If You're Out There | Part Three | (4/8)
Master Post | Prologue | o1 | o2 | o3 | o4 | o5 | o6 | Epilogue
Part Three
We've been looking for a song to sing, searched for a melody, searched for someone to lead.
Chris finds Jensen sitting on the edge of the bed in his room. He's playing with a lighter, flicking the flame on and off, and the way he holds the fire dangerously close to his skin makes Chris' stomach turn a little. He turns the light on and off to catch Jensen's attention even though he has a feeling Jensen already knew he was standing there, just didn't want to look up.
"I'm bored," Chris announces.
Jensen just looks at him with an expression that seems to say and your point?
"And you're brooding," Chris continues. "So let's go do something. This place is depressing."
If you play with fire, you're going to get burned, Jensen thinks, thumb still flicking the flame on and off.
"Hey." One of Chris' hands rests on his shoulder, the other taking the lighter from his hand and tossing it down onto the nightstand by the bed. "Fight fire with fire, right?"
:::
Sometimes, people forget Jensen has a voice.
:::
Cold. The first thing Jensen notices is that he’s cold, and he doesn’t really have time to register where he is before he’s being pushed up against the uneven brick of the bar.
A rush of air hits his chest, freezes him in place as he feels his shirt lifted up over his head, warm hands placing themselves over chilled skin, rough lips attaching themselves to his. Hands. Touching his face, his neck, his chest.
The body intertwining with his pulls away long enough to breathe, and Jensen’s eyes search for some familiarity but he finds none. The alley is empty and the person in front of him is stranger, an older man with short, black hair and a pierced tongue. He leans in again, mouth sucking at the line of his jaw, and Jensen’s hands grip at the wall behind him, scramble for purchase.
The bar. He was in the bar. Flashing lights. Music travelling in vibrations through the wall, down into the floor and up through his chest. A kiss, something slipped into his mouth, a silent command to swallow.
The hands on his chest travel down to his navel, rest just above the waist of his pants for a moment before they fumble with the zipper. He’s cupped through his boxers, lips moving back up to his and the man shifts his stance so that his hard on rubs against Jensen’s.
The friction makes Jensen hum deep in his throat, and he hopes it sounds like enough of a protest for the man to stop. This isn't what he wants. This isn't -
"Oh fuck, baby. You sound so fucking hot."
The guy reaches down and pulls Jensen’s cock from his boxers, pushing down his own pants as he takes his length and begins rubbing it against Jensen's and this isn't what he wants but he can't fucking think, can't remember how to tell him to stop.
The rhythm speeds up, and Jensen moans when he spills into the guy's rough hand, the stranger in front of him not too far behind. They stand, frozen together and breathing heavily for what feels like eternity before the man takes a step back. He sucks the come from his fingers, leans in and kisses Jensen, working the taste into his mouth.
"Mysterious, silent type," he says when he finally pulls away. "I like that."
And just like that, he’s gone.
:::
Sometimes, people forget Jensen has a voice. Sometimes, he does too.
:::
A rush of the bone chilling wind seems to jump start Jensen's head again, and he remembers that he's standing there exposed, his pants having fallen down to his ankles and his shirt lying in a forgotten heap on the ground. He slowly reaches down, pulls his pants back up before slipping on his discarded shirt, and slides down onto the cold concrete beneath him. He closes his eyes, pulls his knees close to his chest and rests his head on top of them. He's tired, so, so tired, and his limbs feel so heavy he doesn't know if he'd be able to stand even if he tried.
"Jensen?"
A rough hand lands on his shoulder and Jensen flinches, slowly lifts his head and finds himself staring up into Chris' worried eyes.
"Jesus," he breathes. "I've been trying to find you.” He rubs at his arms as if he’s just now noticing the cold. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing."
Jensen just stares at him. His head is still cloudy, his thoughts and body sluggish, and he's having a hard time concentrating on what Chris is saying to him.
Chris frowns, kneels down. And then he gets it.
"Oh fuck."
Jensen watches the muscles in Chris' face drop into a look akin of horror.
"Jensen," he says. "What happened? Did someone hurt you?"
Jensen does nothing, just watches as Chris stands up, runs a hand through his long hair and takes a step back. "Fuck," he repeats, and the cloud of air his breath makes catches Jensen's attention. He's sad to see it disappear a few seconds later.
