That Stockholm Thing 1/7 (J2 AU, NC-17)
Title: That Stockholm Thing
Author: dijisun
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, mention of Jensen/Danneel and Jared/Sandy
Rating: NC-17, AU
Summary: Jensen gets kidnapped.
Warnings: angst, language, some violence, some schmoop, DARK themes, explicit m/m
Disclaimer: pure fiction, none of it happened.
Feedback: yes please!
A/N: unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own. I'm a bit unsure about this fic, not sure it went how I wanted it to.
A/N2: from the fb, a lot of people found the story disturbing, which it was meant to be, given the subject matter re: CRIME.
Jensen frowns, uneasy. He doesn’t recognize the guy holding up a placard with Ackles printed across it. The guy is big, stands head and shoulders above the crowd milling around the arrival’s gate. Probably explains the ill-fitting uniform, like the guy couldn’t find a size to fit him. Jacket cuffs falling short of his wrists, material straining across his chest. He isn’t in regulation trousers, and although the chauffer cap is regulation, it’s having a tough time containing his too-long, dark brown hair.
The chauffer service the network uses likes to project a certain image. Clean-cut, professional. This guy does not reflect that image. His hands are encased in scruffy leather gloves. He’s got a day’s worth of stubble on his face, which is partially obscured by Aviators and by the cap visor pulled low on his brow.
Still feeling cautious, Jensen wheels his baggage trolley towards the guy. ‘Did Tony call in sick?’ he asks.
The guy takes over the trolley and flashes a wide smile, disarming dimple carving a dent in his cheek. ‘Yeah, something like that,’ his laid back voice hints of home.
Jensen totally relaxes. With the filming schedule for My Bloody Valentine, he didn’t get to spend time in Texas during the summer hiatus, so that hint of home is real welcome.
He’s thinking of blue skies and lazy-making heat as they stride out of the terminal. The scene outside couldn’t be farther removed from the one in his head, black sky drizzling liquid drops of ice. Fall only just begun and yet it already feels like winter. Welcome to Vancouver.
He sighs, a mournful little sound.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t get parked in front of the building,’ the wide friendly smile again. ‘We’re almost there.’
At least they’re out of the rain now, on the ground level of the multi-story parking lot. They head up a ramp, and up two more, hollow echo of their footsteps, clutter of the trolley’s wheels on the concrete’s rough surface.
Jensen fishes his phone out of his pocket and thumbs it on, scrolls through his messages. There’s one from his screen brother, Chad. A couple from Christian, a reminder from his actual brother about Logan’s birthday next month. Jensen tsks. As if he would forget his nephew’s birthday. Few more messages; two from Welling, one from Rosenbaum. None from Danneel.
Weird. She’s not answered her phone or returned any of his calls for the last couple of days. Actually, maybe it’s not so weird. They’ve been going through a rough patch lately. Something about his emotional unavailability, according to Danneel. Well, you know, filming a show in a whole other country will screw up your availability.
He pushes his phone back into his jeans pocket and looks around. Return of the uneasy flutters in his stomach when he realizes he’s alone with the guy on level ten of the car park. He spots a black SUV in the far corner. Familiar number plate, familiar tinted windows. He lets out a shuddery breath, laughs to himself. Obviously he’s been doing horror for too long. Not everyone is a crazed killer out to get him.
‘Hey,’ he catches up to the guy. ‘What did you say your name was, again?’
‘Jared,’ he points the key fob at the SUV. Beep, flare of orange lights. ‘I watch your show, like, a lot. It’s embarrassing…not the show! How much I watch it is embarrassing.’
The poor guy’s tripping over his words, fumbling with Jensen’s suitcase. Mortification looks adorable on him.
‘Always great to meet a Supernatural fan,’ says Jensen. He darts forward, reaches for his suitcase, ‘I’ve got it.’
Jared lets go of the suitcase and stands back. He’s behind Jensen. He is crowding Jensen against the car door, reaching around him to slide it open. Jensen feels the strength of Jared’s body, warm and forceful, unrelenting against him. He sees Tony slumped unconscious across the SUV’s back seat, gagged and trussed up, his jacket and cap missing.
Alarm slams into Jensen. He starts to twist round, bunching his hands into fists. Pain explodes the back of his head and cancels out his vision.
*
Jensen’s dry-mouthed and groggy, his head pounding. He’s lying on his side cushioned by something soft, wrapped up tight in something softer. His arms are tied behind his back, touch of metal around his wrists, touch of metal around his ankles.
He knows where he is, sort of. He’s on the road, can feel the engine vibrating under him and hear the hiss of wheels on tarmac. Picks up a rubbery scent inches from his face.
He should be panicking.
He’s tied up, can’t see a damn thing, and is being driven to fuck knows where.
Why isn’t he panicking, yelling for help?
His eyelids droop. He tries to keep them open, tries to think. He’s too comfortable, the darkness too seductive.
*
His skin itches. His mind twitches, belated stirring of panic. The surroundings are lighter, gray instead of black. He wriggles his fingers but can’t feel them through the numbness running down his arms to his fingertips.
The rubbery scent is a tarpaulin sheet stretched taut above him. The cushion underneath him is a mattress. That’s not all, there are pillows wedging him in place. Padding him against the pitch and roll as the wheels encounter rugged terrain and sharp bends. Seems Jared took a lot of care not to damage the cargo.
The thought of Jared snaps his mouth open. ‘Help,’ it’s a hoarse whisper.
Fact is he has this bad habit of sleeping in at the weekends, stays in bed past noon after red-eye flights. His family, friends and girlfriend know and respect this. They don’t disturb him with phone calls before the decent hour of two p.m. at the weekends.
Nobody’s going to help him because everybody assumes he’s decompressing in bed, resting up for the start of filming Season Four on Monday. Means Jared has at least half a day before anyone notices he’s missing.
‘Help! Help me!’ Still just a whisper mangled by the panic that’s closing a fist around his throat.
The next few hours are the worst of his life. Will he ever see them again, his parents, Josh and Mackenzie? He’d like to say the sweat inching down his cheeks isn’t mingled with tears, but he can’t guarantee that.
