Fic: Gunpoint. AU RPS. Jensen/Jared. Chapter 11

[felisblanco]

Masterpost

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Epilogue | Author's notes | Soundtrack | AO3

Chapter 11

May 2009

“Where have you been? Jensen, hey! Look at me! I’ve been worried sick about you. Where the hell were you?”

Jensen shrugs him off irritated. He kicks off his shoes and throws his jacket over the couch. The rest of his clothes follow, dropped one by one on his way to the bathroom.

“Jensen, what the hell…? Is that…? Why is there a bruise on your neck? Who did that?”

Jensen rolls his eyes. He’s still got his jeans on and he doesn’t need to look down to know the knees are wet and dirty. As far as he’s concerned that’s all the explanation Chris needs.

“Jesus! Jensen, what the hell is wrong with you? You can’t just... Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Chris sounds so broken that Jensen feels a small sting of guilt but he pushes it away. It’s his fucking life. He can do whatever the hell he wants. He kicks off his jeans, deliberately turning around so Chris can see the finger-shaped bruises on his hips. Chris curses but he doesn’t storm out and slam the door like Jensen expected him to. Instead he sinks down to sit on the toilet, head in his hands.

Jensen turns on the shower and steps under the spray, head bowed to keep the water from hitting his face. He pretends he doesn’t hear Chris crying.

------------

Present day

Jensen can feel it the minute he walks in. She greets him the same way as usual. The same smile, the same prodding look, trying to read his mood. But there’s a glint in her eye that he doesn’t like, and a determined strength in her movements as she gestures him to sit down.

“Well, Jensen,” she says after a while of their usual silent staring, him with the sketchbook on his knees, and her with her little notebook, their respective pen and pencil raised for battle. “I think maybe it’s time we got down to business.”

He goes absolutely still. Listens to his heart speed up in his chest. To the voice in his head yelling at him to get the hell out of there while he still has a chance.

“I know you don’t want to, but this, what we’ve been doing? As much as it’s helping, it’s like putting a bandage on a bullet wound. We need to get that bullet out. And the first step is to talk about it. To really talk about what happened to you.”

Jensen looks away. It’s what he’s here for, right? To find a way to deal. And he can’t... He can’t deal if he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be dealing with.

She studies him thoughtfully. “You have a rather remarkable brain, Jensen,” she finally says. “It has gone to extreme lengths to protect you from what it deems too traumatic for you. Including erasing memories of what it felt like to be a happy, carefree child before your trauma, probably so you wouldn’t know what you were missing.”

He huffs, his stomach twisting. And what, is he supposed to be grateful? His brain thinks he’s a spineless wuss! How’s that supposed to make him feel?

“I can see you’re not too impressed,” she says with a smile, “but it really shows how strong you are, having been able to maintain that protection for so long. However it may seem, your brain is doing what it believes to be best for you. It’s not a measure of your strength or weakness, Jensen, it’s in correlation with the severity of what your mind is trying to protect you from.”

Jensen’s hand jumps where it rests on the sketchbook, the pencil scratching deep lines into the soft paper. He stares at her. That’s what’s different. She knows. He doesn’t know how she found out, but she definitely knows. And that means… That means he’s about to learn the truth. And he can tell by the pain she’s trying to hide behind those calm eyes, at the slight tension in her body making her breathe a little louder, that it’s not going to be pretty.

He feels like he’s being dragged down into deep water, the pressure in his ears whooshing in sync with the rapid beating of his heart. Like there’s a weight on his chest, pressing him down into the couch. Crushing him. Making it impossible to breathe. He knew, he’s always known, of course he’s known. But still a part of him thought that maybe, maybe...

“What do you think happened to you?” she asks quietly.

Jensen shakes his head. He can’t... He can’t do this. He stands up abruptly, throwing the sketchbook aside and walking over to one of the windows, the one with the fire escape. He looks up at the darkening sky, the pale stars twinkling in the twilight. Breathes in. Breathes out. Closes his eyes then opens them again and looks down at the small park across the street. There are children there, playing. He stands still, watching them.