Chris starts to pace back and forth, walking to the left a few steps before turning back around and walking a few more steps in the opposite direction. Jensen vaguely remembers seeing him do that a few times before, but he doesn't have time to think about what that means before his stomach clenches painfully and he's leaning over to the side, vomit spilling from his lips and burning his throat. He feels his vocal chords vibrate gently as he groans, bringing a hand down to brace himself against the concrete.
He feels Chris' hand land softly on his back, rubbing in small circles before it disappears and replaces itself underneath his arms as he begins to be lifted to his feet.
:::
He wakes up in the clinic. It's the same room he was in the first night he came to the Center, and the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is the Dr. Lawrence looking down at him. Her fingers press against his wrist to check his pulse and Jensen blinks against the bright lights, eyebrows furrowing as the throb in his head hits him full force.
"Welcome back," she says, a soft expression on her face. "You had us all worried."
Jensen swallows thickly, licks his dry lips. He grimaces at the bitter taste in his mouth, and is thankful for the cup of water Dr. Lawrence helps him sip after propping him up slightly. The cool liquid feels good as he swallows, slides down his sore throat smoothly. When he's finished, it takes him a long time to muster up the courage to meet her eyes.
"You can't do this, Jensen." She crosses her arms across her chest, posture determined. "It doesn’t take away the pain forever. You're only hurting yourself more."
Jensen picks at the plastic ridge of the cup in his hand.
"The therapy, I know it's hard, but you have to talk to me. Whatever is going on in here," she says as she taps her head, "I need to know so that I can help you. It only hurts you to keep it locked away." She pauses, and Jensen can see her searching his face. "It's time to stop running."
Jensen wipes at his face, slowly brings his hand up and signs ok.
Dr. Lawrence nods, her expression somber. "Okay," she repeats, and gently pats his leg. "Get some rest. We'll talk more tomorrow."
:::
Dinner at the Padalecki home is at six o'clock every evening. It's a family affair, where everyone in the house stops what they're doing for half an hour to sit at the table together, share a meal and talk about their day. Tonight though, everyone is quiet, leaving an uneasy air hanging over them as they eat the meal Sharon has prepared.
"How come Jared never eats dinner with us anymore?" Megan asks, breaking the silence.
Sharon and Gerry share an uncertain glance, any response they would have given cut off by the sound of the front door opening. Jared comes shuffling through, closing the door behind him with a dull thud.
"I'm home," he says from the foyer, not even bothering to make his way to the kitchen. He slips out of his shoes, drops his bag by the stairs, and heads up to his room without another word.
:::
Sharon is in the middle of teaching a lesson on the use of pronouns when the phone in her classroom rings. She takes the call out in the hallway, expecting to hear from her husband, or maybe Megan asking if she can go home with a friend after school, and is surprised to hear a woman's voice on the other end.
"I'm Lara Crawford from East Central High, calling on behalf of Jared Padalecki. Is this Mrs. Sharon Padalecki?"
"Yes, this is she." She takes in a deep breath, braces herself.
"I'm one of the counselors here at the high school, and I've noticed several truancies and tardies that have come up on Jared's record lately. I was just calling to check in, see if there are any problems in the home that you felt needed to be brought to our attention."
"I should have known,” she says on a sigh, rubbing a hand over her face. “He's been leaving the house for school every morning. I thought he was going to class." She pauses, shakes her head slightly. "He's been... going through a rough time, ever since his friend Jensen went missing."
"I'm sorry to hear that," the woman says, her voice sympathetic. "But I'm afraid if he misses too many more days he's in danger of failing the semester."
Sharon tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, closes her eyes and takes a moment to compose herself. "I don't know what to say," she admits finally. "We've tried talking to him but nothing seems to get through."
"We can set up a time for him to come in if you'd like. He seems like just such a bright kid, has never been in any trouble that I can see until now. I'd hate for him not to graduate on time."
"Thank you," Sharon says. "That'd be great."
:::
Sandy is waiting outside Jared's house when he leaves for school in the morning. When he sees her, his response is far from pleased.
"What are you doing here?" he asks as he adjusts the straps of his backpack to rest further up on his shoulders.
"Why do you always seem to greet me like that these days?" she retorts. "A simple 'hey Sandy' would suffice."
"Okay. Hey Sandy. What are you doing here?"
Sandy stands from where she was seated on the front steps. "Oh, I get it. It's going to be one of those days."
Jared sighs heavily and makes his way down the steps, brushing by her without a second glance.