He can’t be sure of anything at the moment except that the ride’s gotten bumpier and the engines growling in low gear, pushing up an incline. It makes horrible sense. If he abducted someone, he’d hole them up somewhere in the mountains, too.
He yells for help, over and over. Sick dread twisting his guts as the vehicle reaches flat ground and picks up speed.
*
He recognizes the itching.
It’s the same hot-prickly itch he got all over his skin about ten years ago when they shot him full of pain relief after a quad-bike accident. Morphine based pain relief itches like mad.
Jared, the fucker, had drugged him, and that pisses him off.
This whole kidnapped situation? Fucking pisses him off. He’s gonna kill the narcotic peddling son of a bitch. Somehow.
*
Jensen leans his hip on the side of the red double-cab truck, wonders what Jared did with Tony and the SUV. He winces as pins and needles shoot up his legs. His ankles and wrists are still shackled, his lips chapped from dehydration. He estimates they drove for approximately eighteen hours straight judging from the falling dusk; pink and purple hues flirting with the snow-capped mountain peaks.
The air’s thin, and piney with the scent of the evergreens that surround an area of cleared ground. A cabin sprawls on the clearing. None of this one-roomed shack business. The two storey cabin has a garage and a wrap-around porch, forest views from its balcony.
One of the upstairs windows is boarded up with planks. Jensen twists his lips into a grim smile. He holds the smile as Jared ducks out of the cabin’s sliding door, two dogs bounding behind him. Massive dogs, just like their owner.
They approach Jensen, tails stiff, ears cocked, threat in their rising hackles. He feels like a slab of juicy steak, the way those dogs are eyeing him.
‘Sit,’ says Jared.
The dogs instantly obey.
‘This here’s Harley. He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback mix. And this is my girl Sadie, got dingo in her,’ Jared hankers down between the dogs, loops his arms around their necks. ‘They look mean, but they’re sweethearts really. Just, sometimes their hunting instinct kicks in when, you know, they see a running target.’
Jensen says nothing. Even if he weren’t hobbled where would he run? Jared brought him to a freaking jungle in the middle of nowhere! He stares at the ground, fuming.
Jared rises and comes to stand beside him, brushes up against him. He takes a side step away from Jared, jarred by the proximity.
‘Jensen,’ sighs Jared. ‘This would go a whole lot smoother if you’d-’
‘Yeah, about this, what is it? You going to auction me to the highest bidder, is that it?’
Jared presses his lips into a tight line. His eyes are unreadable behind the dark glasses. Then he smiles, abruptly happy. He fishes a bunch of keys out of his pocket and swoops down, unlocking the fetters from around Jensen’s ankles.
Psycho, thinks Jensen.
‘Turn round so I can get the cuffs,’ Jared says.
He complies. Brief minute of their fingers touching, a click and then the cuffs are sliding off his wrists.
‘Come on, I’ll show you around,’ says Jared, like they’re buddies. Like he’s not forcing Jensen to be here.
Jensen rubs the raw skin on his wrists, bares his teeth at Jared’s back. The dingo mix mimics him. Her silent snarl is directed at Jensen and her teeth are bigger than his.
*
The downstairs is a large open-plan room spread out between the front and back sliding doors and divided into living, dining and kitchen areas. Plasma screen, music center and games console in the living area; fireplace stacked with logs. Couch and two armchairs arranged around a rug. Dog beds in the corner.
A thick iron ring is bolted into the floor next to the couch.
Couple more of the iron rings, one under the dining table and another screwed into the middle of the kitchen floor. Jensen runs his fingers along the smooth granite counters, approves of the coffee maker, and of the set of knives slotted in the wooden knife block.
There’s an outdoor heater and a grill on the back porch. A stone path leading from the porch steps to a hot tub at the edge of the clearing.
Jensen raises his eyebrow at the tub but asks about the shed set back from the cabin.
‘Wood storage and back-up generator,’ Jared slides the back door open, letting the dogs out.
Three rooms upstairs. Jared cocks his head at the first door off the landing, says, ‘that’s me.’ He strides past the second door without comment and opens the third door.
It’s the room with the boarded up window. Jensen’s luggage is stacked by the nightstand.
He schools his features into a blank mask, asks, ‘you gonna let me in?’ and hopes Jared didn’t catch that thrum of adrenalin in his voice.
‘Sure,’ Jared stands aside. He’s talking, apologizing for the slats across the window, says he’ll take them off just as soon as Jensen settles in. ‘I turned up the heating and there’s a shower room through here…’ and he gushes like an eager host.
Jensen makes as though to step past him, stops at the last second and crashes his elbow into Jared’s solar plexus. Jared doubles over, the flow of eagerness morphing into a wheeze.
Knee pulled back, Jensen grabs a hold of Jared’s head, hauls down, and the slam of his knee into Jared’s face feels so damn good. Jared’s head rears back, sunglasses askew and blood on his face. He’s cussing, looks stunned. Jensen thuds his fist into Jared’s temple before the element of surprise wears off.
Jared goes down, undignified sprawl of long limbs.
Breathing hard, Jensen prods his boot toe into Jared’s ribs. No movement. He bends over Jared and frisks his pockets. Keys, where are the goddamn…oh, thank fuck! He hooks his finger through the key ring and yanks, and the keys wrench out of Jared’s pocket just as Jared jackknifes upright, hands clamping around Jensen’s neck.
Rush of movement, and Jensen’s the one laid on his back. Jared’s on him, kneeling on his chest, and the weight of him added to the grip he’s got around Jensen’s throat make breathing unworkable.
Heart beating triple time and lungs burning for oxygen, he digs his heels into the floor and tries to buck Jared off, circles his hands around Jared’s wrists and tries to pry him loose. Jared is strong, implacable. His hands are pitiless, compressing Jensen’s windpipe, but his eyes are pleading.
And Jensen thinks, as choked sounds invade his ears and black spots swarm his eyes, he thinks he’ll die still trying to figure out what those dark, tip-tilted eyes are pleading for.
*
He paces between the bed and the window. The chain keeps time to his steps, clunks heavy on the floorboards.
