind the billboard on an inconsequential
road after Molotov cocktails, the cops on their tail, and a whole town of
trouble on the horizon.
Jensen wraps his arms around Jared’s neck and brings him in for a kiss so sharp
and fevered he could breathe fire. Yes, now. Of course now. Here as the gravel
scuffs and scrapes Jensen’s legs and Jared’s knees. Here, where there’s no time
to fool around, no desire for anything but an onslaught of hunger.
Chest to chest, their rib cages rattle.
Hips lift, their silhouette traced by moonlight and freckled, bloody
fingertips. Together, they shove the scrubs down Jared’s thighs, bunched up at
his knees. The scrubs could go further, but Jared’s mouth distracts Jensen and
as long as physics work with them they’re fine. Fine, just fine, fired up,
fueled, electrified—burning.
Hands on the curves of Jared’s hips, Jensen pauses, his thumbs at the border of
an unspoken boundary.
Shaking his head, Jared looks away. “Don’t.”
So Jensen doesn’t.
He moves his hands to Jared’s ass, groping while they kiss, groaning when Jared
reaches back. Mouth to mouth, they share the same sweltering breath.
Jared braces himself on Jensen’s shoulders, gritting his teeth, chest heaving.
Jensen’s cock pushes past the first tight ring of muscle, surrounded by brutal
pressure and wild heat. Jared exhales, shuddering, and eventually lets out a
moan that causes Jensen’s mouth to water. It’s been a while. Spit can’t
entirely replace lube. They are desperate and raging and it feels so good.
Jared feels so good. Every intense inch, every clench of his round, firm ass,
every catch of breath the deeper and deeper Jensen’s cock pushes in.
Opened up, Jared takes Jensen beautifully.
Between them, Jared’s cock pushes against Jensen’s stomach. The friction there
is enough; Jared balances himself by holding onto Jensen’s forearms. For a
minute, Jared doesn’t move. He keeps his chin tucked and eyes closed, breathing
in and out. His nipples peak under the rough material of the scrubs. Crimson
sweeps over his face. The smell of sex, gasoline, concrete, and dirt surround
them.
Breathless, Jared tosses his head back. His hips rise tortuously slow.
They slam down and he snaps.
Jared rides Jensen’s cock like a man possessed.
Fucking himself up and down, taking every bloated, aching inch of Jensen, Jared
cries out. He twists his hips, adjusting the angle, taking Jensen’s cock in a
frenzy. Intoxicated by the thrill, the depth, the sheer force of it all, Jared
digs his fingertips into leather. His eyes roll back the second Jensen starts
thrusting up, matching his pace. They all but claw at each other—fighting for
the command of the rapid rhythm building between them.
Jensen spreads Jared’s ass open, holding him like that before stilling Jared
completely so he can fuck into Jared fast and hard. He pummels the right spot,
feeling Jared’s cock respond to every frenetic thrust.
One strong sweep and Jensen brings Jared closer, fully seated in his lap.
With Jared’s legs wrapped around Jensen’s waist and arms wrapped over the
other’s shoulders, they rise and fall together. Rocking, bearing down,
completely filled and overwhelmed, Jared shouts his orgasm. His muscles seize,
contracting, squeezing, milking Jensen’s cock.
Jensen comes, pulsing and spurting, buried deep and held there.
He pumps rope after rope of come into Jared, nothing to separate them.
It feels so good.
Better than anything before.
Slumped against each other, sweaty, sticky, and just slightly trembling, Jared
runs his hands through Jensen’s hair. He presses a kiss to the shell of
Jensen’s ear and he keeps them cheek to cheek.
They have no idea what they’re doing.
But this feels right. Anything else—there could never be anything else.
Sometime later, the sky above still indigo, they clean up and prepare. Little
is said. They still have another three hours on the Scrambler. Although the
option to drive elsewhere hangs between them, it is understood that they need
to go back to town. The cops will be there, Jared’s parents will be there, the
whole town will be on high alert—but they can’t just skip out.
Exactly why isn’t said aloud, but Jensen detects the reason in the way Jared
accepts Jensen’s jacket.
Jensen refuses the helmet again.
Taking their time, they board the Scrambler once more. Jared waits to wake her
up.
He leans back against Jensen.
“Thanks,” Jared murmurs, exhaustion in his voice. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“Yell at me more often,” Jensen yawns. “It’s kind of hot.”
Ten miles down the road, Jared pulls over.
“What?” He lifts up the helmet and looks over his shoulder. “What is it?”
At first, all Jensen can do is laugh. His left wrist is broken.
“Jay, that’s my jackin’ off wrist.”
“You’re right-handed.”
“I hold your mouth open with my right hand.”
“…don’t make me toss you, Jensen.”
Chapter End Notes
     pheeeeeew! :D
     thanks for being patient! hope you enjoyed the smut. ;) leave me
     comments! comments are awesome!
***** Chapter 23 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The option of never returning to town crosses their minds throughout the drive.
Especially as they near town.
Cornfields can only mask them for so long. And steady as she is, as obedient to
Jared’s direction as she is, the Scrambler doesn’t run on teenage dreams or
hormones. Her needle hovers close to the neon orange E. Maybe one day the human
race will not only wring fuel out of corn, but make it accessible to the public
as well—but that day is not today. They have to stop.
It’s all the legalities of shit that also forces them into town on fumes at
four in the morning.
All considering, they made good time. Better time than Jensen’s journey,
anyway.
Cop cars creep through the streets, visible despite their techniques. A few
lights in the windows of nosy and curious residents allow for a decent gauge.
“But they’ll be on foot,” Jared mutters, cutting the Scrambler’s engine. He
leans his weight to the right. The coast to stopping was so smooth, Jensen
barely noticed it. “And there’s no telling how many.”
Two hours away from sunrise and their town sees more activity in the streets
than the last time Jensen coordinated a prank before school. From their
shadowed spot in an alleyway on the edge of downtown, their lungs work in
rhythm. Every time a squad car slithers by their lungs inflate. When all four
tires rotate on, the breaths of air following couldn’t blow over a leaf.
Restraint and control concentrates into every possible square inch of their
bodies.
“I can burn shit again.”
Nose scrunch.
“Okay, then you come up with a plan.”
“I’m the damsel, it’s not my job to come up with a plan.” Lines exist on
Jared’s face that were never there before. And though it may be the dim light
around them, a darkness covers Jared’s eyes like permanent filters. He won’t
say it. Jensen won’t say it. They need to rest.
Jensen shrugs off his jacket. It swallows Jared’s shoulders up in the same way,
except Jared seems to lean into it. Humor. That’s got to work. “Some damsel you
are,” Jensen huffs. “Didn’t even get a kiss.”
Eyebrows rise, followed by a wilting smirk. “Sure you didn’t.”
A squad car nearby turns on its lights. Red and blue reach out and grab Jensen
by the heart.
Trash cans turn over somewhere near the old Mason place—four houses down. This
town ain’t that big. They might not even make an effort to search every alley
for one escapee. Except… that escapee was sprung by his boyfriend who saw it
fit to commit a million different felonies at once. Maybe if Jensen had been a
little more subtle and pulled something off like a scene from Ocean’s Eleven
instead of something closer to Michael Bay proportions.
If they start up the Scrambler now, it won’t matter how quiet she runs or how
expertly Jared drives her. They’ll hear her and see them.
“My house?” Jensen offers, the hair on the back of his neck standing. “The
Vatican? Fort Knox?”
Different scenarios play through Jared’s mind. None of them work. He inches
closer to Jensen, gripping onto the helmet, turning away from the alley
entrance to the street. “No, they’ll expect us to go to your house, not mine.”
“Fanny’s?”
“She’s in deep enough, Jen.”
“So?”
“So.”
“Like we’re not.”
“Shh.”
Two windows light up on the street across from them. It isn’t only the police
who can spot them—if they look hard enough.
Jared takes Jensen’s hands in his and squeezes, shutting his eyes, and biting
down on his bottom lip. It looks like he’s praying. But what’s he praying for?
An out? An in? Wings? Teleportation? Jesus to appear before them and act as
their lawyer then take them out for a nice steak dinner? While he’s at it,
could he put in a good word for Jensen to the Big Guy? Vandalism, petty theft,
arson, and destruction of property are such small details. Couldn’t the Big Guy
focus on Jensen’s attempts to tip Ilan for their lunches instead?
That’s it.
“Leave the helmet,” Jensen whispers. “Keep the jacket.”
Silently, Jensen applauds himself for referencing The Godfather, possibly the
greatest movie ever made in the history of forever. He also leads Jared further
down the alley, away from the street, and back around the buildings. Flashlight
full moons threaten the expedition. Jensen leads, leaning hard on his toes
several times to avoid stepping into illuminated traps. He’s not wearing shoes
and his right sock keeps sliding down his ankle like it has somewhere to be.
On the street, a cop car revs to life and speeds off fast enough to burn
rubber. It leaves behind a sickly smell.
“Whatever we’re doing,” Jared pants, sticking close to Jensen, “do it fast.”
“Patience is a god damn virtue.”
“I can hear more cars.”
“Stop it.”
“Two more, this side of the street.”
“Quiet!”
“Another up ahead just pulled up.”
Jensen looks up. His eyes adjust to the radically different time of day. He’s
not used to seeing the building from this angle or at this hour. But there’s no
room for a mistake here. Before Jared can say anything else about another squad
car, Jensen stops and grabs Jared by the shoulders.
“Calm down,” he orders, their noses less than an inch apart. “Can you climb a
ladder?”
Dimples flash around a frown. “Of course I can. I’m not some…”
“Fine, whatever.” Jensen interrupts, his mind working fifty miles an hour ahead
of his reactions and actions. “See that fire escape?” His finger points higher
than he’d prefer.
“Yeah.”
“You sure you can make that.”
“Yes!”
“Okay.”
“It’ll make too much noise, Jen. Jen!”
It might be four or five in the morning, but Jensen could really go for a
Jarrito right about now.
Chapter End Notes
     hi! thanks all for the wait. :D
     short chapter, but i wanted to update and say hello! i hope you're
     all doing well. <3
     stay tuned for more updates! so glad to be back with these two.
***** Chapter 24 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Salvation smells like bay leaves.
Although Ilan frequently wakes up at sunrise to bake bread, he typically isn’t
prepared to see teenagers on his fire escape tapping at the kitchen window. He
opens it, waiting to ask questions until the boys are no longer dangling three
stories above the alleyway.
Jensen swings inside first.
“Easy,” Jensen murmurs out the window, both arms outstretched. “Take it easy.”
From rapidly eroding darkness, a second voice responds. “I’m gonna throw up,
Jen.”
“Hold it!”
“Nuh uh…”
“Jared! Just get in here… oh, gross…”
The sound of retching isn’t pleasant at any time, but Jensen discovers that it
is especially not pleasant when it’s being done from two stories up. Despite
his own nausea, he keeps his arms wrapped around Jared’s hips. He silently
prays that puke doesn’t land in his hair. It’s the least of their problems by
far, but it would be nice to avoid it. Jared coughs and sputters on the fire
escape, causing the ladder to shake. Jensen tugs, signaling that the time has
come to get the fuck inside.
Of course, getting Jared inside doesn’t happen so easily. The window’s not
exactly accommodating and the angle makes shit worse. Ilan helps to steady
Jared. Little by little, they ease Jared into the kitchen, lowering him down,
until his feet are on the pale blue tile.
