FIC: Born Upon the Tide, Part 1/2
Title: Born Upon the Tide
Author: neros_violin
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: R
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 11,900
Summary: Pirates, kidnapping, and a case of mistaken identity separate Jared and Jensen. But neither of them intends to go down without a fight.
Author's Note 1: Written for j2_everafter, as an adaptation of Pirates of the Caribbean. HA! This is not that. There are pirates. There is treasure. There is an opening scene shamlessly stolen from the movie. The ship is called "The Black Pearl." And that is where the similiarites end, I'm afraid.
Author's Note 2: Title from "Highwayman" - lyrics by Jimmy Webb and performed by The Highwaymen (Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash).
Acknowledgments: Big thank yous to zoemathemata and dugindeep for the beta and hand holding, and maerhys for bringing the cheese to accompany my whine.
HMS Elizabeth isn’t the grandest ship in the world, or the biggest, or the fastest. But it’s a sturdy boat with strong sails and big cannons and foul-mouthed sailors below decks, and that’s good enough for Jensen. He can’t think of anything more exciting or adventurous than being on the high seas, out in the open with nothing to depend on but one’s wits and skill with a blade. Jensen caresses the wooden hilt of his practice sword, and squints toward the horizon from his position on the ship’s bow, his body swaying and rolling gently with the motion of the boat, his sea legs steady. Like the ship he’s sailing on, he might be on the small side, but he’s strong.
The water is choppy and hits the hull with sharp snapping noises like angry swats of a hand, frequent and so loud that any noises beyond the immediate vicinity of the Elizabeth would go unheard. Fog hangs heavy, an old grungy curtain that hides their ship from view, just as other ships would be hidden from theirs.
It’s perfect weather - for pirates.
“Jensen! Come down right this instant!” His father’s voice cuts through the cacophony and it’s too close to ignore or pretend he hasn’t heard. As the Governor of the Queen’s colonies, his father is used to being obeyed, and quickly. Jensen sighs heartily and clambers down the rough wooden stairs to join his father and the Colonel near the helm. “What were you doing up there?”
“On the lookout for pirates,” he replies, matter of fact. What else would he be doing?
The Colonel laughs, but it’s not a nice sound or a happy one. “There aren’t any pirates sailing these waters. I’ve made it my mission to ensure that anyone who wears a pirate brand or flies a pirate flag gets exactly what they deserve - a broken neck. They’re a dying breed. You have nothing to be scared of.”
Jensen’s forehead creases, puzzlement in the scrunch of his mouth. “I’m not scared. I’m-” Over the Colonel’s shoulder, Jensen spies something floating in the water, very close to the ship. It looks like something a woman would carry, frilly and pink and cumbersome. His gaze skitters away from it, already disinterested, but as he glances back to the Colonel to continue talking about pirates, one of his very favorite subjects and one that is rarely indulged, he sees something else. It looks like a set of rough boards, held loosely together with twine and other less sturdy things, an impromptu raft. And there, if he squints, he can make out something on top of it, something soft and pale and unmoving. “There’s a boy!” He yells, barely noticing the high-pitched screech of his own changing voice. He points starboard, slightly to his right and ahead. “There’s a boy out there on the water!”
Mr. Gibbs, the first mate, peers over Jensen’s shoulder, fetid breath and stale body odor crusted with salt, but Jensen doesn’t care, as long as he sees. “Man overboard!” shouts Mr. Gibbs. Jensen is shoved aside as the men scramble to rig a pulley system to retrieve the boy from the water. For once, he stays where he’s been put, wrapping his arms around himself and thinking about how cold it must be on that pitiful raft, soaked wet with seawater and damp fog, chilled by the gusting wind.
The rescue is fast and efficient, and Jensen is proud of the Colonel’s and his father’s men. The boy is dropped rather unceremoniously on the deck, and the sudden jarring motion starts a spluttering cough, mostly water and a little bile. Someone turns the boy on his side, and he’s so skinny, all sharp angles and long limbs, the bony protrusions of his shoulder blades clenching and releasing as his lungs and stomach contents are forcibly emptied.
Everyone is watching, like they’ve each taken a collective breath and won’t take another until the boy does, but the trance is broken when a shout comes from the crow’s nest above. “Ahoy!”
That’s when Jensen smells smoke. He didn’t notice earlier, because of the low hanging clouds and because his attention was focused on the boy, in the opposite direction. A strong push of wind parts the fog for an instant, long enough for the crew and the Colonel to catch sight of the ransacked ship, still afloat but alight, set on fire by whomever violated it. It looks wrong, seeing fire floating on water. So much water, yet none to put the fire out.
Jensen’s father’s fingers dig painfully into his shoulders as he shakes his son, who can’t seem to take his eyes off the burning ship. “Jensen. Jensen, I need you.” That gets his attention, magic words that come from having a sick mother and two younger sisters on the mainland. “I need you to take care of this boy while we ready the ship. Can you look after him? Can you take care of him?”
“Yes. Yes, sir,” he whispers.
“Good. Good boy,” his father says, and runs his hand through Jensen’s hair with a shaky smile that’s supposed to be reassuring but only manages apprehensive.
Jensen drops to his knees near the boy, and reminds himself that he’s not alone, not really, and that he needs to keep himself together, for the sake of this person. Who needs him.
He looks younger than Jensen, maybe seven or eight, with a shock of dark hair kept too long and a sharp nose and a few dark freckles on his face. At least Jensen’s not the only one. The boy’s skin is brown from the sun underneath the sick-pale, and his hands are much rougher than Jensen’s, all calloused and red with work. He wears ripped canvas britches and a plain cotton shirt with missing buttons, and his throat and chest are exposed, the skin a little lighter and smoother there.
Jensen reaches out to brush the tangled, salt-and-sweat dried hair from his face, revealing a nasty cut on his forehead, surrounded by a deep purple bruise already going green around the edges, old enough to change colors but new enough that there’s still some swelling. Jensen presses his fingers against the wound, trying for a light touch, but the boy flinches and wakes up with a shuddering groan. His eyes snap open, immediately aware, and they’re oddly shaped, slanted upward. They’re different, and they’re scared.
“It’s okay,” Jensen says, trying to use his calmest voice. He grips the boy’s hand and squeezes. “My name is Jensen.”
“I’m... Jared,” the boys says, a raspy sound through his raw, irritated throat. “I think... I remember... I think they did something really bad.” Those strange eyes, made up of so many colors Jensen doesn’t know how to name them, fill with tears and terror. Jensen’s heart sinks into his stomach; he hasn’t seen a lot of the world, but he’s seen enough to imagine what those words might mean. He looks for further damage to Jared’s body, something that being adrift on the sea’s unforgiving waves with no shelter can’t explain, but he sees nothing unusual. Perhaps whatever Jared is talking about didn’t happen to him. Perhaps it was something he saw.
“It’s okay,” Jensen repeats. He feels so stupid, because this boy has absolutely no reason to believe anything he says, especially when it’s something so inane and probably untrue. In that moment, and for the first time in quite a while, Jensen wishes with all his heart for his mother. She would know what to do to make Jared feel better. “I’m watching over you, Jared.”
Jared’s dry, chapped lips curl into the beginnings of a smile and he squeezes Jensen’s hand right back just as his eyes slip closed, exhausted. His head lolls to the side, and something gold glints in the dull light. Jensen fingers the chain slowly, and with curiosity. He knows it’s not his right to, and after checking over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching, he removes the necklace, big and thick and rich for a boy of Jared’s age and apparent station.
Before he can examine it too closely, his father is back at his side. Some instinct has Jensen slipping the jewelery into his trouser pocket just under his father’s preoccupied, worried nose.
“Did he say anything?” the Governor asks. The Colonel is standing right behind him, waiting for Jensen’s answer with narrowed eyes and a pinched mouth.