He can pace as far as the toilet in the stark, white shower room, but can’t get to the sink or step inside the shower stall because the chain won’t let him.
The doors to the in-built closet are open. He can see his shirts on the hangers; see his jeans, t-shirts and sweatpants neatly folded on the shelves, shoes lined up on the closet floor. Can’t reach any of them because the chain won’t stretch that far.
The most frustrating thing is that he can reach the bedroom door but can’t open it. It’s locked.
He glances at the iron ring embedded in the floorboards at the foot of his bed. He woke up from the attempted throttling like this, chained to the floor. He’s had hours to freak out about it, but still, he freaks out again. Grabs the chain in both hands and hauls on it, twists and jerks it. He succeeds in straining his spine and aggravating the chafed skin under the metal cuff around his ankle.
Jensen understands now. He truly gets why a snared animal will chew through its leg to escape.
*
It’s been two days. He’s had time to calm down.
Thin bars of sunlight slant through the planks at the window and stripe across his cell phone on the nightstand. Piece of shit phone. He can’t ring out on it, no signal.
The dogs bark somewhere in the house. Jared’s laughter booms out.
Jensen sits on the floor, back resting against the bed’s footboard. He stares at the door. He’s expecting Jared.
He can’t figure the guy out. Take the room for instance. Expensive sheets on the king size bed, half a dozen soft pillows, luxurious duvet. Under-floor heating warms the floorboards and bathroom tiles. His case of disposable contacts and bottles of eye-cleaning fluid are placed well within reach in the nightstand drawer.
It’s as if Jared wants him to enjoy his stay here, which is a fucking contradiction considering that chains and manacles are generally not enjoyable things.
He enjoys the meals, though. Jared brings him a loaded tray three times a day. Good food, the kind that warms you through and makes you thank God for your taste buds. Jensen’s mouth waters at the thought of the fluffy scrambled eggs, buttery pancakes and bitter coffee he’s expecting for breakfast.
He grunts, disgusted with himself for enjoying Jared’s cooking.
He hates Jared. Doesn’t want to enjoy anything about him.
He stands and prowls closer to the door when he hears Jared’s tread on the landing. A knock and chiming of keys. A loud clack as Jared unlocks the door.
The doorknob turns. Jensen forces the tension out of his shoulders. He watches the door slowly push open, puts a smile on his face when Jared peeks his head round. He’s not faking the smile. It’s really great to see the dark purple bruising on Jared’s face, the still swollen lip.
‘Mornin’,’ says Jared. ‘You sleep okay?’ he asks, eyes soft with concern like he actually gives a damn.
‘Yeah, great,’ Jensen nods. ‘You?’
‘Nah,’ Jared laughs. ‘Pain from my broken face been keeping me up last couple of nights.’
This is what he can’t figure out, Jared’s affable laughter, the easy-going manner like they’re good ole friends joking about some stupid bust-up.
Also, he can’t quite figure out the color of Jared’s eyes. Hazel? Green? They change depending on the quality of light. They’re hazel shot through with green at the moment, and they’re turning darker.
It takes about a second for Jensen to place the darkening color. And during that second, his cock’s already with the program, stirring in response to Jared’s blown out pupils, the heat in his gaze. It sparks off a shiver inside Jensen, a flare of hot anticipation deep in his belly.
Yes, apparently being held captive makes him horny. ‘Breakfast smells good,’ hoarse voice, like he’s got sore throat.
Inhaling sharply, Jared pushes the door open a little wider. He sets the tray on the floor, slides it in through the gap. And Jensen springs.
He barrels his shoulder into the door, trapping Jared’s forearm between the door and frame. Veins pop up under Jared’s tanned skin, his muscles bulge. Jensen puts his whole weight on the door, raises his voice over Jared’s shout of pain.
‘What do you want from me, you crazy son of a bitch?’
‘Why you gotta be all violent?’ Jared sounds bewildered. Like he can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to provoke violence.
‘Because…you know what? It doesn’t even matter. Toss the keys on the tray.’
‘Ain’t gonna happen, baby. I changed up my whole life for you. Not gonna just hand the keys over and let you leave me.’
Jensen’s violent use of the door has nothing on the violence in Jared’s hushed voice. It punches the breath out of him, sends his mind reeling. Jared’s pushing back on the door now, making these pained, rough sounds, and they’re working their way down Jensen’s spine like the graze of calloused fingers.
Pound for pound, Jared is heavier than him. It comes as no surprise when he starts losing ground, feet sliding on the smooth floor as the door edges forward.
‘Quit fighting me,’ Jared gains another few inches. ‘I’m not trying to hurt you.’
‘And this isn’t hurting me? My family and my girlfriend, you think it’s not killing them not knowing where I am or if I’m even alive?’
Jared abruptly stops shoving. ‘You don’t have a girlfriend, Jensen. Not anymore.’
Jensen’s mind goes numb. He barely registers the door slamming shut.
*
He squints through a gap between two planks, looking down at the clearing. Jared’s down there playing with the dogs. His hair glints in the sun, shaggy bangs flopping on his forehead. He is flailing his legs in the air as the dogs playfully maul him. Tails wagging, they tug at his sweatshirt, paw his chest, lick his face, and Jared retaliates by rolling around in the dust and pine needles, laughing.
Jared’s so carefree, seems so harmless. Nothing about him screams: killer!
A hot lump forms in Jensen’s throat as he imagines it. Imagines Danneel opening her door to the tall, harmless UPS guy. Parcel for you ma’am, from Mr. Ackles. Got a pen to sign for it?
Danneel doesn’t have a pen. She goes back inside, leaves the door open ‘cause the guy’s so damn friendly. He follows her in, locks the door. Locks his big hands around her slender neck, only he doesn’t stop at throttling her unconscious. Keeps squeezing until her lips turn blue and her eyes glaze over.
It could’ve happened that way. Or in any of the other hundred ways Jensen’s been imagining.
The lump in his throat burns hotter. He’s sweltering with hatred. Normally, he doesn’t let himself feel too much hate or too much love. Goes through life at a nice, steady lukewarm. He acts on logic, not on feelings.
