Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/190205.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      CW_Network_RPF, Supernatural_RPF
  Relationship:
      Jensen_Ackles/Jeffrey_Dean_Morgan, Jensen_Ackles/Jared_Padalecki, Jensen
      Ackles/Christian_Kane, Jensen_Ackles/Original_Male_Character(s), Jensen
      Ackles/Others
  Character:
      Jensen_Ackles, Jeffrey_Dean_Morgan, Jared_Padalecki, Christian_Kane
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Historical, Child_Abuse, Domestic_Violence,
      Community:_spn_j2_bigbang, Jazz_Age, First_Time, Alternate_Universe_-
      Historical, Alternate_Universe_-_1920s, Implied_or_Off-stage_Rape/Non-con
  Collections:
      Supernatural_and_J2_Big_Bang_2010
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-07-13 Chapters: 9/9 Words: 22775
****** On The Long and Weary Road (Where the Music Played and I was Lost and
you were Found) ******
by Pigeon
Summary
     Set between circa 1919 - 1924. Takes place in Texas, Arkansas, New
     Orleans, New York, and Chicago. It's the jazz era, and Jensen is
     traveling the road from place to place, discovering the music of the
     era as he travels.
Notes
     Art by the amazing and talented ysbail, her art masterpost is over
     here. Many, many thanks to her, and whether you have time to read the
     fic or not you should definitely check out her work and tell her how
     fantastic she is.
***** Texas *****


       [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/00029kr2/s320x240]

You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store
~ Tennessee Ernie Ford

Mama had been the one to name him.
She said he'd been screeching and hollering, this little red and wrinkled
thing, hardly bigger than a gnat. She'd still been lying in blood sopped
sheets, hurting and trying to breathe through the worst of the hurt, when she'd
looked out of the window and seen it.
                                    JENSEN.
In big bold letters, scarlet red. Real, real pretty and real modern. High up on
a billboard.
Told him she'd said the word over to herself, decided that it sounded just like
music.



           [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
His hob-nail boots are too large for him. Round home he sticks to bare feet,
the dust deep and red between his toes, soles coated thick and dry and coarse,
but when he goes wandering he's too much sense to go un-shod.
The roadways over to town aren't what you call made. It's dust beaten down and
compacted hard. Scrubby little bushes, prickly and sharp, lining the sides,
rattlers coming out to sun themselves during the midday.
Jensen kicks at the ground and shuffles his feet. It's heading into the
afternoon now and he's yet to eat, stomach gnawing at him, and just a little
whiskey thrumming through his veins.
The Seven Bells Cantina takes three good hours to walk to. If he'd been of a
mind to just want a sip of liquor and a willing body he could have wandered
down to Old Jeremiah's place on the outskirts of town. There's three girls
there he's heard about from all the boys his age. Not nice girls, but cheap and
to be had with no fuss. He knows Joey's been with the Mexican girl, Sofia,
heard him tell of how heavy her breasts were cupped in his hands, how she'd
wriggled beneath him, all pretty and soft and naked.
When he thinks on it, he can't name a single fella, barring himself, that
hasn't availed himself on one of those girls.
But he had heard tell that the Seven Bells had a guy from Amarillo staying, one
of the grand fiddle players they bred over there, with lightning quick hands
and an ear no one could teach, a man that was earning his keep by fiddling in
the evenings, and taking what he could in tips.
He'll catch hell for it when he gets home he's no doubt. His Daddy and his belt
weren't going to be best pleased with him - not for skipping out just to hear
some fiddle-player.
If he had a just gone and gotten himself good and sozzled at Old Jeremiah's,
maybe spent himself on one of those three girls they kept, his Daddy wouldn't
have had anything to say about it. 'Specially seeing as how that's what his
Daddy had probably been doing with his own evening.
Instead he's walked himself tired, only had three gulps of whiskey, the rest of
his money having been spent buying drinks for Buck, the fiddle player, and he
sure as hell didn't go near any girl all night.
Buck hadn't been a nice sort especially.
He had taken the drinks Jensen bought, grinning toothily at him as he described
how damn good he was at fiddling, at drinking, at fighting. Had talked right
over Jensen when he'd murmured that he sang a little, just a few old songs his
Mama had taught him. Had been more than happy to make use of Jensen's mouth on
the back porch where no one had lit the lamps. But hadn't offered Jensen a
space of floor to sleep on, let alone a chance to stretch out in his bed, and
he'd had to make do with curling up in the dry hay in the stable across the
street.
But Buck's playing had been something else. Fast and rhythmic and weaving
melodies with its ownself.
It was worth the licks he'd have coming, when his Daddy put him over his knee.
The memory of those high scaling notes, the quick rush down into the deeper,
darker chords that tremble across his skin, has his cock twitching and filling
far more than the thought of Buck's sweat and salt sitting heavy on his tongue.
Buck had fucked into his mouth with no rhythm, no timing to his thrusts, just
one hand fisted hard into Jensen's hair, the other slipping around his throat,
whilst his hips tried to cram as much of him as he could right down into
Jensen's gullet.
Jensen's pretty sure he's seen bulls mount cows with more care and tempo.
And yet the way Buck's tunes had sped and dallied, the melodies quickening and
rushing towards climax before dropping back into lazy sways and dips have him
tempted to find a patch of shade and play out the music on his own flesh.
But there's the hint of darkening to the West, the sky turning a red that has
nothing to do with sunset, but the bloody, murky shade of dust kicked up by a
storm and whirling in fast, and he's not dumb enough to risk being out in the
rising winds without shelter just because his crotch feels a little tight.
His feet pick up the pace a little, but he's still a good forty minutes from
the homestead. His Mama will be worried he knows, picking at threads on her
apron, leaning out the door trying to spot him, fingers twitching in that
irrepressible way they have whenever she's something on her mind.
His Daddy might beat the tar out of him when he gets back, but Jensen's sure he
won't be worried in the meantime. No, Daddy will have his jug to keep him
company, and that's all he needs. If he thinks of Jensen at all it'll be to
call him a bastard and spit on his Mama for giving birth to him in the first
place.
Jensen sometimes wonders why he ever came after his Mama. Chased her down to
Dallas where he'd still been screaming between her knees, undersized but loud
enough to wake the whole block, and brought them all back to this little speck
of a town in the Northern waste of Texas.
Spite is what Mama called it, those few times, after midnight had come and fled
and she'd been sleepless and miserable staring at the moon. Spite is what made
him bring them back and keep them. Spite tying them all up in barb-wire and
arid jealousy.
At seventeen Jensen's ready to move beyond the handful of miles he can traverse
in a day. Ready not to see his Daddy's face first thing every morning or feel
his boot. Ready for the bruises down his side to heal up once and for all.
And as much as he loves his Mama, he's ready to say goodbye, kiss her on the
cheek, and leave her as well.
His stomach growls, and he wishes he'd put aside a few dimes to buy some
breakfast, just a little cornbread would have done it. The heat is scolding in
his lungs, the air bone-dry and thickening with dust. He mops at the sweat on
his brow, snatches off his cap and fans himself for a moment.
His skin feels tight across his face, prickling after too long under the sun.
He knows it'll be turning pink already, and red soon if he doesn't make it too
some shade before long. Daddy always spits at him when he's all burnt up and
his freckles stand out. Says he's nothing but a girl, too pretty, and too
damned dainty.
And Jensen's been told enough times that girls are only good for one thing.
There's a crack in the air, and he feels the thunder roll through him, the sky
darkening and painted red.
The dust storms are getting more frequent. The winds swirling and flattening
the crops, dust high and choking in the air, grit burying the houses and roads,
sticking to loose animals, coating anyone stupid enough to be out in the
weather.
A few years back and Jensen can remember there only being a truly bad storm
once a year, and if this one turns out as bad as he suspects it will, it'll be
the third this summer.
The sun is still blazing above him, but the view to the west is nothing but a
thickening wall of bloodied dirt rushing to meet him.
Jensen tucks his head in. There's nowhere between here and home for him to hole
up in. The cantina is a good couple hours walk behind him, no neighbors on this
stretch of land, just more thorny bushes, cacti, and waterless gulches.
He tugs the collar of his shirt up over his mouth as the edge of the storm
reaches him, breathing quick and shallow through the material, eyes squinted
and close as possible.
He thinks on Buck and the music he'd played as he stumbles forward, feet
tripping over themselves, and body buffeted by the wind. He wants to know how
those quick sharp notes that had danced up and down the scales had managed to
sound so smooth. Wants to know if other instruments could make that long drawn
out moan of a sound, or if it was just the fiddle, just Buck's fiddle that
could do that. Wants to know if it was old handed-down tunes that Buck was
playing, or if he could honestly make up melodies like that on the spot.
His foot catches in a rabbit hole, ankle twisting sharply to the side, and he
stumbles to his knees.
Buck had said he looked sweet on his knees.
There had been sweet grass springing up fresh and clean the first time he'd
tumbled to the ground with another boy. It had been in that short space of time
after the worst of the winter chill and bite and before the ferocity of the
summer sun, when the buds had been bursting forth and the air smelt bright and
new. The preacher had just finished the meeting and everyone had been filled to
the brim with spirit.
Just a tug on his hand and he'd been following a boy whose name he could hardly
remember deep into the grass, and falling to the earth, inhaling the sweet
smelling loam, and rutting sharp and quick, birdsong in their ears.
It had just been friction then, the rubbing of bodies, through clothes as often
as not.
It hadn't been until he hit fifteen and started sneaking sips of liquor or
hanging around the edges of the nearest saloon that he'd started to put his
mouth to use and sinking to his knees.
He tugs his foot free of the rabbit hole, and tests his ankle; it twinges but
holds his weight, and he tries to fold his body in tighter as he moves on.
A brief span of minutes and the dust is bad enough that he cannot see. Even if
he were to open his eyes and try to look ahead there would be nothing but the
blank force of red dust. As it is, his eyes are shut tight, one arm slung
across them for added protection, head bowed low.
It's near impossible to breathe.
He stumbles again, but just manages to keep his balance, the road lost to him.
He can't be far from home. From the little wooden cabin with broken windows,
and hard-packed floor.
Mama says your home becomes a part of you, that you can feel it wherever you
are.
Daddy says a real Man knows his land, every inch and scrubby weed of it.
Jensen is lost.
The wind gives a shrill cry, high and terrified like a girl caught and
threatened. The dust is thickening over the shirt-collar Jensen has pressed to
his mouth, less and less air getting through. He can feel it seeping beneath
his clothes, coating his chest, sticking sharp and gritty in his arm pits,
slicking to mud with his sweat.
He's stumbling with every step now, bent near double into the wind, struggling
to move forward little by little.
His eyes are watering, fat tears forcing their way out from his closed lids to
make muddy tracks down his face. He trips over his own feet, falling to land
heavily on his knees again, the impact hard enough to force a gasp out of him.
The wind is buffeting him from every direction, whirling in tight eddies around
his body, making him sway this way and that.
Something hits him from the side, and he tumbles over, twisted and all bent out
of shape, rolling down until he hits the base of what he can only presume is a
dried up old ditch, then a weight settles over top of him, pressing him down
hard into the ground.
"Stupid fucking boy."
He tries to crawl forward, tries to squirm out from underneath the body pining
him.
"Stupid fucking little shite."
The wind sends a little cascade of rocks and dirt down on them, and Jensen lies
still. "I… Sorry. Sorry, Daddy."
The weight of his father, a heavy man, still thick with muscles for all of his
drinking, shifts a little, pressing Jensen down harder, one hand curling about
the back of his neck. "Such a stupid little boy. Should let you die out here."
"Sorry," he whispers.
He pants into the red dirt, tries to draw in enough air, his daddy's body
constricting his chest, crushing him down into the ground, the air more earth
than oxygen. He chokes and coughs, spitting out dark saliva.
His daddy shifts and he lets out a small squawk as the heft of him resettles,
hips and thighs digging in tight to his body.
Too hot.
Too close.
The wind drops for a second, the sudden silence too loud.
Then the gusts storm through again, flattening crops and sending skittering
lumps of earth and gravel showering down on their heads.
Jensen twitches involuntarily at a loud bang, his neck craning up to try and
make out the source.
"Lie still, you stupid little bitch." His daddy digs a clawing hand hard into
his side to punctuate his order. "Should have been born a goddamn girl. Useless
little nancy-boy."
Jensen doesn't answer, just presses his face flush with the ground and lets the
storm rage above him.
He hopes his Mama is safe inside their house, tucked up beneath the blankets on
the one actual bed they own, far from the fragile window panes, hunkered low
and tight.
Mama has never liked storms, always trembled and whimpered her way through
thunder and lightning at night, sounding like a scared pup until Daddy would
give her the back of his hand and she'd fall quiet.
Jensen's never minded the storms over much until now.
Now he'd be much happier never to hear the shriek and howl of the wind again.
He can hear his Daddy cursing and growling in his ear, calling him names,
wishing he'd never been born, wishing he'd never fucking bothered going to
Dallas to fetch Jensen and his Mama back home again.
Jensen can't help but agree with this last sentiment.
The wind last hours, and whilst he doesn't even nearly sleep, he does fall into
an almost doze – something about the steady whirl of the wind, and the steady
breath of his father against his ear lulling him until he cannot imagine this
ever ending. It isn't that he thinks he is going to die, isn't that he thinks
they'll get crushed by a flying piece of debris, or will choke to death, lungs
filled with dust-
But –
But the wind is eternal.
The wind is eternal and something so great and harsh cannot simply die away.
His father shifts and curses and shifts again. Hard muscle and solid fat
digging into him and pressing him deeper into the earth.
He thinks he should be able to smell his daddy's sweat, and the scent of wind-
tossed corn, but the dirt is too thick and he has to pant low through his
mouth, his nose clogged and dry.
Mama likes to sing when she's scared. Little nonsense tunes and ballads she
only knows half the words to. She's a sweet voice, pitched low and soft, a
little bit throaty.
Jensen sings only when he knows he's alone.
The wind wails and Jensen thinks about Old Man Joseph who sings songs without
words, who sings songs that are nothing but a moan.
It is dark by the time the wind begins to drop and the dust starts to settle.
His skin is thick and dry with the dirt, struck a rusty red and gritty and raw.
He tries to shift from beneath his father but a fist whales down on his ear,
setting bells and echoes off in his head, making his vision swim.
It takes a moment for him to hear what his Daddy is calling him, the rough
names and familiar insults. It's nothing he hasn't heard before, nothing his
Daddy hasn't spat at him.
Bastard is the most common word, and he wonders idly if he is one.
Mama had run off to Dallas, a newlywed and well gone with child.
Daddy had come and fetched them back.
Another blow lands by his ear and for a moment he's dazed enough that the land
seems to tilt beneath him, then his Daddy is dragging him up by his collar and
spitting in his face as he slaps him hard, pain blooming bright and sharp
across his cheek.
He's still all foggy when they start the march home- Jensen stumbling behind
his father, eyes still sore and red from the dirt, shirt tugged askew by his
Daddy's grip.
A coyote is calling in the distance, far enough away not to be any threat.
The crop is ruined, the farm is mortgaged to the hilt, and Jensen wonders how
long it will be until the bank comes and tells 'em all to get gone.
They pass the body of a dead dog, all twisted and misshapen, guts already
clawed out by buzzards.
Jensen stumbles again.