“Come on, Jared,” Sandy says, following him. He stops walking suddenly, and if she weren’t paying closer attention she wouldn’t have had time to stop herself from barreling into him. She takes a step back, gathers herself.
"Go. Away," Jared says, each word angry and punctuated.
Sandy looks down at the ground but doesn't move, feet planted stubbornly against the concrete. When she finally looks back up again, her face is dark, angry despite the hurt swirling inside her. "You know Jared, you may not give a fuck about anything anymore but I do, and if I have to care enough for the both of us then I guess that's how it’s going to be."
"You think you have any idea what I'm going through?" Jared shouts, words coming out of his mouth in a rush before he can stop them. "You don't even have a clue, Sandy!"
"Because you won't tell me anything! You'd rather drink and party than deal with your shit." There's a pause before she adds in a low voice, "You're nothing more than a coward."
"Fuck you," Jared spits, his words carrying more rage and disdain than Sandy's ever seen in him. He stares at her, eyes challenging, and when she doesn't respond he turns and walks away without another word.
Sandy watches him go from the front of his house, and wonders when they all became so broken.
:::
Jensen's room is empty when Chris goes to look for him sometime in the afternoon. He knew Jensen would be taking it easy these next few days, and Chris hasn't seen much of him since he'd been released from the clinic yesterday morning. He makes his way to the first floor, where he finds Kristi sitting at the reception desk by the entrance.
"Hey, have you seen Jensen?" he asks. "He's not in his room."
Kristi doesn't look up from whatever she's typing on the computer screen. "Hmm?"
"Jensen," Chris repeats, bouncing impatiently on his heels. "Have you seen him?"
"Oh. No, sorry. I haven't seen him." She looks up at him, tapping her fingers lightly against her chin. "Did you check the cafeteria or the common rooms?"
"Yeah. He's not in his room either."
Kristi's brow crinkles for a moment. "He's probably just in the bathroom or something. He hasn't left. I've been here all day."
That’s when it hits him. "You're right. I probably just missed him. Thanks," he says, turning sharply.
"Let me know when you find him," Kristi calls after him.
As soon as he makes it around the corner, he starts off at a dead run. He should have checked the bathrooms first. He's seen Jensen's scars, the way he holds his hands next to fire; he knows what Jensen's capable of.
It feels like it takes him hours to make it back upstairs to Jensen's floor, hours to make it to the end of the hall. He pushes the bathroom door open so hard that it bangs loudly as it crashes against the wall but he hardly even notices.
All he sees is Jensen. Sitting on the floor, razor in hand and forearms cut and marked as they rest exposed in his lap.
Jensen doesn't look up as he enters or as he falls at his side in an instant, time seeming to lock into place again as he gently takes the blade from Jensen and holds his hands together. He reaches up and drops the razor in the sink, grabbing the small hand towel hanging from the wall and pressing it against the expert red lines marking Jensen's skin.
"I'm not going to let you," Chris says, tilting Jensen's chin up so he can read his lips. "I know I fucked things up, and I'm so sorry. God you have no idea how much I wish I could take that night back, but you can't do this - you just fucking can't. You're not allowed to give up." Chris swallows thickly. "You're the one of us that's supposed to make it. You can’t give up."
Jensen doesn't respond, just closes his eyes, and Chris pulls his head forward to rest against his shoulder. He feels Jensen shudder, pull away, and when Chris looks in his eyes it kills him how much pain he sees there, how much hurt and sadness Jensen holds inside of him and knowing he’s partly responsible for it being there.
"It's going to be okay," he says, wondering how many people have made the same promise to him before, but still whispering the words all the same. "I promise, it'll be okay."
:::
Jensen paces. He walks past the bookshelves lining the wall to the plant in the corner, turns, and walks the length of the bookshelves again. His fingers trace over the smooth wood, and he focuses more on the feel against his fingertips than the questions he’s being asked.
"Jensen," Dr. Lawrence says patiently, motioning with her arm towards his empty chair. "Please come sit down."
Jensen remembers sneaking out late at night once everyone in his house had long fallen asleep. He’d walk down the street to Jared’s house, look over his shoulder to make sure all the lights were still off back at his house before climbing up the tree to the roof. Most of the time Jared would open the window for him to crawl inside, and they’d lay there on the bed, Jared’s body warm against his as Jensen closed his eyes, ran his fingers over smooth skin and the soft blankets beneath them.