That’s where he’s been going wrong, attacking Jared in an impulsive rage instead of thinking it through. Logic tells him rage isn’t going to get him past Jared. Logic tells him he needs to figure out the guy’s angle and exploit it.
Logic doesn’t fucking elaborate on what Jared’s angle is.
What does Jared want from him?
If it’s money, then why hasn’t Jared sawed off Jensen’s thumb and posted it to his management company with a note demanding, ‘a million dollars in small unmarked bills, or I’ma send y’all his head.’
If it’s sex Jared wants - and Jensen has read plenty of lurid fan-mail to know that’s a possibility - well, then what’s the hold up? Why isn’t Jared here right now, hustling him into a French Maid’s outfit and manhandling him onto his hands and knees, grunting at him to call him daddy.
He purses his lips, pondering it.
Nah. Jared’s sexual fantasy is more likely to involve leather, bondage and groans of, ‘yes please, Master Jared. More, harder. I’ve been a bad, bad boy.’
He smirks at the thought.
And quickly sobers up when Jared takes off into the thick woods. He better not get himself devoured by a bear in that forest, because Jensen needs him. His life depends on Jared.
It’s a comforting thought, in a totally non-comforting way.
*
‘Good morning!’ Jared slides the tray into the room with a broomstick.
‘Fuck off.’
Jared swings the door wide open, turns round and moons him.
He blinks, a surprised grin springing to his lips. ‘The hell’s wrong with you?’
Jared pulls his pants up, throws a smile over his shoulder. He looks enormously pleased with himself.
*
There’s a book on Jensen’s nightstand the next morning. It weirds him out, the thought of Jared sneaking into his room while he was asleep.
‘Good mor…’
‘Stay out of my room,’ he interrupts Jared’s cheery greeting, throwing the book at his head.
Jared screams and shuts the door. He creates a hell of a commotion, pounding down the hallway and down the stairs, still screaming. The girly shrieks are so incongruent with Jared’s he-man physique that Jensen, well, he dissolves laughing.
Few minutes later, a knock on the door. ‘Jensen?’
‘What?’
‘Little problem. How am I gonna bring you food if I’m supposed to keep out?’
‘You’re only allowed in to bring me food.’
‘Okay,’ Jared blithely accepts.
*
Next morning, there’s a bowl of peanut M&Ms on his nightstands. He glares at it, cussing. Then he glares while munching on the chocolate-covered peanuts. When Jared brings breakfast, Jensen holds up the depleted bowl and pointedly wrinkles his brow at Jared.
‘Candy is food,’ explains Jared.
He comes right up to the bed, lays the tray on Jensen’s lap and sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed. There are two mugs on the tray, two bowls of cereal and a stack of pancakes tall enough for two and half people.
Jensen picks out a red M&M from the bowl, chucks it at Jared and mutters, ‘freak,’ when Jared catches it in his mouth.
Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t be breakfasting with his abductor, but it’s been three weeks since he had a conversation with anyone other than himself. That kind of shit, talking to yourself, it can drive you nuts. He doesn’t need the added stress of mental issues.
Besides, Jared’s good at talking, and Jensen needs him to do that. Needs him to keep the conversation coming. Maybe slip-up, give a few unintentional clues as to what his deal is.
*
The food deliveries become more inventive. An ipod under a plate of cookies - the play list doesn’t run to Jensen’s taste, but hey, it’s music.
Closing his eyes, he lounges back against the headboard and nods his head to the drumbeat, startles when Jared tugs one of the earbuds out and yells, ‘good morning!’ in his ear.
‘It was, jackass.’
*
Today, a golf ball submerged in a glass of beer on the nightstand. And propped against the wall, a golf club with a can of beer taped to it.
Jensen hurts himself getting to the golf club. Moves so quick the manacle distresses the raw skin around his ankle. He goes slower, curses Jared. May his ass eternally sizzle in the fiery pits of hell.
The golf club is solid and reassuring. He takes a few swipes in the air, imagines the satisfying crunch as iron meets Jared’s skull. He could do fatal damage with this club - and Jared knows that.
So why’s Jared trusting him with a weapon? It makes no sense.
Beer makes sense. He pops the tab on the can and near most swoons as the smooth blend of hops floods his mouth. When the can is empty, he picks up the glass, drains it - carefully, because, golf ball - and yeah, he’s pleasantly buzzing.
Forget Jared and his unfathomable nonsense.
He tips the glass onto its side on the floor, takes up position and taps the ball with the putter. It rolls right in.
‘Yeah,’ he hoots, punching the air.
He’s played five rounds by the time Jared comes in with breakfast: two hot pizzas and twelve cold beers.
Jensen hums around every salty greasy mouthful and washes it down with beer, and it is such a waste. Because Jared, chugging beer and burping, shoveling food into his mouth, whining for a turn at golf, different place and time, different set of circumstances, he and Jared would’ve been buddies.
The buzz fades. He wipes his palms on his jeans and goes to the window, sits on the sill with his hands braced on his thighs.
Jared pauses in mid-swing, ‘What’s up?’
‘Did you…Jared, did you kill her?’
Aborting the swing altogether, Jared props the golf club against the wall. He faces Jensen across the bed. ‘You really want to know?’
Jensen’s mouth goes dry, fear sponging up the moisture. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want that kind of knowledge on his conscience. ‘Don’t want to. Need to.’
‘Why, because you love her?’ Jared furrows his brow. His eyes are turbulent, mouth a flat, angry gash. ‘I was there, at Comic Con. I saw you together. You were like mannequins trying to smile, the two of you so obviously fake with each other. Danneel, not even her real name, she-’
‘Don’t,’ Jensen grits out. ‘Don’t you dare trash her. She’s not the one who goes around kidnapping people for the entertainment value.’
Jared’s lips twitch with a faint smile. When he speaks, his tone is empty of amusement but filled with eerie certainty. ‘You don’t love her, Jensen, and she never loved you. You’re better off without her.’
His heart bangs, so hard it’s getting bruised on his ribs. It’s more than he can stand to breath the same air as Jared. ‘I want you to go now.’
‘Jensen-’
‘Get the fuck out of my sight!’
Jared goes.