“Just his name,” Jensen lies, smoothly and without guilt, going with his guts. He hopes they’ll leave him alone soon, because he’s honestly not very good with lies, and he’s rather uncertain that the next one will go quite as well.
As if someone above heard his lying heart’s desire, a group of soldiers prepare to take a raft to the damaged ship to look for survivors, and Jensen’s father and the Colonel are again called away. Jensen whips the necklace from his pocket like it’s burning, and studies the medallion closely. It’s kind of frightening, really, with a skull and crossbones etched in the center and various sigils carved into a circle around the outside. He runs the pads of his fingers over the rough texture, and bites his tongue when he realizes where he’s seen the symbols. In books and drawings and wanted posters; he honestly never really thought he’d see something like it in real life.
He hovers over Jared, trying to see some indication in his face, but he looks the same - like a half-drowned, half-starved little kid. Jensen bends close, close enough to count Jared’s eyelashes and for his breath to ghost over Jared’s clammy skin as he whispers with wonder and not a little jealousy , “You’re a pirate.”
*
Jared doesn’t wake up that day. He doesn’t wake up when the ship makes its berth in Port Royal two days later and he doesn’t wake up on Jensen’s birthday three days after that. Jensen is worried and anxious and curious by turns. He’s been in Port Royal for almost a week, but he hasn’t seen the town that’s going to be his home beyond the view he has from the guest suite windows. All day long, he sits in a bed chamber while Jared sleeps and housemaids scurry in and out seeing to his care at the instructions of the town’s only doctor.
On the seventh day, Jared wakes up. The first thing Jared sees are a pair of eyes the color of the sea when the sun comes out after a hard, cleansing rain. His mind is fuzzy, feels soft and stuffed full of cotton, and he can’t remember his own name but he remembers one thing.
Jensen.
*
Before Jared woke up, time dragged like a prisoner shackled with a ball and chains, tiring and grating and interminable. After, it seems determined to catch up, rushing by too fast for Jensen’s liking. He hasn’t had a moment alone with Jared since the boy roused and his tongue and ears practically burn with the desire to ask his questions and have them answered. Yet Jensen understands that Jared’s true identity cannot be revealed; his father and the Colonel assumed that Jared was a passenger on the ransacked ship, the sole survivor. Their interrogations are already intense and frequent, but Jared doesn’t remember much, something the doctor attributes to the bump on his head and his long sleep. Jensen thinks that Jared might be able to remember some things if he’s asked the right questions by the right person, but Jensen returns to the certainty that the adults must never, ever suspect Jared’s origins when he’s tempted to push in the presence of others.
I need you to take care of this boy.
Jensen intends to.
He hides the medallion in his lock-box, alongside a small portrait of his mother and sisters that is starting to fade from the oils of his fingers where he touches it and moisture from his lips where he has kissed it, and vows to forget that he ever knew anything about Jared, the pirate.
As of now, he’s just Jared, Jensen’s friend.
*
Jared isn’t used to sleeping inside. He doesn’t remember much about his life, before, but he gets feelings about certain things, and something in him longs to be under the stars instead of the heavy blankets in this large and opulent bed chamber.
There’s so much room here - since he’s been better, Jensen has taken him on explorations of the house and grounds, and the whole place is so gigantic and foreign that Jared sometimes wishes he had a map - but he’s claustrophobic, like he’s suffocating in all that free space, like maybe he needs to be somewhere smaller, tighter, more bound.
He tries not to cry at night, alone in a room so large that he can’t see into the shadows that cling to the corners but sometimes he can’t help it.
He doesn’t know who he is.
He doesn’t know who he is until he hears the tell-tale creak of old hinges and Jensen’s bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. His tears slow as Jensen grasps his hand, smiling broad enough to show teeth, mischief and moonlight sparkling in his pale eyes. This is what they do, the routine they’ve set up since Jared’s been well, and it’s the only touchstone Jared has.
“Come on,” Jensen whispers, tugging insistently.
Jensen leads the way to the kitchen, stealthy and agile and grinning like a loon, as though the process of getting there and getting away with it is just as sweet as the bread and honey they eat in the dark. Through it all he makes up stories about Jared and who he might be, fanciful whispered tales that star Jared as a prince, a knight in training, a soldier’s son. The honey gleams on Jensen’s fingers and lips and he smacks and licks and cleans it off as though it’s the last time he’ll ever have this treat, even though Jared knows as well as he does they’ll be having it again tomorrow night.
They sneak back to Jared’s room with full, sick bellies. Jensen tugs the covers up to Jared’s chin, and Jared goes to sleep with sticky fingers and dry eyes.
*
“Father, please,” Jensen whines. He knows he’s whining and that he’s much too old to be acting this way but he feels just as helpless as he did when he was a little kid so he’s not really surprised he sounds like one. “Don’t send him away. Please.” He’s sitting in one of the big leather chairs that face the wide expanse of his father’s desk and the soles of his shoes don’t even touch the floor. The sensation of his feet dangling in the air doesn’t help him feel any more grown up.
His father doesn’t glance up from the stack of papers he’s reading, glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Jensen, we’ve been over this. Jared’s been here for a month. He can’t stay with us forever. It wouldn’t be right. Mr. Stanton needs an apprentice and is willing to take Jared in and without a family, Jared is going to need a trade. It’s a good arrangement for everyone.”
Jensen knows that tone of voice; no amount of arguing or pleading is going to change his father’s intractable mind. He slips out of the chair without another word and his father doesn’t acknowledge his departure, as usual.
He wanders his way down to Jared’s room, where his friend is packing his meagre belongings, hand-me-down clothes from one of the older stable boys and gifts from Jensen - an old slingshot made of butter-soft leather, a small sea shell worn smooth on the outside from the constant rub of Jensen’s fingers, and a copy of “Treasure Island.”
Jared’s shoulders are slumped and he’s hiding behind the long fall of his bangs, the way he does when he’s scared. Something cold sinks into Jensen’s stomach, seeing Jared like that after he’s been happy for so long, smiles and dimples and laughter becoming more and more frequent with time and Jensen’s friendship.
Jensen takes a deep breath and determines that he’s going to wipe that look off his friend’s face. He’s going to take care of Jared. He plasters a wild grin on his face and clamps a hand on Jared’s shoulder. “This is so exciting!”
“What?” Jared mumbles, hurt and confusion flashing in his expressive eyes.
“This is going to be great! You’re going to learn how to make swords, Jared. And you’ll get to sleep in the loft, and I’ll have an excuse to sneak out and come visit in the middle of the night. Imagine all the fun we’ll get to have now!”
A small smile tugs at Jared’s lips as Jensen enthuses, doing what he always does, distracting Jared with stories and wild ideas and the prospect of adventure.
Jensen’s grin turns into something real as Jared’s posture straightens and he brushes the hair away from his face. He starts to buy into his own fantasy, describing in great detail the sword Jared is going to make for him one day, just like the one Jared will make for himself, a matching pair.
*
No one is more surprised than Jensen to learn that the words he used to make Jared feel better that afternoon turn out to be true.
Mr. Stanton is a good man who likes children and he takes Jared’s education seriously but not so much that he won’t give Jared the afternoons off to spend with Jensen, exploring Port Royal. As soon as Jensen finishes with his lessons, he meets Jared at the smithy and he feels like his day has really begun.
The town is built into the side of a mountain, the entire island series of rocky protrusions emerging from crystalline water. The docks are in the low quarter, at sea level, busy at all hours of the day and some of the night. There’s a bustle and hustle about it that Jensen likes, but Jared has an understandable fear of the ships. Jensen is mostly content to poke about the town center, where the majority of the merchants and trades-people have houses and shops, or if not up near the fort perched strategically atop the bluff on the east side of the settlement. The town is marked by its origins as a pirates’ stronghold, and Jensen delights in discovering its secrets.