Shaking and sweating, Jared wraps his arms around himself, eyes closed.
With care, Jensen rubs a few circles over Jared’s back.
They are each exhausted.
“You’re all we’ve got right now,” Jensen says, plain as the day starting on the
other side of that window. He lays their cards on the table—too tired from
running to do much more. “Just a few hours. Enough so we can sleep and figure
out what happens next.”
Ilan shakes his head. He paces the kitchen, hands behind his back. Already,
there’s the faint dust of flour on his apron. The fight in his mind shows once
or twice on his expression. Each step seems measured. Calculated. What happens
if he says yes? What happens if he says no? Jensen looks from Ilan to Jared.
His mind deals less elegantly with the outcomes, chased by the throb of his
wrist and a screaming, whistling sound from his lungs whenever he takes in a
breath too deep.
They are covered in smoke, dried blood, and the remnants of the road.
Hiding in dumpsters could be a temporary solution. Dave’s is too far across
town. No more can be asked of Fanny. It isn’t safe to contact Jensen’s network
or his parents. Donna and Alan might even take the law’s side on this one. Or
worse, be completely unable to do anything about it, just like last time.
“One day,” Ilan sighs, facing Jared and Jensen. “That is all I can offer.”
Jensen nods. Jared whispers a faint, “Thank you.”
For a moment, the three of them stand in the kitchen, smothered in silence.
Jared steps forward and embraces Ilan, who, shocked, returns the gesture.
Relief finally in his voice, Jared adds, “Thank you very much.”
 
Ilan’s parents got out of Cuba before things were bad.
It didn’t spare them much, because it’s tough to think of Cuba as anything but
choked and bleeding, but it gave them the opportunity to flee without depending
on a piece of rubber. They were fortunate enough to fly to Mexico. Ilan’s
brother, just a baby at the time, never once cried on the journey. The same
could not be said for Ilan’s mother. They left their families behind—their own
parents, convinced they were too old to do anything but wait out Castro, and so
many others. Aunts, uncles, cousins, the dearest of friends who would drop by
every night for a game of canasta over café.
Never is a popular word amongst Cubans.
Never did they expect, never did they think, never did they dream… never could
they go back.
And never did Castro fade. Ilan’s mother never saw her own mother or father
again. Her older sister died only a year after they had left. The news didn’t
get to them until Matos turned four. One of their father’s friends spent ten
years in prison, arrested by his best friend under direct orders from the
Devil.
So many cousins went missing.
If not on the island, then away from it.
For the few success stories there were of reaching Miami, there were three
times that of bodies running, swimming, gasping towards treacherous torture.
Maybe it was the waves of the Atlantic overtaking what was nothing more than a
few planks tied together with duct tape. Maybe it was the hands of a loved one
backed by enduring terror.
What was worse? For their oppression to be familiar? Or faceless?
Anyone and everyone could be detained at any time. Children. Young women. Old
women. The man who slept on the corner of the street sobbing because word had
come back from the raft on the ocean about the baby and wife he had himself
helped them onto.
Ilan was born here in the States, because his parents couldn’t find work
anywhere in Mexico.
And eventually, he made his way here, serving the recipes of his mother and
grandmothers to people who have never tried Cuban food. Not many Cubans live
here. Throughout the years he’s known a handful of others somewhat like him.
There used to be a Chilean family who regularly bought empanadas despite the
difference in recipe. The grandmother never said a single word. Around her, the
world continued on in all its harsh unyielding chaos. Inside her mind, Ilan
knew she was carrying around the same memories and stories his parents did.
People disappearing in the middle of the night.
Coffee still warm on the table and no one around to drink it.
Sometimes there would be the sign of a struggle, sometimes there might be a
book with its pages seemingly still fluttering from one to the next.
Jensen doesn’t sleep for more than a few hours.
He made his way downstairs and found Ilan in the kitchen, sipping café con
leche and eating from a plate of butter cookies. Over the past hour or so,
black and white photographs of men and women in sharp, beautifully tailored
suits have been passed over the table.
Ilan hasn’t seen his brother in over five years. When their parents died, he
became difficult to reach.
“You think he went back?” Jensen keeps his voice low. From head to toe his body
aches. Bruises and scars have already set in. Jared made an attempt to wrap his
wrist, and Ilan supplied him with a few ibuprofen to take the edge off. If he
can barely survive breaking Jared out, Jensen questions his ability to flee a
country.
Setting down a plate of toast and jam for Jensen, Ilan shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe
not.”
“Would you wanna go back?”
“There is no going back to anything for me.”
“Oh.”
“I was not born there. I have no ties there. Just… empty houses.”
“What happened to that other family here?”
“They went back. Pinochet died and the country changed. The same happened in
Argentina.”
“How many people?”
“How many people what?”
“…went missing?”
Taking a deep breath, Ilan sits down again. “Hundreds of thousands.”
Jensen doesn’t say anything in response to that for a minute, out of respect.
When he does, it’s the only thing he can think of, being who he is. “Our
education system here sucks.”
The comment draws a short laugh out of Ilan. “Finish your breakfast. Then you
can wash up. Please do not come downstairs while customers are here. I’m sure I
did not need to say that, but I feel better saying it anyway.” He glances at a
red clock on the wall. “When Tuli gets here at noon to help with lunch, I will
bring you two something.”
An unspoken agreement lingers between them. By nightfall, Jared and Jensen have
got to figure something out. They can’t hide forever. Life doesn’t work that
way.
Memories follow, even if the law doesn’t.
Chapter End Notes
     yay an update! :D
     not an exactly happy update... but... uh.... yay?
     leave me comments because I'm sick and could use the comfort. <3 damn
     this cold!
***** Chapter 25 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Ilan sends Jensen upstairs with a plate of toast and a mug of tea. Chamomile
tea, to be exact.
When the fire alarms went off, Jared said the nuns hesitated evacuating the
building. It was more likely that someone had tried to create a diversion by
pulling the alarm, not setting it off with an actual fire. No one was allowed
any access to stuff that could potentially cut butter, much less matches.
Marching up and down the rows of beds in the main dormitory, Sister Catherine
barked out questions.
The wait created time for Jared to collect a few things.
He saw some of the others doing the same.
Jensen slips back into the store room. He manages to set down the mug without
spilling a drop.
“You showered,” he remarks, a little surprised by the sight. Half an hour ago,
Jared was curled up on the cot Ilan lent them, sleeping deeper than the Pacific
Ocean.
Stretching, Jared nods. Ilan didn’t just let them use the store room. He
provided a cot—only one, it’s all he had—and a change of clothes for them both.
The navy, flannel shirt hangs loose on Jared, but he looks more comfortable in
it. It’s deceptive, that shirt, because it almost looks like one of Jensen’s.
This could be any other day. Any other time. It could be them in Jensen’s room,
as they’re supposed to be, and it could be Jensen pulled in. In for a kiss, for
perceptive and tender fingers to card through his hair.
Running a hand through his own damp hair, Jared glances at the plate of toast
in Jensen’s hand.
Something always brings Jensen back to Jared.
Vinyl records in Alan’s closet. Jarritos and fried yucca. Socks falling asleep
in Jared’s lap. Video games and horror movies on the large couch in the living
room, where there’s space to seat four, but their legs always tangle together.
Souls on some unknown adventure.
“…is that for me?”
Jensen flinches in place. “Oh. Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
Jared tentatively takes a bite out of the unbuttered toast. He then accepts the
mug, clasping his hands around it. Silence hangs between them longer than
Jensen would ever want to admit. Nothing about this is familiar. Every event
keeps unfolding—strange and overwhelmingly foreign. And Jensen knows that
despite his proximity to the situation, he holds the perspective of an outsider
in the most critical way.
A glance to his phone—which is a little worse for wear with all the spills he
took—announces a couple of hours until noon. Sunlight the color of mustard on
Cubano sandwiches spreads out in the store room. A little smaller than Jensen’s
room, bags of dried beans and rice line the walls. Clusters of garlic hang in
the corner of the room nearest the door. One the opposite wall, a spice rack
holds everything from small jars of pickles to hot sauce to dozens of shakers.
Cumin. Paprika. Adobo. Oregano.
Funny how this used to be a a simple hideaway from homework and curfews.
The smell of smoke remains on Jensen’s hands, persistent and accusing.
He sits on the floor, next to the cot, and attempts to see the future. There
won’t be summer vacation. There won’t be summer reading. No more gambling
behind the school, skipping class, or crafting flashlight codes. True, all
these things had to change eventually, but they were supposed to fade little by
little, not all at once.
Searching his mind for something, anything to say, Jensen thinks of Fat Elvis.
Who helped him into the jumpsuit? Out of it? Did anyone care for him off stage?
Was he his own act or the casino’s? Would any of the starlets on stage with him
have touched him once the lights were out?
“Do you hate me?” His voice startles him, the presence of it and its chosen
words a surprise.
Hazel eyes flutter over.
“You can,” Jensen offers. “It’s okay if you do. I… I would hate me too.”
This is all uncharted territory. All of it. The situation. The possibility that
Jared might…
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Uhm…”
“Please. Don’t ask about that place.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t.”
“Yeah.”
“Not right now.”
“Sure.”
“Thank you.”
“Uh huh. You sleep okay?”
“I slept.”
A ridiculous amount of hours in Jensen’s life have been dedicated to making
Jared laugh. He’d push the air in and out of his lungs in careful, measured
breaths for the rest of his life if it meant just a single flash of dimples. No
matter what he said he’d do before this. Before any of this. Before stumbling
into this town hellbent on testing limits and boundaries.
What if this wasn’t the right thing to do?
“Jen?”
“Yeah?”
“I want to leave by noon.”
                                                                                                                                                                                                        
“That’s broad daylight, Jay.”
“Sooner the better.”
“Ilan said we could have a day. We can leave at night.”
Jaw set, Jared shakes his head no. “We can’t wait that long.” Before Jensen can
counter, Jared stands up, mug still in his hands. He avoids the window, though
his eyes glance towards it. “They’re gonna be looking and asking.” Hazel eyes
turn to Jensen. “Do you really want them to ask Ilan?”
The longer they stay, the more trouble they caused for Ilan.
“But walking out now would be like handing ourselves over,” Jensen presses. He
gets to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his ribs and the increasing pain in
his wrist. “Ilan said he could handle it.” The desperation in his voice almost
matches that which he sees in Jared’s eyes. “I know you want this to be over,
but I need some time to come up with another plan. I’m not walking us out there
without one.”
Underneath the smell of smoke, Jensen swears he can still pick up traces of
Dial soap and laundry detergent. He’s close enough to Jared where his heartbeat
responds as it always has.
Jared places his hands on Jensen’s chest.
Standing nose to nose, Jared closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Looking
at them, there’s not too much difference between now and a few weeks back, when
they were at the park. They’re still the same height. Jared’s hair still forms
subtle waves at the ends. Jensen’s still breathless in anticipation over what
will happen next. Will they kiss? Can he kiss Jared? What does Jared’s mouth
feel like, again? What’s the weight of the world in comparison to Jared’s hold?
Downstairs and outside there are all kinds of noise. The world continues on,
with only three people in it knowing about fire escape escapades and the small
bundle of material possessions near the cot.
“I have a plan,” Jared says, wrapping his arms around Jensen. “Trust me,
please.”
Jensen feels the slight swell of Jared’s middle press against his.