           [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
Its three days before he's walking back up the same road, still stumbling in
his too-large boots, feet blistering and rubbing raw along his little toes and
his heels. There is no wind today and the air lies still and heavy and hot.
His bruises are fading to green.
Above him birds whirl in great concentric circles, black smudges against the
sharp blue of the sky. Pulling his eyes back down to the track he has to blink
to focus; it's all dots and blurs and the ghosts of Chickenhawks and
Mississippi Kites swaying ahead.
He leans against the dead tree that marks the crossroads. The shade it provides
is thin, just the width of the trunk drawing a line of shadow in the dirt. The
bark is rough, curling away in jagged chunks, exposing the smooth pale wood
beneath. Jensen presses his cheek against the tree, presses his bruises hard
against the coarseness, presses until his skin is pebbled with the weft of the
bark and his eyes are wet.
Faintly, in the distance he can hear a train's whistle.
He swallows, mouth dry, and pushes away from the tree. The water tower by the
side of the railway track isn't too much further and he walks on steadily, not
glancing back at the way he's come.
As he sees the train come into view, thick white steam surging upwards, he
finds himself humming a nameless little tune.

***** interlude *****
            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002rds9]
                                        
It's the second night in this particular freight car, and he wakes curled up
against another warm body. His face is pressed up into the crook of someone's
neck, one hand is clutching a dirty lapel, the other lax at his side. His leg
slung careless over narrow hips.
He's a distant awareness that when he went to sleep he'd been hunched over and
alone.
There had been no one else in the car never mind beneath, beside, around him.
He tries to wriggle away a little, just enough to have a touch of breathing
room, but one long arm clamps him more firmly in tight and holds him.
"Shhh."
He stills for a moment, heart beating fast, panting breaths onto a soft, warm
throat, then starts trying to twist and wriggle away again.
"Shhh, I said. No need to be squirming about so, it's hours 'til dawn." There's
a yawn, and then a large hand pats him absently on the ass. "Go back t' sleep"
He twists enough that he can lean up and away, getting just enough distance
that he can see the other's face.
Young is his first thought. Probably no older than he is, with a mop of messy
dark hair and sharp-cut eyes.
"Go back t' sleep," The boy repeats, and smiles as he tugs him back in to the
heat and mold of his body.
 

            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
 
It's slow.
The open door of the freight car shows the blur of the world skimming by, trees
and bushes becoming less than a thought, just the flat brown of the land
stretching off in to the far reaching distance. The motion of the train a
steady clack and shudder,clack and shudder.
But it remains slow.
Jensen draws in a deep breath, his face already feels burnt and scolding, a
high flush taking up residence on his cheeks. He bites his lip and rolls his
hips as far as he's permitted.
It's too damn slow.
The wood of the car floor is rough beneath him, rough hewn planks digging into
his skin and threatening him with splinters where he definitely don't want
them. From where he's lying he can track the path of the sun through the wide
blue of the sky.
Slow and unhurried and too goddamn little and too goddamn much.
It's been honest to god hours, with the guy's mouth never talking more than the
very head of his cock, never going the tiniest fraction deeper, tongue finding
all those elusive sweet little places he'd never even know about. Teasing them.
Suckling light and barely there.
"Jesus," Jensen curses, head rocking to the side, panting into the crook of his
arm. "Jesus. Please."
There's no change, more tiny little licks flitting over the tip, big hands
cradling his hips and pinning him tight.
"Please. Christ. Please."
He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to let this be enough, to make this be enough.
"Need. Need. Need." It's like a liturgy. The rhythm of church bells calling the
faithful. He tries to scramble closer to that maddening heat and pressure.
Hard, heavy thumbs dig deliciously into the hollows of his hips, those small
points of pressure just flirting with the possibility of becoming pain. He's
shivering and failing to buck up, shuddering and gasping every time those hands
squeeze him harder and hold him down more solidly.
"Damnit. Please. Please."
There's an almost hum as though the guy is amused and happy with how soft and
broken his voice sounds when he begs, and it makes his thighs shake harder.
Too little. Too little –
Those large thumbs dig deeper into his flesh, the nails pinching him, and a
whirl of heat floods through him, head snapping back, low sounds torn from his
throat, skin suddenly too tight to contain him.
The train clacks and shudders, and Jensen arches sharply then settles bone-
heavy down onto the rough wood planks beneath him.
The train clacks and shudders, and Jensen watches the haze of land and sky rush
by.
 

            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
 
He chews the salt pork slowly, leans back with his eyes shut listening to the
sound of the wind whipping by.
His canteen is down to the last few swallows of water and the meat makes his
throat ache with thirst.
Next time the car slows enough he'll make a jump for it, hopefully it'll be a
real town with a roadhouse that'll be playing music and have folk dancing every
night. Maybe they'll even rent out rooms and he'll be able to sweep up or make
himself useful in kind.
He hears the train's whistle call out sharply and the brakes groan and smiles.
***** Arkansas *****


       [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002b9y0/s320x240]

This is the song that the night birds
&nbspsing as the phantom herds trail by
Horn by horn where the long plains fling
&nbspflat miles to the Texas sky
And this is the song that the night birds wail
&nbspwhere the Texas plains lie wide
Over the dust of a ghostly trail
&nbspwhere the phantom tall men ride
- Omar Barker
 
The air is sweet with pine and new grass and bathtub gin. The track up to The
Hayward's barn is twisted and closely lined with trees, the ruts deep where
harvest vehicles sink heavy into the earth with migratory regularity. Pale pink
copperheads lie hidden to the side of the track, coiled and still.
Jensen slows as he approaches the barn, smoothes back his hair, wipes damp
palms down the dusty cloth of his pants.
He can already hear the jug band playing; the low roll of sound and rhythm.
He pushes open the barn door and there is the smell of hay, and sweet, clean
sweat, dark tobacco, and fresh apples. The bodies are thick, crushed in tight
and dancing or talking or flirting or trying to do all three. Jensen skirts the
room, sidling past the trestle table groaning under a mass of cherry and peach
pies, the pastry golden and flaky and rich with butter, and flagons of cider
and moonshine. He avoids the dancers, keeping his back to the wall, until he
reaches the corner of the makeshift stage and is close enough to watch the
hands and mouths and feet of the musicians.
There are two jug players, one guy on washboard, another with a guitar, and a
tiny little slip of a girl with a mandolin.
Jensen starts with their feet, watches how the heavy farm boots belonging to
the two jug players twist and stomp along to the rhythm. Their boots are caked
in mud that peels off onto the wooden stage, crumbling beneath heavy sole. The
washboard guy's shoes are a little more ragged, the leather split and worn, one
big toe peeking through on the left, the sole of the right flapping slightly as
he taps along in double-time.
The girl has her best Sunday shoes on. Glossy and neat, where she's perched up
on a stool, the patent leather shined spit-bright. Her feet twitch and jiggle,
never pausing for a moment, and Jensen thinks he's probably never seen such
happy feet.
The guitar player's boots are more expensive, the leather tooled and detailed,
the boots more for show than work, the stitching almost delicate in places,
twisting into patterns of stars and flames, different shades of brown layered
side by side. Jensen watches how sharply he taps his foot, how he marks the
time and sets the rhythm for the rest of the band.
With hands there's more of a remarked difference- The jug players move their
hands little, one finger may tap along with the tune somewhat but mostly it's
just the shift and rock with the rhythm. The washboard man's fingers dance
swift and clear up and down the metal groves, flitting light, tapping and
rapping out a quick percussive sound.
The girl's fingers are a joy to watch. The deep bowl of the instrument is
crooked into her narrow body, and her thin boned fingers skitter fast and
twitchy across the strings. It's less elegant than what Jensen would have
expected, but the sound that little girl makes with her mandolin is something
else, something more.
The guitarist's hands are all smooth confidence. The sweeping cock to his
wrist, the long lines of his fingers, each strum sounding out loud and strong,
no fumbling notes or struggling chords. Jensen finds himself leaning forwards,
trying to catch closer glimpses of them as they play across the strings.
As for mouths, Jensen doesn't even pretend to watch the face or mouth of anyone
but the guitarist.
Most of the tunes the band plays are instrumentals but there's a few where the
washboard player or the girl with the mandolin sing low and soft. The guy with
the washboard has a deep throaty voice, the girl higher but with a sweet reedy
sound to it.
The guitar player sings backing and harmonies and Jensen struggles to pick out
his voice from the rest.
He thinks it may be a little off-key, but low and rumbling for all that.
The dancers knock into him from time to time, some of the girls smiling at him,
all white teeth and bright hope as they press against him and mutter half-
hearted apologies. Some of the fellas knock into him a little harder, give him
looks that are all brash fight and growling challenge. Sometimes their hands
linger too.
Jensen snags a mug of cider when the band takes five minutes to rest and get
their breath back. He throws half of it back down his throat in one gulp,
surprised how thirsty he is, how dry his mouth. He steps back up to his place
at the corner of the stage.
"Hey." The girl has propped her mandolin up carefully beside her stool, her
thin little hands wrapped around a cup of moonshine. "You enjoying yourself? I
don't think I know you. Thought I knew everyone here. Small town, you know?
But, I saw you a-watching and thought on how I didn't know who you was." She
grins. "I'm Kasey-Ann Sproight."
Jensen blinks, almost thinks about stepping back where there's more air. "Nice
to meet you, Miss Sproight." He shuffles to the side slightly as a body shoves
roughly past him. "I've only been in town a few weeks, haven't met all that
many folks yet, I guess." He pauses, hands feeling slick with perspiration,
"I'm Jensen, Jensen Ackles."
"Well, it's nice to meet you," she bobs her head with such vigor Jensen
suddenly isn't certain that there isn't something wrong with her. "You liking
the music, I know we ain't what you might hear in them big cities but we do
alright, yeah?"
"No, you're real good. I really like it."
"Well, good!" She steps back and snatches up her mandolin. "Stick about after
if you ain't got no place to be, you can say hello to the boys."
The band throw themselves back into the music, no worse for having been playing
for hours already. The dancers too twist and whirl with abandon, slim legged
kicks, and snaking hips.
When time comes for the music and dance to wind itself down, Jensen lingers,
helps old widow women put away the trestle tables, and sweep up pie crusts and
scattered stogie ends. There a few other guys obviously waiting around, not
wanting to leave and go home and Jensen watches Kasey-Ann smile and lean close
to a tall dark haired fella with a squint eye.
He waits until the guitar player packs himself up and walks right past him,
eyes fixed on a pretty blonde who's wearing a dress tighter than most of the
farmers' daughters hereabouts.
The town, Haywards Bend, is little. Nothing but a stopping point between decent
sized towns that can claim to have a railroad station a piece. There's a
central crossroads with a general store, a boarding house, two restaurants that
compete to get what could be considered the cream of the town, and a hardware
store. Beyond that it's small cabins and farmsteads.
Jensen's spent two weeks doing odd jobs; painting fences for Widow Smallwood,
mending the roof for Pastor Dixon, getting rid of the rats for the Misses
Salisbury and Gruen. When he's had the pennies he's bought a room in Mrs
Carter's Boarding House, when he hasn't he's found a corner to curl up in.
Cleaning himself off in horse troughs, scrubbing the dirt away with cold grimy
water, hunched over and half naked in the livery stable.
The weekly dances up at the Haywards Barn are what he looks forward to, focuses
on through the weeks. After a dance he tries to remember the songs and chords
played, taps out the rhythm against his knees, hums beneath his breath. Before
the jug band had been one fella with an accordion who'd gotten steadily more
drunk through the evening to the point where he'd fallen off the stage onto a
half dozen dancing couples.
When Saturday rolls around again he finds himself dusting himself off again as
he walks up to Haywards Barn. The guitar player is there again, but purely as a
spectator this time. On stage is a four piece band with a tea chest bass,
kazoo, fiddle, and cornet. The sound they make is strange, a mix of cajoling,
feet-stomping rhythm, and faint military calling.
Jensen presses himself up tight against the stage again, watching the feet, and
hands, and mouths of the musicians.
Out of the corner of his eye he watches the guitarist from the jug band. He
sways a little with the sound, but twists his face into a sneer whenever he
catches the eye of one of the pretty girls that surround him.
As ever there is cider and moonshine stacked in heavy bottomed earthenware mugs
on the tables that line the barn.
Jensen drinks and listens and occasionally dances; pulling himself away from
watching the musicians to twist and laugh with one of the local girls, their
thin waists beneath his hands, bright smiles sharp and pressed close and up.
The local girls are all pretty and skinny and tanned skin beneath thin cotton
dresses. He smiles at them whilst he dances, twirling them around fast as they
giggle and writhe in his grip. Most confide they already have a boy they're
going steady with, but they like him and hint that maybe –
Maybe -
The guitar player doesn’t dance, but Jensen watches girls fetch him mugs of
drink and slices of cherry pie as he stands in judgment of the band playing.
Kasey-Ann turns up half way through the evening, turns her grin from the guitar
player to Jensen before jumping up onto the stage and starts singing along
uninvited.
The thin sound of her reedy little voice works in well with the low tones of
the tea chest bass and Jensen finds himself tapping his foot faster along to
the rhythm.
"Stupid little bitch."
Jensen glances sharply at the guitar player.
"No fucking sense, goddamn little witch."
The guitar player is leaning forward, eyes fixed up on the stage, glare curling
around the girl's shiny black patent leather shoes.
"I… You alright?" Jensen makes himself step closer. "I enjoyed your playing
last week."
"Of course you did. If you've got any damned sense at least."
Jensen nods slowly, "I liked the heat of it, you know? I can't explain, it was
just…"
The guitar player turns then, smiling wide, big white teeth all on show.
"Name's Saul."
"Jensen."
"Pleased to meet you. You play?"
Jensen shakes his head. "Sorry, I... Sorry, I sing a little, but I never learnt
to play an actual instrument."
"You're not from around here are you, kid?"
"No," Jensen flits his eyes back up to Kasey-Ann on the stage, tucked in tight
and whispering to the tea chest player. "No I'm not."
Saul laughs and slings a friendly arm around his shoulders. "Stick around then,
kid. I'll show you what's what and we'll have a time or two."
Kasey-Ann clambers down from the stage after another two songs and Jensen loses
sight of her in the crowd. He's watching Saul bend to laugh and whisper to a
few of the prettier girls, wide mouth brushing lightly against their ears, one
hand touching them on the arm or shoulder at odd intervals.
"Guy's a goddamn tomcat."
"What?" Jensen twists to look over his shoulder, a warm body pressing up close
behind him.
"Saul. Cannot keep it in his damn pants. Tom-cats himself all over this fucking
county and probably has a score of downright nasty diseases to prove it."
"Right." Jensen tries to pull away a little, feeling just a touch warm and
ready for another jug of moonshine.
"Happy to go and stick it to anyone who smiles pretty at him. Thought you might
like to know. Prefers the girls but happy to get his dick sucked by anything
with a mouth." The man's shorter than Jensen, but with broader shoulders, eyes
an unnerving blue. His arm snags out to clutch Jensen's elbow before he can
step further back. "He don't know shit about music, and he don't know shit
about boys, and he is not the sort you want to go hanging your hat on."
"I don't…" Two quick steps back and Jensen is in the thick of the crowd, sun-
browned sweaty bodies sweeping by, people treading on his toes and throwing out
careless apologies. He smiles at Mrs Hayward when he collects a fresh mug of
moonshine from her, murmurs his thanks, and shifts to let the people behind him
reach for their own drinks.
He finds a new place to watch the stage from, leaning up against a post and
drinking fast.
Sometimes he catch Saul's eye and smiles faintly, fingers still tapping along
to the music even though he knows he just not listening anymore.
Later, he's had three more mugs and has almost managed to focus on the band
again. The fiddler doesn't have the technique of Buck, he doesn't think, but
there's a lyrical quality, something that draws up the thought of the old
country and fairy tales Jensen's never heard.
The tea chest bass he loves though, loves the deep vibrations it send through
him, how he's damn sure he can feel it in the marrow of his bones, while the
cornet sets his heart racing as it spirals up.
The end of the night is a blur.
His muscles feel loose with the liquor he's been steadily drinking, face
flushed and pink, mouth damn near aching from smiling so hard at everyone and
everything. His skin itches and he's sure the barn is so hot the hay in the
loft must be just about ready to burst into flame.
He steps forward, intent on speaking to the musicians, letting them know how
damned good he thought they were, and the world tilts just a little.
He laughs, grabbing the post to steady himself, feeling splinters dig deep into
the palm of his hand and not caring much to do anything about it.
He wonders if Saul is still here, if he'd like some company, if he'd even look
at him twice.
The thought of Saul's long fingers on those guitar strings, cradling the
polished wood of the guitar, sliding down the tapered neck- Jensen shudders, a
warm roll of desire curling low in his belly.
One more cup of drink, he decides, one more cup and then he'll see if Saul
hasn't already found some girl dip his dick in.