“Jensen?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you want to go home and think about it? I won’t charge for today,” she adds when he hesitates. “Let’s just consider the appointment rescheduled.”

He nods, then lays a hand on his chest before pointing at the door in case he wasn’t clear enough. His eyes are still on the park below. There’s a little girl in a red snow suit, trying to make snowballs out of the meager drift. It’s not going too well. If he was down there he’d tell her to make a snow angel instead. He likes snow angels.

“Okay. I can see you again after hours on Friday. Same time, five o’clock.”

He nods again. He looks down at the street and there is Chris’s truck, parked by the sidewalk. Jensen closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again he can finally breathe.

“Jensen, I know this is really hard for you. I can’t even imagine how hard.” Her voice is quiet but her words still cut into him. “But ignoring what you know is the root of your problems isn’t doing you any good either. That’s why you came here. Because ignoring it wasn’t working anymore.”

He nods stiffly, turns around and walks out.

Jensen wakes up shaking, his skin glistening in the pale moonlight. For a moment he’s terrified that he might have wet the bed again but it’s just sweat, just buckets and buckets of sweat, soaking the sheets and pillow and even the covers he’s got clutched in his fists. He rolls out of bed, but his legs are tangled in the wet sheets and he falls to the floor, flat on his face.

A hand lands on his shoulder. “Jensen? Shit, man, you okay?”

He panics. He hits, hits-hits-hits, until his arms are grabbed and he’s held back by strong fingers circling his wrists. There’s a voice talking, all smooth and calm, but he won’t listen. He won’t. He won’t! He lets himself go limp then shoots back up when the person holding him follows. There’s a yelp as he makes a solid hit with the top of his head, and then he’s finally loose. Frantic he scrambles across the floor, searching for a way out. Where’s the door? Where’s the door? Oh please, please, please.

“Jensen! Stop. Jensen, calm down. It’s me. It’s Jared. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

The room is suddenly flooded in bright light and Jensen squeezes his eyes shut then carefully opens them again. There’s a large shadow looming over him, head crowned by the bright ceiling light, but just as he’s about to start screaming the shadow drops, and Jared is crouching in front of him.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice a little rough. “It’s me. It’s just me.”

Jensen stares at him. His breathing is loud and wheezing in the quiet room. Jared?

Jared shuffles back to a bundle of clothes lying on the floor by the bed, picking them up then crawls to Jensen again. “Here,” he says, pushing the clothes across.

Jensen blinks. He looks down. He’s naked, his knees are red from scrambling across the floor, and his body is covered in particles of dust and flakes of paint, stuck to his sweat-damp skin. Oh. He snatches the clothes from Jared’s hand and pulls on the t-shirt then backs further away before standing up and putting on his jeans, keeping one eye on Jared the whole time. It’s Jared; he knows it’s Jared, but his heart is still racing, his whole body is set to run-run-run, and he can’t lower his guard. Not yet, not yet.

“You want me to call Chris?” Jared asks quietly. Jensen hesitates. “It’s okay, I’ll call him if you want me to.”

Jensen shakes his head. What’s Chris gonna do, other than fuss over him and worry until he drives Jensen insane?

“Okay. You want to come back to bed?” Jensen shudders. “All right. You want to talk about what happened? Did I...? Was I touching you?”

Jensen shakes his head. Jared’s been keeping his distance, saying maybe they should take it easy on that front. “Just step back a bit, see if it helps.” Jensen doubts anything helps, but he can’t really blame Jared for being wary. Not the way the damn kid keeps kicking Jared in the face all the time. It still hurts though, being rejected. It’s not like they ever thought this would be easy, but he didn’t expect Jared to just give up like that.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Jared asks quietly.

Jensen nods. The voice. That fucking voice. God, he hates that voice. So sickly sweet and coaxing, and then suddenly, without warning, it goes hard, and mocking and hateful. Sometimes it screams at him. Sometimes it laughs. He really hates it when it laughs.