Ten minutes later, Jensen opens the window in the upstairs kitchen to the fire
escape. He climbs out and contemplates a career in either firefighting or
acrobatics. If he becomes an acrobat, he can wear sequins and glitter as a
uniform. But if he’s a firefighter, he’d look just as great in that uniform.
“You wanna join the circus?” He extends his hand.
Just a few seconds later, Jared takes it.
On the fire escape yet again.
“I did,” Jared says, with a quick nod to Jensen. “That was the day I met you.”
Shaking his head and beginning their descent, Jensen sighs. “Welp, let’s get
this show on the road then.”
 
Chapter End Notes
     hi! thank you so much for waiting. here's a new chapter. :D
     thank you!
***** Chapter 26 *****
Chapter Notes
     TAGS HAVE BEEN EDITED FOR THIS CHAPTER. make sure you read through
     the tags to see what's been added.
     cn: threats, self-harm, police.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Sophia Petrillo marched into Jensen’s world when he was eight years old.
Alan had decided that The Golden Girls was fairly wholesome and safe enough to
sit Jensen in front of while he argued with producers over the phone--a process
that was anything but wholesome. All the jokes about menopause and sex after
the age of fifty went right over Jensen’s head, but he understood what Sophia
meant whenever she said, “Picture it. Sicily. 1922.”
So.
Picture it.
An alleyway. 2016. An attractive teenage boy embarks, fearless and fierce, on a
glorious journey of freedom and ass-kicking. He sits atop a beautiful, iconic
piece of machinery only he can tame, long, chestnut hair blowing in the wind
before he puts his helmet on. The leather jacket this boy wears solidifies the
instant, piercing attraction. With a glance over his shoulder, he nods to his
passenger, signaling that he’s about to put the motorcycle in drive.
That boy is Jared.
And his passenger is Jensen.
Jensen is also pretty sure his wrist is still broken. But hey, why say anything
now?
They peeked out at the street before settling on the Scrambler. This is like
war. Sophia pops into Jensen’s head again as Jared starts up the Scrambler as
quietly as possible. Chess is like war, only cheaper. It’s the perfect game for
Sicily, a country that’s very war-like and dead-ass broke. Jensen sighs and
wraps his arms around Jared’s chest. What would Sophia do?
There are two cop cars at the end of the street, one parked facing the alleyway
and the other parked facing opposite. One cop car was seen heading west, in the
direction of Jared’s parent’s house and another was spotted heading north, in
the direction of Jensen’s house. A distraction would be great right about now,
but orchestrating one on the scale they’d need this last minute is impossible,
even for Jensen. And who knows how many cop cars there really are in town?
These four could be it, or they could just be the tip of an already large
iceberg. Side roads won’t really cut it, so they’re stuck with the main roads
in broad daylight and Jared doesn’t have his license yet, much less a license
for a motorcycle, of course that’s the least of their problems right now, but
it does bear mentioning.
“Hold on,” Jared shouts through the helmet and revs the engine.
“Hold on? I am holding…”
What would Sophia do?
Probably what Jared does now: gun it.
Like the first shot of Jared that Jensen’s eyes took in, they go down the
street strong--scorching the pavement, etching their mark on the main road to
war.
Unaccustomed to doing much more than directing traffic when geese cross the
road, the cops take a moment to understand what’s going on. Sirens and lights
explode like mediocre fireworks. Jared weaves in and out of whatever traffic
there is, angling the Scrambler, pushing her hard with every turn and twist.
The squad cars can’t move as fast through the streets, which buys them time,
but only precious seconds.
Jensen presses his cheek hard against Jared’s back. The Scrambler holds up
exceptionally well at the speed Jared pushes her to perform at, but it’s not
her speciality. She’s not a Ducati made for racing.
And the smallest miscalculation in speed or angle could, at this speed, kill
them. All three of them.
The intersection to turn for Jared’s house comes up. A cop thinks they’ll block
them off, but Jensen knows Jared has no issues about taking the Scrambler to
the sidewalk--if it comes to that. Jensen squeezes Jared’s right arm.
Jared hesitates. Jensen squeezes again. Listen. Just listen this once.
Making a hard right, Jared turns them around, zipping them between two cop
cars. Tires screech. The Scrambler roars. They fly past house after house until
finally, Jensen’s purpose for turning reveals itself: his house. And they were
right, another squad car was there, waiting for them. But the cops aren’t the
only people outside: Donna, Alan, and another adult with them stand out on the
lawn, speaking with one of the cops.
Too afraid to wave, Jensen hopes for the best.
Fortunately, his parents look up from their business with the cop and piece two
and two together.
Donna immediately breaks free and runs down the lawn, waving her arms. But
they’re not stopping. That wasn’t the point of swinging by. Jared raises his
arm and motions them to follow. They don’t get a chance to see if Donna or Alan
understand the signal. A squad car tries to cut them off on the right. Jared
veers left.
“PULL OVER,” the cop blasts through a megaphone. They squawk something else,
but Jensen doesn’t pay attention. What he does pay attention to is the fact
that his shoulder grazes a couple of mailboxes.
“Jared!” Jensen flinches. “A little close!”
Jensen holds onto Jared tighter as they launch over the curb and onto the
sidewalk. The Scrambler tilts, reeling from the jump and the impact, and Jared
bears his weight down as a counterbalance. Their time is up. Three squad cars
catch up with them. Jared zig zags, refusing to allow them past. Every second
brings them closer to their destination--and good thing too, because this kind
of velocity isn’t stable.
Finally, Jared’s parent’s house comes into view.
A new problem arises: how to stop long enough to get inside.
Head held high and shoulders back, Jared’s body language tells Jensen
everything he needs to know. This is the time to pray to the good gods of
gravity, balance, and properly working brakes. It’s an old maneuver, one Jared
executed just outside of the compound, but it’s all they’ve got. He looks over
his shoulder once, then again to make sure, and Jensen squeezes his eyes shut.
Calculations are made.
Jared hits the brakes.
They both jolt forward, their skeletons rattling in their skins, and the
Scramblers tires hiss against the asphalt. The sight and smell of burning
rubber nearly clouds out the flash of lights and sirens swinging right past
them. Without missing a beat, Jared leans to the left, pushes the Scrambler
forward with his leg, and they make a complete 180 turnaround on a dime.
This kid is crazy.
And so is Jensen, who hoots and laughs maniacally at the cops who are now at
the end of the road. Two of the squad cars collided like bumper cars--nothing
major, but they’re confused and blocking the third.
The Scrambler pulls up to the driveway on target and coasts to a gentle stop.
For one single moment, as Jensen detaches from Jared, they sit, completely out
of breath.
And now it’s time to run again.
Except now, they’re running towards the house and the slowly opening front
door. Jared’s father appears and blocks the door, shouting something as
unintelligible as the shouting through the megaphone. Gerald Padalecki is a
large man and cuts a formidable pose. But this isn’t the time for intimidation,
not when they’ve come this far. Like a battering ram, Jared shoves his father
by the shoulders. Pure shock knocks Gerald backwards, stumbling and slow.
Jensen slips past, directly behind Jared, and they step into the family room
where not too long ago upbeat music and even the slightest physical contact
were forbidden.
Nothing inside the house has changed.
All is as it ever was, as if the absence of their youngest son had made no
difference.
Life as they both know it has been turned upside down in the cruelest of ways
and here, inside this house, not a single item is out of place.
Outside, tires squeal on the driveway. Blue and red lights creep inside through
the family room bay window, extending their reach towards Jared and Jensen.
Jared takes a step away. Jensen stays where he is, closest to the kitchen,
which is closest to the back door. They’ll jump fences if they have to. They’ll
run through backyards and the whole goddamn town, as far as their legs will
carry, because there is no other option.
Before chaos rips in through the front door, Mrs. Padalecki takes center stage
in perfect form.
She could shriek. She could scream. She could summon the powers of her god and
repeat the Ten Commandments or something in a perfect blend of religious
fanaticism and jagged heartlessness.
But she doesn’t.
Jared doesn’t let her.
He stands straight, shoulders back, stance wide and a silver pocket knife
appears in his right hand. With the sleeve of Alan’s leather jacket pushed up,
the blade snaps at the air above his exposed left wrist. This was  not  part of
the plan. This isn’t Jared, the boy who nagged at Jensen about the cleanliness
of his room, or the boy who could eat more nachos than a human body should ever
be able to digest.
Incensed, deep in critical desperation, Jared shouts, “Call them off!”
Neither parent moves. They don’t flinch at all in reaction to Jared or to the
team of four officers blasting through the front door, batons raised.
Gripping the knife tighter, pressing the blade against his forearm, Jared
repeats himself.
“Call them off or I’ll do it.”
Mrs. Padalecki tilts her chin up in defiance. “You’re bluffing.”
Urgent rage strangles the heartbreak there. Jared drives the knife against his
forearm. A one inch gash stretches from east to west. Blood spills out, onto
the blade, onto the polished hardwood floor. Jared maintains the tip of the
blade against the river’s mouth.
Calm, his mother merely motions to the officers.
Did he have to cut so deep? What the fuck is he thinking? This is out of
control. They’ve cornered themselves, and for what reason? Jensen pledged to
trust Jared to carry out the plan, but specifics were never mentioned. This is
a gamble. All of it. It always has been. But Jared’s arm won’t stop bleeding
and he’s holding the knife so tight his knuckles have gone white. Where the
fuck did he get it? How…
“Jensen!”
“That’s our son!” Donna’s voice breaks through the two seconds of pause. “No! I
will not stand down, that. Is. My. Son!”
Donna and Alan muscle their way past the doorway and into the living room for a
front row view. Alan notices Jared’s arm and the knife against it first. He
holds Donna back by her shoulders. “Stop, stop, stop, stop,” he gasps, drawing
her close to him. “Jared. Put down the knife.”
“Dad,” Jensen snaps and shakes his head.
Alan takes the cue.
The floor belongs to Jared.
Blood forms a dark puddle at Jared’s feet, growing in circumference with every
passing second. It expands outwards, dangerous like the tension in the air, but
thicker, and a hundred times more valuable.
“You’re going to drop the charges.” Jared’s voice possesses the confidence
necessary to strike a deal with the devil. “All of them, even the ones against
Jensen. You’re going to make them disappear. You’re good at that.”
Of course, the devil doesn’t settle. She takes a long look at the pool of blood
on her floor. “Over a scratch?”
On the left, Donna and Alan shuffle, this time Alan wanting to step in and
Donna forcing him to hold his ground. Everyone has to trust Jared.
Jared replies with action first. He opens his arms and stands with the jacket
open, the curve of his stomach on display. That’s why he changed into Jensen’s
shirt at the last minute instead of a baggier one Ilan loaned them. The swell
is unmistakable. This is no random weight gain, no growth spurt, no assemblage
of loose clothing.
“You’ll drop everything and forget about me. Get it?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t have to.” The knife retreats. “I know what you want. And I know what
you tried to do. But no one wants a public scandal. Not when Megan’s running a
campaign for public office.”
Jared’s older sister is running for some board for the city and only drops by
to rant to her family about how perfect they all need to be for her to have a
chance against the incumbent. Any failure on their part to preserve that image
will, she assures them, be the untimely death of her bright political career.
Jared pulls a letter out from the right sleeve. “These are papers emancipating
me, effective immediately.” He tosses the letter at the devil’s feet. “Sign
them. Now.”
Mr. Padalecki finds his voice long enough to spit out, “You think it’s that
simple? What are you? Stupid? Stupid enough to…”
“Gerald.” Mrs. Padalecki puts one hand up and his voice dies.
