Alligator Man
Well, now for something completely different, as they used to say on Monty Python. The WIPs are languishing. But here's a one shot I've been working on for awhile.
Title: Alligator Man
Author: englishblue
Rating: Light R
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Word count: 3714
Warning: Implied character death. (Meep!)
Summary: A hit man who knows too much quits the business. Someone comes after him. Alligators eat anything.
That morning, Jensen had rolled out of bed feeling rough, belly still achy from a night of down and dirty sex and too much Jack hovering under the bruised skin of his temples. He’d pulled on a faded black tee, hair a messy, sweat-soaked tangle popping through the stretched neck, before grabbing an old pair of jeans up off the floor and slinging them over his shoulder. Wandering into the kitchen, he downed a fist full of aspirins, then drank his coffee barefoot and bareassed, one hip propped against the kitchen counter, letting the caffeine sort him out.
While he sipped, the blues moaned out of the transistor radio sitting on the open window sill-still on from the night before. It looked about a billion years old, that radio. Something that would have played Lady Day and Howlin’ Wolf in its time. Jensen hummed and moved his hips to the slow boogie, holding his cup out so he wouldn’t spill any.
He’d been in the bungalow for six months now and liked it better every day. The house suited him; all bamboo-legged furniture and faded Miami colors-soft golds and pinks, baby blues and seawater greens to match his eyes. Jensen chuckled cynically. The whole place was a throw back to the thirties and forties, when mobsters dropped into the Sunshine State on their way out of the country or for a quick vacation, bottled-blondes and Eddie G. the template for their tough guy personas.
Jensen was comfortable in the Florida keys, although he wasn’t one of the tough guys anymore, only a solid citizen getting by day by day. He hadn’t touched a gun since he moved there, though his old friend was sealed in plastic under a floor board in the bathroom. Just in case anyone took exception to him being done with the game.
Outside the bungalow’s thin walls, he could feel the fingers of a summer morning trying to wedge their way through the open screens and past the pale curtains that flanked them. The soft cotton rippled in rising waves of moist heat that painted his skin with a sheen of sweat. It was going to be a scorcher. Jensen thought about taking the car down to the beach where the water lined the horizon like blue smoke, and he could point the bow of the Wendigo where he wanted and spend the day aimlessly fishing.
The low burr of the telephone put paid to his ruminations. Jensen’s ear tracked it to the front room where it was wedged between two sofa cushions. He dug it out, tempted to ignore it until he saw the caller ID blinking at him.
“Yeah?” Jensen wasn’t a morning person. The gruff rasp came out a little harsher than he intended. Then he had to snicker at Tommy’s equally pissy reply.
“Yeah, you asshole.”
“Tommy. What’s happening, dude?”
“After a hello like that, I ought to just hang up on you.” There was a pause before Jensen’s business partner and friend of two years continued. “But I got a paying customer here. Wants to take a run out to the deep water and see what’s biting.”
“Go ‘head then. Take him. You don’t need me for that.” Jensen glanced restlessly around his messy living room, regretting the loss of the fishing trip he’d been thinking about. “Pot-bellied business man hiding from the ball and chain, right?” he remarked idly, squinting his eyes against the bright light creeping through the veranda windows.
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Tom laughed. “And he asked specifically for you.”
A finger of alarm tapped the top of Jensen’s spine as he straightened, suddenly alert, aware of his half-naked vulnerability, dick still hanging out, and the house silent around him.
“What’s this guy’s name? Did he say who recommended me?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Some fat cat from New York put in the good word. I think the name was Morgan.” Tom caught the strangled sound that was Jensen’s only slip. “That mean something to you, hoss?”
“Don’t call me that,” Jensen snapped automatically.
Tom had never gotten over learning Jensen was originally from Texas, a mistake Jensen bitterly regretted at every ‘hoss’ and ‘pardner’ Tom flung at him with ill-concealed amusement.
“Morgan?” The name burned Jensen’s tongue. Instead of seeing Tom’s cheerful mug, he suddenly saw a shark grin over curly salt and pepper hair, the glint of menacing eyes. Jensen tried to pushed the thought away. There had to be more than a thousand-thousand Morgans in New York City. He straightened and rubbed at his eyes. “What’s the charter’s name?”
“Pala.... Palda... Christ, I don’t know. Something unpronounceable.” Tom snickered. “Looks like a college kid, but he said he’s in the bug business. You know. Exterminations.”
Not very subtle. But then, the guy announcing his presence with a brass band couldn’t have succeeded more in getting Jensen’s attention.
“Padalecki,” he said with a calmness that vaguely surprised him.
“Yeah. That’s right. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess, sweetheart.”
***************
The floor board in the bathroom came up easily. Jensen tossed away the shower mat and pried it up with a silverware knife. Staring at the blunt black shape hidden there made his belly squirm. When he’d put it in its hiding place, he thought he’d never have to see it again-that ugly symbol of what he once was. It was only a precaution, he told himself, one his past life had taught him, even though he was nearly certain he would never need the Glock again.