“Oh, my sweet boy, I can’t wait! Do you know what’s the first thing I’m gonna do, once she’s told you? Show you. Show you everything. Every little thing. I’m gonna crawl into that pretty little brain of yours, and we’ll have a private party, just you and me. Won’t that be fun?”

Jensen gulps for air, bile rising in his throat. It doesn’t work like that. Does it? His memories can’t just be restored like that. Right? Right?

“Come on,” Jared says gently. “How about I make us some coffee?”

He doesn’t wait for Jensen to answer, doesn’t reach for him or pull him along to the kitchen. Just goes and finds his boxers, pulls them on as well as his jeans and then pads over on bare feet to the kitchen and starts making coffee, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, having breakfast at four o’clock in the morning or whatever time it is.

Jensen stands trembling for a moment then walks over and climbs up on one of the stools by the breakfast island. He hugs his chest, shivering, and as if on cue Jared glances over his shoulder, brows drawn together in worry. He fetches his hoodie and drapes it over Jensen’s shoulders before going back to what he was doing. Jensen slips his arms into the sleeves and tugs the sweater tight around him. It smells like Jared.

“I could make pancakes. Not sure I actually know how to make pancakes, but I can try. I mean, how hard can it be? If Chris can do it… I think we might even have some frozen blueberries in the freezer. They’re not as good as fresh but...”

Jared’s soothing voice, still rough with sleep, lulls Jensen calm. He breathes in the fresh smell of coffee and Jared’s deodorant. Watches Jared fuss over the stove, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes, the dimple in his cheek that deepens every time he shoots Jensen a soft smile.

The still visible swelling of Jared’s nose. The shiner that has people stopping in the street, staring at him. What looks like the beginning of a pretty impressive bump on Jared’s forehead.

Jensen swallows. That fucking kid. He’s so sick of him taking over all the time. Fucking hates him for hurting Jared like that, for putting that hesitant look in Jared’s eyes every time he leans over for a kiss, like he’s worried it will earn him another punch in the face.

‘C’mon, Jared. It’s not me,’ Jensen wants to say. ‘You don’t have to be scared of me.’ But Jared already knows that. Right? He has to. He has to know Jensen would never ever hurt him if he could help it.

Right?

“I was thinking,” Jared says suddenly, back still turned. “Maybe I should stay over at the dorm for the rest of the week.” He coughs and clears his throat as if he’s embarrassed. “I’ve got a huge ass paper to finish plus half a dozen books to read. I’ll probably be staying up all night anyway. Wouldn’t want to keep you up.”

Jensen sucks in his breath. He opens his mouth then closes it again, swallowing the lump in his throat. When Jared gives him a hesitant glance over the shoulder he nods and tries to smile.

Guess that answers that question. Seems it doesn’t matter who’s at the wheel, it’s still his body doing the damage.

------------

Jared fumbles for his phone, squinting with gritty eyes at the small screen as he turns off the alarm. He clears his throat, and it turns into a cough that has him gasping for air. His chest feels like someone is sitting on it. His throat hurts, and he thinks his cold might have moved on to his sinuses, because his head is killing him. Great.

His bed feels small and empty, and it smells of stale sweat. He can hear Chad snoring on the other side of the room.

Jared stares up at the ceiling, counting the cracks as he waits in vain for his head to clear. He’s starting to agree with Jensen’s assessment of the dorm, at least compared to his and Chris’s warm, bright, and nice-smelling apartment.

But it’s not like Jared can just move in with them. He’s not paying rent or buying groceries or contributing in any way to the household. It feels awkward, being there all the time, eating their food, using their shower and washing machine. When Chris joked about needing to double their grocery budget, “now that we’ve got Sasquatch here,” Jared figured it was time he spent some time at his own place. He hates being seen as a moocher; it’s bad enough that Jensen keeps giving him coffee and all kinds of pastry every time he goes to The Black Bean. He’s pretty sure Sophia knows about it, which makes the whole thing so much more embarrassing. But it’s hard to say no when it smells so good, and his stomach is growling.

