Fic: Beat that Devil off my Trail (JDM/JA)
Title: Beat that Devil off my Trail
Pairing: Jensen/Jeff, special guest star Christian Kane
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Kolkata might be the cultural center of India, but it's still not Hollywood. Any relation to actual events is totally coincidental.
Summary: Jensen gets some bad news.
A/N: Many many thanks to onci_dium who talked through the entire idea with me AND then even beta'd it. *smooches* bb!
Rough, callused, fingertips bit into the skin of his wrist as his hand was roughly manhandled into position for his knuckles to be wrapped in boxer's tape. The tape was sticky on his palm as he flexed his hand and his hand was jerked back into position with a grunt and a growled “stay still, dammit.”
"Mr. Ackles, I am very sorry. I was hopeful that the damage to your eyes would be temporary. The eye is incredibly resilient and often will repair itself given enough time. Unfortunately, in this case it seems as if the damage was too severe."
"It's permanent," he said quietly.
Another grunt and then his other hand was manhandled, the grip tight, and wrapped.
"There's nothing more they can do. They can't even do a cornea replacement." His voice sounded hollowed out, empty.
"At this point, I think the best course of treatment will be occupational therapy in order to help you adjust. I'll write you a referral. There are also organizations that can make this transition less difficult and teach you skills, including job skills, that will help you have a fulfilling life."
"Jeff left," he added. He didn't know why he was saying this. He wasn't even quite sure why he was here, just that he didn't have anywhere else to go, nothing to do now that everything was in shambles. "Christian?"
"I know."
"What did I do?" Jensen asked in a small voice. "Why? Why me?"
He was being turned, his hands brought up to rest against something smooth. His fingers clenched a bit and he felt leather. Heavy bag, his brain supplied. He pulled his hands back and they were immediately slapped back on the bag.
"You get angry. Get fucking pissed. You beat this bag like you want to beat every single thing that has happened to you since this shit started."
Jensen's fingers curled around the bag. His nose twitched as the scent of sweat and musk found him. He knew were he was, he'd watched Christian beat this same bag plenty of times.
"Jensen, look, you have to understand our position here. We've been really patient, but we have a show to run. And given your last doctor's appointment, we think it'll be best for everyone if you take the rest of the season off. We can always write you back in if your condition changes."
His fist slammed into the bag. It felt good, that sourness in his gut, the fire that had been oh so carefully kept in the back of his throat finally being given an outlet. His other fist joined the first, the shudder through his arm settling something in him. He did it again, feeling the bag give under his fists. He could hear soft grunts as he punched the bag, but it stayed steady, solid. Solid like nothing else was right now.
"Jensen, honey. We just want you to be safe. How are you going to support yourself now? Come home, we'll take care of you."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Jensen said, his voice raw. "I've done everything that's been asked. Everything. What the fuck did I do wrong? What did I do?"
He slammed his knee into the bag, his fists continuing to pummel. The roar in his ears grew and he felt his breath stick in his throat. Sweat dripped down his face, his shirt sticking to his shoulders.
"I gotta get out of here, Jens. I just... I can't.... I'm sorry."
There was a noise, broken wild noise that broke through the roar in Jensen's ears. His breath hitched in his lungs, his face felt too tight, but he kept going. The shudder in his arms, the solidness under his knees, he felt something in him shift. Felt the mind numbing terror that had been his constant companion shift into rage. "Why me? I was fucking perfect! It's not fucking fair!"
"Don't worry about anything! I'll pack up everything and send it to you. I'll see... um, I mean, I just... I'll call." Jared. That had been three months ago. Before they fired him, before he found out this was permanent, before his entire life crumbled around him.
He was panting when he stopped, clinging to the bag. He refused to acknowledge the wheezing that sounds suspiciously like sobs. His lips tasted like salt, from sweat or tears, he wasn't sure.
There was a hand to his shoulder, squeezing tight. "You got dealt a shit hand, Jensen. Ain't your fault, ain't nothing you did," Christian said, his voice low and full of gravel.
He whimpered again, hiding his head in the leather of the bag. Trying to put himself together. The hand squeezed a last time before letting go. Jensen's knees buckled, his hands sliding down the bag. He gripped the sides of the bag his head bowed.
"What do I do now?"