Jensen bites on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.
Chapter Two
Author: dijisun
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, mention of Jensen/Danneel and Jared/Sandy
Rating: NC-17, AU
Summary: Jensen gets kidnapped.
Warnings: angst, language, some violence, some schmoop, DARK themes, explicit m/m
Disclaimer: pure fiction, none of it happened.
Feedback: yes please!
A/N: unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own. I'm a bit unsure about this fic, not sure it went how I wanted it to.
A/N2: from the fb, a lot of people found the story disturbing, which it was meant to be, given the subject matter re: CRIME.
Jensen frowns, uneasy. He doesn’t recognize the guy holding up a placard with Ackles printed across it. The guy is big, stands head and shoulders above the crowd milling around the arrival’s gate. Probably explains the ill-fitting uniform, like the guy couldn’t find a size to fit him. Jacket cuffs falling short of his wrists, material straining across his chest. He isn’t in regulation trousers, and although the chauffer cap is regulation, it’s having a tough time containing his too-long, dark brown hair.
The chauffer service the network uses likes to project a certain image. Clean-cut, professional. This guy does not reflect that image. His hands are encased in scruffy leather gloves. He’s got a day’s worth of stubble on his face, which is partially obscured by Aviators and by the cap visor pulled low on his brow.
Still feeling cautious, Jensen wheels his baggage trolley towards the guy. ‘Did Tony call in sick?’ he asks.
The guy takes over the trolley and flashes a wide smile, disarming dimple carving a dent in his cheek. ‘Yeah, something like that,’ his laid back voice hints of home.
Jensen totally relaxes. With the filming schedule for My Bloody Valentine, he didn’t get to spend time in Texas during the summer hiatus, so that hint of home is real welcome.
He’s thinking of blue skies and lazy-making heat as they stride out of the terminal. The scene outside couldn’t be farther removed from the one in his head, black sky drizzling liquid drops of ice. Fall only just begun and yet it already feels like winter. Welcome to Vancouver.
He sighs, a mournful little sound.
‘Sorry, I couldn’t get parked in front of the building,’ the wide friendly smile again. ‘We’re almost there.’
At least they’re out of the rain now, on the ground level of the multi-story parking lot. They head up a ramp, and up two more, hollow echo of their footsteps, clutter of the trolley’s wheels on the concrete’s rough surface.
Jensen fishes his phone out of his pocket and thumbs it on, scrolls through his messages. There’s one from his screen brother, Chad. A couple from Christian, a reminder from his actual brother about Logan’s birthday next month. Jensen tsks. As if he would forget his nephew’s birthday. Few more messages; two from Welling, one from Rosenbaum. None from Danneel.
Weird. She’s not answered her phone or returned any of his calls for the last couple of days. Actually, maybe it’s not so weird. They’ve been going through a rough patch lately. Something about his emotional unavailability, according to Danneel. Well, you know, filming a show in a whole other country will screw up your availability.
He pushes his phone back into his jeans pocket and looks around. Return of the uneasy flutters in his stomach when he realizes he’s alone with the guy on level ten of the car park. He spots a black SUV in the far corner. Familiar number plate, familiar tinted windows. He lets out a shuddery breath, laughs to himself. Obviously he’s been doing horror for too long. Not everyone is a crazed killer out to get him.
‘Hey,’ he catches up to the guy. ‘What did you say your name was, again?’
‘Jared,’ he points the key fob at the SUV. Beep, flare of orange lights. ‘I watch your show, like, a lot. It’s embarrassing…not the show! How much I watch it is embarrassing.’
The poor guy’s tripping over his words, fumbling with Jensen’s suitcase. Mortification looks adorable on him.
‘Always great to meet a Supernatural fan,’ says Jensen. He darts forward, reaches for his suitcase, ‘I’ve got it.’
Jared lets go of the suitcase and stands back. He’s behind Jensen. He is crowding Jensen against the car door, reaching around him to slide it open. Jensen feels the strength of Jared’s body, warm and forceful, unrelenting against him. He sees Tony slumped unconscious across the SUV’s back seat, gagged and trussed up, his jacket and cap missing.
Alarm slams into Jensen. He starts to twist round, bunching his hands into fists. Pain explodes the back of his head and cancels out his vision.
*
Jensen’s dry-mouthed and groggy, his head pounding. He’s lying on his side cushioned by something soft, wrapped up tight in something softer. His arms are tied behind his back, touch of metal around his wrists, touch of metal around his ankles.
He knows where he is, sort of. He’s on the road, can feel the engine vibrating under him and hear the hiss of wheels on tarmac. Picks up a rubbery scent inches from his face.
He should be panicking.
He’s tied up, can’t see a damn thing, and is being driven to fuck knows where.
Why isn’t he panicking, yelling for help?
His eyelids droop. He tries to keep them open, tries to think. He’s too comfortable, the darkness too seductive.
*
His skin itches. His mind twitches, belated stirring of panic. The surroundings are lighter, gray instead of black. He wriggles his fingers but can’t feel them through the numbness running down his arms to his fingertips.
The rubbery scent is a tarpaulin sheet stretched taut above him. The cushion underneath him is a mattress. That’s not all, there are pillows wedging him in place. Padding him against the pitch and roll as the wheels encounter rugged terrain and sharp bends. Seems Jared took a lot of care not to damage the cargo.
The thought of Jared snaps his mouth open. ‘Help,’ it’s a hoarse whisper.
Fact is he has this bad habit of sleeping in at the weekends, stays in bed past noon after red-eye flights. His family, friends and girlfriend know and respect this. They don’t disturb him with phone calls before the decent hour of two p.m. at the weekends.
Nobody’s going to help him because everybody assumes he’s decompressing in bed, resting up for the start of filming Season Four on Monday. Means Jared has at least half a day before anyone notices he’s missing.
‘Help! Help me!’ Still just a whisper mangled by the panic that’s closing a fist around his throat.
The next few hours are the worst of his life. Will he ever see them again, his parents, Josh and Mackenzie? He’d like to say the sweat inching down his cheeks isn’t mingled with tears, but he can’t guarantee that.