The mean streets of New York City were behind him. Florida was meant to be a fresh beginning: a new life. Jensen’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile Looked like there were no fresh beginnings. Not for him, anyway.
He tucked the familiar metal under the waistband of the loose cotton pants he always wore, anything else too heavy in the muggy Florida climate. It fit snugly against the small of his back. Buttoning up the flowered fiasco of his purple and green shirt, Jensen watched himself in the mirror, foggy condensation from his shower making it appear he was already a ghost. And maybe he was.
The killer he once knew stood in front of him, tight-jawed, staring directly into Jensen’s eyes. All those months, Jensen thought he’d left that face behind. It wasn’t so. The blank, cold menace radiating outward, part brutal efficiency, part emptiness, was the last glimpse of more dying men than Jensen cared to remember.
“Thought you were finished with it, didn’t you, bitch? Thought Dean Winchester was dead.” Jensen studied the cruel mouth, the arched eyebrows. “Jeff was never going to let you go. You knew it. Why the fuck are you so surprised?”
Jensen turned away from the mirror irritably, scrubbing at the spiked mess of his hair. On top of everything else, he’d lost his fucking mind. Talking to himself as though he was two people instead of one broken-down, psychotic piece of shit. Scuffing his feet into a pair of flip flops, he touched the gun at his back one last time and headed for the front door. The ocean waited
*********************
Speeding down the thruway to the marina, the salt-scented breeze a warm caress on Jensen’s jaw, he saw gray-gold, jungle eyes looming in front of the flashing asphalt. Jared. Fucking Jared. Jeff had sent Jared after him. The man was once as close as a brother to Jensen-the only touch of humanity he had allowed himself in a world emotionless as glass. The connection was so strong they’d gone by the aliases Dean and Sam Winchester, no one but Jeff knowing their real names.
The pseudo-brothers fucked each other’s brains out. Whiskey and Jared’s pretty mouth became the only constants in Jensen’s violent world. He had pushed himself up to the thin edge of cirrhosis before he got out. It was a line he still tread in the drunken reaches of lonely Floridian nights. Even the rough sex his current fucks provided was no substitute for being balls deep in Jared’s ass, smoke and sweat unfurling under his fingertips.
The hurt, hungry sounds Jared made snapped the necklace of Jensen’s spine into broken pieces. Nobody else did that for him. And when they switched roles, Jensen taking cock, the cage of Jared’s body was an anchor that kept him from flying apart.
The traffic light ahead flared green, and Jensen snorted out a harsh laugh at the romantic bullshit he could come up with sometimes, swinging his beat-up convertible into the harbor’s entrance. Scoops of gray-white clouds piled-ice cream high behind the marina’s slim population of boats, a picture postcard snapshot.
Jensen hopped out of the car, gaze tracking down the dock to where the Wendigo sat, heavy-bottomed on the water. The nip and crack of the wind plucked at her furled sails. He could just make out Tom’s dark head at the stern without his glasses. Jensen had forgotten them in the flurry that followed Tom’s phone call. He spat a few choice obscenities into the fresh air, feeling mildly better for it.
There was always a chance he could bluff his way through. Convince Jared he was wearing his contacts and saw perfectly fine to kill him. The damned contacts made Jensen’s eyes itch, and he avoided them whenever possible, which since the move was most of the time.
Jared knew Jensen’s strategy on that score; how he preferred the irritant of the lens when he was on business, using the attraction of his face as a distraction to give him a leg up on the mark. Jensen patted his pockets a second time, not quite believing he’d been fool enough to forget his eyes. Driving there, he’d been too wrapped up in his memories to even notice he couldn’t see where the hell he was going. It wasn’t really all that surprising. After six months of almost daily visits to the Wendigo, a blindfold wouldn’t have slowed him down. He knew the way by sense memory alone.
Flip flops slapping on the water-logged planks, Jensen strode firmly down the dock. His eyes scanned for Jared’s unmistakable silhouette against the aqua blue sky. Not seeing it made him even more wary, fingers twitching for the Glock’s solid comfort in his hand. He breathed a littler slower, centering himself, aware of the seagull screech above scraping on his nerves.
The day smelled of burgeoning heat and decomposition. A scatter of rotting fish heads discarded near one of the pilings, shone translucent blue-green in the bright light, their scent leeching into the heavy air. It caught Jensen’s attention, taking him off-guard for only a split second, but it was enough. The distraction caused him to startle unpleasantly, frayed nerves snapping taut, when a familiar voice sounded at his ear.
“You look good, baby. Real good. Still got that pretty swing to your ass, I see. Like the pants, too. Don’t leave much to the imagination.”