           [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
Dalhart to Stratford. Over the Stateline and up to Boise City. A few weeks
helping at a milking ranch, unpracticed hands working at stiff teats before
jumping onto another freight car. Getting caught out by the railroad men
between somewhere and nowhere. East onto Buffalo, hunking down low in the back
of an open truck, burning in the day, achy with cold at night. A week at Enid,
frying meat and onions, skirting around Oklahoma City and down to Fort Smith, a
full month there, another Stateline crossed.
Then past Harrison to Haywards Bend.
Jensen tugs the blanket higher over his head, the light is strident, all
morning sharpness and vigor. The bedding smells sweet and musty, mint leaves
and tobacco, cotton ticking a little scratchy, a little worn.
His throat feels dry, that gasped out feeling that he knows from too much
drink, too much smoke, and the bruised ache from letting a man shove into his
mouth, shove deep, shove deeper.
He shudders and the pounding in his head switches up a notch.
"They'll be coffee ready in a few. Ox Eyes too if you think your stomach won't
rebel overmuch."
He remembers Saul's hand curved hot and heavy about his neck, remembers
stumbling to his knees a little, vision swirling and unsteady.
Saul had been heat and sweat and bitterness on his tongue.
"C'mon, sit up, son. Draught of coffee in you and the world'll stop play tilt
'n whirl, promise ya."
He remembers Saul's voice. Sharp and slicing into him. Can't remember the
words, doesn't think he heard them even at the time.
Just that weight pressing at the back of his throat, and a hand snagging tight
about his neck.
Struggling to breathe.
"They had a quarrel one day, Johnny he vowed that he would leave her, Said he
was going away, He's never coming home."
Jensen pokes his head out from beneath the blanket. The guy's voice is syrup
and charcoal, running smooth over slow burning embers.
He squints up at the guy, and it's the fella that warned him off of Saul, just
as he suspected it would be. Still can't quite remember deciding to follow him
home, but that's okay. He's done dumb things before when drunk, running off
with a stranger don't make no never mind.
A yawn catches him unawares, and he struggles to sit up enough to grab the tin
mug of coffee being held out to him.
"So, what d'ya remember from last night?"
Jensen frowns. "Most all of it I think. " He takes a sip of coffee and it's hot
and thick and dark as tar. Café de Olla. Same as daddy used to make, no
filtering the coffee just the grounds thick at the base of the pot. Careful,
now, don't shake it up. Christ, gonna pick coffee out of our teeth all damned
day. He focuses on the mug, the thick swirl of the coffee, the dark scent of
it. "The important stuff anyhow."
"Such as?"
He shrugs. "The music. Downing more mugs of moonshine than I should. Saul
after."
"My name's Christian, in case you was ever thinking about asking for it."
Jensen can feel a faint blush sear his cheeks. "Yeah. Okay. Jensen."
"Nice to meet you, Jensen."
He nods, looking off to the side. The cabin is sparse but well looked after,
the floor freshly swept, a guitar placed carefully atop a high backed chair. He
yawns again, wanting to snuggle back down into the warmth of the bed, curl up
beneath the heavy weight of the blanket and sleep until any of this awkwardness
has gone away.
"Here, finish your coffee, have a few bites of breakfast and I'll let you sleep
'til noon. That work out for you, son?"
Jensen nods gratefully.
The Ox Eyes Christian passes to him in a battered and dented tin plate make his
stomach growl, the heat of the hot sauce, the soft give of the eggs. It's just
a handful of seconds before he's devoured his first helping and Christian is
loading up his plate again.
"Saul's a goddamn little fucker."
Jensen pauses, fork poised halfway to his mouth and dripping hot sauce.
"Never had any goddamn sense, and never knew how to treat..."
Jensen swallows, "Never knew how to treat what?"
Christian's mouth purses for a moment, sharp blue eyes studying Jensen's face,
learning the angles and planes of it. "Never knew how to treat anyone that
didn't respond well to fists. Never knew how to treat folk younger than him,
folk that were messed up or needin'. Damn sure never knew how to treat boys."
He sighs, "Knows fuck all about music too. Now give me your goddamn plate and
sleep off the rest of the drink."
Jensen wakes for the second time to Christian's singing. He doesn't recognize
it this time, not like the earlier few lines from Frankie and Johnnie. It's
something low and soft, the words half lost in the hum of easy melody.
A smallish dog, possibly part beagle, possibly not, has curled up on the bed
whilst Jensen slept. Fur and warmth and meaty breath all snug in the crook of
his body.
"Hello, you," Jensen pats the dogs head clumsily. There's birdsong outside and
the sun has slanted low.
He stretches. He dreamt, he thinks. Something to do with rivers and oceans.
He's never seen the ocean yet, but he's seen some rivers since he's been
travelling. Grassy banked meandering rivers, muddy wide expanses, rushing water
low down between rocky cliff sides. Jensen never learnt to swim but in his
dream he cannot recall any thought of drowning, any fear or lack of air, and
thinks that's what he must have been doing.
Rolling out of the bed, bare feet hitting warm sanded down wood, he looks
around for his shirt. He's still in his pants but all his other clothing seems
to have vanished. His arrival here the previous night is a touch hazy; he can
recall the walk up the hillside to the cabin, tripping over his own feet, roll
of hip and sway to keep himself upright, can recall Christian's arm about his
shoulder's, steering him back onto the path when he got distracted by the low
wild sounds out in the night, deep burr of bullfrogs and creatures he cannot
name.
He can even recall Christian kneeling to help get his boots off as he collapsed
backwards into the bed, warm hands cupped about his feet for a moment.
Beyond that he knows he must have slept, that deep heavy sleep of the drunk and
exhausted.
He moves out onto a wide porch that runs the length of the cabin, leans up
against the doorjamb as he looks down to where Christian is seated Turkish
style on the floor.
He's still singing, words sliding into one another until meaning is lost and
just the gentle cadence remains.
In Christian's hands are three soft furred rabbits, their heads lolling to the
side, necks snapped clean.
Jensen eases himself forward; he's a sense that if he moves too quick, or
speaks, then something will break and the singing will stop and he will never
hear this soft, lulling song again.
He takes one of the rabbits from Christian's hands, the body small and soft and
cold. There's a spare knife lying by Christian's knee, the handle worn, the
blade heavily knicked and dull. The first slit goes down the sternum, then it's
the simple peeling back of skin, the wet meat of the rabbit slipping out whole
and pink and naked.
It's a handful of minutes and then Christian's voice tails off. He nods his
thanks then gathers up the meat and fur, clambering to his feet and going over
to the little cooking lean-to on the side of the cabin. "Stew or just roasted?"
he calls back.
"I should get gone," Jensen answers. "You've been real hospitable, but I should
be going, get along back to town."
"Why? You got a bed to sleep in there? Or you got people to see to, son?"
Christian pauses, one long breath, the light flickering noise of birdsong, the
rustle of the wind through trees, clang of pots and pans. "There's plenty food
here, for tonight at least. Now, do you want these damned conies in a stew or
not?"
Jensen shakes his head though he knows Christian can't see him.
There's a muttered curse from the lean-to, and Jensen finds his shoulders
hunching up around his ears. It's close to evening, far later than the noon
that Christian said he would wake him at. A ghost of gnats hangs heavy in the
air just off the side of the porch, and the small dog that had curled up beside
him on the bed comes and snuffles at his leg.
Beyond pine, and the spilt blood at his feet, he can smell the meat roasting,
the scent dark and smoking and enough to get his mouth watering.
When Christian brings over two plates, the rabbit crackle-skinned and tender,
Jensen bites his lip before spitting out, "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why all this? Why were you bothered with warning me off Saul? I don't
understand."
Christian shrugs. "Eat up."
Jensen glares at him.
"Jesus fuck. Well I'm glad to see you've a bit of a spark about you anyroad.
It's simple – I don't like Saul. I do like you."
Jensen puts his plate down by his feet.
"Christ Almighty. Eat up for fuck's sake. I don't like Saul, he's the Southern
end of a Northbound horse. He thinks all it takes to make music is to strum
that fifth rate guitar of his and tap his foot. He's no thought for anything
but himself and his own dick, and I've seen enough pretty girls and pretty boys
bruised up and crying after he's been done with them."
The dog sniffed delicately at Jensen's plate, whining low in his throat, but
not taking a bite. Jensen picked up the plate but threw down a scrap of meat to
the dog. "He's well trained," he offered.
"Not by me. Not even my dog."
Jensen laughed sharply.
Three scrawny looking chickens peck up close to the cabin, feet and beaks
scratching at the dirt looking for grain or worms.
"Have you looked in the mirror yet? You've bruises all down the side of your
face."
Jensen shrugs. "It's fine." The meat of the rabbit is sweet and salty, almost
too moist. The last of the hangover from last night has left him and the air is
cooling, and gooseflesh is racing up his arms and across his bare chest.
"Where's my shirt?"
"Hanging out to dry. There was blood and... " Christian's mouth quirks a
little. "I'll grab you one of mine."


           [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
Jensen listens to Christian breathe. There's only one bed, but they both stick
neatly to their own side, stripped down to underclothes and a constant
hairsbreadth apart. Christian's face is smooth as he sleeps, the few fine lines
he has washed clean. There's a number of scars trailing their way across his
shoulders and down the line of his back. Some look old, Jensen thinks, very
old.
One, beneath the sharp cut of Christian's shoulder-blade, Jensen recognizes as
being from a belt buckle.
Others he can't fathom out, but the belt buckle he definitely knows.
"Go to sleep."
Christian's eyes are still shut, body still slack, breath even.
Jensen curls down tighter under the blankets.
"Go to sleep, Jensen. Can hear you thinking away. It's loud."
Despite himself Jensen smiles, and settles himself down to sleep.