Taking her time, she picks up the letter and begins to read its contents. The
pages appear more dog-eared than surviving the journey from the past two days.
As she reads the print before her, officers and the adult seen on the Ackles’
lawn from before argue. It’s an odd moment, but Jensen realizes that she’s
Donna and Alan’s lawyer.
Jensen hurts. All over. But he can’t imagine the hurt Jared feels. And all the
hurt he’s going to carry away from this. How he can stand there, borrowed
sneakers stained with blood, with total conviction--that was part of the plan
all along.
But in these odd moments--odd to say the least--Jared gets free.
The devil and her consort sign, initial, and print.
Two birds, one stone. Jared is no longer their problem. And they are no longer
his.
And the second those papers touch Jared’s hands, large hands grab Jensen. Two
cops ambush him from behind and slam him hard enough against the floor that his
vision blurs.
Of all things, Jensen finds himself surprised by how fast they cuff him.

Chapter End Notes
     hi! thank you all for being so patient and hanging in there for an
     update. here we are! comments are love! this is a critical chapter. i
     totally made myself anxious while writing this one!
     thank you! <3
***** Chapter 27 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It takes three policemen to haul Jensen from the living room to the back of a
squad car.
They shove him in like an animal.
Jared watches. He sees every blow to Jensen’s ribs. Every shove. Every twist of
his hair from the hands of adults swarming over him with their unfair
advantages. He watches the law go above and beyond the call of duty by
producing blood to spill from Jensen’s nose. They rough him up in a matter of
seconds. Sixty seemingly miniscule seconds. Popcorn doesn’t micowave that fast.
But these are men of the law.
And it’s clear to anyone that they’ve been paid.
Different adults portray different reactions. Donna bolts for the cops with
their hands on her son. Alan charges at the one cop standing to the side,
calling Jensen in. The lawyer joins Donna, though her offense remains verbal
instead of physical. Jared reflects his own parents for a moment--standing
still, to the side, watching.
Jared tugs on the sleeve of the leather coat.
He smashes his fist through the front of his mother’s prized, early 19th
century china hutch.
In another motion, he grips the sides of it, gray, weathered wood smooth under
his fingers. The muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms work together. Wide
stance. Twist of his torso. Shove of his hands.
The china hutch explodes in fragments of wood, glass, and porcelain.
Family heirlooms: priceless plates brought over on the Mayflower, expensive
porcelain handed down four generations, hand blown glass figurines in the shape
of angels said to look down over their household.
Psalm 18:7-15.
The earth trembled and quaked, and the foundations of the mountains shook; they
trembled because he was angry.
Two seconds and the Triumph revs up, ready, willing, and imposing. Shards of
glass detach from leather sleeves and litter the concrete driveway behind him.
Rubber burns.
 Smoke rose from his nostrils; consuming fire came from his mouth, burning
coals blazed out of it.
Solitary.
Alone.
Alone alone alone alone alone alone. These primary organs of respiration.
Nothing but a mass of hollowed out tubes surrounded by sponge. Air should flow
through the pharynx, down the larynx, and into the trachea. Exhaust. Bodywork.
Brakes. Controls. Chains. Bronchi. Bronchioles. Quality components on a limited
warranty.
He parted the heavens and came down; dark clouds were under his feet. He
mounted the cherubim and flew; he soared on the wings of the wind.
Solitary.
Long-term confinement. A necessary quarantine of his mind from the others. Keep
him away. He was dangerous. Not because he could escape. But his ideas were
fire. He didn’t know how the others could accept their fates. It was beyond his
scope of understanding why no one tried. Why not a single one of the others
like him wouldn’t at least rally together someway, somehow. There was no
message system. No language of signals. No after hours solidarity. No faith.
Not a single attempt to push the ideas that maybe they weren’t wrong. Maybe
they weren’t the ones who should be punished.
They just sat there. Day after day. And listened to very carefully spoken words
and very carefully selected passages completely out of context. No one
questioned. No one spat out the gruel, the murky water, the chalky vitamins, or
the venomous phrases to repent.
Solitary.
A 9x9 windowless room.
He was force fed with a plastic tube jammed down his throat, held down, the
process done at all hours day or night. If he threw up it, they renewed their
efforts, successfully, and allowed him to stew in his vomit for hours before
they would clean it up. If he didn’t throw it up, he lost sensation in his
legs, and the world became a frosted blur. His toilet was his bed was his place
to curl up was his hole in the ground six feet under nothing but nothing but
nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing but nothing
but walls walls walls walls walls walls walls walls walls nothing but nothing
but nothing but walls walls walls…
He made darkness his covering, his canopy around him--the dark rain clouds of
the sky.
Body equipment. Electrical system. Transmission. Suspension. Cooling.
Respiratory tract. The alveoli where oxygen enters and carbon dioxide leaves
the blood. 2-into-1, two exhaust pipes mated into one pipe. Maybe a 2-Stroke,
an engine in which the piston assembly runs two strokes per cycle. Backbone
could be bone, tendon, muscle, and tissue or the top tube of a motorcycle
frame.
Food through a slot.
Eighty-one square feet.
Smaller than a horse stable.
Periods of time were lost to him. Something in the water? Something in the
food? Something underneath his fingernails? Hopeless. Hopeless. Hopeless. Grief
in its most profound form kept inside walls walls walls walls.
The hole, the pit, the room, the end. All those words. And barely any breath
left.
He could have opened up in a spray of things, could have broken his own heart
and more, laid down his burden and finished. Done.
It hurt to be there.
All he had, all he needed. Jensen was the air he would kill to breathe.
All he had, all he needed, he is the air he would kill to breathe. So he
waited, out of breath, hoping to someday breathe again.
Out of the brightness of his presence clouds advanced, with hailstones and
bolts of lightning. The Lord thundered from heaven; the voice of the Most High
resounded. He shot his arrows and scattered the enemy, with great bolts of
lightning he routed them. The valleys of the sea were exposed and the
foundations of earth laid bare.
The Triumph keeps up with sirens. She ensures a direct route to the station. No
where else will they stop, no where else will they retell pieces of time
mysteriously hidden away.
At the station steps, Jared shouts, lightning bolt in hand. He holds his phone
up, camera pointed towards blood and bruises, the scene recorded in full view.
All he has, all he needs. Out of breath. An awesome pressure in his lungs.
At your rebuke, Lord. At the blast of breath from your nostrils .
Malevolent hands lift from Jensen’s body.
Chapter End Notes
     thanks for your patience! life has been chaotic here, but i've
     settled into my new job (yay!) and have a little more stability. :)
     for this chapter, i've used psalm 18: 7-15 as recommended to me by a
     friend, plus "Breathe Again" by Sara Bareilles. it's a beautiful song
     and y'all should listen to it.
     comments are always appreciated, they keep me motivated to write more
     and update! <3
***** Chapter 28 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jensen had his first taste of drag when he was six years old and got into
Donna's trunk of rejected costumes.
He paraded around in heels and spandex dresses for a week, despite Donna and
Alan harping him about potentially breaking his ankles from wobbling on four
inch heels. Drag suited him. It was fun and daring and relaxing. When he bribed
makeup artists on different sets, he usually asked for one or two makeovers: to
either become a drag queen for a day or for them to make him look like a
hardened man of the world. The lipstick and gold hoop earrings and drawn on
eyebrows were always more interesting and appealing than the fake bags under
his eyes or scars under his lip.
If he felt especially secure in drag, he'd lock himself in his room and perform
for audiences of hundreds of wealthy people who had to book months in advance
to get a seat. Front row would be politicians who wanted discretion, but always
got hammered and let a few taxpayer dollars slide from their clammy hands to
Jensen's garter. Way in back would be the folks who didn't have the connections
for better seats, but were curious enough to pay through the nose anyway. He'd
make some time to glide their way at some point in the show, because he's just
that god damn generous.
And his drag name?
Pudgy Midway.
It was a homage, a shout out, a love for the fact that despite two weeks of
doing ten sit ups every day, he would never possess a six pack in any other
form than in aluminum cans.
Miss Pudge. Miss Midway. Land on her, she's more than capable of taking it
hard.
He had Jared apply makeup to him once. Right when they started hanging out. It
was a test, meant to see if Jared would accept realities outside of rural small
town America.
Jared just grumbled that it wasn't fair for people like Jensen to have such
clear skin. He chose a deep red shade of lipstick and suggested that Jensen
stop using fake eyelashes. He didn't need them.
The first look Jensen gets of himself behind bars comes from the courtesy of a
shiny toilet.
They tossed him in the bullpen.
And not that there are many hardened criminals in the bullpen, but Jensen takes
advantage of his nausea and throws up into the silver toilet. No one wants to
mess with the guy vomiting and dry heaving. He intends to keep it that way. The
three guys around him back away, muttering something about how much more
unpleasant their stay has been made because of Jensen's vomit.
Blood and the contents of his stomach look back at him before he flushes.
Great. Just great.
And to greet him after is the warped reflection of his face. He could be a drag
queen right now. Two black eyes look a lot like someone shot him with a makeup
gun. The red marks from a few punches to his face could be blush. And the blood
on his lip accents his swollen lips in a way no lip plumper could ever hope to.
Maybe he's born with it. Maybe it's Maybelline.
Fuck.
He clings to the toilet seat, aware of its unsanitary conditions before he
threw up in it. A headache gnaws at his entire head, fixated over his eyes,
making it difficult to see. But that might also be his eyes puffing up. Tough
to tell. That wrist he thought was fractured or broken before? Hah. The rib he
thought was just a little sore? Don't make him laugh.
Seriously. Don't.
Breathing doesn't just hurt. It's agony.
When cops really want to rough you up, they find ways to do it in a very short
amount of time. He's going to write a very strongly worded letter to someone
about their efficient use of nightsticks in the backseat of a squad car. It was
almost an art for them to drive and find ways to beat him.
Jensen doesn't remember much of how he got from the squad car to the station,
but he does know that something made them stop shoving and beating him up the
steps.
Maybe it was Socks.
This seems like a situation Socks could handle.
Maybe this is the universe punishing him for all the times he whined about
cleaning up Socks’ messes indoors. If Jensen peed himself right now, he'd be
none the wiser.
“Minor! Unnecessary! Force!” A voice shouts from a distance, and Jensen catches
every other word. He's pretty sure it's none of the other guys in the pen, but
he'd also like to tell whoever it is to please quiet down. He's trying to not
swallow his tongue here.
If he can just focus on anything but reality. Sequins. Wigs. He could never
wear red wigs. They washed him out. Eyebrow shapes. Never do too high of an
arch, then it just screams Bozo. The correct application of nail polish. Only
animals leave it at one coat. Or maybe Ilan’s on a cold day. When he’d give
them the seat by the window and bring over big mugs of cafe con leche. Jared
would take a sip and Jensen would kiss off the foam mustache left behind. Ilan
made cafe con leche the old fashioned way: on a slow, low heat over the stove,
in a saucepan, stirring the milk and gradually adding in sugar and coffee.
That one time Jensen commanded Jared to cake on as much foundation onto his
face so his freckles would disappear. It took layers.
Freckles are for five year olds.
Not grown ass men out in the world.
“You’ll. Hearing. Me.”
Nausea taps at Jensen’s stomach, but he doesn’t have the energy to respond. If
his body really wants to throw up more, it’ll have to do it on its own. He sure
as hell isn’t going to help it along. Sleeping for the next three hundred years
seems like a good idea.
