Fic: Haven. RPS. Chris/Jensen. NC-17. Chapter 1/11

[felisblanco]

“So, you one of ‘em fags? Sure look like it.”

Chris briefly closes his eyes. Ugh. It’s his night off. He’s having a drink for fuck’s sake! He glances over and sure enough, there are three urban cowboys looming over some poor guy, probably a twink or a flame, judging by the blatant disgust in the asshole’s voice. Two of them look to be a fair bit over six feet, the third not that much shorter. Big and burly and jonesing for trouble.

Chris can’t hear the guy’s answer, but he guesses it’s some version of ‘Fuck off’, because the smaller one grabs the guy’s shoulder and starts hauling him to his feet. Chris sighs. Here they go.

Chris drains his drink, slides out of the booth, and walks over, tapping the biggest fucker on the shoulder. When he glances back Chris clocks him under the chin with his elbow, hard enough that the guy falls backwards and lies flat, stone out cold. The other two jerk back in surprise then roar and charge him, both at the same time. He catches a quick glimpse of the guy they were harassing - oh yeah, that’s a twink if he ever saw one - before he gets lost in a flurry of fists and feet, elbows and knees. He notices the guy get up from his seat to try and flee, or possibly join the fight, and turns to tell him to stay the fuck back, only to catch a fist to his face, skin splitting at the eyebrow from a clunky ring on the ugly fuck’s finger. Motherfucking ow!

“You’re gonna pay for that, man,” Chris hisses, blood running into his right eye, partially blinding him. Something in his face must give the asshole pause because he steps back, licking his lips nervously, then turns on his heel and flees. The third one stares after him, then back at Chris, before proving himself to be even stupider than he looks as he decides to try his luck anyway. Chris grins, tasting blood on his teeth. Yippy-ki-yay, motherfucker!

The alarm pierces through his consciousness like a goddamn klaxon. Chris groans and slaps blindly at the clock until it finally shuts the fuck up. His head is pounding, the rest of his body's not much better. Takes him a moment to remember why and then he groans even louder. Rolling out of bed with some difficulty he shuffles to the bathroom. The face that meets him in the mirror is rough, grey tinted and bleary eyed. It also sports a shiner with a cut over his eyebrow.

This is why he shouldn’t get drunk at his own bar. Things tend to go… sideways. Especially when said bar has a rainbow sticker in the window, in a city full of rednecks.

Now, he hates stereotyping. He’s a bit of a redneck himself, though he has the good taste to not be a goddamn bigot. One of the reasons why he’d decided to make his bar queer-friendly when he first bought it; life is hard enough without having to worry about whether you’ll get the shit kicked out of you, just for wanting a fucking drink. It’s also why he has a zero-tolerance rule, as stated clearly above the bar. But seems some southerners have as hard a time reading as they do understanding that statistics don’t care shit about state lines. The queers are here, and they need drinks just like everyone else. Probably even more.

Chris sighs and gingerly touches the swelling around his eye. He hates being punched in the face. Although, if he remembers correctly, the other guys faired way worse. One knocked out, another ran off, scared to shit, and the third… It’s a bit of a blur but Chris trusts the guy got what was coming to him and then some. He’s never lost a fight in his own bar. It would be bad for morale, for one thing.

He does remember the twink being gone when the dust settled. Chris can’t blame him. He just hates that someone came to his bar, looking for a safe place, only to be chased off by some fucking asshole outsiders.

Chris turns on the shower. His hair feels greasy from last night’s sweaty fight and there’s still blood on his face. Guess he better clean up and then go check the damage downstairs. Some smashed glasses at least and he has a vague recollection of a chair breaking across his back. He starts to strip and grimaces, then turns around, checking his back in the mirror. Oh yeah, that’s a nasty chair-shaped bruise. Great. At least all his ribs seem to be intact. This time.

Chris is in the back, checking inventory, when Matt yells that there’s a guy there to see him.

“Just a sec!”

“Take your sweet time,” is the cheeky response and Chris rolls his eyes. Must be a pretty one then.

He never puts any criteria when looking for staff, but word gets out and by now the better part of them are queer in some way or other. Most assume he is as well. He never says, just makes it clear he doesn’t mix business with pleasure, meaning he won’t fuck his staff, girls or guys, and leaves the rest to their imagination. Ain’t none of their business what he gets up to.

When he comes out there’s a guy sitting by the bar, nursing a drink. Chris is about to rip Matt a new one for selling booze outside opening hours when he realizes it’s a bottle of Coke. Alright then. There’s a guitar case leaning against the bar, battered and old with more than its fair share of stickers. Musician then. Looking for a gig, he’d guess. They aren’t really in need of a new act, but he’ll hear the guy out. You never know when the next big star walks through the door.

“Can I help you?”

The guy turns around so fast he almost knocks the guitar case over, catching it at the last moment. When he straightens up, flushed with embarrassment, Chris almost stops in his tracks. Not just because he recognizes the twink from last night but because… Well, if the kid’s looking for work and he can actually sing, they’ll be selling a lot of drinks to a lot of thirsty customers.

“Hey. Sorry. Don’t know if you remember me,” the kid says, biting his lip. The voice is slightly deeper than Chris would have guessed, even if the brighter daylight makes him look even younger and more innocent than he did last night. Eyes bright and hopeful, and he must have done something to his eyelashes, because damn! His lips are almost feminine in their fullness, pink cheeks smooth enough that Chris doubts he’s started shaving. The kid is wearing ratty jeans and a plaid shirt over a plain white t-shirt, somehow making the simple getup look like he just came from a gay porno shoot.

“Hard to forget,” Chris says, “seein’ as my eye is still smartin’ from savin’ your sweet ass from a whoopin’ last night.”

The kid stiffens, a sweet blush making him even prettier. “I’d have been alright. I can take care of myself.”

Chris smirks. “Sure you can. But you’re welcome.”

“Uhm… yeah.” The kid looks abashed. “Thanks. And sorry about the eye.”

Chris waves it off. “Not your fault. Those fuckers, they like to come in here with their backward thinkin’, just lookin’ for trouble. Just ‘cause they see a rainbow flag in the window, they think there’s easy pickings.”

The guy’s nostrils flare. “Like me?”

Damn, the kid has a chip on his shoulder.

“Or Matt,” Chris says, nodding at Matt, who’s slight and far from intimidating. “Or me.”

Whole reason he learned to fight in the first place. Only so many times you can take having your head shoved in a toilet before you decide it’s time to fight back. Which he did. Got suspended from school for three weeks but it was worth it. Those fuckers never bothered him again.

“Just ‘cause we look weak don’t mean we are,” he adds, keeping his voice gentle.

The kid seems mollified, even a bit embarrassed. “No.”