           [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
Morning brings guitar lessons, Christian's hands curving around Jensen's own,
shaping them for chords. Christian leaning in close, praising him, correcting
him. The strum of the guitar, not playing any tune yet, just learning the sound
and shape, the weight of the instrument in his hands.
Christian leaves him for hours, checks on his snares and traps, maintains the
stills he has hidden deep in the wooded hills and Jensen continues. Hands
memorizing the lines and curves of the guitar, stroking and petting, sounding
out chords over and over.
He forgets to eat, forgets to move, sitting on the edge of the bed, curled over
the guitar, singing absently and low, voice trying to mirror each note, each
rise and fall.
He startles when Christian settles behind him on the bed, so close that breath
slides hot over the back of his neck, and Jensen falls quickly silent.
"This is why."
Jensen twists slightly to catch Christian's eye.
"Saul's an ass, that was part of it." Christian carefully moves Jensen's left
hand a fraction, loosening the grip slightly. "This is the other part. Never
did see someone so wrapped up in listening to music. So focused on it utterly."
Jensen shrugs, pulling away slightly, holding onto the guitar a little bit
tighter.
"Ain't a bad thing, son. Ain't bad at all."


           [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
It's a long walk out of Hayward's Bend, the next town is miles as the crow
flies, and there isn't one single road that goes in anything approaching a
straight-line.
Jensen has a pack full of gorditas and dried meat, cheese wrapped in wax paper
and a flask full of Christian's home-brewed shine. He also carries an old
guitar, a little battered, but still sounding sweet.
***** interlude *****


           [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002rds9]
 
The guy must be well off, sharp clothes, goddamn silk scarf knotted about his
neck, and driving a Dodge Model 30. Still, he'd pulled over for Jensen to
clamber in, all unwashed and sweaty in the heat of the midday.
They've not spoken since the first muttered thank you and where you headed,
boy? And Jensen finds he quite likes the silence, just the noise of the engine
sputtering hard as it races along, and the vicious whip of the wind as they
sail by.
The seats vibrate and jounce him somewhat but he finds it lulling; too many
months – years now? – spent on the road.
On foot. Hopping railroads. Hitching rides.
Jensen smiles a little, glancing out at the river that lies to the side of the
road, it don't look grand enough to be the Mississippi, but that bound to be
where it leads to.
The automobile has a rhythm all of its own, shimmying and growling along the
roads, shaking a little when they crest a hill and the motion echoes deep
through Jensen's bones.
A town comes into sight along the horizon. Jensen doesn't know it's name,
doesn't know a thing about it beyond that he's never been there before and it's
the next place he's gonna be.
***** New Orleans *****

       [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002da0a/s320x240]
My sweetheart, he's a drunkard, Lord, Lord, drinks down in New Orleans.
The only thing a drunkard needs is a suitcase and a trunk.
The only time he's satisfied is when he's on a drunk.
Fills his glasses to the brim, passes them around.
Only pleasure he gets out of life is hoboin' from town to town.
One foot is on the platform and the other one on the train.
I'm going back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain.
Going back to New Orleans, my race is almost run.
Going back to spend the rest of my days beneath that Rising Sun.
~ Traditional
 
Storyville. He had found an old and tattered blue book, lady and fan on the
cover, lists of sporting houses inside. Thorough as to prices, services, how
the houses were decorated, how the houses were stocked. He'd felt a sick twist
in his stomach as he'd read, though the book had been published ten years ago
and most all the houses had moved on.
Though he suspects a number of the girls were still doing the rounds.
New Orleans is hot. The air is moist and hot, making his shirt stick to his
ribs, the sun was hot and he had sharp red sunburn curling around the back of
his neck, and the jazz –
The jazz was definitely hot.
Jensen is dressed to the nines. Tight fitted jacket (narrow shoulders, high
pinched in waist) in dark gray, white starched shirt with high winged collar,
cream silk tie. His shoes are shined bright, a pair of dark Oxfords that pinch
somewhat but look good enough that Jensen doesn't mind the blisters all that
much.
It's all from the pawn shop.
All pawned goods, bought in by folk desperate and needing.
Jensen wonders what can drive a man to hock his shoes.
He looks into the mirror as he slicks his hair. He hasn't got the hang of this
quite yet, can't get it to lay smooth and sleek like the gents in the movies
and on the bandstand he sees. The mirror is only a fragment that shows half his
face at a time, and he's unsure how he looks, if he looks like he's only
playing dress up.
He's just a couple dollars in his pocket, nothing much, enough for a drink or
two, last of his funds after getting the clothes out of the hock shop.
Taking one last look in the mirror, rolling back shoulders that still ache from
work (running errands, delivering coal, sweeping up) he steps out of his room
and onto the landing. The room below isn't overfull. Marie, the only prostitute
to still work and live at The Red Door, is playing poker with Mr. Vincent, who
owns the place. Long feathers are arranged in Marie's hair, and her nails are
painted absinthe green. Vernon, a large man with thinning hair and perpetually
sweaty brow, is wiping down the long wooden bar.
"Well, lookie at that. You go around all spit and shined like that, sweetheart,
and you'll have all the men knocking at your door instead of mine." Marie
smiles up at him and throws him a wink. "You trying to put me out of business,
Jen darling?"
Jensen shakes his head. He likes Marie, she always has alka seltzer on hand for
when he's had a few too many, and has a stack of creams and lotions for any
bruises or aches he picks up. She sits with him sometimes when he's curled up
on his bed, head thumping and stomach cramping and tells him tales of the old
days. Singing blues at the doorway to her little crib on Basin street, getting
business as much for her voice as she did for her body. The one season she'd
worked at Mahogany Hall, and the shine and glitter of the mirrored parlor, Lulu
White and her red wig. "I don't think you've anything to worry about," he
murmurs, stepping over to leave a light kiss on her cheek. "Prettiest woman
alive."
Marie throws back her head a lets out a sharp, high pitched cackle. "Sweet
talker!"
Mr. Vincent nods at his clothes. "Living the high life now, aren't we."
"Sir?"
Mr. Vincent shakes his head, glances down at his cards then back up to Jensen.
"See you look after yourself, boy. Just cause the men will be dapper and rich
don't mean you ever turn your back on them." He shuffles his cards to his
liking. "How much funds you got on you?"
"Two dollars, sir."
Mr. Vincent purses his lips, sparing one long that went from Jensen's feet to
the top of his head. "Vernon," he barks out. "Bring the cash box here."
"Sir, no, I..." Jensen stammers.
"Here you go, Mr. Vincent, sir." Vernon scuttles over, holding out the old cash
box with green paint flaking off it.
Mr. Vincent plucks a key from his waistcoat and opens the box, long elegant
fingers shuffling delicately through the contents. He pulls out a small fold of
bills and holds them out to Jensen. "Put half in your pocket book, the other in
your shoe."
"No, sir."
"Jensen."
"No, sir. Thank you, sir." Jensen takes a step back. "I don't want charity.
I've got enough, and I earnt it. Thank you but no."
"You’re a stupid, stubborn boy."
"Sorry, sir."
Mr. Vincent shot Marie a look, watching her roll her eyes and trying not to
laugh. "Well, if you are going to dig your heels in it doesn't seem like there
is anything I can do about it, does there. Where are you going tonight?"
"Just The Ballroom, sir."
"Hmm. Well, I've a marker from the bartender, Renee, over there. You have any
trouble, you just go and have a word with him, tell him my name and tell him I
would take it as a kindness if you wouldn't end up knifed in the gutter."
Jensen sighed, glancing up to the ceiling. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
Smiling and shaking his head, Mr. Vincent dismissed Jensen. "Go on then, get
out of here. Some of us have a business to run."
"Yes, sir."
On the street it smells of honeysuckle and sweat and the sewers. Jensen is
already too hot, mopping at his brow. He'd run out of funds before he could
pick up a hat, and although the sun is slanting low, the heavy weight of it
unshaded makes him feel a little faint, lungs striving for more air.
Some of the Speakeasies he passed are obvious, music and laughter heard clear
onto the street, others are hidden away, you had to pass through hardware
stores or sneak up back alleys to find yourself frisked by large doormen who
patted you down and sneered at you at the same time. The old cribs are more
visible, narrow doors and windows, sweep of balconies, flash of skin and sex
behind heavy swags of bougainvillea.
The doorman at The Ballroom recognizes him, sends him a sketchy smile and waves
him through. It isn't one of the fanciest clubs in New Orleans, one step up
from a juke joint, paint peeling off the walls, and more than a few folk
spitting on the floor. Gardenias thick and white and fleshy, lush with scent,
nestle in dark hair though, and cottons are cleaned and starched, best lace
gathered at necks and wrists. All the day's dirt and grime has been washed
clean away, best striped pants, cork soled shoes, and turned up collars on
display. The band hasn't started yet, and couples use the dance-floor to nod
and smile at each other, exchanging pleasantries.
Jensen doesn't know any of the crowd here, has never been here, front of house
before. Is more used to being let in the back door, making himself useful by
setting up the bandstand, cleaning the musicians' instruments, fetching drinks.
No money from this of course, just the chance to stand behind the bandstand and
listen to that swing.
He edges around the crowd, too nervous to try and find his way through the
center. At the bar he gets a cocktail and doesn't ask what's in it. He resists
the urge to ask the barman if he's Renee, and how on earth he let a man like
Mr. Vincent hold his marker.
Mr. Vincent is a good guy if you work for him and he likes you, but Jensen's
under no allusions about his boss, get on the wrong side of him and you won't
live long enough to miss your kneecaps.
The drink isn't good, tastes sour and not all the mint in the world can
disguise the rough taste of bathtub gin made by a rank amateur.
Small round tables circle the dance-floor, and Jensen snags a seat at the table
to the furthest left, out of the way of the main crowd, but tucked up close to
the bandstand.
He's thankful no one approaches him. He's no talent for getting folk to leave
him be, can't fathom how to tell them 'no' and 'not interested'. The politest
small talk is beyond him and he's been caught before, stuck for hours listening
to the minutiae of someone's daily comings and goings, unable to get away.
He stretches out his legs in front of him and rolls his shoulders again,
feeling the suit jacket pull tight and restricting.
Charles Theo Walker steps onto the bandstand, resplendent in black tie and
tails, and throws out winks and smirks to the audience. "My dearest Ladies,
Gentlemen - and those that have slipped in through the back door - I welcome
you to The Ballroom." Charles is beautiful, hair slicked back immaculately,
dark eyes both sharp and warm, long slender fingers past the perfect white of
his cuffs. "And I would kindly ask that you welcome to the stage the most
celebrated jazz band of the age - The Walker Syncopators."
The crowd duly cheers and claps, and Jensen leans forward as the rest of the
orchestra take to the stage.
Before New Orleans he'd never seen a band with more than six members, and this
- ?
This is something beyond what he ever dreamt might be. There are cornets and
saxophones, drums and piano, trombone, double bass, guitar, vibes, percussion.
They start up right away, launching themselves into a quick number that has the
crowd in a lather. Young girls being thrown about by their partners, people
wriggling about to the beat and rhythm, shoulder and hips shaking, bodies
popping across the wide smooth dancefloor.
Jensen's feet and fingers are caught in the rhythm instantly. The cornets are
good, damn good, circling around each other, calling out to each other, the
sound bright and loud.
The Big Noise.
He wants to move his hips too. Wants to move his entire body to this rhythm,
wants to leap up, and show how this music makes his bones dance.
The band launch into song after song. Charles Theo Walker addresses the crowd
now and again, points out the soloists, asks the audience to applaud their
efforts. Ladies and gents Mr Hale Jones. On saxophone Cesar La Motte. Please
give a hand to Mr Kentucky Willis on drums.
Jensen's skin prickles, he feels hot and tired and jumpy all at once, like he's
sunburnt all over and been drinking nothing but café au lait.
He doesn't move from his seat until the band take a break, then he spends the
last of his cash on another drink which he downs in one long gulp.
The second sets starts and he finds his seat again. It's getting late, well
past midnight, and the songs turn low and bluesy.
Deep notes, blue notes, full of pain and acceptance.
Jensen finds himself shutting his eyes to better appreciate the sound.
By then end of the set he is half gone, eyes unfocused, feeling more drunk than
if he'd had of had a gallon to drink. He can feel it in his blood, and sweeping
across his skin, it reminds him of Christian singing as he kissed his neck, of
that messy haired boy who'd teased him beyond endurance. It's twitching down in
his muscles, uncurling bright and hot in his belly, his bones are light and
heavy at once, his marrow liquid.
When the set finally ends and the band falls silent he gets up and makes his
way to the edge of the bandstand. A few of the musicians smile or nod at him,
call out vague greetings. A couple whistle, commenting on his suit.
Charles Theo Walker crouches down on the edge of the bandstand, looks into his
eyes for a few long drawn out seconds. "Wait here. I'll be done in a few."
Jensen nods, breath short, body thrumming with want.
He watches vaguely as instruments are packed away and appointments made for the
next day. Some of the guys are heading off somewhere else to carry on playing,
others are going home to sweethearts, more are eying up some of the girls that
linger, throwing long looks over bare pretty shoulders.
"Jensen?"
Charles is doing the rounds, speaking to each of his musicians, praising and
criticizing. Letting them know that he heard that slip on the forth bar, that
he'd never heard the drums so good so sharp and fast, and what in the Christ
happened to that poor cornet?
"Jensen Ackles, that you?"
A tentative touch to his shoulder and he's spinning round, half jumping out of
his skin.
"Damn, look at you! Jesus Christ, Jensen Ackles!"
The face is vaguely familiar, smooth dark skin, wide eyes, touch of humor about
the mouth. But it's the thick Texas accent that has him stepping back sharply.
"I would never have credited it but it looks like you done just fine after you
run off like you did." A long stare at Jensen's clothes, "Just fine indeed!"
"I'm sorry, I..." It hits him then – Old Man Joseph's kid, little Joey, who'd
been a scrawny kid when he'd left, just shot up from his growth spurt, all skin
and bones. "Joey?"
"In the flesh." Joey laughs, just throws back his head and laughs. "Folk would
never have believed you'd make it out here, make something of yerself. Goddamn,
there was bets that you was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, that the storm had
got ya. That or your daddy, mean sonovabitch that he was, had finally done and
killed ya. But here you is!" Joey laughs again, then sobers, ducking his head,
"You heard anything of your folks since you left?"
Jensen shakes his head. "No, didn't never try to neither. Left that behind."
"Okay. Right. Well."
"What is it, Joey?"
"Your daddy died. About a year back now. Fell from a wagon and bust his neck
and back up some. Didn't kill him, but he couldn't walk no more, and, well,
folk said there was other things he couldn't do neither. Right arm was useless,
left still worked some mind. Your mama cared for him."
Out of the corner of his eye Jensen can see Charles waiting for him, hanging
back all politeness 'til they're done talking. "What happened then?"
"No one right knows. Found him dead, sitting in his chair, shot clean through
his throat. Little pistol down by his left hand."
"And Mama?"
"Nowhere to be seen. Just gone." Joey hisses out a breath. "Don't worry none
though, authorities put it down to suicide. Said he did it all hisself, so she
don't got to hide."
Jensen nods at this. "Okay. Okay. Thank you for letting me know." His hand
flutters for a moment, dancing up near his throat and back down again. "Thanks,
Joey, for letting me know," he repeats.
 