Mrs. Fielding, the baker’s wife, feeds them fresh baked scones with cream on Thursday afternoons. Every Monday and Wednesday, the merchant Mr. Hammond, lets them hitch a ride up to the fort on the back of his cart as long as they help him load his freight. At the top, some of the off-duty soldiers, bored and looking for entertainment, give Jared and Jensen fighting lessons and tell bawdy stories that probably only happened in their heads, but Jensen can relate to that.
The rest of the time, Jensen just loiters in the smithy with Jared. He is there when Jared shapes his first horseshoe and his first ax head. He can’t wait for Jared to make his first sword.
*
By the time Jared is eleven years old, he is an expert on Port Royal, moreso than some of the people who have lived in and around the town all their lives. He knows every nook and cranny by heart, every place to get into trouble and every good place to hide. Jensen showed him most of those places, but he found a few, too. He wants to hold his own.
By the time Jared is twelve, he has forgotten that he ever had a life different from this one as a blacksmith’s apprentice and Jensen’s best friend. He sleeps in the loft with the smell of burning coal and cooling metal tickling his nose as his subconscious waits for the sound of pebbles hitting the shutters. Every night, he and Jensen go out and smoke tobacco or pick and eat mangoes under the stars, and it seems like it has always been that way.
By the time Jared is fourteen, he makes his first sword as a birthday present for Jensen’s eighteenth birthday. He works tirelessly and with single-mindedness that leaves him exhausted and shaking at night, and Mr. Stanton has to correct his mistakes a few times but Jared is thrilled with the result. The blade is sharp with a brilliant shine, the hilt is complex but practical, and he’s too young to understand that his subconscious modeled it on the traits that he sees in his friend. The most important thing is that Jensen proclaims to love it. Jared can’t stop smiling for days after he gifts the sword because Jensen doesn’t.
*
By the time Jared is seventeen, he is hopelessly, completely in love with his best friend.
*
Jensen finishes his last tally in the ledger and rubs his eyes. Sitting behind a desk is not what he’d imagined doing with his life, yet here he is, trying to live up to expectations and obligations instead of doing what he thinks is right, what makes his blood sing. He wants to blame the tedious clerking job on his father (it will be good for you, son, and prepare you for my position someday), but he knows it’s his own damn fault.
Being a coward in his personal life quickly translated into cowardice elsewhere, and he might soon hate the man he is becoming but that’s better than the alternative. He’d rather hate himself than lose Jared.
Jensen checks the time and decides that he has enough to head down to the low quarter for a few shots of whiskey. Increasingly, he needs alcohol to face Jared, something to dull the flare of heat in his belly every time he watches Jared’s long body emerge from the second-story smithy window - he still sneaks out even though he is long past the age of needing Mr. Stanton’s permission - or those accidental brushes of shoulder or thigh when they smoke on the cliff above the bay.
The Witch is abnormally busy for a Wednesday night, the raucous noise of a hundred drunken voices hitting Jensen’s ears long before he sees the spill of people overflowing from the inside of the establishment. Sailors and dockworkers are deep into their cups, well past simply drunk and on their way to totally pissed. Wealthy boys from the high quarter looking for a thrill shouldn’t be slumming tonight, but Jensen has been coming to The Witch since before he could see over the bar, and he considers a lot of these rough men and women his friends.
Even so, there’s an abnormal energy to the crowd tonight that raises Jensen’s hackles. He endures a few slaps on the back and drunken exhortations to visit more often as he makes his way through the throng and into the poorly lit interior. Nut-shells crunch unpleasantly underneath his boot heels, and the smell of too many overheated, unclean bodies is overwhelming enough to cause his eyes to water. He searches the crowd for a sober face, and finds the one he’s looking for in the only quiet corner to be had in the whole place. Then again, it’s probably quiet because she’s in it, and even completely intoxicated, every sailor from here to England knows not to fuck with her.
She sees him looking and raises her cup in greeting and invitation. Her flowing red hair looks like blood in the dim light and her dark eyes are like the wrong end of a gun barrel, black and dangerous, maybe the last thing you’ll ever see.
He snags a pint from the bar - he doesn’t know whose - and makes his way carefully to Danneel’s table. “Captain Harris,” he says with a salute and a wink.
Her lips curve into the tiniest smile. “Ackles. It’s been too long.”
“Well, that’s what you get for going out to sea for months at a time,” he says.
“Wouldn’t be a problem if you’d join my crew,” she replies. Every time they see one another, she asks. Every time, he refuses, and she’s known him long enough to understand his reasons. It makes him feel good that she still asks and that he still says no, because it means he hasn’t totally given up yet.
“Mmmm,” Jensen says, raising the pint to his lips. “What’s all this?” he asks, waving a hand at the general chaos around them.
“You’re so cloistered now, Ackles. Time was, nothing of note happened on the high seas that you didn’t know about.” In the manner of all good storytellers, she pauses, letting her words sink in and letting him imagine where this tale might lead. “You ever hear of the Black Pearl?” Jensen nods; it’s a well-known pirate ship captained by Misha Collins who by all accounts is absolutely insane. Brilliant, but insane. “Well, there was a mutiny.”
Jensen startles. While mutiny is not uncommon, especially among pirates, Collins is regarded as one of the best ship captains in the Caribbean, insanity or no, pirate or no. “What? Why?”
“That’s the juicy part, my friend. Apparently, about ten years ago, they found a massive treasure, the likes of which no one had ever seen. But the Royal Navy was pressing close, so Collins, his first mate and his witch hid the gold with magic - blood magic, or so they say. They used their blood to quicken the key so that the treasure’s location could only be revealed by whomever held it and blood, fresh from the living veins of all the three.”
Jensen smiles, thinking he knows where this story is going. “Not a good idea. Three is too many. Someone turned.”
“Right you are. The first mate, Padalecki, according to the rumors. He snuck right into Collins’s cabin and stole it from around his neck. Before he could get away, they were set upon by another vessel - probably another band of pirates who heard about the treasure, we’ll never know - and the first mate was killed in the battle. But the key was never found.”
“So what’s that got to do with now? Why wait ten years to mutiny?”
She shrugs. “A few reasons. First of all, Barbossa - the new first mate, now the Captain - had to wait until the crew turnover was in his favor. Collins had a pretty loyal bunch, but everyone comes back to land eventually, and Barbossa made sure that the men who replaced the old ones were the type to be on his side - for the promise of coin, at least. Second, new information came to light.” Jensen unconsciously leans in close to hear the next part. “The first mate had a son. He was presumed dead, but someone somewhere started to spread the word that he was alive, and here in Port Royal. Collins didn’t want to pursue it, Barbossa did. He kicked Collins off at some island in the middle of nowhere, and he was picked up by Royal Navy patrol, who were in the area looking for rum runners. At this very minute, Captain Misha Collins is sitting in Port Royal’s jail, and Captain Barbossa is likely on his way here to find the boy - a man or thereabouts, by now - and possibly the key.”
She leans back with the satisfied air of someone who expects a big reaction from her audience, but Jensen is silent. He is thinking about Jared and remembering. Approximately ten years ago, almost eleven. An injured boy, wearing a necklace, found near a ship ransacked by pirates. “Oh, my God,” he whispers.
The medallion he took from Jared that day on the Elizabeth, tucked away ten years ago in a lock-box now under Jensen’s bed, is the key.
Jared is the boy.
*
Jensen shoulders his way through the crowd, not at all careful with his elbows. Once on the street, he runs, the burn in his lungs and muscles nothing compared to the panic pounding in his chest. He wants to go to Jared first, wants to let his feet take him to the smithy, beating out a rhythm with his footfalls that matches the Jared, Jared, Jared metronome keeping time in his head, but the Governor’s estate is closer and on the way.
The house is quiet and dark, normal like any other night, but Jensen knows tonight isn’t like any other night. He has a bad feeling worming through his guts like he’s eaten something spoiled, and he’s never been wrong when he’s trusted his instincts. The silence screams at him that all is not well, too similar to the stillness of a forest when the small creatures go to ground, sensing a predator is prowling the woods.