“Stay. Awake.”
That sounds like two different commands to Jensen. Is he staying? Is he awake?
Wait. What?
“Keep. Open.”
Okay, now someone’s just getting fresh with him. Not the best time.
“Move. You.”
Move? But why? He’s in his bed. With Jared beside him, probably hogging all the
covers. That jerk. Jared is such a jerk. The biggest jerk. And probably the
only actual friend Jensen has ever had. And probably the one person Jensen can
maybe see spending the rest of…
“Uhhhnnn,” someone croaks, like their mouth is full of blood and rocks. Jeez.
It sounds like Frankenstein’s monster or some shit. It is definitely not a
sound Miss Pudgy Midway would make. How undignified. It’s downright
frightening. “Guhhh…” There it is again.
“Jensen. Stay awake.”
He  is  awake, god dammit.
“I’m Preston, your lawyer. We’re getting you out of here, but I need you to
stay awake.”
Oh, okay, sure. Sure, lawyer lady. Not a problem. Why doesn’t he just recite
her the Magna Carta while they’re at it? But if she could see her way to making
whatever poor soul is making those noises, he’d recite any volume of boring
political works on his head. It’s depressing.
“Shh.”
Is she shushing him?
What’s he paying her for?
Oh, shit.
Those noises are coming out of  him .
Can he be embarrassed for those noises in the bullpen? Does he not have bigger
fish to fry or is it okay to fixate on being mortified for the moment?
Lawyer Lady Preston gets Jensen moving, but he can’t entirely physically feel
her presence. Someone else has got to be helping her, because he’s sure as fuck
not doing his part to move any of his limbs. Jensen thinks that maybe, just
maybe, his mouth is moving, but he can’t be sure of that either. And even if
his mouth is moving, whatever comes out of it, aside from his ghastly noises,
is probably not remotely comprehensible. Is that the correct word to use there,
comprehensible?
Jensen thought he had a face for drag, but the second he put a touch of blush
on Jared’s cheekbones, the world stopped. It stopped. Totally. Stopped.
Holy fuck, does moving hurt. Light hurts. Air hurts. Lawyer Lady Preston’s
voice hurts. What’s another good word for hurts? Aches? That’s not strong
enough. Why does he care? He dropped out of high school. He’s never gonna need
a thesaurus again.
The back of a car. Hands on him. Lawyer Lady Preston’s voice floats closer to
Jensen than any of the others around him. If they’d just let him close his eyes
for two seconds, he could muster up the strength to reply and tell everyone to
please leave him the fuck alone while he curls up and cries like a baby for the
next million years.
He’s just a teenager.
It hurts to know that.
“Hospital,” Lawyer Lady Preston declares. “Keep him awake.”
Well, fuck that shit.
Chapter End Notes
     i enjoy this version of jensen's character. it's so fun to write. so
     snarky. so... sad in this chapter. my precious cinnamon roll.
     an update! yay! please leave comments, they are love. <3
***** Chapter 29 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Jensen wakes up in the hospital with very little idea of who he is, why he's
there, and what exactly the machines he's hooked up to do. He also has no sense
of direction in his life, but he figures that he started with that long before
being placed here on a tiny, uncomfortable hospital bed.
Facts and events visit him, but they take their sweet time. Oh yeah, he can't
drive a motorcycle for shit. Proof of that lies all over his body, mostly in
the form of scars and road burn. And remember that time he picked a fight with
strangers inside a bar? Or when he got brutally beaten by cops? Yep. Clearly,
he lives the average American teenage life.
And then.
Remember Jared?
“Jay.” Jensen blurts this out and instantly figures out why he's not currently
singing an opera. Being in the hospital means his throat has gone to shit.
Briefly, Jensen wishes his throat was sore from giving Jared the epic blow jobs
he deserves. Or from singing operatic masterpieces. But definitely giving blow
jobs to Jared first.
One second nothing hurts and the next second everything hurts. Hooray.
Blinking his eyes all the way open, Jensen observes his surroundings. He
expects a crowd of people hovering over him like a soap opera. But he's not the
long lost twin of an oil tycoon with billions to his name and the family
business on the line. At least he's got a private room. That's one positive.
And, as he gives a quick check with his hand that's free of needles, he doesn't
have a catheter in. Win.
Though how exactly anyone thinks he can get up to pee is beyond him.
Darkness surrounds him in the tiny single room. The shades are drawn, so those
are either really good shades or it's also nighttime. He reads a name off the
whiteboard on the wall opposite of his bed. Kerry. That's his nurse. Maybe she
has some idea about what's going on. And maybe she can fluff his pillow and
give him a shot of tequila. Anything to make the pain in his ribs go away. Or
at least make him not care about it.
Kerry. Kerry. Kerry. Kerry. Shit, maybe he's on something already.
Jensen locates the red call button and awaits the arrival of glorious pain
medication.
Should he primp? Make sure his hair looks nice? Make sure his ass isn't somehow
showing? He's never been hospitalized before. And he kind of figured his
parents would be here when he woke up. It seems like a parent thing to do. But
what does he know.
It's not like he's going to soon find out what it means to be a parent.
That should be sarcastic, but a deep seated fear raises its hand and wonders:
just because Jensen's the biological father doesn't mean Jared wants him to be
the second parent. Or involved at all. Jensen did right by Jared and busted him
out of that hell hole. Maybe that's all Jared wants now: to be rid of the
person who fucked up the trajectory of his life in more ways than one. Maybe
Jared doesn't want dead weight poseurs around who can't drive motorcycles or
handle responsibility. Jared could be a bad ass single parent. He's tough as
nails. So what would be the purpose of keeping Jensen around? Jared already
cast off the shackles of his parents and family. He is more than capable of
shaking Jensen off next.
The door opens. Jensen sighs and glances over. A petite woman, in Snoopy
scrubs, walks in and heads straight for the mess of machines at Jensen’s
bedside.
“Good to see you awake,” she offers, her voice neither friendly nor unfriendly.
“I'm Nadia, your nurse for now.”
“What happened to Kerry?”
“Huh?” Nadia looks over her shoulder at the board and grabs a clipboard from
the end of Jensen’s bed. “Oh. That's day staff. I'm overnight. Can you tell me
what day and time it is?”
God help him. Help him not be a smart ass to the person in charge of catheters.
“Uh, nope.” Good. That's a start. “It's not three thousand years into the
future, is it?” Dammit.
Fortunately, Nadia smiles, writing vitals. “No, not today. How do you feel?”
“Sore.”
“Dizzy? Any nausea?”
“If I move, yeah.”
“Pain on a scale of one to ten, ten being the highest.”
“Do people ever answer zero?”
“If it was zero, you wouldn't be here.”
“Okay. Uh. Eight.”
“You thirsty?”
“Yep.”
“Alright. I'll get you some juice. I'll see if we can give you a sandwich.
You're not scheduled for more pain killers for another half hour. But I can
give you something for nausea right now.”
“Sure.”
Simple. Nadia injects something into the IV line and does exactly what she said
she'd do. When she comes back with a sandwich, she spears it with a fork. Oh.
Right. His wrist. Jensen manages to take a bite and ask for his parents.
“Your parents are with your lawyer and the police. You were admitted eight
hours ago. They were here for a while.”
“Oh.”
“I'll give them a call that you woke up. Anything else?”
Ask about Jared. Do it. The worst she can do is tell him that Jared just
stepped out or he's sleeping somewhere more comfortable for the night or he
just left Jensen forever.
“No. I'm good. Thanks.”
Jensen finishes half of his cold turkey sandwich and conks out before Nadia
comes back to give him more pain killers.
This sucks.
 
A doctor stops by. He spouts some concern about a concussion. Mentions
observation. Goes into detail about Jensen's broken wrist, fractured ribs, and
bruising. They checked for internal bleeding and found none, but his heartbeat
was elevated for a few hours so they're watching it.
That's it.
No, “hang in there,” or, “feel better,” or, “we're gonna get you out of here
soon.”
At least Nadia swings around and helps him walk to the bathroom. She holds his
dick as if she were doing nothing more than opening a jar of pickles or
shredding paper. Jensen coughs on the way back, winded by the three steps from
the urinal to the bed, and figures out that coughing really, really hurts. He
doubles over, sitting on the edge of the bed, and grips onto Nadia’s hand
harder than he'd care to know. Tears shove their way down his red, scrunched
face. Exhaustion demolishes any energy he thought he had. The sticky medical
tape on his hands irritates his skin. He can't calm down or slow his breathing
like Nadia commands. He's in a fucking hospital. Alone. He could be going to
jail. Sixteen is old enough to be tried as an adult. His parents are paying who
knows how much for this lawyer. And Jared.
What sucks is that Jensen can't even think about Jared first.
How fucking selfish.
Another nurse swoops in and helps Nadia get Jensen back onto the bed, lying
down, his feet elevated above his heart. Nadia fans Jensen with her clipboard.
The other nurse injects something into his IV line.
A minute later, Jensen’s eyes threaten to close. God dammit. He wish they would
at least warn him about the drugs.
Nadia turns to the new nurse and grumbles.
“Fucking cops.”
 
Jensen dreams about Sophia Petrillo. And pancakes. And Socks. And chess. And
school.
Ugh. School.
Soon enough, his dreams turn into nightmares. Mrs. Padalecki’s face gets up in
his, screaming, her teeth gnashing, spit flying everywhere. She screeches on
and on about fire and hell and damnation and dead babies floating in purgatory.
It's his fault. All his fault. The baby is dead. Jared is dead. But Jensen
isn't. He's still alive and able to look at the choices he made, the damage he
caused, and the lives he destroyed.
Jensen wakes up panting.
He sits up in his hospital bed, presses the call button, and vomits. Up goes
the sandwich. The juice. The water. Until he's dry heaving, moaning and
screaming in pain, which only makes things worse but his brain doesn't register
the command to calm the fuck down.
Nadia rushes in and presses a second button on the bed. His dark room
transforms into a display of lights. His eyes burn from the harsh adjustment
and the tears clouding his vision. Two nurses hold him down, which does little
to help his anxiety. Pinned down. Kept here. No way out. So he fights them. And
struggles. And feels his heart clench, expand, and jolt.
It all happens like those ridiculous drama shows Jared liked to watch whenever
they stayed home from school. Lots of voices shout. Machines blare. Jensen
hopes everyone has washed their hands.
Maybe it doesn't happen the way Jensen feels it, but just like that, it's over.
Wow.
If he could, he would say, “Good job, team.”
People clear out. Nadia stays.
“Allergic reaction to the anxiety med we gave you. Your heart has been through
a lot.” Her tone has lost some of its neutrality. But it could be that it's
later in her shift and she's tired. “Cardiology tomorrow,” she says, rubbing
her forearm. “So don't make any other plans.”
Jensen smiles because it hurts to laugh. He couldn't if he wanted to anyway.
Oxygen mask.
Nadia pulls up a chair to the side of his bed. Her hair, now pulled back in a
bun, seems somehow darker under the bright fluorescent lights. Like a totally
different shade than before.
“I have half an hour left on shift.”
That's all she says before she places her hand over Jensen’s.
Chapter End Notes
     i remember, way back when, when my beta T said she would buy me lunch
     for every update I did to this fic.
     hmmmmmmmm. XD
     here we are, a year later, and this fic is somehow still going. these
     boys. sigh. comments though, are love!