"You go on, son. You go on."
Pairing: Jensen/Jeff, special guest star Christian Kane
Rating: PG-13 for language
Disclaimer: Kolkata might be the cultural center of India, but it's still not Hollywood. Any relation to actual events is totally coincidental.
Summary: Jensen gets some bad news.
A/N: Many many thanks to onci_dium who talked through the entire idea with me AND then even beta'd it. *smooches* bb!
Rough, callused, fingertips bit into the skin of his wrist as his hand was roughly manhandled into position for his knuckles to be wrapped in boxer's tape. The tape was sticky on his palm as he flexed his hand and his hand was jerked back into position with a grunt and a growled “stay still, dammit.”
"Mr. Ackles, I am very sorry. I was hopeful that the damage to your eyes would be temporary. The eye is incredibly resilient and often will repair itself given enough time. Unfortunately, in this case it seems as if the damage was too severe."
"It's permanent," he said quietly.
Another grunt and then his other hand was manhandled, the grip tight, and wrapped.
"There's nothing more they can do. They can't even do a cornea replacement." His voice sounded hollowed out, empty.
"At this point, I think the best course of treatment will be occupational therapy in order to help you adjust. I'll write you a referral. There are also organizations that can make this transition less difficult and teach you skills, including job skills, that will help you have a fulfilling life."
"Jeff left," he added. He didn't know why he was saying this. He wasn't even quite sure why he was here, just that he didn't have anywhere else to go, nothing to do now that everything was in shambles. "Christian?"
"I know."
"What did I do?" Jensen asked in a small voice. "Why? Why me?"
He was being turned, his hands brought up to rest against something smooth. His fingers clenched a bit and he felt leather. Heavy bag, his brain supplied. He pulled his hands back and they were immediately slapped back on the bag.
"You get angry. Get fucking pissed. You beat this bag like you want to beat every single thing that has happened to you since this shit started."
Jensen's fingers curled around the bag. His nose twitched as the scent of sweat and musk found him. He knew were he was, he'd watched Christian beat this same bag plenty of times.
"Jensen, look, you have to understand our position here. We've been really patient, but we have a show to run. And given your last doctor's appointment, we think it'll be best for everyone if you take the rest of the season off. We can always write you back in if your condition changes."
His fist slammed into the bag. It felt good, that sourness in his gut, the fire that had been oh so carefully kept in the back of his throat finally being given an outlet. His other fist joined the first, the shudder through his arm settling something in him. He did it again, feeling the bag give under his fists. He could hear soft grunts as he punched the bag, but it stayed steady, solid. Solid like nothing else was right now.
"Jensen, honey. We just want you to be safe. How are you going to support yourself now? Come home, we'll take care of you."
"I didn't do anything wrong," Jensen said, his voice raw. "I've done everything that's been asked. Everything. What the fuck did I do wrong? What did I do?"
He slammed his knee into the bag, his fists continuing to pummel. The roar in his ears grew and he felt his breath stick in his throat. Sweat dripped down his face, his shirt sticking to his shoulders.
"I gotta get out of here, Jens. I just... I can't.... I'm sorry."
There was a noise, broken wild noise that broke through the roar in Jensen's ears. His breath hitched in his lungs, his face felt too tight, but he kept going. The shudder in his arms, the solidness under his knees, he felt something in him shift. Felt the mind numbing terror that had been his constant companion shift into rage. "Why me? I was fucking perfect! It's not fucking fair!"
"Don't worry about anything! I'll pack up everything and send it to you. I'll see... um, I mean, I just... I'll call." Jared. That had been three months ago. Before they fired him, before he found out this was permanent, before his entire life crumbled around him.
He was panting when he stopped, clinging to the bag. He refused to acknowledge the wheezing that sounds suspiciously like sobs. His lips tasted like salt, from sweat or tears, he wasn't sure.
There was a hand to his shoulder, squeezing tight. "You got dealt a shit hand, Jensen. Ain't your fault, ain't nothing you did," Christian said, his voice low and full of gravel.
He whimpered again, hiding his head in the leather of the bag. Trying to put himself together. The hand squeezed a last time before letting go. Jensen's knees buckled, his hands sliding down the bag. He gripped the sides of the bag his head bowed.
"What do I do now?"
"You go on, son. You go on."