“Anyway, if you’re not here to thank me for being your knight in sweaty plaid, what then?” That does get him a small smile and… wow! Would you look at that! Chris easily admits it does give him a little tingle in his belly.

“What I was here for last night, ‘cept I was told the owner weren’t around.” The guy’s smile widens and seriously, he just keeps getting prettier. “Guess they were lying.”

“Was my night off. They know better than to disturb me on my night off.” Chris throws Matt a grin. “I don’t take too kindly being denied my weekly whiskey.” He flips Matt off when he snorts. So what if it’s maybe more like two, even three times a week. Possibly daily. He’s his own damn boss. He can drink when he wants.

“Oh. I’m sorry I ruined your night.”

“Not your fault, son. So, tell me… No, let me guess. You lookin’ for a gig?”

The guy looks surprised until Chris nods at the guitar case. “Oh. Yeah. I was… I’m sorta low on cash. I mean, if you’ve got a free spot. I do a bit of country, a bit of rock.” He ducks his head, a pink flush traveling up from his neck. “I pick up stuff pretty fast so if you’ve got anything else in mind, I could probably do that, too.”

Chris raises his eyebrows. “Huh. You any good?”

The guy straightens up although he can’t hide the nervous flicker in his eyes. “Good enough. I can show you.”

Chris checks his watch. They’ve got plenty of time. “Alright. Get up on stage and show me what you’ve got, kid.”

The guy grins and yeah, that one’s deadly too. He jumps up on the stage, flips open the case and takes out a beauty of a guitar. A 1950’s Gibson if Chris is not mistaken. Oh wow. Chris would whistle if he wasn’t afraid the kid would take it the wrong way. Instead he stays silent, waiting patiently as the kid pulls over a stool and sits down. There’s just the three of them in there so a mic is not necessary. Although, if the kid’s good, they should probably check he knows how to use one. Amazing how many performers don’t.

The guy tunes his guitar for a few minutes, strums it lightly, shifts on the stool and clears his throat. Then he starts playing and Chris has to say, it sounds good. Yeah, it sounds alright. He nods his head to the music. It’s familiar although he can’t quite place it. Country. Ballad, sounds like. When the kid pulls in a breath, Chris holds his own, waiting with hopeful anticipation. And then this deep, seductive voice hits him like a warm breeze from home. Like a summer night out on the ranch, with the stars twinkling above in an endless black sky and the smell of smoke and horse sweat in the air.

He waves at Matt who pours him a whiskey and slides it over with a knowing smile. He nods his head at the kid that’s singing his pretty little heart out. Chris nods back. Yeah. He agrees.

The song ends and the guy takes a few deep breaths before standing up and kicking the stool aside. He plugs in, tests the sound, and then taps a rhythm with his foot before he’s rocking it out. Just him, solo, with that old semi-acoustic guitar and no mic and still his voice fills the place, loud enough that Chris feels it in his bones.

“Man, he’s good,” Matt says. There’s heat in his eyes that makes Chris want to tell him off, no matter that he’s used to Matt picking up and taking home every other pretty face he sees. “Damn sweet on the eyes as well.”

“Watch it!”

Matt blinks, surprised, so Chris adds, “Kid looks barely legal,” even if that’s not what made him snap. Or maybe it is. Even playing a rock star the kid looks vulnerable. Like he’s stepping into shoes he can’t quite fill yet.

The kid finishes the song then raises his eyebrows, like asking if he should do more, so Chris waves him over. The kid unplugs and jumps off the stage, hopeful look in his eyes, guitar still slung over his shoulder.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Jensen. Jensen Ackles.”

Chris sticks out his hand. “Chris Kane. Looks like you got yourself a gig.”

“Yeah?”

A brilliant smile splits Jensen’s face and through his own stunned haze Chris hears Matt suck in his breath. Instinctively Chris puts an arm around the kid’s shoulders and turns him away, steering him to a booth, away from Matt’s hungry eyes.

“Let’s talk,” he says, feeling weirdly protective though the kid has at least a couple of inches on him and doesn’t seem to be done growing. Now they’re sitting close, Chris notices eyes of startling green and skin peppered with freckles. Like God decided to sprinkle just that little bit of extra to make sure the boy would kill people dead. “You from around here?”

“Not far,” Jensen says, which is clearly a lie. “I just…” Jensen stops. “I moved,” he finally says but there’s a story there that Chris can just about guess.

Still, he has to make sure. He won’t risk his staff and customers, not even for a sure money maker. “Don’t know if you noticed the sign,” he says, pointing at the rules hanging above the bar. “Those okay with you?”

Jensen blinks up at the sign then blushes deep red, ducking his head. “Yeah.”

That’s good enough for Chris. He won’t pry further, even if he’s willing to bet the kid’s as queer as a three dollar bill. “Alright. Good. Now, our regular nights for live music are pretty booked.”

Jensen’s face falls and Chris feels sorry enough for him that he doesn’t drag it out, like he sometimes would, being a bit of an asshole and all. Instead, he continues, “Sundays are pretty slow, so we usually just play whatever’s on track, but you said you needed money, so why not?”

“Tonight?” Jensen sounds nervous but eager. “Yeah! Wow! Thank you. You’re saving my life, man. I mean it.”

“Will just be you though, band’s got the night off on Sundays.” Jensen nods, blinking like having back up never even occurred to him. “Just get here before eight and you better be sober, alright? I don’t care what you do after you’re done, but …” Chris frowns, looking the kid over. “How old are you?”

Jensen drops his gaze, as if embarrassed. “Old enough to kill and get married,” he says.

“But not to drink, I hear ya.” Chris slaps him on the shoulder. “We don’t serve minors; the local authorities would just love to hook us on some dumb shit like that. You need to unwind, do it on your own time and not here.”

Jensen nods, cheeks pink. “Okay.”

“Now let me have a look at that beauty of yours.”

Jensen hands the guitar over, all casual, like it isn’t the most gorgeous instrument Chris has ever seen. A starburst Gibson ES-125 archtop, close to eighty years old if he’s not mistaken. “Where the hell did you get this?”

“My old man. Was my nana’s.” There’s anger there but mostly acceptance and a little bit of sadness. Ah.

“You stole it.”

Jensen jerks back, eyes wide. “What? No!” When Chris just raises his eyebrows, Jensen slumps in his seat. “I mean, maybe. He doesn’t really play so I figured he wouldn’t miss it.”

Chris shrugs. None of his business. He hands Jensen back the guitar, with more than a little regret, and stands up. “Remember, eight o’clock.”

“Okay.” Jensen doesn’t move. “Think maybe I could… I don’t know, just wait here?”

Chris sighs inwardly. He had a feeling, but he’d hoped he was wrong. “You got no place to stay, son?”