Ascending the stairs, he has a horrible premonition that the lockbox will be gone, removed with his other childhood things by a well-meaning member of the household staff, but as he skids to his knees and grapples in the lowest drawer of his dressing table, his fingers brush against the worn wood and he almost sobs with relief. He doesn’t bother with the key - he doesn’t even remember where it is - and the box shatters with a sickening crunch when he bashes it against the sharp stone edge of the fireplace mantle. The gold gleams even in the dark, bright amongst the scattered mundane mementos, and Jensen’s hand is trembling as he reaches for the medallion and settles the chain around his neck.
At the same instant, the unmistakable roar of cannonball shots rings out over the water and the town of Port Royal begins to burn.
*
Jared is roused by the sound of explosions and fire lighting up his eyelids. Gunshots ring out soon after, and terrified shouts and screaming follow that.
It takes approximately five minutes for the soldiers to get to the low quarter from the fort on foot, and Jared isn’t waiting. He’s still dressed because he was expecting Jensen, and his sword - the one he made to match Jensen’s - is always close at hand.
Mr. Stanton is awake downstairs, in his nightgown and slippers, a single-shot musket over his shoulder. He nods at Jared. “What are you waiting for, boy?”
Jared opens the smithy door to chaos.
*
Port Royal is Jensen’s town. He can get from the Governor’s estate to any point in the rest of the settlement without being seen, in eighteen different ways. His sword remains sheathed, and guilt pierces his heart as he ignores cries for help. He wants to help, he does, but he’s got to make sure Jared is safe first and foremost. No one else’s safety concerns him at the moment.
He reaches the smithy without encountering another human being, but the doors are standing wide open and the inside is dark. “Jared,” Jensen bellows. In his mad rush, he’d listened for the sounds of the fight and where it might be moving, and had been satisfied that the invaders were confined to the low quarter. But they’re pirates, which means they’re deceptive. The attack near the docks could just be a ruse. He’s almost certain now that it is.
Even though Jensen is certain Jared is not inside, he has to check. He has to make sure that Jared isn’t in there, broken and bloody. He draws his sword and creeps over the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light.
In that moment of sensory confusion, the fraction of time that it takes for his pupils to register the dark and react to it, three sets of hands grip his arms and someone shoves a burlap sack over his head. Jensen kicks out wildly, mostly following his nose and the scent of ocean salt and unwashed skin, and the hands only grip harder as he flails.
A cackle sounds in front of him. Close, but not close enough for his boots to connect to anything. “Ooh, soft, cully. Not to worry. We’ve got you now. You’re going home at long last. Right where you belong.”
*
Jared is covered in sweat and not a little blood, the acrid combination of copper and fear cloying at the back of his throat. Some of the pirates have guns, but most are only armed with cutlasses or daggers. Jared was raised with swords, taught by the best how to use them, and berated by his best friend into near-daily practice, going for hours. He runs through the invaders with his blade like they’re made of butter, and when the battle haze recedes for a second or two, he wonders if there’s something wrong with him. Spilling blood shouldn’t be so exhilarating, he’s sure.
He bares his teeth at the next comer, a stocky man in nothing but a pair of britches and a bandanna around his neck, and gestures with his free hand to get started already. That’s when he hears it, so attuned to the sound that the battle raging around him seems muted; Jensen’s voice, angry and frightened. “Let me go, you filthy bastard!”
Jared whips around, forgetting about the man at his back, thinking only of Jensen, finally catching sight of him being dragged kicking and screaming by five pirates. They’re headed toward the ship that these attackers spewed from like beetles from a rotten log.
The blow to the back of Jared’s head doesn’t really come as much of a surprise.
*
The boat rocks and rolls minutely beneath Jensen’s feet, and a flag - the Jolly Roger, no doubt - whips in the rising wind. He doesn’t need to see to know exactly where he is, but someone removes the burlap, dragging it roughly against his nose so that it bleeds, and he confirms what he already supposed.
The Black Pearl is manned by a motley crew - young and old, dark and light, toothless and, well, toothless seems to be a common link between the thirty or so filthy faces that peer up at him, staring with hungry, hollow eyes. That, and the blades they all carry, which are dark with the blood of Port Royal.
Cold rage slows Jensen’s blood; he can’t do a goddamn thing to avenge his friends and neighbours bound and surrounded as he is, but he makes a silent vow that each and every one of these black-hearted bastards is going to die slow and painful. The gallows would be too good and too easy for such slime.
The crowd parts for a bearded man in slightly cleaner, less used clothing. The sword at his hip is ornate, the workmanship fine, though not as expert as Jared’s. His voice, when he speaks, is like gravel under a boot. “Well. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, cully.”
“Are you the captain of this vessel?”
“So I am.” He grins and the few teeth he has left are brown and rotting in his jaws. The effect of that degraded smile is unnerving enough to send a shiver down Jensen’s spine. “What of it?”
“I want to negotiate a cease fire on behalf of Port Royal.”
His laugh is even worse than his teeth, decayed and hollow. The crew laughs with him, a wave of twittering sounds like roaches scattering in the light. “Well, assuming you were in any kind of position, being kidnapped and all, what do you think it is you’ve got to negotiate with?”
Jensen takes a deep breath; it’s a risk, but he’s got to get them away from Port Royal, away from Jared. “Me.”
The captain’s faded blue eyes narrow, even as he flippantly and predictably takes the cheap shot. “Well, boy, you do have pretty lips, but as the sayin’ goes, lips are lips, an’ I can find a pretty mouth anywhere… with fewer teeth to cause trouble. So what’s it about you that’s so special?”
Jensen remembers the rush of fear he’d felt when Danneel related the story, trying and failing to keep his hands steady. “You know exactly what I’ve got. That’s precisely the reason your men grabbed me out of my home. I’ve got my blood, and the medallion I’m wearing around my neck.”
Barbossa whips the sword from his scabbard, and has it pressed against Jensen’s throat before he has the time to think that perhaps he’s miscalculated or misheard the rules of the magic - blood from a living vein. The blade is so cold and so sharp Jensen doesn’t dare swallow or breathe as he waits for Barbossa to decide whether he lives or dies. Jensen stares into the man’s eyes, tries to see which way he’s leaning from the shift of his pupils, but there’s nothing there; if eyes are the window to the soul, Barbossa hasn’t got one.
Jensen’s chest begins to burn for air by the time the captain moves the sword. Again moving too fast for Jensen’s eyes to follow, Barbossa flicks his wrist once, twice, three times, and Jensen’s shirt flutters to the deck in tatters. Metal sings against metal as he hooks the sword through the chain and lifts the medallion for close inspection. The crew is preternaturally silent, still and waiting. It’s as if they’re not even breathing.
Barbossa peers at Jensen, studying him as intently as he’d studied the necklace. “What’s your name then, boy?”
“Jared,” he says, instantly. “Jared Padalecki.” He has to raise his voice to be heard over the bellowed outrage the name draws out of the gathered men. “If you cease fire against Port Royal, I’ll go with you. I won’t struggle. I know you need my blood, and I know you need me alive. So I swear that if you cease fire, I won’t try to jump ship.” Barbossa hisses as though he’s never considered the possibility. “I’ll go quietly with you and help you unlock the treasure.”
“With a cut for you, of course,” Barbossa says with a sneer.
“You won’t even notice it’s gone,” Jensen says, even though he couldn’t be less interested. They’re expecting a certain type, and he’s going to play it.
Barbossa makes a considering noise in the back of his throat. “Deal,” he says in his dead man’s voice.
“Deal,” Jensen confirms. For the first time in hours, he feels in control. Jared is safe, and he’ll escape, and everything will be fine.
Barbossa’s hideous smile returns, no less frightening with their arrangement made. “Welcome aboard,” he says.
Jensen doesn’t even feel the hilt of Barbossa’s sword striking him in the temple.