A big hand traced the curve of Jensen’s butt over the thin material. Jensen twitched his shoulder, attempting to move away, snarling a curse at the low spark of arousal unfurling in his gut. With a pleased chuckle, Jared stepped closer. The cool nose of his pistol nuzzled into Jensen’s ribs, a perverse sort of kiss between the curved bumps of bone. A powerful arm wrapped around Jensen’s chest dragging him clumsily back into the familiar length of Jared’s body. Their thighs molded together, the taut clench and release of Jared’s muscles too sexual for Jensen’s liking.
“Get off me,” he hissed, still managing to keep a smile on his lips for Tom’s benefit, in case he was watching the show.
The warm huff of Jared’s breath tickled under Jensen’s collar, his spine shifting uneasily at the memories it unearthed. “Let’s play this nice, baby. Keep the civilian out of it. You want that, right?”
Jensen flashed a look at Tom’s fuzzy outline staring their way. “You can’t think I’ve grown that stupid in only six months. I know how this works, dude. Witnesses.”
Jared chuckled. “It was worth a try.”
The gun barrel prodded Jensen roughly. He resumed walking, Jared right behind him. Long fingers wrapped around Jensen’s right biceps, steering a path straight for the Wendigo and Tom.
“Jensen.” Tom raised a hand in greeting, the salutation part question, part welcome. “You hauled ass, dude. Didn’t expect you for another twenty minutes or so. Jared was just about to scope out the marina.”
“Yeah.” Jensen waved back, his mind ticking over rapidly. “Listen, I forgot to pick up the rest of the supplies, bait and food for the day.. I don’t suppose you did it?”
As the two men approached the Wendigo’s bow, Tom’s expression grew easier to read. Jensen hoped his causal attitude would piss his friend off enough to make him unobservant. Tom was always busting Jensen’s chops about something: his drinking, his fucking around, or not taking the business seriously. Forgetting staples for a trip out was at the head of the list.
“Shit, amigo. You always do this to me.” Tom brushed absently at the cowlick falling across his forehead. “All right. But you owe me, and don’t think I’m gonna forget it. Beer. On tap at the Blue Bayou tonight. No excuses.” The tone would have been intimidating if Jensen hadn’t know the man better. “I’ll be right back.”
Tom hopped agilely to the dock in too big a hurry to notice the way Jared swung Jensen to the right so that his body was blocking a view of the gun pressed against Jensen’s back. The hot rush of Jared’s breath covered the nape of Jensen’s neck, bringing a shudder to his skin, one that coiled and slithered along the place where their thighs met and feathered low in Jensen’s belly.
Jesus. His dick had no conscience at all.
“Come aboard.” Using a swift backwards spin and a block with his wrist to Jared’s forearm, Jensen shook himself free of the imprisoning hold. “We don’t need the kid. Ima untie the bowlines. Can’t talk business in public. Sailors tend to get cranky when they see a lot of blood.”
“Baby, you’re so damned suspicious. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on that pretty head of yours.” Jared’s eyes said something else: that he’d grown harder since Jensen disappeared, colder. That he wasn’t going to forgive and forget.
The headache Jensen woke up with intensified. A flat white flash of sun on water squeezed his temples in a vise. “And I believe you,” he muttered, stretching down to lift the heavy nylon rope loose from the pier piling.
Close behind him, Jared’s snicker held no humor. “Don’t try it,” he cautioned, sensing something in Jensen’s tense pose.
With a shrug, Jensen straightened, coiling the wet line around his shoulder. It was a fine day for a fishing trip. There was nothing more exhilarating than speeding through the blue-green rush of the Atlantic, the sun at your back and the day spread out before you. The Wendigo plowed up the channel’s smooth surface as Jensen took the helm, heading for deep water. His fingers curved over the sentient quiver of the wheel confidently.
He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Jared braced at the stern, long hair whipping in his face. His hands, clutched around the railing, looked white knuckled even from a distance. Jensen knew they were both thinking the same thing. The chopped, white combers bouncing under the keel could swallow a multitude of sins and never give anything back. The chill Atlantic waters were a convenient graveyard.
Snatching up the ball cap he’d left on the chrome and walnut dash, Jensen pulled it over the mess of his bed hair. The bill shaded his eyes from the incoming glare. He squinted, the fuzzy blur sharpening a little. He bit back a sigh. Fucking eyes. He was gonna get laser surgery when this whole thing was over.
“So.” Jared sudden nearness made Jensen jump. He was out of practice, and it was going to get him killed soon if he wasn’t careful. “Nice...uhhh...boat.” Jared scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
For the first time in six months, Jensen got a good look at Jared up close. It was unsettling. Jared was more than a little rough around the edges. He looked like shit. There were ink-colored smudges under the slant of his eyes. His complexion had faded to an unhealthy ivory, and his teeth, when he bared them in a smile, reminded Jensen of an alligator he’d seen at a cheap roadside freak show. They fed the thing tin cans and pop tarts.
Jared's gaze darted over Jensen’s face with angry bafflement, the mask he’d worn only a few seconds before slipping off.
“Looks like you’ve got a sweet setup here-the kind we use to dream about. You and me. Before you dumped my ass.”