Jensen ducks his head. “Not yet. I mean, I’m sure I’ll find some. I just… haven’t yet.”

“Where’s your stuff?”

Jensen nods at a lonely backpack sitting on a stool by the bar. Great. This explains why he smells like bad coffee and diesel, he probably slept at the bus station.

“C’mon. You can wait upstairs.” Jensen hesitates, eyes wary, so Chris adds, “I’m gonna make myself somethin’ to eat. Wouldn’t mind the company.”

He waits, watching emotions ripple across Jensen’s face until he settles on a tough look of false bravado. Seems hunger beats whatever the kid is fearing. Being molested probably, Chris thinks with a sick feeling in his stomach. Pretty boy like that, bet he finds himself in a pickle more times than not. Especially travelling alone.

“We’re goin’ upstairs for a bite,” Chris tells Matt, shutting down his suggestive leer with a look that has Matt backing up, hands raised in apology. “This is Matt, by the way. Matt, meet Jensen. Now, c’mon.”

Jensen quickly packs up his guitar and grabs his backpack, then trots after Chris to the backroom where a spiral staircase leads to his apartment above.

It’s not a big place but he doesn’t need much. Big windows that let the light in. A nice kitchen because he likes to cook. A TV and a couch, comfy enough for a relaxing night in, not that he has many of those. A bedroom with a bed that has room for company if he so chooses. A small office that gathers dust. Bathroom with a shower. That’s it.

“Have a seat,” Chris says to the kid whose eyes are darting around, curious as a cat’s.

He means by the breakfast bar, figures they can chat a bit, maybe he can find out whether he needs to worry about someone coming after the kid with a warrant. Or a shotgun. You never know. But Jensen puts the backpack and guitar case down by the couch and sits down with the sort of heavy sigh that comes from not having rested on anything soft for far too long. Sure enough, when Chris comes out of the bathroom after taking a piss, Jensen is out cold.

Chris frowns. Either the kid was more exhausted than he looked or he’s far too trusting. Not a good thing to be, alone and queer in a state this red.

They’ve got plenty of time, so Chris leaves the cooking for now. Won’t take him long to whip up some eggs and bacon, maybe a couple of sausages, some fried tomatoes, whatever else he finds and fancies. He walks over to the couch, looking down at the kid where he sits slumped with his head tilted to the side. He looks impossibly young in his sleep. And not just pretty, goddamn beautiful. Practically angelic.

Chris shakes his head. “Shut up,” he reprimands himself and goes to fetch a blanket. The kid doesn’t need much coaxing before he’s laying down, sneakers off, dead to the world. Didn’t even stir a little bit. Chris really doesn’t like it. He drapes the blanket over the kid, falling just short of tucking him in. They can talk about the dangers of dropping dead asleep in a stranger’s home later.

Jensen is warm and cozy and the air smells of something good enough to make his mouth water. Somewhere close by his mama is humming along to the radio. A warm hand touches his shoulder and he instinctively fumbles for it, expecting his mother’s slender fingers but what he gets is a broad hand, stronger, rougher, jerking out of his grip before he has time to panic.

“Wake up, kid,” drawls a harsh voice, the hand back on his shoulder, now shaking him, a lot less gently. “Food’s gettin’ cold.”

Jensen’s eyes fly open. Chris is glaring down at him. He looks genuinely pissed off and Jensen sits up abruptly. He doesn’t know what he did wrong but judging from last night, Chris isn’t one to quarrel with.

“Sorry,” Jensen says, no idea what he’s apologizing for. Maybe he drooled on the guy’s couch. Or maybe falling asleep was taking Chris’s hospitality a step too far, no matter how accidental it was. Although that doesn’t explain the blanket which was definitely not there when Jensen sat down. Or why his shoes are off. Still… “Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

“You should be more careful,” Chris grumbles. “Plenty of bad people out there.”

Jensen tenses and Chris nods, like he knows exactly what Jensen is thinking. Maybe he does. Maybe he took one look at Jensen and pictured he’d be an easy target. Just like those guys did last night. Jensen’s stomach curls up in knots and he slowly reaches for his backpack, eyes darting around without moving his head.

“Door’s unlocked. Fire escape back there.” Chris nods toward what Jensen guesses is the bedroom. “We can take the meal downstairs if you prefer.” Chris picks up the plates, heaped with delicious looking food, and sighs. “Matt’s gonna bitch I didn’t make him any.”

“It’s okay. We can stay here,” Jensen says quickly, shoving his feet into his sneakers and standing up. He’s not gonna cause trouble for his boss on his first day.

Chris looks at him for a moment then puts the plates back down, not asking if he’s sure. Weirdly enough that makes Jensen feel easier. Everyone treats him like a damn kid, like he can’t think for himself. Not counting the ones that take one look at him and think he’s plain stupid. A blond bimbo. But even if Chris keeps calling him kid, he doesn’t treat him that way.

Chris stands leaning against the kitchen counter, plate in hand, fork stuck in a piece of sausage. He’s as far away as he can be without plain leaving the kitchen. As soon as Jensen has sat down by the breakfast bar and picked up his knife and fork, Chris steps forward, putting his plate slowly down on the counter. As if he wanted to first make sure Jensen didn’t mind him being that close. Like Jensen’s feelings actually matter.

“Looks great,” Jensen says cheerily to hide the lump in his throat. “Thanks, man.”

Chris visibly relaxes. “Ain’t more work cookin’ for two than one,” he dismisses. “Dig in.”

They eat in silence, which Jensen appreciates almost as much as the food. It really is great. The bacon is crispy, the eggs done just right, there are fried tomatoes, hot but still fresh in the middle, the sausages are spicy, even the salad is good, and Jensen’s never been much for eating his vegetables, but there’s something dark and sticky drizzled on it that makes it taste sweet and delicious.

Chris’s presence is calming, now that he’s not scowling, which is weird considering the whirlwind of violence he’d been last night. Jensen risks a glance. That eye looks like it hurts, and he’d noticed Chris wincing as he followed him up the stairs earlier. Also noticed the firm ass, inches from his face, but that’s a thought Jensen’s keeping to himself.

“What?” Chris says and Jensen realizes he’s been staring. He looks down, hating the blush he can feel burning his cheeks.

“Nothing. Just… your eye,” he says, since that was the last safe thought he had before they dived into dangerous territory. “Looks like it hurts.”

Chris grunts, touching the swelling below his eye gingerly with his knuckles, before stabbing rather vehemently at a piece of bacon. “Had worse,” he mutters.

Jensen has as well but worse doesn’t make this one better. “Sorry for bailing,” he says instead because he does feel bad about that. Even if Chris told him to.