*
Part Two
Author: neros_violin
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: R
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 11,900
Summary: Pirates, kidnapping, and a case of mistaken identity separate Jared and Jensen. But neither of them intends to go down without a fight.
Author's Note 1: Written for j2_everafter, as an adaptation of Pirates of the Caribbean. HA! This is not that. There are pirates. There is treasure. There is an opening scene shamlessly stolen from the movie. The ship is called "The Black Pearl." And that is where the similiarites end, I'm afraid.
Author's Note 2: Title from "Highwayman" - lyrics by Jimmy Webb and performed by The Highwaymen (Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash).
Acknowledgments: Big thank yous to zoemathemata and dugindeep for the beta and hand holding, and maerhys for bringing the cheese to accompany my whine.
HMS Elizabeth isn’t the grandest ship in the world, or the biggest, or the fastest. But it’s a sturdy boat with strong sails and big cannons and foul-mouthed sailors below decks, and that’s good enough for Jensen. He can’t think of anything more exciting or adventurous than being on the high seas, out in the open with nothing to depend on but one’s wits and skill with a blade. Jensen caresses the wooden hilt of his practice sword, and squints toward the horizon from his position on the ship’s bow, his body swaying and rolling gently with the motion of the boat, his sea legs steady. Like the ship he’s sailing on, he might be on the small side, but he’s strong.
The water is choppy and hits the hull with sharp snapping noises like angry swats of a hand, frequent and so loud that any noises beyond the immediate vicinity of the Elizabeth would go unheard. Fog hangs heavy, an old grungy curtain that hides their ship from view, just as other ships would be hidden from theirs.
It’s perfect weather - for pirates.
“Jensen! Come down right this instant!” His father’s voice cuts through the cacophony and it’s too close to ignore or pretend he hasn’t heard. As the Governor of the Queen’s colonies, his father is used to being obeyed, and quickly. Jensen sighs heartily and clambers down the rough wooden stairs to join his father and the Colonel near the helm. “What were you doing up there?”
“On the lookout for pirates,” he replies, matter of fact. What else would he be doing?
The Colonel laughs, but it’s not a nice sound or a happy one. “There aren’t any pirates sailing these waters. I’ve made it my mission to ensure that anyone who wears a pirate brand or flies a pirate flag gets exactly what they deserve - a broken neck. They’re a dying breed. You have nothing to be scared of.”
Jensen’s forehead creases, puzzlement in the scrunch of his mouth. “I’m not scared. I’m-” Over the Colonel’s shoulder, Jensen spies something floating in the water, very close to the ship. It looks like something a woman would carry, frilly and pink and cumbersome. His gaze skitters away from it, already disinterested, but as he glances back to the Colonel to continue talking about pirates, one of his very favorite subjects and one that is rarely indulged, he sees something else. It looks like a set of rough boards, held loosely together with twine and other less sturdy things, an impromptu raft. And there, if he squints, he can make out something on top of it, something soft and pale and unmoving. “There’s a boy!” He yells, barely noticing the high-pitched screech of his own changing voice. He points starboard, slightly to his right and ahead. “There’s a boy out there on the water!”
Mr. Gibbs, the first mate, peers over Jensen’s shoulder, fetid breath and stale body odor crusted with salt, but Jensen doesn’t care, as long as he sees. “Man overboard!” shouts Mr. Gibbs. Jensen is shoved aside as the men scramble to rig a pulley system to retrieve the boy from the water. For once, he stays where he’s been put, wrapping his arms around himself and thinking about how cold it must be on that pitiful raft, soaked wet with seawater and damp fog, chilled by the gusting wind.
The rescue is fast and efficient, and Jensen is proud of the Colonel’s and his father’s men. The boy is dropped rather unceremoniously on the deck, and the sudden jarring motion starts a spluttering cough, mostly water and a little bile. Someone turns the boy on his side, and he’s so skinny, all sharp angles and long limbs, the bony protrusions of his shoulder blades clenching and releasing as his lungs and stomach contents are forcibly emptied.
Everyone is watching, like they’ve each taken a collective breath and won’t take another until the boy does, but the trance is broken when a shout comes from the crow’s nest above. “Ahoy!”
That’s when Jensen smells smoke. He didn’t notice earlier, because of the low hanging clouds and because his attention was focused on the boy, in the opposite direction. A strong push of wind parts the fog for an instant, long enough for the crew and the Colonel to catch sight of the ransacked ship, still afloat but alight, set on fire by whomever violated it. It looks wrong, seeing fire floating on water. So much water, yet none to put the fire out.
Jensen’s father’s fingers dig painfully into his shoulders as he shakes his son, who can’t seem to take his eyes off the burning ship. “Jensen. Jensen, I need you.” That gets his attention, magic words that come from having a sick mother and two younger sisters on the mainland. “I need you to take care of this boy while we ready the ship. Can you look after him? Can you take care of him?”
“Yes. Yes, sir,” he whispers.
“Good. Good boy,” his father says, and runs his hand through Jensen’s hair with a shaky smile that’s supposed to be reassuring but only manages apprehensive.
Jensen drops to his knees near the boy, and reminds himself that he’s not alone, not really, and that he needs to keep himself together, for the sake of this person. Who needs him.
He looks younger than Jensen, maybe seven or eight, with a shock of dark hair kept too long and a sharp nose and a few dark freckles on his face. At least Jensen’s not the only one. The boy’s skin is brown from the sun underneath the sick-pale, and his hands are much rougher than Jensen’s, all calloused and red with work. He wears ripped canvas britches and a plain cotton shirt with missing buttons, and his throat and chest are exposed, the skin a little lighter and smoother there.
Jensen reaches out to brush the tangled, salt-and-sweat dried hair from his face, revealing a nasty cut on his forehead, surrounded by a deep purple bruise already going green around the edges, old enough to change colors but new enough that there’s still some swelling. Jensen presses his fingers against the wound, trying for a light touch, but the boy flinches and wakes up with a shuddering groan. His eyes snap open, immediately aware, and they’re oddly shaped, slanted upward. They’re different, and they’re scared.
“It’s okay,” Jensen says, trying to use his calmest voice. He grips the boy’s hand and squeezes. “My name is Jensen.”
“I’m... Jared,” the boys says, a raspy sound through his raw, irritated throat. “I think... I remember... I think they did something really bad.” Those strange eyes, made up of so many colors Jensen doesn’t know how to name them, fill with tears and terror. Jensen’s heart sinks into his stomach; he hasn’t seen a lot of the world, but he’s seen enough to imagine what those words might mean. He looks for further damage to Jared’s body, something that being adrift on the sea’s unforgiving waves with no shelter can’t explain, but he sees nothing unusual. Perhaps whatever Jared is talking about didn’t happen to him. Perhaps it was something he saw.
“It’s okay,” Jensen repeats. He feels so stupid, because this boy has absolutely no reason to believe anything he says, especially when it’s something so inane and probably untrue. In that moment, and for the first time in quite a while, Jensen wishes with all his heart for his mother. She would know what to do to make Jared feel better. “I’m watching over you, Jared.”
Jared’s dry, chapped lips curl into the beginnings of a smile and he squeezes Jensen’s hand right back just as his eyes slip closed, exhausted. His head lolls to the side, and something gold glints in the dull light. Jensen fingers the chain slowly, and with curiosity. He knows it’s not his right to, and after checking over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching, he removes the necklace, big and thick and rich for a boy of Jared’s age and apparent station.
Before he can examine it too closely, his father is back at his side. Some instinct has Jensen slipping the jewelery into his trouser pocket just under his father’s preoccupied, worried nose.
“Did he say anything?” the Governor asks. The Colonel is standing right behind him, waiting for Jensen’s answer with narrowed eyes and a pinched mouth.
“Just his name,” Jensen lies, smoothly and without guilt, going with his guts. He hopes they’ll leave him alone soon, because he’s honestly not very good with lies, and he’s rather uncertain that the next one will go quite as well.