Jensen tried to break in, but the iron squeeze of fingers around his forearm shut him up.
“Sorry to come along and bust your little bubble,” Jared continued, glancing around at the boat’s tidy cabin. “You always were a neat freak.” He moved closer, feet slipping on the unsteady deck.
“Who said you’re bustin’ my anything?” Jensen managed, turning the Wendigo’s bow into the oncoming surf.
The boat pitched across the next trough, then yawed sharply to starboard. Jensen had the wheel to hold onto, but Jared stumbled and went down on one knee, his grip on Jensen’s arm broken by the unexpected jolt. When he looked up, hair feathering his eyes, Jensen had the gun leveled at his temple.
“Get up real slow, Jay. And mind your manners. I don’t wanna have to shoot you. Blood’s a bitch to get off wood.”
Jensen’s heart galloped crazily in his chest. His lungs felt airless, dead. There was no real possibility of shooting Jared. Jensen couldn’t put a violent hand to the person who had shared his life and his bed for so long. That didn’t mean this wasn’t the finish. Jensen would leave him here on the Atlantic’s unforgiving bosom.
“Seriously, I didn’t think I’d be worth all this trouble,” he commented, watching Jared warily.
Brushing the hair from his eyes, Jared stood with a rueful smile, a hint of dimples on display. “Jen. Baby. You’ve got me all wrong. This wasn’t my idea. You have a lotta keys in your pocket, dude. Wrong people get their hands on you? We’ll all be going away for the big one. You gotta see how it is. Self-preservation.”
“Take your clothes off.”
Jared blinked at the non-sequitur before laughing delightedly. His face cleared, and he put a hand to the hem of his Florida or Bust bright orange tee shirt.
“You had me worried there for a minute.” He pulled the shirt over his head, pale, broad chest appearing somehow more naked in the strong morning light. “You need some cock, sweetheart? Bet you missed the way we fucked like rabbits.”
“Jesus.” Jensen swallowed roughly, ignoring what Jared said, just staring at him. “Still so damned hot.”
His mind slipped sideways, remembering, feeling his cock twitch hungrily against the thin cotton of his pants when the sensation of riding Jared’s ass rushed over him, a heated blue flame.
“The rest of it,” he blurted, flicking the gun in the direction of Jared’s pants, then watched them fall along the smooth muscles of his thighs, a puff of worn blue that settled at his ankles. Jensen’s gaze crept up to the half-hard thickness of Jared’s ridiculously big prick. His bush was newly shaven, a soft brown lawn Jensen had nuzzled too many times to count while he pumped a vigorous handjob over velveteen steel. Jared’s own special scent of spice and fresh cedar filled his head.
Fuck! This was getting Jensen nowhere. Despite Jared’s leering eagerness, Jensen motioned him out on deck. The wet spray blowing over the prow dashed him back to reality.
“Over there.”
He waved the Glock towards the port rail. Jared’s face underwent a swift alteration.
“You’re joking,” he growled in a rough voice.
“I’ve thought about it a lot, you know?” Jensen began, wetting his lips with a nervous flick of the tongue that Jared followed in Pavlovian response. “What with my past profession and all. Where I’d dump the bodies if anyone came after me. How I’d get rid of them. Someplace they’d never be found. It’d have to be fool proof.” A shark grin pulled Jensen’s lips up at the corners. “Did you know alligators eat just about anything? You’re like an alligator, Jay. I can’t let you go. You’d come back and eat me for sure.”
Jared cocked his head as Jensen’s speech sank muckily into his consciousness, a mental quicksand threatening to pull him under wherever his thoughts touched down. Fear surged through him.
“You wouldn’t do that, Jensen. I know you.”
“Over the side.” Jensen stuck the gun out in a double-handed grip, eyes implacable. “Go on, Jay. Hell. Who knows. Maybe you’ll make it back to shore. You’re strong, and we’re only a few miles out. I’m at least giving you a chance. Which is more than I can say for...”
Jared’s face drained to paper white. “I couldn’t have done it,” he shouted. “Christ! I love you, man. I’d never kill you.”
The lies made Jensen embarrassed for him. He motioned again towards the white-capped water. “Go on. You’ll stand a better chance if I don’t have to knock you unconscious.”
Defeat showed in the slump of Jared's shoulders. He threw a long leg over the railing, teetering above the black ocean swell. His naked body was beautiful.
“I’m sorry,” Jensen whispered nonsensically.
He gave the unbalance man a shove and watched him fall, slow motion arc and the splash of immersion hiding him for a moment until his head broke the surface, hair plastered to his skull.
“Jennnnn...”
Jensen supposed he’d hear that long, drawn out syllable in his sleep for years to come. Climbing back into the wheelhouse, he set course for home port, the tiny bob of Jared’s head in the vast expanse of ocean gradually disappearing from view. By the time Wendigo bumped comfortably against the dock, Jensen was softly humming something by Lady Day and wondering if Tom would like to go out for a drink later. He owed him a beer.