            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
 
Charles lives top of a store that sells just about everything. It's an old
attic, and he shares it with five other men, all band mates, and they string up
old sheets to act as barriers when they are wanting some privacy. As they walk
up the stairs Jensen knows Charles is talking to him but can't hear the words.
All he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears and something that sounds like
the wind, high and frightened.
He wishes he could be listening to the music Charles and his Syncopators had
been playing earlier. Fast and hot, or low and bluesy. Something to fill his
head.
It's hot and stuffy in the attic and Charles throws open a couple of windows –
And there it is, faint, caught on a fine breeze, the call of the saxophone.
Jensen smiles slightly.
Charles's hand curls about his waist, fingers tapping out a light rhythm on his
hipbone. "You back with me now, Jen? Seems like you went away for a bit there."
"Hmm," Jensen leans back into the long hard line of Charles body, feels his
hands come round to holding him tighter. "Sorry."
"That's alright." Charles kisses the spot just behind Jensen's ear, lips warm
and soft. "You alright?"
"Hmm," Jensen hums again. "I'm fine. I'm just fine now." He shimmies back a
little, smiling as Charles clutches him tighter, kisses then nips at his skin.
They've messed around backstage some – quick kisses and gropes, Charles rubbing
Jensen off through the thin material of his corduroys, Jensen sinking to his
knees when they've got five minutes between sets and Charles is jumpy with the
buzz of it all – but they haven't never come back to Charles' place before.
Charles' bed before.
Jensen squirms, wants to be out of these clothes, wants bare skin, and Charles
heavy against his back, wants to be sweaty and breathless and hurting so good.
"Patience," Charles chuckles in his ear, voice low, deep as a double bass, and
rumbling through his spine making him squirm harder, rocking his hips back
sharply. "Ain't no need to rush now that I got you here, ain't no need at all."
Another lick and sharp bite behind his ear and Jensen is moaning, breath
hitching.
"Taste you fine right here," Charles confides, "All sweet and salt and just
real fine."
A sharper bite, a little lower on the throat, then Charles is suckling at it,
bruising it up, and Jensen is tilting his head to give him more room before
he's even thought about it. His own hand going back to hold Charles' head
there.
"Mark up so easy," Charles pants against his neck when he pulls slightly away.
"All you white boys do, bruise and mark at the slightest thing."
One last little sting as Charles' teeth find a fresh part of Jensen's skin and
then Jensen is being twisted round, so that they are chest to chest, pressing
sloppy kisses at each other, Jensen's hands molded to Charles' shoulder blades,
Charles with one hand hooked around the nape of Jensen's neck, and one pressing
tight against the small of Jensen's back, up beneath his jacket against the
damp sweat of his shirt.
The saxophone outside the window plays on, the sound spiraling up.
Charles pulls away long enough to arrange the white sheets that hang off
washing lines around his bed. He tugs Jensen by the hand until they are hidden
away. "Come on, off now," he pulls at Jensen's tie as Jensen laughs, giddy.
"Finally," Jensen huffs, fingers tugging at buttons, shoulders shimmying out of
his jacket, dropping all his fine clothes to the floor. He strips as fast he
can, shoes toed off, suit pants skimmed down his legs, manages faster than
Charles, and turns to help him.
Beneath his clothes Charles is fine strong muscles and perfect smooth skin, he
smells of sweat and chickory and Jensen presses his face to the hot skin at
Charles sternum, breathing in deeply.
It seems to Jensen that Charles is touching him everywhere. Hands skating down
his spine, finding the curve of his ass, stroking back up his flanks, circling
around again.
"Should have done this the first time I seen you," Charles walks them backwards
towards the bed. "Pretty little thing, gaping up at me while we're practicing
on the bandstand, all big green eyes and freckles." Jensen's calves hit the bed
and he tumbles backwards. "Never did see someone look so burnt up just standing
there on their own, nobody touchin' them, no one even whispering sweet and
dirty in their ear. Had this look on your face like you was getting your dick
sucked for the first time, and you couldn't believe it was actually happening."
Jensen shakes his head, but reaches out to pull Charles down on top of him.
"You're talking nonsense."
Charles wraps one hand around Jensen's cock, long, agile fingers squeezing and
learning the feel and curve of it. "Not so. Looked a little like you do now.
Flushed pink, mouth open like there just ain't quite enough air, eyes open as
wide as they can be so you don't miss a thing." A wriggle and Charles' own cock
is pressed up against Jensen's and everything feels hot and fierce and
dizzying. "Looked like you was just about to spurt and you didn't care a thing
if everyone saw."
"Christ," Jensen curses as Charles squeezes a little tighter, closes his eyes
and trying to hold on. "Shut up. Shut up, please."
"Shut up and do what - ?" One finger is trailing back behind Jensen's balls,
sliding back and playing light over his hole. "This what I should be doing?
Getting myself in here? Pushing up into you until you scream and want to die
from being so full, from feelin' so good."
Jensen gasps, spine rolling as Charles' words flow over him. He spreads his
legs wider, trying to push back, chest heaving.
Suddenly there's oil, or lotion, something slick and cool being pressed into
him and he shivers from the contact. He winces a little as one long finger
presses up and in. It's been awhile since he last did this, last knew someone
well enough to be taken back to their bed and not just taken the time for hands
and mouths in a back alley somewhere. Charles' other hand has left his cock and
is petting at his belly, stroking and soothing like he thinks Jensen's going to
have a change of heart and pull away.
Jensen is just about to growl at him, to shove back harder, demand more, when
he hears the door to the attic open and a rabble of voices as at least three
men enter.
He stills, body locked in place, eyes darting from Charles' face to the thin
protection of the sheets that surround them and move gently in the breeze.
He tries to twitch away from the hold Charles has on him, but Charles is
suddenly moving, one hand reaching up to cup his face, thumb trailing over his
cheekbone. "It's alright, Darling," Charles whispers, voice soft and low. "No
one here but you and me. No one at all. Not even Jim Crow. It's just you and
me."
The finger still pressed hot up inside him twitches and Jensen gasps loudly.
A laugh sounds from the other side of the sheet and Jensen feels his face flush
brighter.
"Just you and me," Charles repeats, then presses in a second finger, smiling as
Jensen pushes back into the burn and stretch of it.
The fingers dance and shimmy about in him, pressing in deep, then darting back
to stretch and play with the rim, thumb pressed up tight behind his balls, and
he's sweating and writhing on the bed, air punched out of his lungs every time
Charles' fingers manage to graze that spot inside of him.
It's too much and just as Jensen's sure he can't take anymore, thighs and belly
tense, body straining towards release, Charles's hands retreat and shift,
turning him over onto his stomach, knees drawn a little way up, face pressed
into the pillow.
Jensen pants wetly into the pillow as Charles begins to slide himself in. It's
too much, too big, too hard. He keens a little, shuddering, hands flexing to
grip at the bedding.
It's too much.
He's split open and pushing back desperately, and then from just beyond the
thin white sheets, so close it feels like it's half an inch from his ear comes
the low wail of a trombone, and a high scaling note from a fiddle and the band
begins to play.
It's too much, and Jensen cries out as his body convulses, and tightens, and
sparks.
He collapses down onto the bed, Charles still rocking up hard into him, and
listens to the music.
 

            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
 
Marie laughs at the little bruises high up on his throat, Mr. Vincent frowns
slightly, thin lips pursed and discontent. Jensen waves lightly to them where
sit, still playing at their game of poker, as he drags himself up the stairs to
his room.
His clothes are dirty and rumpled, stained in places and he shucks them off,
kicking them into a corner of the room next to Christian's guitar, ready for
laundry.
He smiles as the fragment of mirror shows him the kiss-bites Charles had given
him, and he presses his hand to one, gasping at the sudden hurt and heat that
shoots through him.
He stretches just to feel his muscles ache and protest, before crawling into
his own bed, curling himself around the pillow, humming a snatch of the tune
that had surrounded him when he lay in Charles' bed.
As sleep comes he wonders where his Mama has run off to.
***** interlude *****
            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002rds9]
The weather is cooling and he's nursing a black eye, huddled into the corner of
the railway car, knees tucked up under his chin, arms wrapped tight about his
legs, trying to drift off and away.
He's been in three fights in the last two weeks.
Two were over his coat, a long fur-lined winter coat with deep pockets, that
fell to mid-calf and swamps him effortlessly.
He'd won those, busting up his knuckles, and bruising his ribs but he'd won all
the same.
The third fight had been about something else and he'd lost, lost bad. Got
kicked in the head and was almost glad everything was blurry from that point
on, guitar smashed to tinder beneath heavy booted feet.
Still, they'd left him his coat, and with the weather turning sharp and chill,
and as the train races further north he knows to be glad.
 

            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
 
It's night and he wakes to warmth draped over him, heavy and confining.
He startles and claws backwards, kicking his legs out , and yelling.
"Hey shhh, now, just shhh."
Hands pin his wrists and he fights and tries to wrench himself away.
"Don't, hey, it's alright."
He's let go of suddenly, and he presses his back into the wall as hard as he
can.
"You okay? Didn't mean to frighten you so bad. It's just me, and it’s cold.
It's all alright, promise."
The voice is pitched low, like how Jensen's heard folk talk to spooked horses,
and he glances up. Tall with messy brown hair, wide mouth, and one hand held
out carefully in front of him.
"You okay now? Everything is okay."
Jensen nods. It's the same kid as back in a railroad car in North Texas.
Years ago now.
He relaxes a little against the wall of the car, unballing his fists. "Sorry,"
he murmurs.
"No, it's alright," the kid eases forward, moving slow like Jensen's in danger
of bolting. "My fault. Alright?"
Jensen nods, and fights to stay still and relaxed as the kid curves his large
body around Jensen's. Jensen's hand goes to the fly on the kid's pants, and
jumps as a larger hand suddenly wraps itself around his own.
"None of that."
He looks away, off to the side, and blushes.
"Hey," the kid bends and twists to skate a kiss softly across his mouth. "Sleep
now, yeah?"
Jensen holds his breath for a moment then slumps down further into the kid's
warmth and hold and lets the rumbling of the train help him drift away.
***** New York *****

       [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002f1ka/s320x240]
It's autumn in New York that brings the promise of new love.
Autumn in NewYork is often mingled with pain.
Dreamers with empty hands may sigh for exotic lands;
It's autumn in New York;
It's good to live again.
~ Vernon Duke
 