As if someone above heard his lying heart’s desire, a group of soldiers prepare to take a raft to the damaged ship to look for survivors, and Jensen’s father and the Colonel are again called away. Jensen whips the necklace from his pocket like it’s burning, and studies the medallion closely. It’s kind of frightening, really, with a skull and crossbones etched in the center and various sigils carved into a circle around the outside. He runs the pads of his fingers over the rough texture, and bites his tongue when he realizes where he’s seen the symbols. In books and drawings and wanted posters; he honestly never really thought he’d see something like it in real life.
He hovers over Jared, trying to see some indication in his face, but he looks the same - like a half-drowned, half-starved little kid. Jensen bends close, close enough to count Jared’s eyelashes and for his breath to ghost over Jared’s clammy skin as he whispers with wonder and not a little jealousy , “You’re a pirate.”
*
Jared doesn’t wake up that day. He doesn’t wake up when the ship makes its berth in Port Royal two days later and he doesn’t wake up on Jensen’s birthday three days after that. Jensen is worried and anxious and curious by turns. He’s been in Port Royal for almost a week, but he hasn’t seen the town that’s going to be his home beyond the view he has from the guest suite windows. All day long, he sits in a bed chamber while Jared sleeps and housemaids scurry in and out seeing to his care at the instructions of the town’s only doctor.
On the seventh day, Jared wakes up. The first thing Jared sees are a pair of eyes the color of the sea when the sun comes out after a hard, cleansing rain. His mind is fuzzy, feels soft and stuffed full of cotton, and he can’t remember his own name but he remembers one thing.
Jensen.
*
Before Jared woke up, time dragged like a prisoner shackled with a ball and chains, tiring and grating and interminable. After, it seems determined to catch up, rushing by too fast for Jensen’s liking. He hasn’t had a moment alone with Jared since the boy roused and his tongue and ears practically burn with the desire to ask his questions and have them answered. Yet Jensen understands that Jared’s true identity cannot be revealed; his father and the Colonel assumed that Jared was a passenger on the ransacked ship, the sole survivor. Their interrogations are already intense and frequent, but Jared doesn’t remember much, something the doctor attributes to the bump on his head and his long sleep. Jensen thinks that Jared might be able to remember some things if he’s asked the right questions by the right person, but Jensen returns to the certainty that the adults must never, ever suspect Jared’s origins when he’s tempted to push in the presence of others.
I need you to take care of this boy.
Jensen intends to.
He hides the medallion in his lock-box, alongside a small portrait of his mother and sisters that is starting to fade from the oils of his fingers where he touches it and moisture from his lips where he has kissed it, and vows to forget that he ever knew anything about Jared, the pirate.
As of now, he’s just Jared, Jensen’s friend.
*
Jared isn’t used to sleeping inside. He doesn’t remember much about his life, before, but he gets feelings about certain things, and something in him longs to be under the stars instead of the heavy blankets in this large and opulent bed chamber.
There’s so much room here - since he’s been better, Jensen has taken him on explorations of the house and grounds, and the whole place is so gigantic and foreign that Jared sometimes wishes he had a map - but he’s claustrophobic, like he’s suffocating in all that free space, like maybe he needs to be somewhere smaller, tighter, more bound.
He tries not to cry at night, alone in a room so large that he can’t see into the shadows that cling to the corners but sometimes he can’t help it.
He doesn’t know who he is.
He doesn’t know who he is until he hears the tell-tale creak of old hinges and Jensen’s bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. His tears slow as Jensen grasps his hand, smiling broad enough to show teeth, mischief and moonlight sparkling in his pale eyes. This is what they do, the routine they’ve set up since Jared’s been well, and it’s the only touchstone Jared has.
“Come on,” Jensen whispers, tugging insistently.
Jensen leads the way to the kitchen, stealthy and agile and grinning like a loon, as though the process of getting there and getting away with it is just as sweet as the bread and honey they eat in the dark. Through it all he makes up stories about Jared and who he might be, fanciful whispered tales that star Jared as a prince, a knight in training, a soldier’s son. The honey gleams on Jensen’s fingers and lips and he smacks and licks and cleans it off as though it’s the last time he’ll ever have this treat, even though Jared knows as well as he does they’ll be having it again tomorrow night.
They sneak back to Jared’s room with full, sick bellies. Jensen tugs the covers up to Jared’s chin, and Jared goes to sleep with sticky fingers and dry eyes.
*
“Father, please,” Jensen whines. He knows he’s whining and that he’s much too old to be acting this way but he feels just as helpless as he did when he was a little kid so he’s not really surprised he sounds like one. “Don’t send him away. Please.” He’s sitting in one of the big leather chairs that face the wide expanse of his father’s desk and the soles of his shoes don’t even touch the floor. The sensation of his feet dangling in the air doesn’t help him feel any more grown up.
His father doesn’t glance up from the stack of papers he’s reading, glasses perched on the end of his nose. “Jensen, we’ve been over this. Jared’s been here for a month. He can’t stay with us forever. It wouldn’t be right. Mr. Stanton needs an apprentice and is willing to take Jared in and without a family, Jared is going to need a trade. It’s a good arrangement for everyone.”
Jensen knows that tone of voice; no amount of arguing or pleading is going to change his father’s intractable mind. He slips out of the chair without another word and his father doesn’t acknowledge his departure, as usual.
He wanders his way down to Jared’s room, where his friend is packing his meagre belongings, hand-me-down clothes from one of the older stable boys and gifts from Jensen - an old slingshot made of butter-soft leather, a small sea shell worn smooth on the outside from the constant rub of Jensen’s fingers, and a copy of “Treasure Island.”
Jared’s shoulders are slumped and he’s hiding behind the long fall of his bangs, the way he does when he’s scared. Something cold sinks into Jensen’s stomach, seeing Jared like that after he’s been happy for so long, smiles and dimples and laughter becoming more and more frequent with time and Jensen’s friendship.
Jensen takes a deep breath and determines that he’s going to wipe that look off his friend’s face. He’s going to take care of Jared. He plasters a wild grin on his face and clamps a hand on Jared’s shoulder. “This is so exciting!”
“What?” Jared mumbles, hurt and confusion flashing in his expressive eyes.
“This is going to be great! You’re going to learn how to make swords, Jared. And you’ll get to sleep in the loft, and I’ll have an excuse to sneak out and come visit in the middle of the night. Imagine all the fun we’ll get to have now!”
A small smile tugs at Jared’s lips as Jensen enthuses, doing what he always does, distracting Jared with stories and wild ideas and the prospect of adventure.
Jensen’s grin turns into something real as Jared’s posture straightens and he brushes the hair away from his face. He starts to buy into his own fantasy, describing in great detail the sword Jared is going to make for him one day, just like the one Jared will make for himself, a matching pair.
*
No one is more surprised than Jensen to learn that the words he used to make Jared feel better that afternoon turn out to be true.
Mr. Stanton is a good man who likes children and he takes Jared’s education seriously but not so much that he won’t give Jared the afternoons off to spend with Jensen, exploring Port Royal. As soon as Jensen finishes with his lessons, he meets Jared at the smithy and he feels like his day has really begun.
The town is built into the side of a mountain, the entire island series of rocky protrusions emerging from crystalline water. The docks are in the low quarter, at sea level, busy at all hours of the day and some of the night. There’s a bustle and hustle about it that Jensen likes, but Jared has an understandable fear of the ships. Jensen is mostly content to poke about the town center, where the majority of the merchants and trades-people have houses and shops, or if not up near the fort perched strategically atop the bluff on the east side of the settlement. The town is marked by its origins as a pirates’ stronghold, and Jensen delights in discovering its secrets.