“Told you to,” Chris says, echoing his thoughts.

“Still.” Jensen chases a button mushroom across the plate, finally pinning it with a quick stab. “Where you learn to fight like that, anyway?”

Chris chuckles. “Didn’t have much choice, bein’ on the shorter side and all.”

Jensen can see how that might have been a problem. “Maybe you can teach me some,” he says. When Chris frowns at him, he adds, “Only recently got taller, but I’ve always been ‘pretty’,” grimacing at the last word.

Chris looks at him thoughtfully. “Not a bad thing to be,” he says finally, “but I get your point.”

Jensen shifts in his seat. Chris didn’t say outright that he finds him good-looking, but it feels implied. Jensen’s about to withdraw his request for tutoring - encouraging close contact with someone he doesn’t know suddenly seems like a bad idea - when he remembers it won’t matter. He’s hired for one night only, where he’ll be going after that is anyone’s guess. His stomach drops, like there’s a sinkhole in his belly, and he averts his gaze.

They finish their meal in silence, Jensen fighting the dread that’s slowly taking over his whole body to the point that he’s having trouble swallowing and his hands start trembling. Chris glances at him occasionally, brow furrowed, but he doesn’t say anything.

When they’re done Chris takes their plates and puts them in the sink, refusing Jensen’s offer of washing up. “Better not soften your fingertips too much,” he points out, then frowns. “Forgot to ask. You know how to use a mic?”

Jensen nods. When Chris looks doubtful, he says, “Was on the debate team. Not singing but it’s more or less the same.”

“More heavy breathin’ though,” Chris points out, then adds, as if it wasn’t clear, “Singin’. Not… not debate.” He looks away, flustered. It’s so unexpectedly endearing; Jensen’s lips automatically tug at the corners. “We should get downstairs,” Chris mutters, voice even grittier than usual. “You ready?”

Jensen’s grin drops. “Yeah, sure.”

“Don’t look too ready,” Chris says, tilting his head. He slaps a warm hand on Jensen’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You were good before, you’ll be good again. Don’t worry.”

Jensen doesn’t know how to explain that he’s not worried about the gig - well, not just the gig - but what comes after. When the bar closes and everyone goes home and he goes… where? He doesn’t really fancy roaming the streets after midnight, looking for a motel room. Maybe he can just go back to the bus station. On the other side of town.

He leaves the backpack, even if it makes him nervous to let it out of his sight, and hauls the guitar case downstairs. The place is already open, party in full swing. Chris must have let him sleep longer than he should have. Jensen keeps his head down, eyes on Chris’s back as they make their way across the room to the same corner booth Chris occupied last night. There’s a small “RESERVED” note on it, explaining why it’s still free.

Chris points to the bar where Matt is placing drinks on trays before pushing them over towards a couple of waitresses. Tough looking, take-no-shit type of women that look like they’d break anyone’s arm that even thought of pinching their butt. “What do you want?”

“Just a Coke,” Jensen says, since there’s no use asking for anything stronger, no matter how much he could use it.

Chris nods and moves behind the bar. Watching him and Matt, Jensen can’t help wondering if there’s something more there. Matt does lean in a little too close, smiles a little too wide. At one point Jensen sees Chris roll his eyes before elbowing Matt away but Matt just shrugs, his grin never wavering. When he catches Jensen watching, he winks and throws him a kiss.

Jensen looks away, face reddening. He doesn’t even know why he was staring. Matt’s cute enough but he makes Jensen uncomfortable. Like the guys that hoot and howl and call him princess, with obscene gestures and a glint in their eye that says they aren’t just making fun, that he better not be caught alone in the dark by any of them. Not that he believes Matt to be like that, he can’t see Chris ever hiring a guy that wasn’t safe, but the blatant flirting still rattles him.

“Here you go, honey.”

He looks up, startled, as someone slides a glass of Coke in front of him. The waitress, blond with a streak of blue in her hair, whistles, her eyes twinkling. “Now aren’t you a pretty one.” She leans down, a warm hand on his shoulder. “Don’t mind Matt, he’s a horndog but he’ll back off if you tell him. Or I can tell him.”

He never thought he’d be mothered by a twenty-something butch lesbian. He assumes. He’s actually never met one before, that he knows of. There’s a reason he left home first chance he got and it sure wasn’t because it got too crowded in the Pride parade. “It’s okay. I… I can handle it. Thanks!” he adds awkwardly when she pats his shoulder and turns away.

“Don’t worry about it, honey.”

He sips slowly, not wanting to ask for another drink in case he has to pay for them. And because caffeine makes his throat dry which is far from what he needs right now, something he should have thought of. He’d ask for water but he’s nervous about leaving his guitar unattended at the table and he feels weird flagging down a waitress, having no money to tip her. He glances around, trying to get a feel for the room, but he’s too nervous to take much in, except that some of the girls seem oddly glamorous for a Sunday night at a country dive bar. High heels, sequin dresses, lots of makeup.

“Okay, you’re up,” Chris says practically in his ear, making Jensen jump. He didn’t even notice him coming over. “Easy. Just… deep breaths. But no heavy breathin’,” he adds with a half-smile and Jensen laughs nervously. “Oh, and here.”

Chris throws him a bottle of water as he walks backward to the stage. Jensen only just catches it, fumbling, like his dad didn’t force him to play baseball for all of high school. Chris grins at him before turning around and jumping up on stage.

“Hello friends, queers, and lovers! I know we don’t usually have any treats for y’all on Sundays, it being the Lord’s Day and all, but this one, he’s just so damn pretty I think the Lord will approve. Give a warm welcome to my boy Jensen!”

Chris jumps back down, grinning, clapping Jensen on the back when they meet half-way. “Knock’em dead, son!”

He pretends he can’t hear the whistles and cat calls as he clambers up on stage but offers a small smile for the appreciative whistles when he pulls out his guitar. He knows she’s a beauty. A bright light hits him as he sits down on the stool, having moved the mic in place. He blinks, sweat already running down his temple and the small of his back.

“Hey,” he says, jerking back from the loud feedback. “Sorry.”

He hears laughter and tries for a smile. Drops it like a stone when someone yells, “Take your shirt off!” Louder laughter this time.

He ducks his head, cheeks burning. “Hey,” he tries again. “My name’s Jensen. I thought I’d play you a few tunes.”

“You can play my tune, gorgeous!” someone yells and again he’s hit with raucous laughter.

The guitar almost slips out of his sweaty hands, reminding him that he’s forgotten to sling the strap over his neck. He fumbles with it, hands shaking. More laughter. Fuck. Fuck!

“C’mon, princess, if you ain’t singing I’ve got a better use for that pretty mouth right here!” The lights are too bright, but he doesn’t have to see to know the caller is grabbing his crotch.