~ fin ~
Title: Alligator Man
Author: englishblue
Rating: Light R
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Word count: 3714
Warning: Implied character death. (Meep!)
Summary: A hit man who knows too much quits the business. Someone comes after him. Alligators eat anything.
That morning, Jensen had rolled out of bed feeling rough, belly still achy from a night of down and dirty sex and too much Jack hovering under the bruised skin of his temples. He’d pulled on a faded black tee, hair a messy, sweat-soaked tangle popping through the stretched neck, before grabbing an old pair of jeans up off the floor and slinging them over his shoulder. Wandering into the kitchen, he downed a fist full of aspirins, then drank his coffee barefoot and bareassed, one hip propped against the kitchen counter, letting the caffeine sort him out.
While he sipped, the blues moaned out of the transistor radio sitting on the open window sill-still on from the night before. It looked about a billion years old, that radio. Something that would have played Lady Day and Howlin’ Wolf in its time. Jensen hummed and moved his hips to the slow boogie, holding his cup out so he wouldn’t spill any.
He’d been in the bungalow for six months now and liked it better every day. The house suited him; all bamboo-legged furniture and faded Miami colors-soft golds and pinks, baby blues and seawater greens to match his eyes. Jensen chuckled cynically. The whole place was a throw back to the thirties and forties, when mobsters dropped into the Sunshine State on their way out of the country or for a quick vacation, bottled-blondes and Eddie G. the template for their tough guy personas.
Jensen was comfortable in the Florida keys, although he wasn’t one of the tough guys anymore, only a solid citizen getting by day by day. He hadn’t touched a gun since he moved there, though his old friend was sealed in plastic under a floor board in the bathroom. Just in case anyone took exception to him being done with the game.
Outside the bungalow’s thin walls, he could feel the fingers of a summer morning trying to wedge their way through the open screens and past the pale curtains that flanked them. The soft cotton rippled in rising waves of moist heat that painted his skin with a sheen of sweat. It was going to be a scorcher. Jensen thought about taking the car down to the beach where the water lined the horizon like blue smoke, and he could point the bow of the Wendigo where he wanted and spend the day aimlessly fishing.
The low burr of the telephone put paid to his ruminations. Jensen’s ear tracked it to the front room where it was wedged between two sofa cushions. He dug it out, tempted to ignore it until he saw the caller ID blinking at him.
“Yeah?” Jensen wasn’t a morning person. The gruff rasp came out a little harsher than he intended. Then he had to snicker at Tommy’s equally pissy reply.
“Yeah, you asshole.”
“Tommy. What’s happening, dude?”
“After a hello like that, I ought to just hang up on you.” There was a pause before Jensen’s business partner and friend of two years continued. “But I got a paying customer here. Wants to take a run out to the deep water and see what’s biting.”
“Go ‘head then. Take him. You don’t need me for that.” Jensen glanced restlessly around his messy living room, regretting the loss of the fishing trip he’d been thinking about. “Pot-bellied business man hiding from the ball and chain, right?” he remarked idly, squinting his eyes against the bright light creeping through the veranda windows.
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” Tom laughed. “And he asked specifically for you.”
A finger of alarm tapped the top of Jensen’s spine as he straightened, suddenly alert, aware of his half-naked vulnerability, dick still hanging out, and the house silent around him.
“What’s this guy’s name? Did he say who recommended me?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Some fat cat from New York put in the good word. I think the name was Morgan.” Tom caught the strangled sound that was Jensen’s only slip. “That mean something to you, hoss?”
“Don’t call me that,” Jensen snapped automatically.
Tom had never gotten over learning Jensen was originally from Texas, a mistake Jensen bitterly regretted at every ‘hoss’ and ‘pardner’ Tom flung at him with ill-concealed amusement.
“Morgan?” The name burned Jensen’s tongue. Instead of seeing Tom’s cheerful mug, he suddenly saw a shark grin over curly salt and pepper hair, the glint of menacing eyes. Jensen tried to pushed the thought away. There had to be more than a thousand-thousand Morgans in New York City. He straightened and rubbed at his eyes. “What’s the charter’s name?”
“Pala.... Palda... Christ, I don’t know. Something unpronounceable.” Tom snickered. “Looks like a college kid, but he said he’s in the bug business. You know. Exterminations.”
Not very subtle. But then, the guy announcing his presence with a brass band couldn’t have succeeded more in getting Jensen’s attention.
“Padalecki,” he said with a calmness that vaguely surprised him.
“Yeah. That’s right. How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess, sweetheart.”
***************
The floor board in the bathroom came up easily. Jensen tossed away the shower mat and pried it up with a silverware knife. Staring at the blunt black shape hidden there made his belly squirm. When he’d put it in its hiding place, he thought he’d never have to see it again-that ugly symbol of what he once was. It was only a precaution, he told himself, one his past life had taught him, even though he was nearly certain he would never need the Glock again.