Mrs. Fielding, the baker’s wife, feeds them fresh baked scones with cream on Thursday afternoons. Every Monday and Wednesday, the merchant Mr. Hammond, lets them hitch a ride up to the fort on the back of his cart as long as they help him load his freight. At the top, some of the off-duty soldiers, bored and looking for entertainment, give Jared and Jensen fighting lessons and tell bawdy stories that probably only happened in their heads, but Jensen can relate to that.
The rest of the time, Jensen just loiters in the smithy with Jared. He is there when Jared shapes his first horseshoe and his first ax head. He can’t wait for Jared to make his first sword.
*
By the time Jared is eleven years old, he is an expert on Port Royal, moreso than some of the people who have lived in and around the town all their lives. He knows every nook and cranny by heart, every place to get into trouble and every good place to hide. Jensen showed him most of those places, but he found a few, too. He wants to hold his own.
By the time Jared is twelve, he has forgotten that he ever had a life different from this one as a blacksmith’s apprentice and Jensen’s best friend. He sleeps in the loft with the smell of burning coal and cooling metal tickling his nose as his subconscious waits for the sound of pebbles hitting the shutters. Every night, he and Jensen go out and smoke tobacco or pick and eat mangoes under the stars, and it seems like it has always been that way.
By the time Jared is fourteen, he makes his first sword as a birthday present for Jensen’s eighteenth birthday. He works tirelessly and with single-mindedness that leaves him exhausted and shaking at night, and Mr. Stanton has to correct his mistakes a few times but Jared is thrilled with the result. The blade is sharp with a brilliant shine, the hilt is complex but practical, and he’s too young to understand that his subconscious modeled it on the traits that he sees in his friend. The most important thing is that Jensen proclaims to love it. Jared can’t stop smiling for days after he gifts the sword because Jensen doesn’t.
*
By the time Jared is seventeen, he is hopelessly, completely in love with his best friend.
*
Jensen finishes his last tally in the ledger and rubs his eyes. Sitting behind a desk is not what he’d imagined doing with his life, yet here he is, trying to live up to expectations and obligations instead of doing what he thinks is right, what makes his blood sing. He wants to blame the tedious clerking job on his father (it will be good for you, son, and prepare you for my position someday), but he knows it’s his own damn fault.
Being a coward in his personal life quickly translated into cowardice elsewhere, and he might soon hate the man he is becoming but that’s better than the alternative. He’d rather hate himself than lose Jared.
Jensen checks the time and decides that he has enough to head down to the low quarter for a few shots of whiskey. Increasingly, he needs alcohol to face Jared, something to dull the flare of heat in his belly every time he watches Jared’s long body emerge from the second-story smithy window - he still sneaks out even though he is long past the age of needing Mr. Stanton’s permission - or those accidental brushes of shoulder or thigh when they smoke on the cliff above the bay.
The Witch is abnormally busy for a Wednesday night, the raucous noise of a hundred drunken voices hitting Jensen’s ears long before he sees the spill of people overflowing from the inside of the establishment. Sailors and dockworkers are deep into their cups, well past simply drunk and on their way to totally pissed. Wealthy boys from the high quarter looking for a thrill shouldn’t be slumming tonight, but Jensen has been coming to The Witch since before he could see over the bar, and he considers a lot of these rough men and women his friends.
Even so, there’s an abnormal energy to the crowd tonight that raises Jensen’s hackles. He endures a few slaps on the back and drunken exhortations to visit more often as he makes his way through the throng and into the poorly lit interior. Nut-shells crunch unpleasantly underneath his boot heels, and the smell of too many overheated, unclean bodies is overwhelming enough to cause his eyes to water. He searches the crowd for a sober face, and finds the one he’s looking for in the only quiet corner to be had in the whole place. Then again, it’s probably quiet because she’s in it, and even completely intoxicated, every sailor from here to England knows not to fuck with her.
She sees him looking and raises her cup in greeting and invitation. Her flowing red hair looks like blood in the dim light and her dark eyes are like the wrong end of a gun barrel, black and dangerous, maybe the last thing you’ll ever see.
He snags a pint from the bar - he doesn’t know whose - and makes his way carefully to Danneel’s table. “Captain Harris,” he says with a salute and a wink.
Her lips curve into the tiniest smile. “Ackles. It’s been too long.”
“Well, that’s what you get for going out to sea for months at a time,” he says.
“Wouldn’t be a problem if you’d join my crew,” she replies. Every time they see one another, she asks. Every time, he refuses, and she’s known him long enough to understand his reasons. It makes him feel good that she still asks and that he still says no, because it means he hasn’t totally given up yet.
“Mmmm,” Jensen says, raising the pint to his lips. “What’s all this?” he asks, waving a hand at the general chaos around them.
“You’re so cloistered now, Ackles. Time was, nothing of note happened on the high seas that you didn’t know about.” In the manner of all good storytellers, she pauses, letting her words sink in and letting him imagine where this tale might lead. “You ever hear of the Black Pearl?” Jensen nods; it’s a well-known pirate ship captained by Misha Collins who by all accounts is absolutely insane. Brilliant, but insane. “Well, there was a mutiny.”
Jensen startles. While mutiny is not uncommon, especially among pirates, Collins is regarded as one of the best ship captains in the Caribbean, insanity or no, pirate or no. “What? Why?”
“That’s the juicy part, my friend. Apparently, about ten years ago, they found a massive treasure, the likes of which no one had ever seen. But the Royal Navy was pressing close, so Collins, his first mate and his witch hid the gold with magic - blood magic, or so they say. They used their blood to quicken the key so that the treasure’s location could only be revealed by whomever held it and blood, fresh from the living veins of all the three.”
Jensen smiles, thinking he knows where this story is going. “Not a good idea. Three is too many. Someone turned.”
“Right you are. The first mate, Padalecki, according to the rumors. He snuck right into Collins’s cabin and stole it from around his neck. Before he could get away, they were set upon by another vessel - probably another band of pirates who heard about the treasure, we’ll never know - and the first mate was killed in the battle. But the key was never found.”
“So what’s that got to do with now? Why wait ten years to mutiny?”
She shrugs. “A few reasons. First of all, Barbossa - the new first mate, now the Captain - had to wait until the crew turnover was in his favor. Collins had a pretty loyal bunch, but everyone comes back to land eventually, and Barbossa made sure that the men who replaced the old ones were the type to be on his side - for the promise of coin, at least. Second, new information came to light.” Jensen unconsciously leans in close to hear the next part. “The first mate had a son. He was presumed dead, but someone somewhere started to spread the word that he was alive, and here in Port Royal. Collins didn’t want to pursue it, Barbossa did. He kicked Collins off at some island in the middle of nowhere, and he was picked up by Royal Navy patrol, who were in the area looking for rum runners. At this very minute, Captain Misha Collins is sitting in Port Royal’s jail, and Captain Barbossa is likely on his way here to find the boy - a man or thereabouts, by now - and possibly the key.”
She leans back with the satisfied air of someone who expects a big reaction from her audience, but Jensen is silent. He is thinking about Jared and remembering. Approximately ten years ago, almost eleven. An injured boy, wearing a necklace, found near a ship ransacked by pirates. “Oh, my God,” he whispers.
The medallion he took from Jared that day on the Elizabeth, tucked away ten years ago in a lock-box now under Jensen’s bed, is the key.
Jared is the boy.
*
Jensen shoulders his way through the crowd, not at all careful with his elbows. Once on the street, he runs, the burn in his lungs and muscles nothing compared to the panic pounding in his chest. He wants to go to Jared first, wants to let his feet take him to the smithy, beating out a rhythm with his footfalls that matches the Jared, Jared, Jared metronome keeping time in his head, but the Governor’s estate is closer and on the way.
The house is quiet and dark, normal like any other night, but Jensen knows tonight isn’t like any other night. He has a bad feeling worming through his guts like he’s eaten something spoiled, and he’s never been wrong when he’s trusted his instincts. The silence screams at him that all is not well, too similar to the stillness of a forest when the small creatures go to ground, sensing a predator is prowling the woods.