He can’t be sure of anything at the moment except that the ride’s gotten bumpier and the engines growling in low gear, pushing up an incline. It makes horrible sense. If he abducted someone, he’d hole them up somewhere in the mountains, too.
He yells for help, over and over. Sick dread twisting his guts as the vehicle reaches flat ground and picks up speed.
*
He recognizes the itching.
It’s the same hot-prickly itch he got all over his skin about ten years ago when they shot him full of pain relief after a quad-bike accident. Morphine based pain relief itches like mad.
Jared, the fucker, had drugged him, and that pisses him off.
This whole kidnapped situation? Fucking pisses him off. He’s gonna kill the narcotic peddling son of a bitch. Somehow.
*
Jensen leans his hip on the side of the red double-cab truck, wonders what Jared did with Tony and the SUV. He winces as pins and needles shoot up his legs. His ankles and wrists are still shackled, his lips chapped from dehydration. He estimates they drove for approximately eighteen hours straight judging from the falling dusk; pink and purple hues flirting with the snow-capped mountain peaks.
The air’s thin, and piney with the scent of the evergreens that surround an area of cleared ground. A cabin sprawls on the clearing. None of this one-roomed shack business. The two storey cabin has a garage and a wrap-around porch, forest views from its balcony.
One of the upstairs windows is boarded up with planks. Jensen twists his lips into a grim smile. He holds the smile as Jared ducks out of the cabin’s sliding door, two dogs bounding behind him. Massive dogs, just like their owner.
They approach Jensen, tails stiff, ears cocked, threat in their rising hackles. He feels like a slab of juicy steak, the way those dogs are eyeing him.
‘Sit,’ says Jared.
The dogs instantly obey.
‘This here’s Harley. He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback mix. And this is my girl Sadie, got dingo in her,’ Jared hankers down between the dogs, loops his arms around their necks. ‘They look mean, but they’re sweethearts really. Just, sometimes their hunting instinct kicks in when, you know, they see a running target.’
Jensen says nothing. Even if he weren’t hobbled where would he run? Jared brought him to a freaking jungle in the middle of nowhere! He stares at the ground, fuming.
Jared rises and comes to stand beside him, brushes up against him. He takes a side step away from Jared, jarred by the proximity.
‘Jensen,’ sighs Jared. ‘This would go a whole lot smoother if you’d-’
‘Yeah, about this, what is it? You going to auction me to the highest bidder, is that it?’
Jared presses his lips into a tight line. His eyes are unreadable behind the dark glasses. Then he smiles, abruptly happy. He fishes a bunch of keys out of his pocket and swoops down, unlocking the fetters from around Jensen’s ankles.
Psycho, thinks Jensen.
‘Turn round so I can get the cuffs,’ Jared says.
He complies. Brief minute of their fingers touching, a click and then the cuffs are sliding off his wrists.
‘Come on, I’ll show you around,’ says Jared, like they’re buddies. Like he’s not forcing Jensen to be here.
Jensen rubs the raw skin on his wrists, bares his teeth at Jared’s back. The dingo mix mimics him. Her silent snarl is directed at Jensen and her teeth are bigger than his.
*
The downstairs is a large open-plan room spread out between the front and back sliding doors and divided into living, dining and kitchen areas. Plasma screen, music center and games console in the living area; fireplace stacked with logs. Couch and two armchairs arranged around a rug. Dog beds in the corner.
A thick iron ring is bolted into the floor next to the couch.
Couple more of the iron rings, one under the dining table and another screwed into the middle of the kitchen floor. Jensen runs his fingers along the smooth granite counters, approves of the coffee maker, and of the set of knives slotted in the wooden knife block.
There’s an outdoor heater and a grill on the back porch. A stone path leading from the porch steps to a hot tub at the edge of the clearing.
Jensen raises his eyebrow at the tub but asks about the shed set back from the cabin.
‘Wood storage and back-up generator,’ Jared slides the back door open, letting the dogs out.
Three rooms upstairs. Jared cocks his head at the first door off the landing, says, ‘that’s me.’ He strides past the second door without comment and opens the third door.
It’s the room with the boarded up window. Jensen’s luggage is stacked by the nightstand.
He schools his features into a blank mask, asks, ‘you gonna let me in?’ and hopes Jared didn’t catch that thrum of adrenalin in his voice.
‘Sure,’ Jared stands aside. He’s talking, apologizing for the slats across the window, says he’ll take them off just as soon as Jensen settles in. ‘I turned up the heating and there’s a shower room through here…’ and he gushes like an eager host.
Jensen makes as though to step past him, stops at the last second and crashes his elbow into Jared’s solar plexus. Jared doubles over, the flow of eagerness morphing into a wheeze.
Knee pulled back, Jensen grabs a hold of Jared’s head, hauls down, and the slam of his knee into Jared’s face feels so damn good. Jared’s head rears back, sunglasses askew and blood on his face. He’s cussing, looks stunned. Jensen thuds his fist into Jared’s temple before the element of surprise wears off.
Jared goes down, undignified sprawl of long limbs.
Breathing hard, Jensen prods his boot toe into Jared’s ribs. No movement. He bends over Jared and frisks his pockets. Keys, where are the goddamn…oh, thank fuck! He hooks his finger through the key ring and yanks, and the keys wrench out of Jared’s pocket just as Jared jackknifes upright, hands clamping around Jensen’s neck.
Rush of movement, and Jensen’s the one laid on his back. Jared’s on him, kneeling on his chest, and the weight of him added to the grip he’s got around Jensen’s throat make breathing unworkable.
Heart beating triple time and lungs burning for oxygen, he digs his heels into the floor and tries to buck Jared off, circles his hands around Jared’s wrists and tries to pry him loose. Jared is strong, implacable. His hands are pitiless, compressing Jensen’s windpipe, but his eyes are pleading.
And Jensen thinks, as choked sounds invade his ears and black spots swarm his eyes, he thinks he’ll die still trying to figure out what those dark, tip-tilted eyes are pleading for.
*
He paces between the bed and the window. The chain keeps time to his steps, clunks heavy on the floorboards.
He can pace as far as the toilet in the stark, white shower room, but can’t get to the sink or step inside the shower stall because the chain won’t let him.