The mean streets of New York City were behind him. Florida was meant to be a fresh beginning: a new life. Jensen’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile Looked like there were no fresh beginnings. Not for him, anyway.
He tucked the familiar metal under the waistband of the loose cotton pants he always wore, anything else too heavy in the muggy Florida climate. It fit snugly against the small of his back. Buttoning up the flowered fiasco of his purple and green shirt, Jensen watched himself in the mirror, foggy condensation from his shower making it appear he was already a ghost. And maybe he was.
The killer he once knew stood in front of him, tight-jawed, staring directly into Jensen’s eyes. All those months, Jensen thought he’d left that face behind. It wasn’t so. The blank, cold menace radiating outward, part brutal efficiency, part emptiness, was the last glimpse of more dying men than Jensen cared to remember.
“Thought you were finished with it, didn’t you, bitch? Thought Dean Winchester was dead.” Jensen studied the cruel mouth, the arched eyebrows. “Jeff was never going to let you go. You knew it. Why the fuck are you so surprised?”
Jensen turned away from the mirror irritably, scrubbing at the spiked mess of his hair. On top of everything else, he’d lost his fucking mind. Talking to himself as though he was two people instead of one broken-down, psychotic piece of shit. Scuffing his feet into a pair of flip flops, he touched the gun at his back one last time and headed for the front door. The ocean waited
*********************
Speeding down the thruway to the marina, the salt-scented breeze a warm caress on Jensen’s jaw, he saw gray-gold, jungle eyes looming in front of the flashing asphalt. Jared. Fucking Jared. Jeff had sent Jared after him. The man was once as close as a brother to Jensen-the only touch of humanity he had allowed himself in a world emotionless as glass. The connection was so strong they’d gone by the aliases Dean and Sam Winchester, no one but Jeff knowing their real names.
The pseudo-brothers fucked each other’s brains out. Whiskey and Jared’s pretty mouth became the only constants in Jensen’s violent world. He had pushed himself up to the thin edge of cirrhosis before he got out. It was a line he still tread in the drunken reaches of lonely Floridian nights. Even the rough sex his current fucks provided was no substitute for being balls deep in Jared’s ass, smoke and sweat unfurling under his fingertips.
The hurt, hungry sounds Jared made snapped the necklace of Jensen’s spine into broken pieces. Nobody else did that for him. And when they switched roles, Jensen taking cock, the cage of Jared’s body was an anchor that kept him from flying apart.
The traffic light ahead flared green, and Jensen snorted out a harsh laugh at the romantic bullshit he could come up with sometimes, swinging his beat-up convertible into the harbor’s entrance. Scoops of gray-white clouds piled-ice cream high behind the marina’s slim population of boats, a picture postcard snapshot.
Jensen hopped out of the car, gaze tracking down the dock to where the Wendigo sat, heavy-bottomed on the water. The nip and crack of the wind plucked at her furled sails. He could just make out Tom’s dark head at the stern without his glasses. Jensen had forgotten them in the flurry that followed Tom’s phone call. He spat a few choice obscenities into the fresh air, feeling mildly better for it.
There was always a chance he could bluff his way through. Convince Jared he was wearing his contacts and saw perfectly fine to kill him. The damned contacts made Jensen’s eyes itch, and he avoided them whenever possible, which since the move was most of the time.
Jared knew Jensen’s strategy on that score; how he preferred the irritant of the lens when he was on business, using the attraction of his face as a distraction to give him a leg up on the mark. Jensen patted his pockets a second time, not quite believing he’d been fool enough to forget his eyes. Driving there, he’d been too wrapped up in his memories to even notice he couldn’t see where the hell he was going. It wasn’t really all that surprising. After six months of almost daily visits to the Wendigo, a blindfold wouldn’t have slowed him down. He knew the way by sense memory alone.
Flip flops slapping on the water-logged planks, Jensen strode firmly down the dock. His eyes scanned for Jared’s unmistakable silhouette against the aqua blue sky. Not seeing it made him even more wary, fingers twitching for the Glock’s solid comfort in his hand. He breathed a littler slower, centering himself, aware of the seagull screech above scraping on his nerves.
The day smelled of burgeoning heat and decomposition. A scatter of rotting fish heads discarded near one of the pilings, shone translucent blue-green in the bright light, their scent leeching into the heavy air. It caught Jensen’s attention, taking him off-guard for only a split second, but it was enough. The distraction caused him to startle unpleasantly, frayed nerves snapping taut, when a familiar voice sounded at his ear.
“You look good, baby. Real good. Still got that pretty swing to your ass, I see. Like the pants, too. Don’t leave much to the imagination.”
A big hand traced the curve of Jensen’s butt over the thin material. Jensen twitched his shoulder, attempting to move away, snarling a curse at the low spark of arousal unfurling in his gut. With a pleased chuckle, Jared stepped closer. The cool nose of his pistol nuzzled into Jensen’s ribs, a perverse sort of kiss between the curved bumps of bone. A powerful arm wrapped around Jensen’s chest dragging him clumsily back into the familiar length of Jared’s body. Their thighs molded together, the taut clench and release of Jared’s muscles too sexual for Jensen’s liking.