Ascending the stairs, he has a horrible premonition that the lockbox will be gone, removed with his other childhood things by a well-meaning member of the household staff, but as he skids to his knees and grapples in the lowest drawer of his dressing table, his fingers brush against the worn wood and he almost sobs with relief. He doesn’t bother with the key - he doesn’t even remember where it is - and the box shatters with a sickening crunch when he bashes it against the sharp stone edge of the fireplace mantle. The gold gleams even in the dark, bright amongst the scattered mundane mementos, and Jensen’s hand is trembling as he reaches for the medallion and settles the chain around his neck.
At the same instant, the unmistakable roar of cannonball shots rings out over the water and the town of Port Royal begins to burn.
*
Jared is roused by the sound of explosions and fire lighting up his eyelids. Gunshots ring out soon after, and terrified shouts and screaming follow that.
It takes approximately five minutes for the soldiers to get to the low quarter from the fort on foot, and Jared isn’t waiting. He’s still dressed because he was expecting Jensen, and his sword - the one he made to match Jensen’s - is always close at hand.
Mr. Stanton is awake downstairs, in his nightgown and slippers, a single-shot musket over his shoulder. He nods at Jared. “What are you waiting for, boy?”
Jared opens the smithy door to chaos.
*
Port Royal is Jensen’s town. He can get from the Governor’s estate to any point in the rest of the settlement without being seen, in eighteen different ways. His sword remains sheathed, and guilt pierces his heart as he ignores cries for help. He wants to help, he does, but he’s got to make sure Jared is safe first and foremost. No one else’s safety concerns him at the moment.
He reaches the smithy without encountering another human being, but the doors are standing wide open and the inside is dark. “Jared,” Jensen bellows. In his mad rush, he’d listened for the sounds of the fight and where it might be moving, and had been satisfied that the invaders were confined to the low quarter. But they’re pirates, which means they’re deceptive. The attack near the docks could just be a ruse. He’s almost certain now that it is.
Even though Jensen is certain Jared is not inside, he has to check. He has to make sure that Jared isn’t in there, broken and bloody. He draws his sword and creeps over the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light.
In that moment of sensory confusion, the fraction of time that it takes for his pupils to register the dark and react to it, three sets of hands grip his arms and someone shoves a burlap sack over his head. Jensen kicks out wildly, mostly following his nose and the scent of ocean salt and unwashed skin, and the hands only grip harder as he flails.
A cackle sounds in front of him. Close, but not close enough for his boots to connect to anything. “Ooh, soft, cully. Not to worry. We’ve got you now. You’re going home at long last. Right where you belong.”
*
Jared is covered in sweat and not a little blood, the acrid combination of copper and fear cloying at the back of his throat. Some of the pirates have guns, but most are only armed with cutlasses or daggers. Jared was raised with swords, taught by the best how to use them, and berated by his best friend into near-daily practice, going for hours. He runs through the invaders with his blade like they’re made of butter, and when the battle haze recedes for a second or two, he wonders if there’s something wrong with him. Spilling blood shouldn’t be so exhilarating, he’s sure.
He bares his teeth at the next comer, a stocky man in nothing but a pair of britches and a bandanna around his neck, and gestures with his free hand to get started already. That’s when he hears it, so attuned to the sound that the battle raging around him seems muted; Jensen’s voice, angry and frightened. “Let me go, you filthy bastard!”
Jared whips around, forgetting about the man at his back, thinking only of Jensen, finally catching sight of him being dragged kicking and screaming by five pirates. They’re headed toward the ship that these attackers spewed from like beetles from a rotten log.
The blow to the back of Jared’s head doesn’t really come as much of a surprise.
*
The boat rocks and rolls minutely beneath Jensen’s feet, and a flag - the Jolly Roger, no doubt - whips in the rising wind. He doesn’t need to see to know exactly where he is, but someone removes the burlap, dragging it roughly against his nose so that it bleeds, and he confirms what he already supposed.
The Black Pearl is manned by a motley crew - young and old, dark and light, toothless and, well, toothless seems to be a common link between the thirty or so filthy faces that peer up at him, staring with hungry, hollow eyes. That, and the blades they all carry, which are dark with the blood of Port Royal.
Cold rage slows Jensen’s blood; he can’t do a goddamn thing to avenge his friends and neighbours bound and surrounded as he is, but he makes a silent vow that each and every one of these black-hearted bastards is going to die slow and painful. The gallows would be too good and too easy for such slime.
The crowd parts for a bearded man in slightly cleaner, less used clothing. The sword at his hip is ornate, the workmanship fine, though not as expert as Jared’s. His voice, when he speaks, is like gravel under a boot. “Well. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time, cully.”
“Are you the captain of this vessel?”
“So I am.” He grins and the few teeth he has left are brown and rotting in his jaws. The effect of that degraded smile is unnerving enough to send a shiver down Jensen’s spine. “What of it?”
“I want to negotiate a cease fire on behalf of Port Royal.”
His laugh is even worse than his teeth, decayed and hollow. The crew laughs with him, a wave of twittering sounds like roaches scattering in the light. “Well, assuming you were in any kind of position, being kidnapped and all, what do you think it is you’ve got to negotiate with?”
Jensen takes a deep breath; it’s a risk, but he’s got to get them away from Port Royal, away from Jared. “Me.”
The captain’s faded blue eyes narrow, even as he flippantly and predictably takes the cheap shot. “Well, boy, you do have pretty lips, but as the sayin’ goes, lips are lips, an’ I can find a pretty mouth anywhere… with fewer teeth to cause trouble. So what’s it about you that’s so special?”
Jensen remembers the rush of fear he’d felt when Danneel related the story, trying and failing to keep his hands steady. “You know exactly what I’ve got. That’s precisely the reason your men grabbed me out of my home. I’ve got my blood, and the medallion I’m wearing around my neck.”
Barbossa whips the sword from his scabbard, and has it pressed against Jensen’s throat before he has the time to think that perhaps he’s miscalculated or misheard the rules of the magic - blood from a living vein. The blade is so cold and so sharp Jensen doesn’t dare swallow or breathe as he waits for Barbossa to decide whether he lives or dies. Jensen stares into the man’s eyes, tries to see which way he’s leaning from the shift of his pupils, but there’s nothing there; if eyes are the window to the soul, Barbossa hasn’t got one.
Jensen’s chest begins to burn for air by the time the captain moves the sword. Again moving too fast for Jensen’s eyes to follow, Barbossa flicks his wrist once, twice, three times, and Jensen’s shirt flutters to the deck in tatters. Metal sings against metal as he hooks the sword through the chain and lifts the medallion for close inspection. The crew is preternaturally silent, still and waiting. It’s as if they’re not even breathing.
Barbossa peers at Jensen, studying him as intently as he’d studied the necklace. “What’s your name then, boy?”
“Jared,” he says, instantly. “Jared Padalecki.” He has to raise his voice to be heard over the bellowed outrage the name draws out of the gathered men. “If you cease fire against Port Royal, I’ll go with you. I won’t struggle. I know you need my blood, and I know you need me alive. So I swear that if you cease fire, I won’t try to jump ship.” Barbossa hisses as though he’s never considered the possibility. “I’ll go quietly with you and help you unlock the treasure.”
“With a cut for you, of course,” Barbossa says with a sneer.
“You won’t even notice it’s gone,” Jensen says, even though he couldn’t be less interested. They’re expecting a certain type, and he’s going to play it.
Barbossa makes a considering noise in the back of his throat. “Deal,” he says in his dead man’s voice.
“Deal,” Jensen confirms. For the first time in hours, he feels in control. Jared is safe, and he’ll escape, and everything will be fine.
Barbossa’s hideous smile returns, no less frightening with their arrangement made. “Welcome aboard,” he says.
Jensen doesn’t even feel the hilt of Barbossa’s sword striking him in the temple.
*
Part Two