Jensen can still taste the last remnants of the Reuben sandwich he'd had at the
drugstore. Fifty cents for a glass of milk and a sandwich thick enough to make
his jaw ache. Millie, behind the counter, looking at him through her thick
horn-rimmed glasses whilst he eats, bobbed hair a faint mousy brown and dark
beauty spot on her upper lip. She'd tried to catch his eye, and given him a
slice of shoofly pie on the house.
He'd smiled at her faintly as he left, the cost of the pie awkward and heavy in
his pocket, and hadn't answered when she'd asked if he'd be back tomorrow.
Across the street and he's in the park. The trees are growing skeletal, rotting
leaves piling up at the edges of the path, and he watches skinny children
launch themselves into the mounds with abandon. The wind is chill and bites
into him but Ivan has lent him his long woolen scarf, knitted by a long dead
aunt or grandmother, in recompense for kicking Jensen out of their rooms for
the afternoon.
He's been in New York for three weeks and is on his fifth digs.
He'd stayed with a guy called Moe first, met him on the ferry, and followed him
back to his one room above a butchers.
He'd slept in Moe's dirty sheets that smelt of offal and baby sick. Was happy
to let Moe fuck him when he felt like it, sweaty yellow stained hands squeezing
at his thighs and clamping down hard over his mouth, stringy little dick poking
into him. But he had balked and left, gathering up his one spare set of
clothes, when Moe ground little white tablets into baby-fine powder and spiked
his drink with them to loosen him up.
Left the next day as soon as he could see straight.
He'd slept in alleys for a night or two – curling away from mangy dogs and cops
walking the beat, then met Richard who had a sweet, vague smile and wore a
homburg hat and offered him a space on his couch.
Hadn't asked for money.
Hadn't tried to touch him or stared at him as he stripped down to his
undershirt and shorts at night.
Just wanted to help.
Jensen left as soon as he could, as soon as he'd gotten work cleaning shrimp at
the docks and had five dollars in his pocket. Slick twist of knife down the
center, and spearing out the length of vein, fingers damp and sticky, stench of
seaweed and rotting fish.
Then there had been Iris, who was pretty with wide blue eyes and a laughing
mouth and picked up men at a blind pig called The Hot Spot. She'd had a good
heart, and got beaten by her pimp every second day and twice on Sundays. He'd
stayed with her a week, curled together on the same bed, her small body tucked
in under his chin and whimpering in her sleep.
She hadn't come home one night and he prays she's gone back to New Jersey and
to her mother.
Michael was mean and vicious.
Five days and nights were five days and nights too long.
He still has the bruises, still limps, still jumps at loud noises.
Ivan was alright though. Too caught up in his own world of drink and drugs and
sex to pay much mind to Jensen. Kicks Jensen out the rooms they share when he's
got company over, for which Jensen is grateful. He's known too many folk that
would have asked him to join in.
Would have made him join in.
He pauses at the edge of the park, still unused to the big city traffic.
Automobiles race by. He wonders where they are all hurrying off to.
Wonders if they are escaping from something.
Or if it's something they are hurrying towards.
It's loud and it's smoky and it makes his heart beat that little bit quicker
whenever the horns sound and street vendors yell loud over the sheer cacophony
of it all.
He darts across the road, weaving in and out of the cars and holding his breath
as drivers slow to berate him out of their windows.
He pulls his scarf in tighter and slips down an alleyway, feet tripping over
rotting cabbage heads and discarded chicken bones. A stray dog barks at him, a
thin high yelp, but when Jensen looks at it, it cowers away, tail down and
between its legs.
He pulls himself up a rusted fire escape and through a warped and rotting door.
Inside it's only slightly warmer, and he hurries through the corridor and down
the stairs into the main room where the heating is on.
The club is owned and maintained by George Taylor, who has spent more of his
adult life behind bars than not, but has only ever been pinched for the petty
stuff. Stealing wallets, owning a gun without a license. None of the things
Jensen knows he's capable of, guilty of.
Arson.
Robbery.
Murder.
Jensen darts into a small bathroom and washes his face quickly, scrubbing it
dry on a towel that's mottled with faded bloodstains. Mr. Taylor is particular
about cleanliness, gets disgruntled when people turn up to work at the club
with smudges of dirt across their faces or their hair out of place.
Jensen does not want to make Mr. Taylor unhappy.
He smoothes down his hair, and steps calm and unhurried out into the main room.
Mr. Taylor's right hand man is called Norman, but is generally known as Butch.
A large man, with heavy muscles and a smile as sweet as a child's.
"Hi, Norman," Jensen greets, keeping his voice quiet and respectful. So far
he's had no trouble with Norman, even seems to be liked by the man.
"Hi, Jenny!" Norman grins, teeth badly spaced, one front tooth plated in gold.
"You’re here early."
"Nowhere else to be, thought it'd be good to get started early," he pauses. "Is
that alright?"
"Sure. The boss likes hard workers. You ain't expecting more money though, are
you, kid? Mr. Taylor won't be wanted to give you extra just cause you're here
early."
"No, nothing like that, I promise. I'm happy with the wage Mr. Taylor gives
me."
"That's okay then!" Norman cracks a strange high pitched laugh and gestures to
the tables set in front of the bandstand still littered with glasses and peanut
shells from the revelries of the night before. "Get at it then. Expecting a big
night tonight, always get a crowd on a Saturday. Folk like to go to church the
next day with a few sins on their minds." He laughs again, and Jensen starts to
clear away the debris.
As he works Jensen hums to himself. It isn't hard work, cleaning up the mess
then setting up the bar before the night's cliental show up for drink, jazz,
and debauchery. And after, as long as he's done a good job, Mr. Taylor doesn't
mind if he sticks around and listens to the house band play.
If he keeps working the two jobs, cleaning shrimp during the day in the week,
and shifting for Mr. Taylor at night and the weekends it won't take more than
another week or two before he can buy himself an used gramophone and a jazz
record or two to listen to at home.
He sweeps some broken glass into a pan, small shards glinting under the house
lights, some stained red with blood like rubies.
"Got some new fellas in the band tonight," Norman tells him as he gathers up
the tablecloths for the Chinese laundry down the street. "Two new trumpets and
a bull fiddle."
"Yeah?" Jensen doesn't pause in his work, shoving the linen into a sack.
"Yeah, Mr. Taylor had to get rid of the last lead trumpet."
Terry, Jensen's mind supplies. Not the greatest lead trumpet he'd heard but
steady and reliable. Has a wife and three little ones. "Why'd he have to do
that?"
Norman's mouth turns down in the corners. "Caught him skimming from the top.
Had to go."
Jensen wonders if Norman had killed Terry or just shattered his kneecaps and
bent his fingers into warped pretzels.
He takes a deep breath, his voice steady. "The new guys any good?" he asks.
"Seems so." Norman doesn't know anything about jazz. Anything about music.
"Come highly recommended."
Jensen nods and goes back to his work.
 

            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
 
Jensen's been around guns his whole life, knows the smell of gun oil, the feel
of smooth metal under his hands. His daddy had kept two rifles and a pistol and
taught him to shoot coyotes when he was ten, recoil bruising his shoulder deep
swirling shares of purple. Still, the tommy guns in George Taylor's office make
his fingers itch and his stomach tighten.
He stands on the edge of the rug, trying not to shift from foot to foot, face
as schooled as he can get it.
"Ackles?"
"Yes, sir?" He's pleased his voice doesn't quaver.
"I've been glad of the hours you've put in here. You work hard, keep yourself
smart and agreeable whilst doing so." Mr. Taylor is dapper and elegant, sharp
black suit and hair neatly combed. In his early fifties by Jensen's reckoning,
but looks younger. His voice is rich and full with a heavy British accent that
Jensen hasn't worked out if it's genuine or not.
"Thank you, sir." The tightness in Jensen's chest easies a little, but he still
feels twitchy standing here, wants to get away, wants to run.
"Where is it you work during the week, again, Ackles?"
"Over at McKay's, Sir. At the docks, cleaning shrimp."
"Right," Mr. Taylor's drawl tells Jensen how unimpressed he is with that and he
feels his body tighten again. "I want you to pack that job in. You've shown
yourself trustworthy and diligent," Mr. Taylor pauses, eyes searching Jensen's
face. "I want you cleaning and tidying the club during the day, and tending bar
in the evening. I'll match your last wages and add on five percent on top."
Jensen feels his breath catch a little.
"Well?"
"Thank you, Sir," he stammers, cheeks flushing a little. "You're very
generous."
Mr. Taylor smiles finally. "Be loyal and we won't have any problems. Go see
Norman to find out your new hours and duties and you can start tonight." He
turns to his desk and the paperwork and ledgers spread out there. "You can go."
Jensen mutters his thanks again and beats a hasty retreat.
 

            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
 
Soft and low. Hot and fast. Jensen finds his hips twisting and jiving to the
music from behind the bar. He serves up dirty cocktails, and fills trays full
of drinks for the band, tries not to get so caught up the music that he misses
a customer waiting to be served.
The three new guys in the band have added something to the sound. The new lead
trumpet wails and calls, spiraling high before blasting out whinnies with his
mute. The second trumpet follows him at counter point, a little lower, a little
softer, but echoing and adding to the tune.
The bull fiddle is –
Jensen can feel the low and deep rumble of it, the bass of it settling into his
spine, turning it to jelly, making something sharp and painful twist in his
gut. The player is tall and dark, and Jensen wishes desperately that his
eyesight was better, that he could see clearly the guy's hands on the bow and
plucking the strings. Wishes he could see the guy's dark eyes, could watch the
quirks and ticks of his mouth.
He doesn't drink, doesn't dare let himself, as unsure of his own reactions as
he is Mr. Taylor's temper, and at the end of the night he is weary on his feet
and hard and wanting. As desperate for sleep as he is crazed for a touch and
the heat of another body.
The band sit around laughing and joking after the customers have all gone home,
and Jensen brings them over tall glasses of liquor, serving them fast and neat,
trying not to let his eyes linger or fingers brush theirs as he passes out the
drinks.
He gets a slap on the ass from the trombone player as thanks, and flushes as
the man laughs filthily at his blush.
Norman smiles at him, "Did good tonight. Sit down," he nods to a spare seat,
"Have a drink. The boss won't mind none now the crowd's gone home, Jenny."
He seats himself as the men laugh at him, he's opposite the bull fiddle player
and he keeps his eyes on his hands as he snags a drink.
His face feels hot, but his eyes are drooping as he listens to the band dissect
their set. They argue good naturedly about their playing, twisting each other's
words, and declaring themselves virtuosos.
There's a hand on his knee, and he must have dozed off because the rest of the
band has gone and it's just the bull fiddle player kneeling in front of him and
smiling up at him.
"Come on, Kid, time to go home. You're all done in and some of us need our
beauty sleep."
Jensen yawns. "Sorry," he mumbles. Close up he can see how dark his eyes really
are, how strong his jaw-line, dark with beard, is.
"I'm Jeff."
He ducks his head, feeling dizzy as he stands. "Jensen."
"Good to meet you, kid. Now, tell me where I can drop you."
 

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Jensen dreams that night, twisted away from where Ivan is sweating and
muttering in his sleep. He dreams of large hands and a fast rhythm, of hot
summer nights and even hotter mouths nipping and sucking across his skin that
already feels burnt and electric.
He dreams of feeling raw and used, strung out and dazed. Hands that twist and
turn him, manhandling into any position they like.
He dreams of wide smiles and eyes the color of mahogany and wicked laughs that
raise the hair on the back of his neck.
He dreams of being pounded into with the exact same rhythm of Chimes Blues.
 

            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002s5b7]
 
The band practice on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. Jensen tries to
keep to minimum the sweeping and cleaning he needs to do, listens in as they
debate what order the songs should be played in and who gets what solo.
He tries to keep himself out the way, close enough that he can hear everything
but mostly out of sight, mostly inconspicuous.
Sometimes he'll glance over from where he's wiping down the bar and he'll be
certain Jeff is looking at him, even though he's too far away to see his eyes.
He'll smile then, and feel his face heating, and stare down at the wood his
cleaning more intently.
Sometimes Mr. Taylor sits in on these practices, back rigid, fedora in hand,
and then Jensen tries extra hard not to be noticed, to be nothing but a ghost,
working silent and careful.
In the evenings when the band plays and he's serving up drinks he finds himself
ignoring the offers he gets. Men and women smile at him and it doesn't even
occur to him what they want, what they are after, until he has served them
their drinks, taken their money, and sent them on their way. He gets
embarrassed sometimes afterwards, like he's been rude or discourteous to have
refused them.
He begins to look forward to the end of the night, when he'll sit in a loose
formed circle with the band, sitting close to Jeff, and listen to their banter
and jokes. They speak about women and jazz, make bets and cash-in markers.
Sometimes his eyes slip shut during this time and he learns to know the men by
their laughs-
Maxim, who brays horse-like, and always twists the conversation back onto girls
and the fresh, panting scent of them. Ernst, who snickers low beneath his
breath, and sucks in air between his teeth before making a dirty comment about
the curvy, fleshy weight of rounded hips or the sweet, pink ripeness of women.
Felix, who rarely laughs and never at the filth the others spout, and always
mentions his wife in the most respectful way, the loose curls of her hair, the
pretty elegance of her hands.
Jeff, who has the most deep rumbling laugh Jensen has ever heard, and rarely
mentions girls at all.
Jensen never speaks during this time, just sits quiet, scared of being sent
away like a child if he speaks out of turn.
Sometimes, if he's lucky, and if it's been an exceptionally good set, and he's
passed around enough rough but strong cocktails Jeff will unwind enough to put
an arm around the back of his chair. He'll sit extra still then, torn between
wanting to lean into that touch and fearful that if he does it will disappear.
One and a half months in and he hears the call of the siren over the music a
half second before the yelling starts. He flies over the bar, dodging customers
and Norman yelling about who tipped the fucking filth off, and darts up to the
bandstand.
He's got Jeff's sleeve twisted in his grip before he's even thought about it,
cotton twisted round and rough in the palm of his hand. "Come on," he tugs, as
Jeff struggles to tuck the double bass into his body. "They mightn't be round
the back yet."
He doesn't look back as the pulls Jeff up the stairs and down the corridor,
putting his shoulder to the door that leads to the fire escape. It's awkward
trying to get the double bass down the narrow iron ladders, and in the end he
jumps down and gets Jeff to drop the thing down to him. He catches it with an
'oof', and then laughs, giddy with the adrenaline.
Jeff scrambles down next to him.
"Alright, Kid. Now what?"
Jensen laughs again and shakes his head. "Haven't got a clue, but it seemed
better than being picked up in there."
Jeff nods, and they make their way along the alleyway away from the sirens,
dodging between dumpsters and staying off the main streets until they are both
out of breath and flushed with the exertion.
When they finally emerge onto the street, miles away from the club, Jensen
glances around. It's late and it's dark but he's certain he doesn’t know where
they are. He tries to read the shop fronts or spot any street signs but none of
it means anything to him. He turns to Jeff, starting to feel chilled, his coat
back at the club, and the first of the winter snow scattered across the
sidewalk.
Jeff is smiling wide and happy.
"You know where we are," Jensen accuses.
"Yup. About half a block from my place. Come on, kid, before we freeze. I've
got good liquor and a half dozen blankets waiting for us." Jeff grabs a hold of
Jensen's hand, and it warm despite the chill in the air, and tugs him on.
 