“Get off me,” he hissed, still managing to keep a smile on his lips for Tom’s benefit, in case he was watching the show.
The warm huff of Jared’s breath tickled under Jensen’s collar, his spine shifting uneasily at the memories it unearthed. “Let’s play this nice, baby. Keep the civilian out of it. You want that, right?”
Jensen flashed a look at Tom’s fuzzy outline staring their way. “You can’t think I’ve grown that stupid in only six months. I know how this works, dude. Witnesses.”
Jared chuckled. “It was worth a try.”
The gun barrel prodded Jensen roughly. He resumed walking, Jared right behind him. Long fingers wrapped around Jensen’s right biceps, steering a path straight for the Wendigo and Tom.
“Jensen.” Tom raised a hand in greeting, the salutation part question, part welcome. “You hauled ass, dude. Didn’t expect you for another twenty minutes or so. Jared was just about to scope out the marina.”
“Yeah.” Jensen waved back, his mind ticking over rapidly. “Listen, I forgot to pick up the rest of the supplies, bait and food for the day.. I don’t suppose you did it?”
As the two men approached the Wendigo’s bow, Tom’s expression grew easier to read. Jensen hoped his causal attitude would piss his friend off enough to make him unobservant. Tom was always busting Jensen’s chops about something: his drinking, his fucking around, or not taking the business seriously. Forgetting staples for a trip out was at the head of the list.
“Shit, amigo. You always do this to me.” Tom brushed absently at the cowlick falling across his forehead. “All right. But you owe me, and don’t think I’m gonna forget it. Beer. On tap at the Blue Bayou tonight. No excuses.” The tone would have been intimidating if Jensen hadn’t know the man better. “I’ll be right back.”
Tom hopped agilely to the dock in too big a hurry to notice the way Jared swung Jensen to the right so that his body was blocking a view of the gun pressed against Jensen’s back. The hot rush of Jared’s breath covered the nape of Jensen’s neck, bringing a shudder to his skin, one that coiled and slithered along the place where their thighs met and feathered low in Jensen’s belly.
Jesus. His dick had no conscience at all.
“Come aboard.” Using a swift backwards spin and a block with his wrist to Jared’s forearm, Jensen shook himself free of the imprisoning hold. “We don’t need the kid. Ima untie the bowlines. Can’t talk business in public. Sailors tend to get cranky when they see a lot of blood.”
“Baby, you’re so damned suspicious. I wouldn’t hurt a hair on that pretty head of yours.” Jared’s eyes said something else: that he’d grown harder since Jensen disappeared, colder. That he wasn’t going to forgive and forget.
The headache Jensen woke up with intensified. A flat white flash of sun on water squeezed his temples in a vise. “And I believe you,” he muttered, stretching down to lift the heavy nylon rope loose from the pier piling.
Close behind him, Jared’s snicker held no humor. “Don’t try it,” he cautioned, sensing something in Jensen’s tense pose.
With a shrug, Jensen straightened, coiling the wet line around his shoulder. It was a fine day for a fishing trip. There was nothing more exhilarating than speeding through the blue-green rush of the Atlantic, the sun at your back and the day spread out before you. The Wendigo plowed up the channel’s smooth surface as Jensen took the helm, heading for deep water. His fingers curved over the sentient quiver of the wheel confidently.
He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Jared braced at the stern, long hair whipping in his face. His hands, clutched around the railing, looked white knuckled even from a distance. Jensen knew they were both thinking the same thing. The chopped, white combers bouncing under the keel could swallow a multitude of sins and never give anything back. The chill Atlantic waters were a convenient graveyard.
Snatching up the ball cap he’d left on the chrome and walnut dash, Jensen pulled it over the mess of his bed hair. The bill shaded his eyes from the incoming glare. He squinted, the fuzzy blur sharpening a little. He bit back a sigh. Fucking eyes. He was gonna get laser surgery when this whole thing was over.
“So.” Jared sudden nearness made Jensen jump. He was out of practice, and it was going to get him killed soon if he wasn’t careful. “Nice...uhhh...boat.” Jared scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
For the first time in six months, Jensen got a good look at Jared up close. It was unsettling. Jared was more than a little rough around the edges. He looked like shit. There were ink-colored smudges under the slant of his eyes. His complexion had faded to an unhealthy ivory, and his teeth, when he bared them in a smile, reminded Jensen of an alligator he’d seen at a cheap roadside freak show. They fed the thing tin cans and pop tarts.
Jared's gaze darted over Jensen’s face with angry bafflement, the mask he’d worn only a few seconds before slipping off.
“Looks like you’ve got a sweet setup here-the kind we use to dream about. You and me. Before you dumped my ass.”
Jensen tried to break in, but the iron squeeze of fingers around his forearm shut him up.