The laughter and wolf whistles grow louder, the noise deafening in his ears. Jensen squeezes his eyes closed, trying to shut it all out: the noise, the bright light, the stuffy air, the hungry eyes staring at him. It’s no use. His breathing quickens. He bows his head, feeling dizzy. His ribs seem to be constricting him like a straitjacket. He is half a heartbeat from scrambling off the stage, body already coiled and ready to flee, when there’s a loud yell and the sound of people scuffling. He raises his head in alarm and is squinting anxiously into the light when Chris suddenly appears in front of him on the stage, hair tussled, face pink with fury.

“Now, y’all listen to me, you motherfuckin’ assholes!” Chris growls into the mic, his voice, dark and dangerous, sending chills down Jensen’s spine. “I’ll clear the house. I’ll throw all of y’all out and lock the door and enjoy this fine concert by my lonesome if y’all can’t behave the way your mama taught ya! You hear me?”

There’s coughing and a few, “Sure, man,” along with mumbled apologies.

“Good. And you better tip my boy some real fuckin’ money or I’ll damn well shake’em out of your goddamn pockets before y’all leave.” He puts the mic back in the stand before leaning over, rubbing soothing fingers over Jensen’s neck as he whispers, “Don’t mind’em, darlin’. Just sing to me, alright?”

Then he’s gone, leaving Jensen staring out into the blinding light, his heart hammering, the heat from Chris’s breath slipping down his collar. The words ‘darling’ and ‘my boy’ twirling in his belly. He takes a few deep breaths. The place is completely silent, one could hear a pin drop. He closes his eyes again, slowly erasing every single person in the bar in his mind until there’s only Chris, sitting where he sat when Jensen auditioned. Watching. Listening. Jensen grips the guitar tighter and clears his throat.

He's still shaky so he picks something slow, something quiet, something his mama used to sing for him. It’s probably not a song they’d usually play in a place like this but either he does it justice, or everyone’s still scared Chris will kick them in the nuts if they so much as utter a sound because there’s not even a murmur disturbing the lyrics. He sings, letting the words take him back to before he realized how much he didn’t fit in, would never fit in, not back home, maybe nowhere. At one point his voice breaks but no one laughs. He soldiers on, keeping his emotions in check as best he can.

The song ends. For a moment there is complete silence. Then the room erupts in applause and howling and whistles that have him looking up in surprise. The lights had been lowered without him noticing, there’s just a soft beam centered on the guitar, and he sends Chris silent thanks for leaving his face in moderate shadows.

“Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” he hears Chris yell, and Jensen lets out a surprise laugh. “C’mon, darlin’, show’em what you got!”

He laughs again, suddenly elevated. Standing up he kicks back the stool and throws himself into a rocky version of Midnight Train To Memphis. He forgets about the audience, forgets about his fears of ‘what next?’. He’s just singing for one person and for once that person isn’t just himself.

He’s been alternating slow and loud, trying to keep it interesting, presently strumming his way through a mellow one when he sees Chris stand up and move closer, gesturing time-out and raising his eyebrows in question. Jensen nods. He’s getting tired and would appreciate a break. Chris gestures something that Jensen takes to mean, ‘After you finish the song’ and then he just continues standing there, watching him. It’s weirdly intimate, the slow pace of the music, the lyrics, Chris’s blue eyes. Jensen falters slightly but if anyone notices they don’t call him out on it. He sings the last verse, their eyes locked, and then there’s just a bit of strumming and it’s over.

The applause takes him by surprise but clearly not as much as Chris, who visibly jerks, like he’d totally forgotten they weren’t alone. It makes Jensen feel weird in his stomach, all hot and bubbly, and he stands up abruptly and takes a small bow, promising to be back in a few, before he puts away his guitar and jumps off the stage, face flushed, back slick with sweat.

Chris is gone when Jensen gets to their booth but there’s a large drink waiting for him on the table. He hesitates, but just then Chris slams down a glass of whiskey and settles in across from him. “It’s just coke,” he says. “Drink up.”

Jensen eyes Chris’s drink longingly but Chris just grins and shakes his head, so Jensen grabs the coke instead. It feels heavenly cool and fresh in his throat. “Thanks,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Chris dismisses it with a wave then leans forward, face serious.

“Listen, son, I’m sorry about earlier. Weren’t expectin’ that.” He tips his glass at Jensen. “Don’t know why, shoulda known they’d lose their shit. Just thought they’d let you sing at least one song first. Goddamn animals.”

Jensen ducks his head, face burning. “S’alright,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean to freeze like that.”

Chris shakes his head. “Felt damn menacin’ down here, can only imagine how it were up there.” He takes a sip, watching Jensen carefully. “You’re good though. Wouldn’t mind keepin’ you on.”

Jensen sits up. His heart speeds up in his chest. “Yeah? I’d… I… Yeah? Really? Thanks, man.”

Chris grins. “Good. Now get up there, pretty boy, an’ give’em some nice jerk-off fodder for the night.” Chris laughs when Jensen’s face turns horrified. “Just think of the tips, sweetheart.”

Chris sits back as Jensen climbs back up on stage, grinning as the room goes instantly quiet. The smile turns stale as he thinks back on earlier. How terrified Jensen had looked; fear that told of more than just being intimidated by a rough crowd. The fury that had seized Chris, just thinking of where that fear might stem from, of the threat those louder yells promised. Then that fucker thought he’d get away with blocking Chris as he was hurrying to the stage, leering, saying, “Let us have our fun!” as if Jensen’s fear was part of the entertainment. He’d been lucky Chris only-

Just then Jensen’s voice comes through the speakers. Low, sultry, practically purring. Chris looks up and there he is, cheeks a little flushed, eyes glassy enough that Chris would think him drunk if he didn’t know better. Although… He sniffs Jensen’s drink, takes a sip just to be sure, even if he poured it himself. Not a drop of alcohol but…

He stills. Like a goddamn rookie he’d left the glass on the table when he’d realized he fancied a drink himself. Anyone could have slipped something in. He doesn’t really think anyone would be stupid enough to risk it, not in his bar, not at his own fucking table, but stupid’s born every day and you never know. Chris looks up to the stage, but Jensen is still singing, no wavering, nothing that points to anything being wrong. Still… Chris carefully slides the glass to the side, ready to be analyzed if anything happens. He watches Jensen like a hawk for the rest of the show, almost forgetting to listen. Almost.

The rock makes him grin, the swinging country makes him want to jump up on stage and join the kid in a salute to home. The soft songs… The soft songs do something to him he can’t quite describe. Like that last song before the break. He knows he told Jensen to just sing to him alone, but he didn’t mean it like that. He meant so Jensen wouldn’t have to think of the horny fuckers lusting after him in the audience. Not, not to fucking serenade him. Because that’s what it felt like. And it made him… Chris breathes out.