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Jeff's apartment is nice. Very nice. It has wide windows that overlook a wide
tree lined street, and a large fireplace with grand leather wing backed chairs
either side of it, and a drinks cabinet in the corner done up in honey and tan
marquetry. Jensen scrubs his shoes on the mat and tries to keep from touching
anything too expensive.
Jeff passes him a drink and it's honest to god scotch in a cut glass tumbler.
"Come on, get warmed up, kid." Jeff is kneeling before the fireplace, feeding
it newspaper and trying to get it going.
"Thank you for this," Jensen gestures to the drink, "But I should really be
moving on home."
Jeff looks at him over his shoulder. "Nah, you should be staying here with me,
having a drink and getting warm. It's too cold for you to be walking home now."
"But, I..." Jensen starts.
"Nonsense," Jeff interrupts. "Whatever you are going to say is nonsense." The
fire catches and he clambers to his feet. He walks swiftly over to Jensen,
clutches his hand and leads him over to the fire. Plonking himself down in one
of the wing back chairs he tugs Jensen down sharply on top of him. "This is
exactly where you should be."
"I..."
"Don’t." Jeff presses a kiss to his jawline, and smoothes one hand up his inner
thigh. "I want you here. You fascinate me. Where are you from? You're not a New
York boy. Not from anywhere around here. Where do you come from, Jensen?"
Jensen shakes his head, gulping down his scotch like he's been dying of thirst.
Jeff has large, strong hands, and his fingers are digging in deliciously into
the muscle of his thigh. He arches into the touch, wanting it to move higher,
to take him properly in hand, to cup him through the material of his pants and
wring every last drop of dignity from him.
"Never seen a boy get so hard listening to music." It's a little too much close
to the bone and he squirms, ducking his head and trying to twist further into
the hard pressure of Jeff's grip. "I watch you and see you shifting and moving
about behind the bar and think about how hard and wet you must be." The hand
goes higher, suddenly skimming over the bulge in his pants, and he grinds down
harder on Jeff's lap.
"You watch me?" he gasps out as the hand flexes tighter.
"You know I do. I watch you drinking in every note we play like it's nectar.
Tell me, do you play anything, Jensen?"
"I can play the guitar some, and I..." his breath hitches and his hips buck as
Jeff begins to undo the fastenings on his pants.
"And you what, sweetheart?"
"I sing sometimes," he murmurs and he twists around enough to hide his face in
Jeff's neck.
Jeff smiles down at him. "I'd like to hear you."
 

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The fire is banked low when Jensen wakes, deep red glow in the embers and the
wood turned black and charred.
They are sprawled on the rug before the hearth, only semi clothed, pants open
and pushed down to mid thigh, shirts unbuttoned at odd points, vests and
jackets and ties entirely discarded.
Jensen yawns and stretches, cock rubbing along Jeff's hip, foot caressing up
the inside of Jeff's calf. A clock on the other side of the room chimes out the
early dawn and Jensen thinks about leaning over, sliding his face from the dark
matted hair on Jeff's chest, down the hard muscled line of his belly until he
could press his lips to the sleep flushed weight of Jeff's cock.
He thinks on tasting the saltiness of it, the bitterness, letting the taste sit
on his tongue and coat his mouth.
Then he thinks of settling down, taking Jeff further into his mouth, taking all
of him, swallowing down around him until he cannot breath. Having Jeff pressing
into his throat, choking him until his vision dims, how hard he'd be if Jeff
held him there, heavy hand cradling the back of his head, how much he'd ache,
how hot his flesh would be if Jeff just kept him there.
Instead he twists away, easily evading Jeff's hands as they reach for him
vaguely in his sleep, gathers his clothes and leaves
 

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He gets Ivan to read the papers to him, unable to cope with the small print and
long words. Follows the trial through them, hears about the character
witnesses, and Mr. Taylor's poor aged mother speaking for his defense.
The trial lasts only three days and then the jury deliver the unanimous verdict
of Guilty, and George Taylor is sent to Sing Sing for a minimum of twelve
years.
Jensen tries to find out what happened to Norman, and the members of the band
that didn't manage to get away, but they aren't news and the papers remain
silent on their fate.
Jeff calls on him sometimes and he gets Ivan to say he's out, or left town, or
joined the army, and watches from the window as Jeff walks away.
***** interlude *****
            [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002rds9]
It's strange, being a paying passenger on a train after all these years, but
he's fifty dollars in his pocket book and no good reason not to buy a proper
ticket and sit amongst the other paying passengers.
He listens to their conversation as he fakes sleep.
The lady opposite is a widow, going to live with her sister, a spinster with a
small house on one of the lakes, who keeps kennels and breeds Boston Terriers.
The man to his left is getting married in a week and is travelling up to meet
his bride, who he's met five times and to whom he proposed via telegram.
There are three kids and their nanny on the seats behind him, all tired out by
the journey and irritable with each other, mother dead and one carrying the
scars of the automobile smash that had killed her.
Sometimes he opens his eyes to watch the landscape whiz by through the window.
Farmland and rivers, lakes and mountains in the distance.
The fare the railroad offers is poor. Dried out sandwiches with day old egg, or
cheese, or ham. Weak coffee or soda pops.
 

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He finds himself counting the telegraph poles or trying to guess how many
minutes it will be until the next town flashes by.
Behind him the nanny hums soft lullabies to the children and soothes them to
sleep.
The groom fidgets nervously, either in anticipation of his nuptials or in fear.
The widow just keeps to herself. Her grief her own private business.
***** Chicago *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

       [http://pics.livejournal.com/pigeongirl99/pic/0002ha83/s320x240]
Start the car I know a whoopee spot
Where the gin is cold
But the piano's hot
It's just a noisy hall
Where there's a nightly brawl
And all that jazz
~ Fred Ebb
 
Snowdrifts line the street and build up in the doorways. Even after New York he
isn't quite used to the cold. Piles heavy blankets on the bed at night, turns
the heating up to full, stokes the fire. He finds he spends the days shivering
and miserable, layered in his long underwear, suit, and overcoat; staring out
the window at the thick white swirls, and people scurrying by in scarves and
hats beneath him.
The hotel is swanky though. Room service and a big Zenith floor model radio.
Views out over the park and a wide balcony. The sheets on the bed are of
smooth, soft, crisp cotton, the carpet thick and deep beneath his feet, the
pictures on the wall all geometric shapes, sunbursts, and ocean liners. He
doesn't know how long he'll be able to stay here in such luxury, wants to enjoy
it whilst he can.
He orders up a plate of sauerkraut and pastrami on rye, drumming his fingers
whilst he waits.
Herb doesn't mind him spending his money on room service. Smiles indulgently
when the invoice comes through- five glasses of milk, a plate of fried chicken,
red grapefruit, and hard candy; then orders up his own dinner of stuffed quail
and a black market bottle of Pinot Noir.
He'd met Herb his first night in Chicago, at a little jazz spot he'd stumbled
across, a shadowed little door hidden down a shadowed little back ally.
He'd been twitchy all night, shot to bits on coffee and bourbon, over-tired and
restless, fingers drumming against his leg in syncopated rhythm, smiling too
bright and too wide at any one who looked his way. Already he'd got caught up
with a fella in the bathroom, barking his elbow on the sink, laughing as the
guy fumbled with his belt and braces.
Seven good shots of bourbon, hold the soda, on an empty belly. A handful of dry
crackers the night before and a few cashew nuts. Twenty five cigarettes. A slug
from a flask that held some clear, thickened liquid, that tasted sweet and made
his eyes swim after the first gulp. Three more gulps just to be sure.
Then it had been dancing. A little awkward on his feet and knocking into other
couples as he'd twisted and jived his way across the floor. The music had been
second rate, too much drums, too slow in the quick sections, trumpets
disconnected from the rest of the brass, but there was a sweet little clarinet
that drew his attention, and just sometimes the whole came together.
Trying to find that swing in the bottom of a bottle and he'd stumbled into
Herb, literally. Knocking into him hard enough to send the other man's drinking
crashing to the ground, ice and liquor and glass all slick and shattered
beneath his feet. He'd wanted to laugh at the irritation on Herb's face, the
pout on the man's thin lips, the deepening lines of his frown, but had managed
to curb himself, instead apologizing sweetly and buying him a fresh drink.
And Herb - ?
Herb had smiled at him then, frown smoothed away, one hand reaching out to cup
Jensen's elbow.
And asked him where he was staying.
The space of less than an hour- Jensen letting words ramble out his mouth the
way he only does when he's running on fumes, skin prickling every time Herb
smiles at him to continue, or brushes his fingers light against the back of
Jensen's hand.
And then they were in the elevator of Herb's elegant hotel, reflections of
themselves mirrored back from the glass walls, and Herb's hand ghosting down
his back and lying heavy and possessive over his ass.
After that, Jensen reckoned everything was his own damn fault.
Herb wasn't a bad man. Not really. Jensen knew where he stood with him, knew
when he could sass back, when he should watch his mouth.
And it wasn't so awful that Herb didn't want him going out to jazz clubs on his
own any more. As Herb kept telling him, Chicago was a dangerous city. Something
might happen. He might get hurt.
There was plenty of jazz on the radio now, what reason could he have to go out?
There's a knock at the door and Jensen rolls to his feet to collect the room
service. He smiles at the bellhop, forgetting not to be too friendly as Herb
has tried to teach him. The kid is good looking, smooth dark skin, and gorgeous
wide smile, and Jensen almost – almost – asks for his name.
The food is good and he curls himself into one of the armchairs as he turns on
the radio. There's a jazz program scheduled to start in another ten minutes and
he doesn't want to miss a moment of it. Maybe after he'll take a bath. He can't
get enough of the bathtub they have here. More hot water than he could ever
use, enough to fill a thousand bathtubs. And the ability to just soak, just lie
there, in deep rich bubbles and soak, feel the heat of the water sinking in
right down to his bones.
Sometimes it seems he cannot even remember when he just had a copper tub, three
inches of water from the kettle lining the bottom.
The radio switches from the news and he lies down on his stomach in the middle
of the floor, letting the vibrations wash through him as the jazz program
starts.
Eyes shut, he can almost make believe he's there, almost imagine the smell of
smoke and sweat, listening just at the edge of the bandstand, catching the
musicians eyes whenever they looked his direction. A bass kicks into the tune
they're playing and he groans.
The sound is good, low and rumbling heavy through his gut, low and with bursts
of sweetness and despair.
The sound trembles through him, bones turning to molasses, making him feel
wobbly even where he lays on the floor.
A voice starts singing and he gives himself up to it, rocking his hips into the
ungiving hardness of the floor. There's a deep, throaty tone to the vocals,
thundering words of the South and dying far from home, words of those left
behind, words of being lost and dying alone. It's the perfect accompaniment to
the bass, and he can feel every cadence dance and shake through him, like low
pulsing waves spreading out from his belly down to his toes.
He twists onto his back. It's not as good, not as real and close like this,
staring up at the corniced ceiling, glare of electric light bulbs in his eyes,
but it means he can take himself in hand. He undoes his fly quickly, pulling
himself out and tugging at his flesh in beat with the music.
It takes three songs. Two slow bluesy numbers, twelve bar and steady as
anything, before the radio program switches up the tempo and it's suddenly all
improvisation and not knowing what note to expect. His hand can't keep up,
can't quite find the rhythm, and as that voice starts to sing again, deep and
slow in counterpoint to the bright, hot rhythm he loses it and comes sharp and
desperate across his hand.
 

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Herb holds him down on the bed and presses into him sharply.
Nails are digging into the skin at his hips, and he can hear the hiss of radio
from the other room, dead air and static.
Outside the dull whirl of snow continues to thud against the window.
He twitches as Herb tightens his grip, and feels bruises begin to blossom slow
and sullen on his flesh.
Herb had arrived back in the hotel suite to find him sprawled across the floor,
pants undone, a sticky mess across his clothes and half asleep.
His hips jerk and he stares down into Jensen's face.
It had been too sudden, not enough time taken, not enough care, and Jensen
winces as Herb slams into him again. He's sore, feels achy and raw, like he
wants to twist away, like he wants to curl up somewhere alone and lick his
wounds.
Herb pulls Jensen in harder by his hips, gouging scratches deeper into his
skin, and growls at him to stay still. "Stupid fucking boy." Another slam.
"Stupid fucking little shite."
"Sorry." It's too much, and Jensen feels apologies and tears bubble out of him
like he's seventeen again and pissed his daddy off once too often.
Herb pulls almost all the way out before thrusting in again as hard as he can.
"Such a stupid fucking little boy." Herb convulses, body tightening, holding
himself as deeply within Jensen as he can, whilst he stutters, then pulls out
sharply.
Jensen rolls to the side breathing hard. When he gets up to go to the bathroom
he isn't surprised to find blood.
 

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It's late by the time he arrives at The Star Flower Ballroom.
Too late.
The band is all packed up and on their way out. Shouldering heavy cases full of
trombones and saxophones. He leans against the brick doorway, shivering in the
cold, small puffs of steam appearing every time he breathes.
"Look, kid, a few of us are going on to a party," the guy shrugs, viola case
tucked beneath his arm and music stand in hand , lopsided mouth twitching up in
the corner. "You can always tag along I guess, if you wanna. No crime in
turning up to a party is there?"
Jensen nods, "Thanks."
It's late and his body hurts and he wants to sleep, but beyond that, beyond the
sharp pain in his backside every time he moves, beyond the bruises he can feel
on his hips, beyond that raw ache and exhaustion he just really wants to listen
to some music.
"Not a problem, kid. Look like you could do with a friend is all."
Jensen just shakes his head.
The party is in a tall narrow house, spilling onto each of the three floors,
and into every room. He starts in the front parlor where a rough four piece has
gathered. Two cornets, a fiddle, and a guitar. It reminds him of those long
gone days in Arkansas and the rag tag bands he saw playing each week at the
barn dances.
He thinks of Christian as he listens to the music. Of his sharp blue eyes and
pretty smile as he showed him how to play the guitar.
How Christian had never once taken from him something he did not want to give,
and had kissed him so very slowly only when he was certain that Jensen had
wanted him to.
It's been years and he wonders if Christian still lives there, that little
nothing town of Haywards Bend, if he still saves stupid young boys from making
mistakes with Saul, still traps animals and brews up moonshine on the hillside.
He gulps down whatever drinks are doing the rounds as he listens to the
quartet, rough alcohol burning the back of his throat. He drinks everything
from piss poor whisky, to even worse vermouth. He stamps his foot and nods
along with the time, and most certainly does not once turn his mind to Herb,
who is probably still sleeping and does not yet know that Jensen has left and
has no intention of coming back.
Moving deeper into the house, back into the kitchen, he lets various party
goers mix up outrageous cocktails for him, throwing them all back without a
wince, listening to them laugh and cry out for him to drink more, down more,
more and more and more.
Upstairs, and he lets two guys, both horn players, kiss him and touch him,
hands curling around the nape of his neck and stroking his cheek. His head
spins and he doesn't object as they pull his jacket from his shoulders or
unbutton his shirt. They stumble through to one of the bedrooms and then Jensen
is up on the bed and he can see out of the corner of his eye people watching.
People watching as his skin is bared and ever more of his clothes are stripped
away.
He decides he doesn't care.
His head is spinning and he does not care and arches into each touch the two
men leave on his skin, and just wishes the four piece downstairs would play a
little louder.
Through his bleary eyes he cannot tell them apart. They both have dark blond
hair, slicked neatly back, and dark suits and ties on. Each touch feels the
same. A hand wrapped around his shoulder, a mouth pressed to his throat,
fingers twisting sharply at his nipple, another hand pulling at his thigh.
He hears the murmur of the onlookers, wonders what he looks like to them. Pale
and bruised, debauched perhaps, but not attractive.
Too many men have left reminders on his skin, scars and bruises and pale, pale
skin that looks as if it has never seen the sun.
His eyesight swims again as more hands try to maneuver him up onto his hands
and knees and he thinks he sees a dark shape standing at the foot of the bed. A
dark outline of a large man staring at him and he has the sudden urge to hide,
to cover up his body and hide his face in the bed sheets and not come out until
that large dark man has gone and cannot see him any longer.
Instead he throws his head back, eyes shut, and lets those many, clever hands
position him as they wish.
 