As if on cue his stomach rumbles and pinches his side. Jared sighs. He rolls reluctantly out of bed and finds his clothes from the day before. They smell too. He really needs to do laundry.

There’s an apple and week-old yoghurt in the fridge that he thinks belongs to Chad. He chomps down the apple and spits out the disgusting, might-actually-have-been-a-month-old yoghurt before throwing the cup in the trash.

The sky is dark, and the air is freezing, and as Jared stumbles his way to class he dreams of crawling into Jensen’s warm bed and sleeping for a decade. He just feels so tired all the time. Tired and achy and listless. He stayed up half the night reading and finishing that damn paper that was due yesterday, and then, when he finally crashed into bed, the rest of it was spent tossing and turning while coughing his throat raw.

Maybe he can catch a quick nap after his classes before going to pick up Jensen for his appointment. Jensen who’s being all strange and withdrawn, hardly meeting Jared’s eyes and shrugging off any attempt Jared makes at small talk. Jared’s not sure what that’s about. According to Chris, Jensen’s been having problems sleeping, getting up in the middle of the night to draw sketches that he hides as soon as Chris makes as if to get out of bed.

Maybe it’s therapy stuff. Jared wishes he knew what was going on in that place, what it is they talk about, Jensen and that woman. Sometimes when he’s waiting in the truck he looks up to see a dark figure in one of the windows, like someone is staring down at him. He thinks it might be Jensen, it’s the right floor after all, but it’s hard to tell in the dark with the soft light from the room turning the man into merely a shadow.

It starts snowing, heavy wet snowflakes that melt the moment they land on his skin. Jared shivers and draws up his shoulder, trying to bury his neck in the collar of his jacket. He stuffs his hands into the pocket of his jeans and hurries on, being careful not to lose his footing on the slippery sidewalk.

“Only two weeks until Christmas vacation. Only two weeks until Christmas vacation,” he mutters like a mantra under his breath. It doesn’t really make him feel any better.

-------------

The door bursts open with such force it bounces off the wall and slams into Jensen’s shoulder as he storms in. It hurts but he’s too pissed off to care. The folder lands with a loud bang on the low table.

“Hello to you too, Jensen,” Sam says, infuriatingly calm.

He glares at her and waves a hand at the folder, daring her to open it. ‘This is what you made me do,’ he gestures. ‘Look at it. Look at it!’

“Why don’t you sit down first?”

He clenches his jaw then sits down with a huff, arms crossed over his chest.

“You look tired,” she says, not sparing the folder a glance. “You’re not sleeping?”

Jensen rolls his eyes and points at the folder then jabs his finger at her accusingly. ‘Your fault! You wanted me to think about it and now I can’t stop! It’s fucking up my life. It’s fucking up my relationship with Jared. Your fucking fault!’

She raises her eyebrows at him. “I’m taking it you’re not talking to me unless I look at these first?” He gives her a tight sarcastic smile. “Did you do these in answer to my question? About what you think happened to you?”

He doesn’t even dignify that with a nod just sits waiting, lips a thin line. After a while she drops the gaze and leans forward, picking up the folder.

He sits silent, eyes on the darkening sky outside the window as she snaps the folder open and starts flipping through his work. He can hear cars outside, five stories below, that’s how quiet the room is. He tries to pick out the rumble of Chris’s truck, proof that Jared is somewhere down there, waiting, but he can’t. It doesn’t mean anything, chances are he’s parked with the engine turned off. It’s not like he’s... gone.

Jensen stands up, walks over to the window and looks down. There the truck is, in the parking lot across the street. He can make out the dark form of Jared behind the wheel, head leaning against the window. Maybe he’s nodding off. He’d looked tired, like he’s not sleeping any better than Jensen. Well, that’s what Jared wanted, Jensen thinks bitterly, to sleep alone. Who cares that Jensen’s been dealing with all this heavy shit and really needed Jared to be there?