***** Chapter 30 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Of all things to float through Jensen’s mind in the cardiology ward, Bible
verses decide to stick. He tries to shoo them off with Marilyn Manson songs,
thoughts of streaking through a packed church on a Sunday morning, or by paying
attention to the throbs of pain in his chest. Nothing works.
The cardiologist talks to the nurse in the room about her recent vacation to
Rome.
Jensen attempts to focus on her stories of being pickpocketed outside of the
colosseum or how pasta in Italy is more like a religious experience or how her
boyfriend refused to let her buy more than a few handbags. There are so many
sarcastic remarks Jensen could--and normally would--make, it adds to the ache
in his chest. That also might be the constant struggle to breathe.
Everyone in the hospital seems to have stopped by just to tell Jensen to keep
breathing. The person who brought him a liquid diet breakfast told him to
breathe. The nurse who took over for Nadia told him to breathe. The doctor on
call this morning told him to breathe. The staff from housekeeping who took
away his soiled sheets and gave him an extra pillow told him to breathe. The
bird that landed outside on his window ledge told him to stop being a weak ass
motherfucker and breathe.
If he doesn’t breathe, he gets a ticket to pneumonia. No tradesies.  
Pain and Bible verses scramble up the natural rhythm of his breathing. Muscles
he didn’t even know he used to breathe complain in creative methods, including
ramping up his nausea.
All he has to do is lie here and let the cardiologist and her helpers test the
old ticker.
Mightier than the waves of the sea is His love for you . Not helping.  For I
know the plans I have for you.  Please.  I will never leave you or forsake you.
Can’t they hurry this shit up?  Be strong. Be brave. Be fearless. You are never
alone . Of course he’s not alone. There are two people in the room with him,
with free access to his entire body, who don’t particularly care or need to
know why he’s here. They just need to do their tests, sign off on his chart,
and send him back to his room where he’ll be someone else’s problem. And from
there, in his small private room, he’ll struggle to breathe even more, because
it’s just so goddamn difficult to draw in a complete breath and let it go
without feeling like his chest is collapsing. And that bird will probably be
back to mock him.
“Breathe.” A new voice issues the command. Jensen blinks awake, confused about
his surroundings yet again.
He must have fallen asleep serving his time in cardiology.
“Were you having a nightmare?”
“Nah,” Jensen grumbles, checking to make sure to his cock isn’t hanging out of
his gown. “Not… like… I’ve been through… anything traumatic… lately.”
Lawyer lady Preston sits next to his bedside, in the same chair Nadia occupied,
not at all for the same reason.
She looks refreshed, like the past few days are what she lives for. Or maybe
she’s just very carefully put together. Jensen notices her pressed suit and
styled hair. Maybe they teach lawyers how to transform from dead tired to
runway ready in zero to sixty. Maybe there’s a phone booth nearby she just
stepped into for a moment.
“That’s good,” Preston murmurs and checks her phone. “Keep that sense of humor
up. You’re gonna need it.”
“Will do. Thanks.”
Sitting straight, shoulders back, Preston looks directly at Jensen. Her voice
sounds well-practiced in the art of speaking to dumb ass people. “I don’t think
I need to tell you that you are lucky to be alive--with minimal damage done to
your body.”
“This… is minimal?”
Her dark suit stands out against all the beige and white of his room. “All of
your injuries will heal with time and physical therapy. That’s more than most
people get to walk away with after the police fuck them up.”
Oh.
Two minutes of silence allows the fact to sink in.
“Now we’re on the same page,” Preston states. “I got your permanent records
last night. You’re a smart kid. Good to know it translates from paper to
person.”
Jensen shrugs. He stares at the IV in his hand. “Sure.” He won’t argue her
points. She’s right and he knows it. Part of his privilege is the hospital bed
he has a chance to occupy, instead of a table in a morgue. Plus, his parents
have the means and connections to pay for Preston’s time, advice, and consult.
She gets to represent a living person, not sue in the memory of.
The thoughts in Jensen’s mind quiet down. He listens to Preston for the next
twenty minutes. She outlines the major players in his case and the direction
she’s going with it. It isn’t enough to sue the officers who arrested him;
she’s going to sue the municipality and the Padaleckis. Preston graduated top
of her class, after saving every dollar and getting every scholarship. She was
told a black woman had no place in the system. Now she makes the system pay up
and pay attention.
This could be a media circus; this case has all the makings of one. Police
brutality? In a small town? Against a white, underage, gay minor? And his
boyfriend’s religious parents bribed the cops who took the money and carried it
out? This could be big.
But it won’t be.
Those are not the kinds of cases Preston works. Media coverage won’t help; the
threat of it will. She walks Jensen through the basics of his case, which is
legally more his parents’ case. The police department has already tried waving
the fire at the convent in her face. But all they could cough up was a bunch of
circumstantial evidence and bullshit. This morning, when Preston filed the
official suit, a bargain appeared at the last minute: they would drop the
felony charges if she dropped the suit.
“They’ll fold under pressure.” Preston folds her hands over her lap. “Anything
to get it from getting in front of a jury. It won’t be overnight, but they’ll
settle out of court, probably offer you a few thousand and expect you to stay
quiet. But I’m here to tell you not to accept the first offer in exchange for
the threat to your life and the violation of your civil rights.”
Breathe, Jensen tells himself.
Details pile on top of details. Maybe it’s the concussion, or his fractured
ribs, or the faint, phantom feeling of police batons slamming down onto his
body, but exhaustion overtakes him once again. Preston presses the call button
for him and a nurse steps into the room not a minute later to check on Jensen.
Preston stands at Jensen’s bedside, holding her briefcase.
“Focus on getting better. That’s your job now.”
She leaves her business card on his meal tray. The nurse brings him a cup of
cherry jello, feeds it to him, and he doesn’t utter a single complaint about it
or the help he requires to get up and go to the bathroom. He manages to drink
from a straw and not cough for an eternity. Then he falls asleep, his mind
unusually silent.
 
Nadia forces his ass out of bed seconds within beginning her shift.
“Walking will help you breathe,” she claims. “Unless you want to get pneumonia
and stay here longer. The food here is good, but it’s not  that  good.”
Jensen snaps back that he wouldn’t know anything about the actual food served
at the hospital; no one has given him solids since throwing up right after
Preston left. At least he held onto his barf until then. Someone gave him more
of that anti-nausea stuff, which he tasted in his mouth even though it was
injected into his IV. Of course, that stuff made him drowsy, so he ended up
sleeping the entire afternoon and evening.
Moving requires time and effort. He tries to get to his feet without Nadia’s
help and fails, spectacularly.
“What if,” Nadia questions, “you accepted my help the first time and saved us
all the trouble?”
“Earn… your… paycheck,” Jensen coughs. He braces himself over Nadia’s forearm
with his right hand, cast firm against her, and his IV pole with the other.
After two more attempts, Jensen’s ass gradually rises from the edge of the bed.
Never before has he felt such joy in relation to getting out of bed.
By the time his slippered feet shuffle over to the doorway, Nadia’s watch
announces the strike of midnight.
Technically, his walk takes place in the morning. Step by step, he fights for
every inhale and exhale. Pressure rolls around in his chest. The oxygen line
shoved against his nose makes for a fashionable yet irritating accessory. The
squeaks from the IV pole echo through the empty hallway outside of his room.
Nadia proposes a quick walk around the nurse’s station; Jensen wonders what
quick looks like in her mind. Halfway around the route, Jensen swears a plastic
fork lodges itself into his torso. Nadia assures him that no one is missing any
cutlery. He’s fine.
But that’s just it.
He’s not  fine .
He leans heavily on Nadia and the IV pole, panting, struggling to to maintain
control over his breathing. Busted ribs doesn’t sound like such a huge deal.
What if he contracts an infection because of his lack of breathing? What if he
stops breathing tonight? Or any time he closes his eyes? What if he has
internal bleeding and one of the doctors missed the signs for it? What if he
spends another day alone in his room, and over time, the people who should
visit move on with their lives? What if, by then, Jensen is still in his
hospital room, still a kid pretending to be an adult, and even the staff want
nothing to do with him? What if they stop responding to his calls for help?
What if he never sees Jared again?
Nadia pats his shoulder. “Take it easy. Take a break.”
If only Jensen hadn’t built everything up, only to tear it all down.
“Wait here.” Nadia steadies Jensen on his feet. “I’ll be right back.”
Within a minute, Nadia returns from the other end of the beige hallway. She
stands there and motions Jensen forward, as if to meet her. He shakes his head,
but she holds her hand up. With her other hand, she motions down the next,
dimly lit hallway--come forward.
Jared rounds the corner, leaning on his own IV pole.
It seems to take an eternity for their feet to move towards each other. It must
be as long as Tammy Wynette can hold a note. Somewhere in the middle of the
hall, Jared lets go of his IV pole and holds onto Jensen. Their bodies shake
against each other. Technically, it’s morning, so the verse that slips into
Jensen’s head doesn’t irritate him as much.
Arms wrapped around Jared, he thinks, “Let the morning bring me word of your
unfailing love.”
Chapter End Notes
     /cries/
     comments are love! i'm really worried about how this chapter came
     out. please let me know your thoughts. <3
***** Chapter 31 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
“I have always wanted to leave.
When I was a kid, I was restless. I read everything. I hid all of my books. All
of my dreams were about anywhere but here. Anything but this life.
The people around me always said how proud of me they were. I got the best
grades. Smiled when I had to. I knew. I couldn't stay.
I wanted to climb.
I had to work a lot harder so I could get a lot farther.
It wasn’t always bad. Maybe that made it worse. I thought they loved me. Then I
thought, maybe  I  was wrong. Maybe it was me. Maybe I couldn't be anyone but
just like them. Maybe I was fighting the wrong fight. Maybe my world would
always be the same.
I fought for myself.
And against myself.
Everyone told me how I was going to grow up to be something great. I smiled.
Stood up straight. Said hi to the neighbors. Everything was fine. I prayed.
Lived when I could. Came up for air where I could get it.
How could I tell my parents? How could I ask them to understand? When could I
be honest?
I kept praying.
I knew I was letting them down.
But what do you do when you know. You just know you're better than this. You
don't believe in the core of what they taught you. You don't want it. Every day
feels more and more like the end. How do you find peace when the world is
ending? When you have so much energy and no outlet other than grades and using
clueless older men who passed through this place?
I knew. I had to take a stand.
My eyes were on the horizon. I couldn't leave all at once. I knew better.
I'm smart.
The only chance I had was to rise up.
I read everything. Anything I could get my hands on. Told the teachers I
trusted. Asked all my questions. Considered every possibility. Researched. Dug
deeper. Clawed my way through the library. The bookstore. The internet. I saved
every dollar. I woke up, got up, showed up day after day. It was  me . All
alone. Abandoning was not an option. I couldn’t afford a single slip. I was
gonna get out. I was gonna be the first. I wasn't gonna be outsmarted.
The world was gonna know my name.
I walked through every day dreaming. Focus. What more could I do? Write. Rally
my thoughts together. Organize. Never let my guard down. Never let anyone too
close. Too near. Any hope of success I had, I held onto. If I could just make
it through. If I could use what I was granted, what I was given to work with. I
couldn't afford one slip. Every word. Every facial expression. Every lie. I
planned it all.
…
I just never planned… you.
Or her.
…
I had a blood transfusion. They put me on suicide watch. Your parents came to
see me. They said they saw you too, but you were out cold. Your mom. She held
my hand during the ultrasound t-they did yesterday.