The doors to the in-built closet are open. He can see his shirts on the hangers; see his jeans, t-shirts and sweatpants neatly folded on the shelves, shoes lined up on the closet floor. Can’t reach any of them because the chain won’t stretch that far.
The most frustrating thing is that he can reach the bedroom door but can’t open it. It’s locked.
He glances at the iron ring embedded in the floorboards at the foot of his bed. He woke up from the attempted throttling like this, chained to the floor. He’s had hours to freak out about it, but still, he freaks out again. Grabs the chain in both hands and hauls on it, twists and jerks it. He succeeds in straining his spine and aggravating the chafed skin under the metal cuff around his ankle.
Jensen understands now. He truly gets why a snared animal will chew through its leg to escape.
*
It’s been two days. He’s had time to calm down.
Thin bars of sunlight slant through the planks at the window and stripe across his cell phone on the nightstand. Piece of shit phone. He can’t ring out on it, no signal.
The dogs bark somewhere in the house. Jared’s laughter booms out.
Jensen sits on the floor, back resting against the bed’s footboard. He stares at the door. He’s expecting Jared.
He can’t figure the guy out. Take the room for instance. Expensive sheets on the king size bed, half a dozen soft pillows, luxurious duvet. Under-floor heating warms the floorboards and bathroom tiles. His case of disposable contacts and bottles of eye-cleaning fluid are placed well within reach in the nightstand drawer.
It’s as if Jared wants him to enjoy his stay here, which is a fucking contradiction considering that chains and manacles are generally not enjoyable things.
He enjoys the meals, though. Jared brings him a loaded tray three times a day. Good food, the kind that warms you through and makes you thank God for your taste buds. Jensen’s mouth waters at the thought of the fluffy scrambled eggs, buttery pancakes and bitter coffee he’s expecting for breakfast.
He grunts, disgusted with himself for enjoying Jared’s cooking.
He hates Jared. Doesn’t want to enjoy anything about him.
He stands and prowls closer to the door when he hears Jared’s tread on the landing. A knock and chiming of keys. A loud clack as Jared unlocks the door.
The doorknob turns. Jensen forces the tension out of his shoulders. He watches the door slowly push open, puts a smile on his face when Jared peeks his head round. He’s not faking the smile. It’s really great to see the dark purple bruising on Jared’s face, the still swollen lip.
‘Mornin’,’ says Jared. ‘You sleep okay?’ he asks, eyes soft with concern like he actually gives a damn.
‘Yeah, great,’ Jensen nods. ‘You?’
‘Nah,’ Jared laughs. ‘Pain from my broken face been keeping me up last couple of nights.’
This is what he can’t figure out, Jared’s affable laughter, the easy-going manner like they’re good ole friends joking about some stupid bust-up.
Also, he can’t quite figure out the color of Jared’s eyes. Hazel? Green? They change depending on the quality of light. They’re hazel shot through with green at the moment, and they’re turning darker.
It takes about a second for Jensen to place the darkening color. And during that second, his cock’s already with the program, stirring in response to Jared’s blown out pupils, the heat in his gaze. It sparks off a shiver inside Jensen, a flare of hot anticipation deep in his belly.
Yes, apparently being held captive makes him horny. ‘Breakfast smells good,’ hoarse voice, like he’s got sore throat.
Inhaling sharply, Jared pushes the door open a little wider. He sets the tray on the floor, slides it in through the gap. And Jensen springs.
He barrels his shoulder into the door, trapping Jared’s forearm between the door and frame. Veins pop up under Jared’s tanned skin, his muscles bulge. Jensen puts his whole weight on the door, raises his voice over Jared’s shout of pain.
‘What do you want from me, you crazy son of a bitch?’
‘Why you gotta be all violent?’ Jared sounds bewildered. Like he can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to provoke violence.
‘Because…you know what? It doesn’t even matter. Toss the keys on the tray.’
‘Ain’t gonna happen, baby. I changed up my whole life for you. Not gonna just hand the keys over and let you leave me.’
Jensen’s violent use of the door has nothing on the violence in Jared’s hushed voice. It punches the breath out of him, sends his mind reeling. Jared’s pushing back on the door now, making these pained, rough sounds, and they’re working their way down Jensen’s spine like the graze of calloused fingers.
Pound for pound, Jared is heavier than him. It comes as no surprise when he starts losing ground, feet sliding on the smooth floor as the door edges forward.
‘Quit fighting me,’ Jared gains another few inches. ‘I’m not trying to hurt you.’
‘And this isn’t hurting me? My family and my girlfriend, you think it’s not killing them not knowing where I am or if I’m even alive?’
Jared abruptly stops shoving. ‘You don’t have a girlfriend, Jensen. Not anymore.’
Jensen’s mind goes numb. He barely registers the door slamming shut.
*
He squints through a gap between two planks, looking down at the clearing. Jared’s down there playing with the dogs. His hair glints in the sun, shaggy bangs flopping on his forehead. He is flailing his legs in the air as the dogs playfully maul him. Tails wagging, they tug at his sweatshirt, paw his chest, lick his face, and Jared retaliates by rolling around in the dust and pine needles, laughing.
Jared’s so carefree, seems so harmless. Nothing about him screams: killer!
A hot lump forms in Jensen’s throat as he imagines it. Imagines Danneel opening her door to the tall, harmless UPS guy. Parcel for you ma’am, from Mr. Ackles. Got a pen to sign for it?
Danneel doesn’t have a pen. She goes back inside, leaves the door open ‘cause the guy’s so damn friendly. He follows her in, locks the door. Locks his big hands around her slender neck, only he doesn’t stop at throttling her unconscious. Keeps squeezing until her lips turn blue and her eyes glaze over.
It could’ve happened that way. Or in any of the other hundred ways Jensen’s been imagining.
The lump in his throat burns hotter. He’s sweltering with hatred. Normally, he doesn’t let himself feel too much hate or too much love. Goes through life at a nice, steady lukewarm. He acts on logic, not on feelings.