It's just ‘cause the boy’s so damn pretty, that’s all.

He’s watching intently enough that he notices the minute Jensen starts flagging. For a second Chris tenses, thinking maybe his suspicions were right, but no, seems it’s just exhaustion. From too little sleep and not enough food for how many days the kid’s been on the run. Because whatever Jensen says, he’s running from something. Maybe not literally but Chris recognizes demons when he sees them. Might just be a bad relationship with his folks. Chris has heard enough stories from drunk patrons to know how it can go, coming out in this church pandering part of the country. Makes him seethe.

When Jensen drops his head after the next song, Chris decides that’s it. He jumps up on stage and grabs the mic. “And that would be it for tonight, folks. Give a round of applause to our new regular, Jensen Ackles!”

He pulls Jensen to his feet, keeping a hand on the small of his back as he waves to the crowd, looking suddenly shy and intimidated, especially when the wolf whistles get a little too loud.

Finally Chris shouts at them that enough is enough and to show their appreciation with their wallets. “This ain’t the night to be cheap motherfuckers or he might change his mind and never come back!” There, that should fill up the tip jar nicely.

“C’mon, think you’ve earned yourself a good night’s sleep,” he says, grabbing the guitar case since the kid looks like the weight might just topple him over.

He’s halfway across the floor when he realizes he’s on his own. When he turns around Jensen is just standing there, shoulders tense, eyes guarded. Ah. Right. Chris walks back slowly, making sure to wear his most open, honest face. “Figured you could crash on my couch, but I get if you’d rather not. I’mma see if I can find you a room somewhere.”

Jensen bites his lower lip. He opens his mouth as if to agree to the offer, but then his shoulders slump and he sags with exhaustion. “No, that’s alright. The couch… the couch sounds pretty damn good right now.”

Chris nods. “Okay. If you’re sure. Matt, you good? Keep an eye on the kid’s tips. Don’t worry,” he tells Jensen. “Matt’s many things but he ain’t no thief. I’ll bring the money up soon’s everyone’s gone.”

Jensen hesitates but then he nods, like he’s just too tired to argue.

“C’mon, darlin’,” Chris says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re fallin’ asleep on your feet.”

“You keep calling me that,” Jensen mumbles, “I’mma start thinking you’re sweet on me.”

Chris frowns. He hadn’t even noticed. He’s used to hamming it up to his patrons, knowing how much they love it. Well, the ones who swing that way. But not… not otherwise. Well, the ladies but not… No. “No. C’mon!”

He leads the way, not wanting to make the kid feel like he’s being herded, giving him a chance to bow out at any time, but Jensen follows obediently on his heels, dropping down on the couch as soon as they get inside. Chris closes the door, about to turn the lock by habit before he catches himself. He glances at the kid over his shoulder, but Jensen just sits there, face blank, like he’s checked out for a moment.

“You hungry?” Chris says, voice rougher than he means to. Jensen shakes his head. Chris jerks his thumb toward the bathroom. “Bathroom through there. Don’t forget to brush your teeth.” He groans inwardly. What the hell?

“Yes, mama,” Jensen snorts, ducking his head, all red-cheeked when Chris glares at him, relieved to see the blank look is gone from his eyes. “Sorry. Thanks.”

“Sure.” Chris stands awkwardly for a moment. “I gotta… be downstairs. Don’t wait up.” He stalks out and slams the door behind him.

Matt’s grin, as Chris walks up to the bar, makes something curl in his belly. It must show on his face because the grin instantly drops, and Matt pours him a whiskey without being told. “Kid get settled in alright?” Matt asks as he draws half a pint of beer for himself.

Chris frowns at the beer but doesn’t say anything. “It’s just for tonight,” he says defensively. “I ain’t runnin’ no goddamn hostel.”

Matt sips his drink, eyeing him. “No, sure, yeah.”

Lori comes up with an order and they stay silent as Matt makes a gin and tonic. As soon as she’s gone, Matt says, “He was damn good,” nodding at the tip jar which is stuffed full. Chris grunts, feeling the warmth of the whiskey settle in his belly. “Could’ve gotten ugly earlier,” Matt adds, as if in afterthought although it’s obviously anything but. “Still might. Out there.”

Chris closes his eyes briefly. “What, you offerin’ to take care of him?” he sneers. When he opens his eyes again Matt is glaring at him, looking angrier than Chris ever remembers seeing him.

“Fuck you,” Matt growls before catching himself. “Boss.”

Chris raises his eyebrows. “Okay?”

“I have a healthy libido, man. I’m not a fucking predator.” Matt throws up his hands. “Fire me if you want, I don’t care.”

“I ain’t gonna…” Chris takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Alright?”

There’s a tense second where he thinks he might lose one of the best (although also rudest, mouthiest, interfering, fucking horndog) bartenders he’s ever had but then Matt shakes his head and gives him a quick smile. “Don’t worry about it.” The smile slips away. “Problem still stands.”

Chris means to say it’s not his problem but Jensen’s face flashes before his eyes, that pale terrified look in the kid’s eyes when he was on stage, facing a crowd of horny assholes. Matt is right, things could have gotten real ugly. Pretty kid like that, alone out there, they might get even uglier. Chris turning his back on the problem won’t make it go away.

“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing his face with his palm. He feels exhausted all of a sudden. “Any ideas?”

“You’ve got a spare room,” Matt says, not wavering when Chris glares at him. “I’m just saying…”

“I told you-!” Chris groans and shakes his head. “I fuckin’ can’t deal with this right now. I’ll figure somethin’ out tomorrow.” He empties the tip jar, stuffing the money into the envelope Matt hands him, along with the kid’s pay that he raids from the till, and scribbles Jensen’s name on front. “You okay to close?”

Matt waves him off. Chris is halfway across the floor when Matt says, “He’d be safe with you.”

Chris looks back but Matt has already turned away. Chris opens his mouth then closes it again. He doesn’t know if Matt figures he’s straight or just sees him as someone trustworthy. The first option sits unusually heavy in his gut, the second… He smiles as he makes his way upstairs. Like him, Matt doesn’t trust easily. Being someone Matt considers trustworthy, despite their many, sometimes vicious confrontations, feels good. However misplaced.

The apartment is dark when he opens the door, Jensen must have turned off the lights. He closes the door behind him, about to turn the lock when he hears Jensen breathing cut off and then start again, short and alert. Chris sighs. He wants to yell at the kid that there’s no need to be afraid of him but yelling never solved anything. And wasn’t he the one scolding the kid for being too trusting? Despite his better judgement he leaves the door unlocked.