You know.
I have faith.
But--it's different now. It was always there, now it's free. I can feel it. I
can say it.
I have faith in you, Jensen.”
Chapter End Notes
     short, but to the point.
     heavily inspired by Hamilton's "Right Hand Man" and In the Heights'
     "Breathe." both wonderful plays and songs that have kept me afloat
     this week. i have been struggling. i want to fight. i want to push
     back. this country let me down. while i gather my resources, gather
     my strength, i'll keep writing. i hope you are all staying safe. i
     encourage you to reach out, speak out, donate, protest, rise up.
     change is possible.
     anyway. thank you for reading. comments are love. <3
***** Chapter 32 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Donna makes a big deal out of Jensen the first time she sees him awake in his
room in the morning.  
She hugs him so tight his IV threatens to pop out of his hand. Not that she
cares. She keeps hugging. Squeezing. Compressing.
Despite her attempt at playing it cool right after her imitation of a boa
constrictor, Jensen can tell that the past few days have been a strain on her.
He tries to apologize for the inconvenience--financial, emotional, physical--
and she refuses to listen. Her only reply is something along the lines of,
“It's about damn time I get ‘inconvenienced’ by my son. I haven't… I know we
haven't always been there.”
This doesn't mean she wants him committing felonies every other week. But, in
this case, she can let this one slide.
Alan visits an hour later, fresh from visiting Jared in his room. Donna hugs
Jensen again and leaves, Jared's room her next destination. They've been trying
their best to swap out and spend time with both of them, whenever the staff
would allow and in between bouts of consciousness. Jensen’s concussion and
allergic reaction have knocked him out and no one was about to disturb his
rest.
It is nice to see his parents while he's conscious.
A daytime nurse comes in and offers to help Jensen to the bathroom. Jensen is
certain that this very opportunity must be the highlight of her day.
“I can help,” Alan volunteers. “I did used to change his diapers.”
“Good memories,” Jensen quips, gently easing himself towards the edge of the
bed.
“You remember. Couldn't have been more than a year ago since you graduated to
toilet master.”
The nurse cackles and Jensen shoots Alan a glare. Sure, nurses have seen him
completely naked and have had to help him with the most basic of functions, but
that doesn't mean he needs to be embarrassed in front of them, especially by
dad jokes. In the bathroom, he attempts to pee on Alan's shoes, but a twinge in
his ribs stalls his ability to twist in that direction.
Walking hurts.
Breathing during and after walking hurts.
He can't even utter a reply to Alan's joke about looking more like an old man
in a retirement home than a teenager in a hospital. It isn't fair. He. Can't.
Breathe.
Of course, Alan takes advantage of Jensen's inability to breathe and lays down
a portion of what's going on in the outside world. Preston seems to be kicking
ass and taking names. She's good friends with the governor, and by friends,
Alan means she has information at her disposal should the governor unwisely
decide to side with the sheriff and police department. The charges against
Jensen from the convent have been dropped, since a certain lawyer tipped off
the right people and exposed child abuse, negligence, psychological torture,
and brainwashing. The convent has been a dirty little secret for decades,
hiding behind walls of iron and roses.
Alan starts to apologize. Not just for the current circumstances, but for
pretty much everything.
“You know how you can make it up to me?” Jensen interrupts. He can't handle
more emotions right now. His head hurts. His ribs hurt. His parents don't need
to apologize to him. At least, not all at once.
“No, you're not driving my car.”
“I'm an excellent driver!”
“Not according to Jared.”
“So you’re gonna take his word for it, huh?”
“Seems like it.”
“Fine,” Jensen sighs and rolls his eyes. “Figures you’d end up liking him more
than me.”
“You’ll manage,” Alan replies, his voice a little softer, a little quieter. He
pats Jensen’s hand, mindful of the IV, and sits back in the visitor’s chair.
“They’re looking at discharging the two of you tomorrow. How’s that sound?”
“Do I get to see Jared before then?”
“I’m not saying it’s impossible. But you both need to rest.”
“I’ll have plenty of time to rest when I’m out of here.”
“You think that.” Alan laughs, but he’s almost sad about it. “Just you wait.”
Jensen doesn’t like the sound of that. But he’s not about to argue. Pain drags
him down, hooked into the base of his skull and spiraling down. He’ll have
small windows of energy, then they slam shut on him. He tries to bash the
windows open or look for other ways out, but ultimately, he gives into his
body’s demands for sleep.
It helps that this time, Alan holds his hand.
 
Patients are not released from hospitals without several people reviewing each
patient’s records and plan for care. Different people need to review and verify
documents, then sign off and pass those documents onto their colleague or
superior.
Preston doesn't help speed up the process. She requires both Jared and Jensen
to be discharged at night, to prevent any members of the press from spotting
them. Jensen wonders exactly how bored these supposed members of the press have
to be to hang around this town, at this hospital. Over the phone, Preston
reminds Jensen that she holds the expensive law degree, not him, and he can be
a smart ass all he wants once he's home. She has a point. Jensen doesn't have
thousands of dollars worth of student loans. He doesn't say that though.
Preston could kill him over the phone without breaking a sweat.
And she's proven to be a professional worth fearing. Earlier that afternoon,
Alan reported that she made the police commissioner cry.
Not just shed a tear.
Reliable sources said he blubbered.
Jensen keeps the story in the back of his mind as Donna fusses over getting him
ready to leave. A nurse stops by and takes his IV out, revealing a deep bruise
where it had been nestled. Jensen tries not to look at it. But he can't focus
on anything else. Donna’s pacing and questions for the nurse exhaust him. His
tray of juice and cookies sits too far for him to reach without adding more
pain. The room started to feel small and confined approximately a hundred years
ago. And everyone who pops in is not the person he wants to see with every
fiber of his being.
It's true, he has no idea what happens next, after their stint in the hospital.
But they managed to scam hundreds of dollars off their classmates after school.
They're smarter than they look. Jared is, at least.
“I switched to an earlier shift just for you,” Nadia announces, leaning against
the doorway. She waves to Donna and looks at Jensen. “Maybe you can stop moping
for a second to say thanks.”
“That's my secret. I'm always moping.”
“Whatever, Bruce Banner.”
“An earlier shift means you leave earlier anyway.” Jensen lets her take his
vitals one last time. He's not sure she technically has to, but he doesn't turn
it down. The strap of the blood pressure cuff. The cold press of the
stethoscope against his chest and back. The calming touch of her hands against
his shoulders.
She helps him into the wheelchair that’s been waiting for him since someone
started discharge paperwork.
“Discharge,” Jensen grumbles, wincing in pain as he eases down from the bed to
the wheelchair. “Sounds so gross.”
The woman who has been helping him perform many, if not all, of his bodily
functions lately smiles and shakes her head. “To a nurse, discharge is the most
beautiful word there is.”
“Won’t you miss me?”
“Ehh, maybe a little.”
“So then what’s so great about it?”
Nadia takes the brakes off the wheelchair and asks Donna if they’ve got
everything. Jensen’s clear and ready to go. The paperwork has been signed and
approved, a folder of discharge instructions has been delivered to Donna. No
heavy lifting. Restricted activity. Breathing exercises. Physical therapy.
Plenty of ice. Prescription painkillers only if he needs them. All for six
glorious weeks.
Inch by inch, the wheelchair approaches the door to freedom. Nadia pushes and
Donna carries the few things Jensen had in his room worth taking. She brought
him a pair of black sweatpants and a baggy gray Cowboys shirt to wear on the
trip home. Somehow, she also convinced--forced--him to wear two pairs of socks
in order to leave the hospital, as if he might somehow succumb to exposure from
cold feet.
Two hallways blur past. The floors are so damn shiny, Jensen avoids looking
down. Makes him dizzy.
Around them, the hospital hums. Machines beep and people speak in hushed
voices. Anxious footsteps mix with tired footsteps. Generic pictures of gardens
and fountains grace the walls in an effort to detract from the harsh
fluorescent lighting and glossy floors.
“Discharge means you’re well enough to go home.” Nadia stops the wheelchair in
front of a long, deserted hallway. It looks like this department closed for the
day. “That means we did our job right.”
Jensen looks up and spots a sign indicating the department.
Ultrasound.
“So,” Nadia says and extends her hand. “You ready to do your job right?”
Pain makes itself known inside his body--in his ribs, torso, and back--searing
and literally breathtaking. To spite it, Jensen works against it. He grips
Nadia’s hand with his good hand and pushes himself out of the wheelchair. Yes,
he’s wearing two pairs of socks and no shoes. Yes, he’s moving slower than some
people four times his age. Yes, his bones, lungs, and muscles loudly complain.
None of that stops him.
 
Their eyes meet.
Jensen wants to offer Jared a Jarrito and a side of fried yucca. He wants to
see that nose scrunch and press their foreheads together and inhale the scent
of strawberry Poptarts and Dial soap. He wants to go back to their bus stop,
standing on the corner with their arms wrapped around each other, when their
problems were as small as some nausea and cutting school. It’d be nice if they
could work their way back through time.
He wants to scoop Jared up and hug him and tell him that he’s never letting go-
-and he means it. He ain’t no Rose hogging up the whole door when there’s
clearly room for them both. He wants to change the scenery, the backdrop, the
hospital bed Jared occupies, their beige surroundings, the machine nearby.
He wants to reminisce about that time on the monkey bars, those times at
Ilan’s, or every single trip they made to the edge of town and asked
philosophical questions about life in between make out sessions.
And then, Jensen sees her.
Right there--on a blurry, black and white screen. He sees the outline of her
head, the curve of her arms, and the position of her arms and legs.
The technician says something. Nadia and Donna say something. Jensen stumbles
forward and holds himself steady against the guardrail on the bed. Breathing
hard, he looks from the slick portion of Jared’s stomach to incredibly
vulnerable hazel eyes.
This is it.
There is no going back.
A few weeks ago, an adult handed him his driver’s license. Now, another adult
hands him the ultrasound wand. Jared lifts his powder blue sweater up another
inch to provide a wordless invitation. With the greatest care, Jensen presses
the wand against Jared’s middle. The wand captures images that show up on the
screen. Jared holds his breath and the image seems clearer.
Jared exhales and places his hand over Jensen’s. They move the wand together.
“Look,” Jared murmurs, dimples briefly flashing. “It’s a womb with a view.”
Grateful, Jensen returns the smile and nods.
Chapter End Notes
     about to fall asleep. -_-
     enjoy! comments are very much love and appreciated. <3
***** Chapter 33 *****
Chapter Notes
     the *last* chapter of this fic. <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes

 
A lot can change in six weeks.
But certainly not Jensen’s sarcasm.
Somewhere during week three, he gets  this  close to pneumonia and the doctor
who makes a house call practically straps Jensen down to his bed. And not in a
kinky fun way, either. The worst thing about being sick turns out to be the
lack of time he can spend with Jared. Jensen wouldn’t mind infecting his
parents with his germs and disease since they forced him to study for his GED
while he was on bedrest. They even had the nerve to taunt him about it. Did you
take your practice test today, Jensen? Were you too busy running miles around
the block or doing cartwheels with Socks?
To spite them, he slept for most of week three and four.