Sometimes, Jared would be asleep, but he’d still stay out there on the roof anyway. He’d look up at the stars; give names to the ones that shined the brightest, make up stories about the faintest.
The last time he’d snuck out, it was one of those nights when Jared was asleep. He doesn’t remember how long he stayed there, sitting on the roof and looking up at the heavens, but he does remember everything that happened when he came home. He’d gotten careless, didn’t keep track of how long he was gone, didn’t double check that his dad’s breathing was deep enough to constitute him being passed out and it to be safe for him to leave.
When Jensen opened the door to come back inside, his dad was waiting for him in the entryway.
“You with that boy again?”
Jensen swallowed thickly, nod so faint he wasn’t sure he’d even moved at all.
The first whips of the belt landed across his abdomen, sent him doubling over only to be struck again on the small of his back. He fell to his knees, breath heavy as he tried to center himself around the pain. When his dad had finally had enough, Jensen lie panting on the cold tile of the entryway, body aching and tears stinging his eyes.
Two days later, he’d said his goodbyes and was on his way out of town, headed for a place that was the only hope he had left.
“Jensen,” Dr. Lawrence tries again. She watches as he stops pacing, arms folding protectively around his middle. The touch that falls on his arm is brief, but he jolts as if he’d been shocked and his head snaps up to her, face clouded.
“I’m sorry,” she says and quickly pulls her hand back. “I shouldn’t have done that.” She pauses for a long while, watches him visibly gather himself before asking, "Where were you just then?"
Jensen shakes his head, pointing towards the door to her office.
Dr. Lawrence shakes her head. "We still have time left. We still have things we need to sort out."
Jensen’s lip catches between his teeth and he looks away.
"Tell me where you were just then," she repeats, handing him his notepad and pen. "Try."
Jensen looks at her, eyes searching before he slowly reaches out and takes the items from her hands.
home, he writes, hand shaking so hard it makes his handwriting crooked and broken.
Dr. Lawrence reads the word, gives and encouraging nod. "That’s good, Jensen," she says. "That's a start. Can you tell me what was happening at home?"
A longer pause, then, lots of drinking. anger. yelling and
Jensen stops writing suddenly, and when he doesn't look like he's going to finish Dr. Lawrence urges him to continue. "And what, Jensen. Yelling and what?" Another long hesitation before he writes,
hitting
"Who? Who was hitting you?"
Jensen looks up from the paper, pained eyes meeting Dr. Lawrence's and making her heart ache. Dad, he signs, arm and fingers stiff as he moves them. He drops his hand to his side, shoulders slumping like he’s exhausted all of his energy. The tears that had been collecting in his eyes over the last hour finally spill down his cheeks, his body beginning to shake as his head dips down to his chest, shame and embarrassment creeping red up his neck.
"Okay, okay," Dr. Lawrence says softly, her hand rubbing small circles on his back. "It's okay."
Jensen slowly lifts his head, the tears on his face shining when they catch the light.
"You did great today, Jensen," she says. "I'm proud of you."
Jensen nods slowly once, signs finish.
"Yes," Dr. Lawrence answers sadly. "We're finished for today. You can go."
:::
"Mmm 'ello." Sandy’s voice is gravelly and rough, laced thickly with sleep as it comes through the phone’s receiver. It's late, really, really late, and for a moment Jared considers hanging up, but his head clears enough for him to realize that he's already called and woken her up; it would be kind of pointless to hang up now.
"Jared?"
He clears his throat. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, it's me." He's walking the length of his room, back and forth, back and forth. He can't remember the last time he's slept through the night, guesses it was probably before Jensen left.
He can hear the sound of sheets rustling, and Sandy asks, "Where are you? Are you okay?"
Jared stops walking, rubs a hand over his tired face. "No." He shakes his head. "No, I don't think so."
"What is it?" The sleepiness has faded from Sandy's voice, replaced with a sense of worry, urgency.
"I'm sorry," he says. "About the other day. I shouldn't have said those things or snapped at you like that."
Sandy's voice is quiet as she says, "It’s okay. We're both going through a lot right now."
"Yeah," Jared says. There's a heavy silence between them for a long while, and Jared takes in a deep breath. "I need to tell you something, Sandy."
"Sure," she says. "You know you can tell me anything."
"I'm..." he begins, his voice trailing off. “Fuck, Sandy, I think... I think I'm gay."
Part o4