Putting the envelope on the kitchen counter he goes to the bathroom, pretending the faint streetlight shining through the window doesn’t show Jensen clutching the blanket in a death grip, his whole body as tense as a guitar string under the thin fabric. Looks like he’s wearing all his clothes under there. Chris should have gotten him some real bedding. He has extra, for when his friends are too drunk to get themselves home. He didn’t even get the kid a proper pillow! He closes the bathroom door behind him, doing his business as quick as he can. When he comes out, he goes into the spare room, rummaging in the dark closet until he finds the extra pillow. The rest will have to wait until later. He walks over to the couch, dropping the pillow unceremoniously on Jensen’s head. “Here you go, kid. ‘Night.”

He’s about to close his bedroom door when he hears Jensen mumble, “Not a kid.”

“Sure,” Chris says and chuckles. “Whatever you say, kid.” He can hear Jensen sputter and smiles to himself. At least the boy’s not scared while he’s busy being offended.

Chris stands staring unseeingly at his bed for a while before stripping out of his clothes. He’s about to slip off his underwear but stops at the last moment. There might be a door between them, but he still feels weird sleeping naked with Jensen right there.

He’s almost asleep when he realizes. ‘Later’? Oh no. No, no, no! He might have a bleeding heart but he’s not taking in strays, no matter what Matt says. He’ll find the kid a room tomorrow. Somewhere. Sure, he might be young and naïve and far too trusting for a kid his age (and with his looks, don’t forget the pretty, pretty looks) but everyone’s got to learn some time. It’s really not his problem!

When he opens his bedroom door, early the next morning, bleary eyed from too little sleep and too much worry, resigned to his fate as a landlord, Jensen is gone.

Chris would love to say that Jensen slips his mind as soon as the week wears on, but truth is he’s on edge with worry, snapping at his staff more than he has any right to. He’s on his way to the storage room on some bullshit reason, just to get away before he says- or worse, does -something irrevocable, when he spots Lori coming out of the bathroom, eyes red and lower lip trembling. The guilt hits him like a hammer. Ah shit. Seems he already went too far.

“Lori.” The wariness in her eyes as she turns to face him makes him feel like the goddamn asshole he is. “Sweetheart,” he says, pouring all his regret and shame into his voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. Or any of y’all. You want the rest of the night off? With pay. I’ll throw in to cover your tips, whatever you need.”

She blinks, swiping at her eyes with her thumb. “I’m alright,” she says, voice trembling. “You just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“Well, that’s on me, not you. You shouldn’t have to be on guard for me treating you like shit. I’m just…” He stops because he can’t even explain it to himself. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

He must look really pathetic because she puts a hand on his arm, giving it a light squeeze. “It’s alright, boss. We all have bad days.”

It’s not alright but he gratefully accepts the absolution. “Thank you. I’mma go upstairs and stay out of everyone’s hair tonight. Tell Matt to call me if there’s anythin’.”

She smiles, nods, and heads over to the bar. He watches her talk to Matt and gives him a wave when he looks up before turning around and heading upstairs. He needs to get a grip on himself. Sunday is still three days away and if he keeps this up, he won’t have any staff to keep the place open.

He’s not sure what wakes him. It’s dark and when he checks his watch it’s only around 4 am. Way too early after the late night he had. His head starts pounding as soon as he closes his eyes again. Fucking tequila. He should have stuck to Jack. After a while he gives in and gets up, stumbling to the bathroom on shaky knees. He swallows a couple of painkillers, pisses like a racehorse, and is on his way back to bed when he hears a muted pounding. Sounds like it’s coming from the front door downstairs. Some drunk asshole who doesn’t get that bartenders need sleep too. He stops and listens. Nothing but silence for a long time and then bam-bam-bam, weaker this time.

He should just ignore it, the drunk will give up and go away soon enough, but something makes him pause. He pulls on his jeans, grabs the baseball bat he keeps by his bed, just for this reason, shoves his feet into sneakers and pads down to the bar. It’s pitch-black down there but he’d rather not turn on any lights and encourage the drunk in thinking they’re opening. The pounding has stopped but as he sneaks up to the door he sees a dark shape lean against the glass. As he moves closer the person turns and slides down, back to the door, a muffled sound that sounds like a sob penetrating the otherwise silent night. Ah, shit!

Chris runs the last two steps and quickly unlocks the door. “Jensen?”

The person outside turns his head and if it wasn’t for the guitar case he’s clutching in his arms Chris isn’t sure he would have recognized him. Jensen’s face is battered, bruised and bloody, lip split and one eye swollen. “Chris?” he says, voice wet and choked, and Chris drops down by his side in horror.

“Jesus, kid. What the hell happened to you?” But Jensen just shakes his head, like he can’t get the words out and then he starts shaking all over, from cold or shock, Chris isn’t sure. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you inside.”

He pulls Jensen to his feet, stumbling back when the kid literally falls into his arms. “Didna’, didna’ know where else to go,” Jensen sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no. Don’t be like that, darlin’,” Chris tells him, hauling him into one of the booths. “Sit. I’mma get you some water.”

Fuck! He should have gone out looking for the kid, checked the bus station, just never should have let him leave in the first place. If he hadn’t been such a fucking asshole the kid would have been safe upstairs in the room Chris never uses for anything anyway. Why the hell didn’t he just invite him to stay? ‘This is your fault. This is your goddamn fault, you fuckin’ bastard. You might as well have struck him with your own fucking fists, goddammit!’

He turns on the lights and fetches the first-aid kit from behind the bar, fills a dish towel with ice and a glass with cold water, before hurrying back. Jensen is sitting hunched over, one hand on his forehead, the other arm clutching his stomach, shaking as he takes one labored breath after another. It breaks Chris’s heart.

“C’mon, darlin’, lemme have a look at you,” he says, keeping his voice low and soft. Jensen raises his head, but he won’t meet Chris’s eyes, his gaze sliding to just over Chris’s shoulder, blinking rapidly. “Here, drink this,” Chris says, handing him the glass of water.

The water sloshes all over Jensen’s front, the way his hands shake, but he drinks what’s left, wincing as it reopens the split in his lip. Chris takes the glass and sets it aside, studying Jensen’s face. It doesn’t look quite as bad now it’s out of the shadows. Apart from the split lip and the bad eye, there’s a cut by his hairline that’s bled all over the right side of his face, making it look worse than it is.

“Hold this to your eye,” Chris says, handing him the towel. “Now, where else you hurtin’, sweetheart?”

“Fucking everywhere,” Jensen rasps. He shakily pulls up his t-shirt and Chris winces. Yeah, that’s pretty bad bruising, covering his right side from just above his hipbone and halfway up his ribs.

“What kinda hurt? Surface or in deep?”