“Sorry to come along and bust your little bubble,” Jared continued, glancing around at the boat’s tidy cabin. “You always were a neat freak.” He moved closer, feet slipping on the unsteady deck.
“Who said you’re bustin’ my anything?” Jensen managed, turning the Wendigo’s bow into the oncoming surf.
The boat pitched across the next trough, then yawed sharply to starboard. Jensen had the wheel to hold onto, but Jared stumbled and went down on one knee, his grip on Jensen’s arm broken by the unexpected jolt. When he looked up, hair feathering his eyes, Jensen had the gun leveled at his temple.
“Get up real slow, Jay. And mind your manners. I don’t wanna have to shoot you. Blood’s a bitch to get off wood.”
Jensen’s heart galloped crazily in his chest. His lungs felt airless, dead. There was no real possibility of shooting Jared. Jensen couldn’t put a violent hand to the person who had shared his life and his bed for so long. That didn’t mean this wasn’t the finish. Jensen would leave him here on the Atlantic’s unforgiving bosom.
“Seriously, I didn’t think I’d be worth all this trouble,” he commented, watching Jared warily.
Brushing the hair from his eyes, Jared stood with a rueful smile, a hint of dimples on display. “Jen. Baby. You’ve got me all wrong. This wasn’t my idea. You have a lotta keys in your pocket, dude. Wrong people get their hands on you? We’ll all be going away for the big one. You gotta see how it is. Self-preservation.”
“Take your clothes off.”
Jared blinked at the non-sequitur before laughing delightedly. His face cleared, and he put a hand to the hem of his Florida or Bust bright orange tee shirt.
“You had me worried there for a minute.” He pulled the shirt over his head, pale, broad chest appearing somehow more naked in the strong morning light. “You need some cock, sweetheart? Bet you missed the way we fucked like rabbits.”
“Jesus.” Jensen swallowed roughly, ignoring what Jared said, just staring at him. “Still so damned hot.”
His mind slipped sideways, remembering, feeling his cock twitch hungrily against the thin cotton of his pants when the sensation of riding Jared’s ass rushed over him, a heated blue flame.
“The rest of it,” he blurted, flicking the gun in the direction of Jared’s pants, then watched them fall along the smooth muscles of his thighs, a puff of worn blue that settled at his ankles. Jensen’s gaze crept up to the half-hard thickness of Jared’s ridiculously big prick. His bush was newly shaven, a soft brown lawn Jensen had nuzzled too many times to count while he pumped a vigorous handjob over velveteen steel. Jared’s own special scent of spice and fresh cedar filled his head.
Fuck! This was getting Jensen nowhere. Despite Jared’s leering eagerness, Jensen motioned him out on deck. The wet spray blowing over the prow dashed him back to reality.
“Over there.”
He waved the Glock towards the port rail. Jared’s face underwent a swift alteration.
“You’re joking,” he growled in a rough voice.
“I’ve thought about it a lot, you know?” Jensen began, wetting his lips with a nervous flick of the tongue that Jared followed in Pavlovian response. “What with my past profession and all. Where I’d dump the bodies if anyone came after me. How I’d get rid of them. Someplace they’d never be found. It’d have to be fool proof.” A shark grin pulled Jensen’s lips up at the corners. “Did you know alligators eat just about anything? You’re like an alligator, Jay. I can’t let you go. You’d come back and eat me for sure.”
Jared cocked his head as Jensen’s speech sank muckily into his consciousness, a mental quicksand threatening to pull him under wherever his thoughts touched down. Fear surged through him.
“You wouldn’t do that, Jensen. I know you.”
“Over the side.” Jensen stuck the gun out in a double-handed grip, eyes implacable. “Go on, Jay. Hell. Who knows. Maybe you’ll make it back to shore. You’re strong, and we’re only a few miles out. I’m at least giving you a chance. Which is more than I can say for...”
Jared’s face drained to paper white. “I couldn’t have done it,” he shouted. “Christ! I love you, man. I’d never kill you.”
The lies made Jensen embarrassed for him. He motioned again towards the white-capped water. “Go on. You’ll stand a better chance if I don’t have to knock you unconscious.”
Defeat showed in the slump of Jared's shoulders. He threw a long leg over the railing, teetering above the black ocean swell. His naked body was beautiful.
“I’m sorry,” Jensen whispered nonsensically.
He gave the unbalance man a shove and watched him fall, slow motion arc and the splash of immersion hiding him for a moment until his head broke the surface, hair plastered to his skull.
“Jennnnn...”
Jensen supposed he’d hear that long, drawn out syllable in his sleep for years to come. Climbing back into the wheelhouse, he set course for home port, the tiny bob of Jared’s head in the vast expanse of ocean gradually disappearing from view. By the time Wendigo bumped comfortably against the dock, Jensen was softly humming something by Lady Day and wondering if Tom would like to go out for a drink later. He owed him a beer.
~ fin ~