Once the threat of pneumonia left, Jared moved back into Jensen’s room from the
tiny guest room across the hall. He had his own health issues to deal with,
like morning sickness that really wasn’t just morning sickness. Nausea would
strike indiscriminately--morning, day, and night. They’d be lying in bed, legs
tangled, listening to the radio, and Jared would get up. If anyone could go
through morning sickness with an almost elegant approach, it was Jared. He’d
climb back into bed smelling like mouthwash and Dial soap and gross Jensen out
by describing the feeling of throwing up for the fourth time in a day.
Week five almost felt normal.
Donna and Alan alternated spending time at home in between working on their
project in Los Angeles. They were around to make meals, drive Jared to the
hospital for check ups, and attempt to help Jensen out with physical therapy
exercises. Alan always gave up first, due to Jensen’s swearing, but Donna,
bless her, held out until the bitter end of each forty-five minute session.
Something about spending ten hours in labor with him allowed her to steel up.
A few things felt different. And some things didn’t feel different at all.
When they could, Jared and Jensen curled up on the living room couch to drink
Jarritos and watch horror movies. Jensen sat on the porch while Jared made
excuses for Socks’ inability to properly play fetch. Socks never let go of the
item being fetched--frisbees, squeaky toys, Jensen’s socks--but insisted that
Jared throw them. No take. Only throw.
Ilan brought them Cuban sandwiches with extra cheese and extra pickles once a
week, on Fridays. He always included a side of yucca, plus two bowls of black
beans and rice.
At the end of week six, even their conversations seem the same.
“What if I join the FBI,” Jensen murmurs into Jared’s shoulder.
Sunday. It’s Sunday and Donna’s making pancakes like some kind of Good
Housekeeping subscriber. She’ll be leaving in a few minutes to pick up Alan
from the airport. Tomorrow, they’ll make the switch and it will be Alan driving
Donna to the airport.
Jensen settles into the couch. Socks pops an eye open at the movement,
regarding Jensen with suspicion. No one gets more Socks time than Jared. Socks
has become his shadow. Jensen makes a face at Socks.
“You wouldn’t last two days,” Jared replies, petting Socks on the head.
“Someone would shoot you for mouthing off.”
“What if I become a traveling salesman and try selling shower ring curtains?”
“I’ve seen that movie.”
“You lie.”
“You were with me when we saw it.”
“I think I blew you when we did.”
“I was still watching.”
“Burn, Jared, burn. You’ve wounded my pride.”
“Yes, but will it shut you up?”
“Nah.”
“Uh huh.”
“You know what my favorite numbers are?”
“Hmm, what are your favorite numbers?”
“Six.”
“And?”
“Guess.”
“Zero.”
“Zero is not a number.”
“You’re about to become very familiar with it.”
“With a face like this?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’re so mean to me. Socks put you up to it.”
“We’re too cute to talk to you.”
“Man, I told you he’s bad news. You haven’t been the same since you started
hanging out with him.”
“Are you talking to me or Socks?”
“Yes.”
Jared swats at Jensen’s hair and shifts around on the couch. He lies on his
back, legs over Jensen’s lap, Socks curled up in the crook of his left arm.
Jensen sits up and takes a deep breath.
A lot changes in six weeks. Like his ability to breathe without doubling over
in excruciating pain. Or one of his parents present at night to turn out the
lights in the hallways and wish them good dreams. Or the Scrambler arriving at
their doorstep looking brand new and brilliant in the afternoon sun. Or Alan’s
leather jacket returning from Los Angeles, where one of his friends did him a
favor and had it cleaned and patched up. Or the two letters the mail man
delivers to the front door instead of placing them in the box.
Jensen receives a GED.
The court, with a little nudge from a familiar legal resource, grants Jared
complete emancipation.
Six weeks marks a total of twenty-two weeks. Jared doesn’t fit into any of the
clothes Jensen gave him or Donna bought him at the beginning of those six
weeks. He refuses to slide into wearing sweatpants all the time, which is more
discipline than Jensen could ever have. Donna brought home bags of clothes from
Los Angeles, along with a borrowed sewing machine. She spent an entire night
with Jared to figure out where and how to let out different pairs of jeans and
shirts. Jensen stayed up with them, watching Jared dress and undress, observing
every change to his body.
Baggy sweaters can still kind of, sort of make Jared’s waistline seem smaller.
But since summer approaches, he has no choice but to abandon the sweaters
whenever they step outside of the protection of air conditioning.
Yesterday, they Googled, “twenty-two weeks pregnant.” One of the most
informative facts was that she’s  not much bigger than a spaghetti squash.
Stretch marks have begun to make an appearance on Jared’s sides. His hair looks
and feels glossier. And unlike Jensen, his face remains pimple-free.
The Price is Right comes on. It’s a Bob Barker episode, thank god.
Socks leaves in a blur of fluff and skitters to the patio sliding doors. He
presses his nose against the glass and growls at what is probably a menacing
squirrel or blade of grass.
An announcement on the bottom of the television screen alerts them that an
episode of The Golden Girls is up next. Jared can dust off his Rose Nyland
impression. And Jensen can loudly sing the theme song and obnoxiously quote
every single line with one hundred perfect accuracy.
Life is almost normal.
These moments are little pieces of normal.
Like the gel pen Jared slips out from the sleeve of his sweater. He twirls it
in his hands and pays more attention to it than Bob Barker explaining the rules
for the hopeful newcomers already lined up. Jensen watches the gel pel tap
against Jared’s fingers, wrists, and chin. The world becomes the click of the
pen cap separating from the pen.
Without a word, Jared takes Jensen’s left hand. He smooths his thumb over the
top of Jensen’s hand, brushing over knuckles, testing the terrain. Jensen’s
eyes dart back and forth between Jared’s somber expression to the tip of the
gel pen touching his skin.
Jared draws a heart on his wrist.
Their eyes meet for a brief moment, then the gel pen starts to glide over
Jensen’s forearm.
Jensen reads the finished product.
A lot changes in twenty-two weeks.
And more will change in the eighteen weeks that are left. The space on Jensen’s
forearm, however, will always be there. Jared’s handwriting is neat by nature,
and still neat in gel pen on skin.
You are every hope I’ve ever had in human form .
This is where they start again, piece by piece.
Later, they can slide into Jensen’s room and figure it out.
They tune back into The Price is Right for a few minutes before Donna calls
them over for breakfast. Jensen asks to have breakfast on the couch. Donna
brings over their plates and sets down a jug of syrup on the coffee table. She
lingers for a minute, pretending to lecture Jensen about washing the dishes
while she makes herself look busy rearranging books and a vase of flowers. For
all of her work in the business, she can’t pass for beans as a nonchalant mom.
Just before she leaves for the airport, she runs a hand through Jared’s hair
and gives Jensen a pat on the cheek. She still won’t let Jensen drive her
Mercedes, but this seems to be a nice compromise.
Alone, they finish breakfast and Jared wins Plinko.
Socks begs Jared to take him outside, not to pee, but to bark at squirrels in
the neighbors’ trees. Most of the squirrels in the neighborhood have at least
two or three pounds on Socks; this doesn’t stop him from being as threatening
as possible. Every so often, he looks around, searching for Jared. Spoiled dog.
Jensen complains that he doesn’t get nearly as many kisses from Jared as Socks
does, and Jensen doesn’t lick his asshole like Socks does.
“I don’t know that for sure,” Jared quips, looping their arms together. He tugs
Jensen and subtly coaxes him to walk around the backyard. Walking doesn’t cause
him excruciating pain anymore, but he definitely can’t move faster than Socks.
“You know,” Jensen asks, his steps matching Jared’s, “I seem to recall licking
yours.”
“Don’t be crude.”
“I’m not being crude. I’m being honest.”
Nose scrunch. “Be a little less honest.”
“You’ll regret saying that, one day.”
“It’s good to know your mouth wasn’t injured.”
“Yeah, what a tragedy that would be. Think of all the orgasms the world would
never have.”
“Would you still wanna live in Vegas?”
“Only if I could be Fat Elvis.”
“You’d have to dye your hair.”
“That’s a dealbreaker.”
“Yep.”
“You wouldn’t like it if I dyed my hair?”
“Not particularly.”
“You know, I was super blond when I was a kid.”
“I know. Your mom showed me pictures.”
“Ugh. Donna. Why.”
“What about Utah?”
“Nope. Mormons.”
“Oh yeah, they’d  love  you.”
“I respect their decision to be assholes, I just don’t want to see them.”
“But you’ll lick them?”
“Now who’s being crude?”
“I’m just being honest. Minnesota.”
“And deal with all that snow?”
“You’re awfully picky.”
“Oh yeah? Well, what about… uh… Florida?”
“That’s a cesspool, Jensen.”
“Damn, you’re right.”
“Wisconsin?”
“Cold cesspool,” Jensen sighs. “...here?”
Jared stops them and looks down at their arms, then at his middle. He shakes
his head. “I can’t, Jen. I can’t stay here. There’s too much.”
This time, Jensen prompts them to walk. Socks darts back and forth around them,
then bounds off towards the patio door, eager to be let back in so he can
resume doing nothing. Jensen slips his hand into Jared’s. They should try out
for The Price is Right and win some cash. It might not be as fun without Bob
Barker, but Plinko hasn’t changed.
He opens the patio door for Socks and Jared, who immediately head for the
bathroom; Jared because needs must and Socks because he has to make sure Jared
is absolutely safe in the bathroom.
Jensen stays in the kitchen. He looks around. Donna can’t cook without using at
least forty pots and pans. She probably did it on purpose, to put Jensen to
work. He goes through the motions, assesses the damage, turns on the faucet,
and grabs the sponge. Life is more than who we are. Where did he hear that? Is
it another damn Bible quote? No. Damn. It’s going to bother him.
Two plates left, Jared surprises him with a hug and a peck on the cheek.
Socks still gets more kisses than that, but Jensen doesn’t complain.
They slide into Jensen’s room. Jared doesn’t complain about his prune fingers
or the smell of pancake mush and dish soap. Their eyes meet for a second before
they kiss. After that, it’s all like a familiar song on the radio that they
play on repeat, as loud as ever.
The scar on Jared’s arm healed clean. Most of Jensen’s scrapes and bruises have
disappeared.
Jared invites Socks onto the bed despite Jensen’s initial protests. Socks plops
himself between them, heaving a sigh, like he’s damn sick of having to take
care of these humans. He licks Jared’s chin and his tail smacks Jensen in the
face. Two minutes later, Jensen banishes Socks to curl up on Jared’s feet.
“I got an offer,” Jared murmurs, reaching over and petting Jensen behind the
ear just like he does for Socks. “A full ride from a community college in
Washington state.”
“...is it a cesspool?”
“Nope.”
“Can we get Jarritos there?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Sounds good to me.”
For the rest of the day, they lie in bed, chest to back, their hands clasped
over her.
Chapter End Notes
     oh my god. folks, this is it.
     wow.
     let me just say, this fic turned into so much more than i ever
     thought possible. i intended this to be 5-10k words as a thank you
     for mcdanno28 buying me lunch. but here we are, a little over a year
     later. these boys have carved themselves a space in my heart, and i
     hope yours too. <3
     there's a sequel! just give me some time. definitely not the end of
     these two. endings are hard, but i hope you enjoy this last chapter.
     thanks to you all for reading, thanks to my lovely betas, and thanks
     to the Goo Goo Dolls. the snippet of poem in this chapter is from
     Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur.
     comments are love! <3
End Notes
     this is a WIP! i'll be posting gradually, and staying at least one
     chapter ahead, but hang on for the ride. :D
     comments are love! <3
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!