“Surface. I think.” Jensen hitches his breath. “I, I held on to the case when, when they started kicking.” His breathing turns ragged again and Chris pats him on the shoulder, pushing down the rage that threatens to erupt from the volcanic pit of his stomach.

“You did good, kid. Think you can stand up?”

Jensen nods but his knees wobble when he tries to get to his feet. Chris edges his shoulder under Jensen’s arm, holding him up. “Easy, darlin’. We’re goin’ upstairs,” he explains when Jensen makes a confused noise. “Gonna hurt but it’s better than sittin’ down here.”

Jensen leans heavily on Chris but as he starts moving Jensen moves with him, slow and unsteady. He jerks to a stop when Chris starts steering him to the back door. “There’s another way up out there. Proper stairs and all,” Chris explains.

Jensen hesitates and Chris can’t blame him, the back alley is dark and menacing, but there’s no way in hell he can haul Jensen up the spiral staircase. After a moment Jensen sighs and gives in, letting Chris half carry him out the back, then up the stairs that lead to the apartment.

They’re both panting when they get inside. Chris is in pretty good shape, but Jensen is a deadweight in his arms by now. Chris is starting to worry the kid might be more injured than he thought. Chris lowers him down on the couch, taking a moment to catch his breath before he kneels by Jensen’s feet and starts undoing his sneakers. Jensen watches him through one half-lidded eye, the swollen one now being completely shut, but he doesn’t react until Chris starts tugging at his t-shirt, trying to pull it off. Then he jerks violently, which must jostle his injuries because he gasps, and his eyes briefly roll back. For a second Chris thinks he might actually faint.

“I just need to see how bad it is,” Chris says, keeping his voice low and soothing. “In case we need to go to the ER. I’m hopin’ not since I’m guessin’ you don’t have any insurance.”

Jensen shakes his head, still panting.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” Chris says gently. “Just wanna take a look. I promise.”

Jensen swallows but then he nods and starts trying to take the shirt off himself. Chris ends up having to help him as he seems to have trouble raising his left arm. Once the t-shirt is off Chris can see why. There’s a large bruise blooming on his bicep, bad enough that the arm is hot and swollen, with bloody scrapes covering most of his forearm. Removing the jeans reveals similar bruises down Jensen’s left thigh and shin. At the base of his spine there’s a black bruise, shaped like a boot print. Chris grits his teeth, closing his eyes for a second as he reins in his rage. Fucking cowards.

Chris disinfects the scrapes then cleans the blood off Jensen’s face before studying the cut by his hairline. It doesn’t seem to need stitches; a butterfly bandage might just do. Jensen sucks in his breath when Chris cleans the wound, tears springing to his eyes, but otherwise he doesn’t make a sound. Once the cut is closed Chris stands up, contemplating what to do next.

“C’mon, kid. Bedtime. Go on, I’ll bring you some more ice for those bruises once you’re settled.” Jensen hesitates and again Chris curses himself for his stupidity. “I’ll take the couch. No good you sleepin’ crooked with your body all hurtin’.”

“You don’t have to…” Jensen starts but then he just gives up and struggles to his feet. “Need to take a leak.”

Chris hovers as Jensen limps into the bathroom, then fetches a pair of boxers and a clean t-shirt as well. He gets a glass from the kitchen cabinet and fills it with water. Kid’s gonna need to take something for the pain.

When he walks back into the bathroom Jensen is still standing there, looking lost.

“You alright, son?” Chris asks worried. “I mean,” he amends, “Your head alright? No double vision, anythin’ like that? Feelin’ dizzy? Like you’re gonna hurl? Blood in your urine?” he adds as it occurs to him. What if they really did rupture something?

“No, I’m... I’m alright,” Jensen chokes out. “I’m just…” He goes quiet again.

Chris nods, relieved. “Yeah, I know, darlin’. I know.” He finds the ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet, shakes out two pills and hands them to Jensen along with the glass of water. “Here.” Jensen obeys, never even asking what they are. Any other time Chris would yell at him for being so trusting, right now he’s just happy to get the kid to bed as quickly as possible.

“How ‘bout you take a shower, son? Might make you feel better.” He reaches past Jensen and turns on the water, adjusting the heat so it’s warm but not too hot, in case the kid’s already feeling lightheaded. “I’ll be right outside, alright?” He doesn’t wait for Jensen’s answer, just checks the towel is not too worn before slipping out the door, leaving it ajar, just in case.

He meant to go downstairs for more ice but he doesn’t like how wobbly Jensen is. Better stay close in case he topples over. After hovering for a moment Chris decides to use the time to strip the bed, since the sheets are kinda ripe. The whole time he keeps listening for any noise that spells trouble. At one point he catches himself standing still with the pillow half in the pillowcase, holding his breath, listening to the sound of water falling on an obviously still object.

Get a grip, man. The kid is alright, he can take a damn shower on his own.

Suddenly angry with himself Chris dumps the pillow on the bed and stomps downstairs to get ice. He picks up Jensen’s guitar, checking to make sure it’s undamaged after the ordeal. Doesn’t seem to be a scratch on it although the case is looking worse for the wear with splashes of blood on one side, and dents and scuffmarks on the other. Thank God this old thing was built sturdy, it may just have saved the kid’s life.  Chris peeks outside but there’s no sign of Jensen’s backpack anywhere, let alone the jacket he’d been wearing last Chris saw him. Hopefully he didn’t have anything too valuable in that bag. Apart from the money he earned at his gig which is gone now, leaving the kid penniless again.

By the time Chris has made his way up again the shower has been turned off. He finds Jensen sitting on the bed in the t-shirt and boxers, looking slightly fresher but just as lost. His head shoots up, startled, when Chris comes in, but he breathes out in relief as soon as he sees who it is.

“Lie down,” Chris says, placing the makeshift icepacks on the bedside table. He made five, a new one for Jensen’s eye, one for his side, one for his thigh, one for his back and a last one for his arm. He put the ice in ziplock bags before wrapping them in dishtowels, not wanting to get the bed soaking wet.

“Good,” he says soon as Jensen has lowered himself carefully down on the bed. “Now, here,” he says as he places the icepacks one at a time, in their place. Jensen winces from the cold but after a while he breathes out and closes his eyes. Chris fetches a bucket and places it by the bed. “You can dump them in here when they’re melted. Now try and get some sleep, darlin’,” he says as he heads for the door. “Holler if you need anythin’.”

“Chris?” Chris turns around. Jensen is gazing at him, eyes already drooping. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Chris answers gruffly, feeling weirdly emotional. “Night.”

“Good night.”

If Chris lies awake for over an hour before nodding off, he blames it on the couch being a lot less comfortable than he remembers.

Continued here.