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He stumbles to the bathroom, empties his stomach into the toilet bowl, and
decides to stay there for the rest of his days. The light hurts, his stomach
hurts, he aches from his hips and ass and cock, and he spits out another long
stream of vomit.
A wet flannel is pressed into his hand and he cannot even think of looking up
and saying Thank You for the kindness as he stomach heaves again.
Eventually there is nothing left to throw up, and a strong arm hooks beneath
his elbow, picks him up, and helps him back to bed.
 

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When he wakes again, he looks at the thick white cotton of the bedding, the
carafe of water on the nightstand, the bull fiddle standing in the corner and
lets out a moan.
"You well enough to speak yet?"
His shoulders tense as he hears Jeff's beautiful low voice rumble forth. He
shakes his head. "Would it save me if I said no?"
"Depends what you need saving from, sweetheart. Because I'm fairly certain it's
not me."
Jensen pulls the sheet up high, so it covers him from his chin down. "I at your
place?"
"Yeah, I somehow didn't think it wise to leave you at that party once you had
passed out."
"And you..." Jensen cleared his throat, face suddenly flushing red. "You saw
what I was... Before I passed out, you were there, and you saw..."
Jeff nods and steps closer, stands at the bottom of the bed looking down at
Jensen. "Saw you attempting to kill yourself by drink and sex." His mouth was a
grim line, and Jensen noticed for the first time the flicks of gray in his
beard. "Hell of a way to go."
"Wasn't like that. I was drunk." He shrugs his shoulders. "Didn't mean
anything. We all get drunk now and again." He remembers the smell of tobacco
and resin, fingers prying his mouth open, more fingers pressing in and up. "No
harm was done."
Jeff closes his eyes for a moment, then comes to sit on the side of the bed
beside Jensen. "See, now, that is easy to say. But I know you. I know you,
Jensen. I watched you night after night in New York, watched how you always
kept your wits about you. This isn't how you act."
"You're wrong. This is exactly how I act. This is exactly who I am." Jensen
levers himself upright, the sheet dropping to his waist, baring his chest with
its litter of bruises and scars. "And you don't know me at all."
Jeff gives him one small sad smile before gripping his chin and turning his
face towards him fully. "Where do you come from, Jensen?" It's the same
question he's asked back in New York. "I still want to know. You're still my
little mystery."
"I ain't from anywhere."
"Nonsense," Jeff leans in close, pressing his nose to Jensen's temple. "We're
from somewhere. All come from somewhere, or try to escape from somewhere. Even
you, sweetheart." He huffs a laugh into Jensen's hair. "But you can keep that
mystery if you really need it, there's enough other things about you that I
want to learn, enough other things about you to assuage my curiosity."
His heart is beating too quick, strumming tight and fast in his chest. He still
feels hung-over, dried out and head achey, and he wants to go back to sleep not
answer Jeff's questions.
Jeff's fingers ghost a line along his collarbone and he shivers as the touch
scrapes over dull bruises.
"What else is it you want to know?" he whispers.
"I want..." Jeff presses a light kiss to his forehead. "I want to know what you
were like as a kid. I want to know who gave you these bruises, these scars."
Jensen flinches but Jeff carries on regardless. "I want to know what piece of
music gets you going the fastest, and how old you were when you first heard a
real jazz band."
Jeff smoothes a hand across the nape of his neck, and helps settle him back
down comfortably onto the bed, covers pulled high about his ears.
"Most of all, darling, I just want to hear you sing."
 

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"Sweetheart," Jeff breathes against the nape of his neck, damp and warm. "Time
to wake up." Fingers stroke lightly over the soft skin behind his ear.
"Coffee's on and I'm going to figure out something to eat." Blunt nails scritch
pleasantly over the knob at the top of his spine, sending lazy shivers down his
back. "Time to shift yourself."
He rolls over, blinking up at Jeff, thoughts realigning themselves, aches and
soreness and bruised muscles stirring.
Jensen yawns and holds himself still.
He doesn't remember falling asleep, remembers nothing but Jeff's hands slowly
petting his hair and rubbing the tension from his neck and shoulders, body
still heavy and sluggish with hangover.
"C'mon," Jeff holds his hand out, smiles small and crooked. "Up."
Jensen slowly lets Jeff pull him from the bed. He's naked, gooseflesh prickling
up his arms and running in fast cold little circles around his chest and belly
and legs; Jeff holds out a flannel robe for him, and he shrugs into it, pulling
the belt tight around his waist.
"Time?" He asks, glancing out the window at the dark sky.
"After nine." Jeff leads him into the kitchen, pouring out a large mug of
coffee, and rifling through the cupboards.
Jensen nods slowly to himself, burning his tongue slightly as he takes a sip of
coffee. He's slept the day away, curled in Jeff's bed, dreaming of –
A steady drum beat and the house lights going up, wail of trumpet, Jeff's hand
warm and hard against the small of his back, his Mama's soft voice singing
lullabies.
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, Go to sleepy little baby, Hush-a-bye, don't you cry.
"Jensen?" Jeff touches his wrist, fingers brushing light over his pulse. "Pork
and beans alright?"
"Yeah," Jensen nods. Jeff's kitchen is small and cramped; cupboard doors
hanging loose off their hinges and sickening yellow water-stain on the ceiling.
He leans back against the counter as he watches Jeff grab down a saucepan and
rummage through an overcrowded draw for the can opener.
He's aware that he's feet are twitching and fidgeting as he watches Jeff fumble
to get the can opened. He digs his toes into the thin pile of Jeff's carpet and
wonders idly where all Jeff's money must have gone.
He takes another sip of coffee, letting the liquid sit in his mouth a moment
before swallowing.
Jeff's apartment in New York had been swish, fur rugs and wood paneling, floor
space enough to fit the little makeshift house Jensen grew up in three times
over.
Here, the carpet runs out before it meets the walls, and damp pervades the air
like mildewing newspaper and wet dog.
"Fuck. Damn." Jeff jerks and curses as his hands slip, jagged metal from the
half opened can slicing into the meat of his palm, blood welling up sure and
rich. The can drops nerveless from his hand spilling pork and beans across the
floor. "Jesus mercy."
Jensen takes Jeff's hand before he can do any more damage, wiping away the
blood that continues to bubble up and trickles down his wrist, checking for any
little shards of tin. "It's not deep." He turns on the faucet and hold's Jeff's
hand under the cold water, until he can see the pink uneven line of the cut.
They use a handkerchief to bind around his hand, and Jeff laughs before they
scrape the sticky mess of pork and beans and tomato sauce off the floor.
After searching through the sparse selection left in Jeff's cupboards Jensen
fries up eggs with a handful of chilies and canned tomatoes instead and just
smiles when Jeff asks him where he learnt to cook.
 

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"Well, that's a pretty sight to come home to."
Jensen stretches out lean and pale, body naked on Jeff's bed, drawing up one
knee and stroking a hand down his belly. The snows haven't started to melt yet
and as he parts his legs a little further he thinks about drawing the thick
woolen blankets that are piled up at the foot of the bed over himself.
"Been waiting for you," Jensen murmurs. He hasn't been here long, not really.
Arrived back an hour ago with a new job and three dollars in his pocket. Slowly
stripped and waited for Jeff to return from rehearsals.
"That so, sweetheart?" Jeff steps close, cups his hip with one warm calloused
hand. "That's nice."
He arches and rolls his hips holding his breath.
Jeff's hand twitches, tightening for a moment, fingers digging in lightly,
maddeningly, into the flesh of his hip, before letting go and moving away.
"What?"
"Nothing, darling," Jeff soothes. "Only we've got somewhere to be and you're
going to be far too distracting if you don't put some clothes on."
Frowning, Jensen sits up slowly. "Where are we goin'?"
Jeff smiles, wide stretch of mouth and even white teeth. "You'll see."
It's a segregated part of town, and they walk past a little hamburger joint
spilling yellow light onto the sidewalk. There is a small wooden set of stairs
to the side of the building, rickety with age, dull red paint coming off in
great flakes, each step creaking painfully beneath their weight.
"Where -?" Jensen starts before he hears it. Low, deep, booming tones. Twelve
bars and a voice as dark and pained as a hundred years of blood and struggle.
His breath catches and he almost sways as he listens to the hurt and strength
in that voice.
Jeff grabs his hand, tugging him forward and pushing open the door.
It's small inside, only five small round tables and a serving hatch set into
the wall. The singer is seated on a high stool, no stage or lights fixed on
him, but drawing every eye in the room. He has a beat up old guitar and must be
pushing sixty, body large and powerful, hair graying and eyes shot through with
red.
Jensen pauses at the entrance, skin prickling, sweat gathering at the base of
his spine.
"Come on," Jeff whispers to him and pulls him over to a couple of empty seats.
There's the smell of hamburgers and onions, cheap meat frying in even cheaper
grease, overwhelming the other scents of sweat and tobacco and perfume.
The singer finishes his song and stops for a long slug out of his hipflask.
Jensen collapses back against his chair, mouth hanging open and drawing in deep
gasping breaths.
"That's Little Silas Brown." Jeff leans over, mouth just a fraction from
Jensen's ear. "He's been playing here for near on twenty years. Before that he
picked cotton and worked the railroads."
"He's..." Jensen shakes his head, and fumbles for Jeff's hand, squeezing it
tight.
"Yeah, sweetheart, he is."
Little Silas starts up again and Jensen leans forward, heart jack-hammering in
his chest. His nails are digging into Jeff's hand, fingers crushing the bones
but he can't seem to loosen his grip any, and he wants to shift over, straddle
Jeff's lap, shut his eyes and sing.
 

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The window is open, spring light and fresh in the air, newborn birds singing
out sharply to their parents. Jensen sweats and clutches hard at the bedding,
Jeff's tongue snaking down the long grove of his spine.
It's a sweet torture, his stomach flipping as Jeff drops kisses at the small of
his back, large hands smoothing up over his thighs and ass, small calluses
dragging against his skin.
"Please," it sounds too much like a sob for his taste. Too desperate. Too
needy. "Please, Jeff, don't tease. Hate it when you tease."
"No you don't." And the rumble of Jeff's voice suddenly just there makes him
moan despite himself. "You love it when I tease. Makes you crazy."
"Bastard," he spits out, then sighs and Jeff licks up and into him finally.
Finally.
It's too good. Makes him rock and shake. Makes him feel like he did the first
time he heard Armstrong play, like his bones had melted.
Then Jeff pulls away and he curses at him again.
There's a low echoing laugh and then Jeff's hand smacks sharply against his
ass, one clean slap low down where his thigh meets his back side and he is
gasping and bucking, a low whine torn from his throat.
"You like that?" Jeff rubs at the sting, hands rough and ungentle, tracing the
hurt of it.
He shakes his head, not trusting his voice.
"You sure about that?"
He expects to feel it again, the tight, violent explosion of pain and pleasure
as Jeff's hand crack down on him, but instead a kiss is pressed wetly to the
sore ache.
"Anyone ever done that before?"
Jensen bites at his lip. "Daddy liked to beat me."
A hand smoothes down the line of his spine, "Not what I meant, Sweetheart. I
don't mean some bastard trying to beat the piss and vinegar out of you."
Fingers skate over his ribs and lips nuzzle against the back of his neck before
teeth sink dully in. "I mean someone giving this to you, their hand spanking
down hard and good, 'til you're about ready to die from it." Jeff pauses, "You
just think on it, Jen."
Jensen tucks his head in and doesn't reply, waiting as Jeff just strokes his
back slowly.
Then Jeff shifts and hands are opening him up again, easy, unhurried movements
and Jeff's breath fluttering against him, and making him twist and gasp.
Faint touch of tongue, smooth and hot, neat little licks that are never going
to be enough.
And then in.
In and deep and good.
He shivers and quakes as Jeff presses and twists, babbles out inanities, and
drawls out that he's ready, that this is all he needs, that he can take
whatever Jeff gives him, though he knows that Jeff won't stop until he's
certain that Jensen is loose and relaxed enough that he can just slide home, no
resistance anymore, just sweet boneless heat welcoming him in.
A cool breeze plays over his shoulders, drying the fine sheen of sweat there,
and Jensen lets himself go, lets his body drift with the sensations, the heat
where Jeff presses his face, the slight chill around his shoulders.
When Jeff begins to hum Everybody Loves My Baby he almost laughs but then he is
suddenly there. Body locking and trying to jack off the bed, waves crashing
through him as he yells and comes.
 

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It's a Tuesday night, quiet, with just a handful of patrons dotted about the
club, when Jensen first steps up to the microphone, opens his mouth and begins
to sing.
Chapter End Notes
     Finally many thanks and much love goes to Marlowe who beta'd this
     from it's infancy, and is never anything less that encouraging, even
     when she is attacking my work with a red pen and telling me I overuse
     commas.
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