That’s where he’s been going wrong, attacking Jared in an impulsive rage instead of thinking it through. Logic tells him rage isn’t going to get him past Jared. Logic tells him he needs to figure out the guy’s angle and exploit it.
Logic doesn’t fucking elaborate on what Jared’s angle is.
What does Jared want from him?
If it’s money, then why hasn’t Jared sawed off Jensen’s thumb and posted it to his management company with a note demanding, ‘a million dollars in small unmarked bills, or I’ma send y’all his head.’
If it’s sex Jared wants - and Jensen has read plenty of lurid fan-mail to know that’s a possibility - well, then what’s the hold up? Why isn’t Jared here right now, hustling him into a French Maid’s outfit and manhandling him onto his hands and knees, grunting at him to call him daddy.
He purses his lips, pondering it.
Nah. Jared’s sexual fantasy is more likely to involve leather, bondage and groans of, ‘yes please, Master Jared. More, harder. I’ve been a bad, bad boy.’
He smirks at the thought.
And quickly sobers up when Jared takes off into the thick woods. He better not get himself devoured by a bear in that forest, because Jensen needs him. His life depends on Jared.
It’s a comforting thought, in a totally non-comforting way.
*
‘Good morning!’ Jared slides the tray into the room with a broomstick.
‘Fuck off.’
Jared swings the door wide open, turns round and moons him.
He blinks, a surprised grin springing to his lips. ‘The hell’s wrong with you?’
Jared pulls his pants up, throws a smile over his shoulder. He looks enormously pleased with himself.
*
There’s a book on Jensen’s nightstand the next morning. It weirds him out, the thought of Jared sneaking into his room while he was asleep.
‘Good mor…’
‘Stay out of my room,’ he interrupts Jared’s cheery greeting, throwing the book at his head.
Jared screams and shuts the door. He creates a hell of a commotion, pounding down the hallway and down the stairs, still screaming. The girly shrieks are so incongruent with Jared’s he-man physique that Jensen, well, he dissolves laughing.
Few minutes later, a knock on the door. ‘Jensen?’
‘What?’
‘Little problem. How am I gonna bring you food if I’m supposed to keep out?’
‘You’re only allowed in to bring me food.’
‘Okay,’ Jared blithely accepts.
*
Next morning, there’s a bowl of peanut M&Ms on his nightstands. He glares at it, cussing. Then he glares while munching on the chocolate-covered peanuts. When Jared brings breakfast, Jensen holds up the depleted bowl and pointedly wrinkles his brow at Jared.
‘Candy is food,’ explains Jared.
He comes right up to the bed, lays the tray on Jensen’s lap and sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed. There are two mugs on the tray, two bowls of cereal and a stack of pancakes tall enough for two and half people.
Jensen picks out a red M&M from the bowl, chucks it at Jared and mutters, ‘freak,’ when Jared catches it in his mouth.
Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t be breakfasting with his abductor, but it’s been three weeks since he had a conversation with anyone other than himself. That kind of shit, talking to yourself, it can drive you nuts. He doesn’t need the added stress of mental issues.
Besides, Jared’s good at talking, and Jensen needs him to do that. Needs him to keep the conversation coming. Maybe slip-up, give a few unintentional clues as to what his deal is.
*
The food deliveries become more inventive. An ipod under a plate of cookies - the play list doesn’t run to Jensen’s taste, but hey, it’s music.
Closing his eyes, he lounges back against the headboard and nods his head to the drumbeat, startles when Jared tugs one of the earbuds out and yells, ‘good morning!’ in his ear.
‘It was, jackass.’
*
Today, a golf ball submerged in a glass of beer on the nightstand. And propped against the wall, a golf club with a can of beer taped to it.
Jensen hurts himself getting to the golf club. Moves so quick the manacle distresses the raw skin around his ankle. He goes slower, curses Jared. May his ass eternally sizzle in the fiery pits of hell.
The golf club is solid and reassuring. He takes a few swipes in the air, imagines the satisfying crunch as iron meets Jared’s skull. He could do fatal damage with this club - and Jared knows that.
So why’s Jared trusting him with a weapon? It makes no sense.
Beer makes sense. He pops the tab on the can and near most swoons as the smooth blend of hops floods his mouth. When the can is empty, he picks up the glass, drains it - carefully, because, golf ball - and yeah, he’s pleasantly buzzing.
Forget Jared and his unfathomable nonsense.
He tips the glass onto its side on the floor, takes up position and taps the ball with the putter. It rolls right in.
‘Yeah,’ he hoots, punching the air.
He’s played five rounds by the time Jared comes in with breakfast: two hot pizzas and twelve cold beers.
Jensen hums around every salty greasy mouthful and washes it down with beer, and it is such a waste. Because Jared, chugging beer and burping, shoveling food into his mouth, whining for a turn at golf, different place and time, different set of circumstances, he and Jared would’ve been buddies.
The buzz fades. He wipes his palms on his jeans and goes to the window, sits on the sill with his hands braced on his thighs.
Jared pauses in mid-swing, ‘What’s up?’
‘Did you…Jared, did you kill her?’
Aborting the swing altogether, Jared props the golf club against the wall. He faces Jensen across the bed. ‘You really want to know?’
Jensen’s mouth goes dry, fear sponging up the moisture. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want that kind of knowledge on his conscience. ‘Don’t want to. Need to.’
‘Why, because you love her?’ Jared furrows his brow. His eyes are turbulent, mouth a flat, angry gash. ‘I was there, at Comic Con. I saw you together. You were like mannequins trying to smile, the two of you so obviously fake with each other. Danneel, not even her real name, she-’
‘Don’t,’ Jensen grits out. ‘Don’t you dare trash her. She’s not the one who goes around kidnapping people for the entertainment value.’
Jared’s lips twitch with a faint smile. When he speaks, his tone is empty of amusement but filled with eerie certainty. ‘You don’t love her, Jensen, and she never loved you. You’re better off without her.’
His heart bangs, so hard it’s getting bruised on his ribs. It’s more than he can stand to breath the same air as Jared. ‘I want you to go now.’
‘Jensen-’
‘Get the fuck out of my sight!’
Jared goes.
Jensen bites on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.
Chapter Two