Or maybe it’s the cold that Jared’s been battling these last few weeks, Jensen thinks with a small tinge of guilt. Seems it’s refusing to release him from its clutches. Now Jensen thinks of it, Jared even looked a little glassy eyed when he picked him up at The Black Bean earlier. He hadn’t really paid attention to it, not with all this crap going on, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Jared has a fever.

Jensen lays his palm against the window, just for a second. It leaves a sweaty print on the cool glass. He turns away and walks back to the couch. Sits down. Waits.

She looks up after what seems like an eternity, and he feels a gratifying tingle at seeing a glimpse of discomfort in her eyes. It’s only there for a second, and then the calm professional look is back, but he knows what he saw, and it’s cruelly satisfying. ‘You wanted answers, lady. Well, you’ve got them, right there. Now how do you feel?’

She purses her lips in thought then slowly starts laying the drawings and paintings out on the table, like cards of horror. Jensen watches, until he can’t fake his indifference anymore and looks away, hands curled into fists in his lap.




“Have you been staying up at nights, doing these? Are they what’s been keeping you from sleeping?”

He shrugs. More or less. Like this morning he’d slipped out of bed around two and got so immersed in his work he didn’t even notice Chris getting up five hours later.

She nods, thoughtful. “Are any of these based on memory? Flashbacks?” He shakes his head. “This is purely your imagination?” He nods, starting to get annoyed. What, like that isn’t bad enough?

“Jensen, do you watch sexually violent movies or TV shows?” He frowns, not sure what she’s getting at. “Law and Order? Oz? Shows where rape is frequently a part of the plot.”

He shakes his head, grimacing. No, he turns off the TV as soon as there’s even a hint of anything like that happening.

“Do you like to watch porn?”

He blushes, averting his eyes. He’s seen some, but he can’t say he goes looking for it. It makes him uncomfortable, which he knows is weird for a guy his age. He’s never wanted to dwell on why.

She’s waiting for an answer so he shrugs then shakes his head, wiggling his fingers and scrunching up his nose to show it’s nothing he’s really interested in.

“How about pictures? Like... child pornography?”

His eyes snap to her, horrified. What? Is she crazy?

She keeps watching him, her eyes calm but serious. “Jensen,” she says quietly, “have you ever forced yourself on someone? Child or adult.”

He stares at her, stunned. How can she...? ‘No!’ he tries to yell, and the word gets stuck in his throat, making his eyes water. He waves his hands, shaking his head in anger. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

“I’m sorry, I had to ask.” She looks back down at the pictures on the table. “These... They are very detailed. Disturbingly detailed. They depict things that most people wouldn’t even think of, when asked to describe their worst sexual nightmare. And the perpetrator in these...” She points at three different drawings before looking up at him. “He has a face. The same one in all three.”

Jensen swallows. He’d noticed but hadn’t really speculated on it, just figured he was making it up as he went along.

She gathers them into a pile but leaves the three she pointed at on the table. Then she takes blank pages and covers everything other than the faces of the man. It should make them easier to look at but for some reason it’s not.

“Do you recognize him?” she asks and he forces himself to look down at the drawings. Dark eyes stare up at him from a round face. Crooked nose. Full lips. Short, thinning hair. A beard. He shakes his head.

“Did you ever see a picture of the man who kidnapped you? During the investigation, in the papers... Anything like that?”

Jensen breathes out in relief. Of course. He must have at some point, right? That’s all this is. A stored picture in his head that he’d forgotten about. He smiles.

She doesn’t smile back. “The only picture the media had of your kidnapper was the one released by the police. It was taken ten years earlier, when he was arrested and later sentenced to prison. He was twenty-one at the time.”

She reaches into her folder and lays a picture on the table. A mug shot of a slim young man with shoulder length hair and glasses stares up at Jensen. He can tell it’s the same man by the look in his eyes and the shape of his lips, but that’s all. Other than that he looks completely different.

“I think that on a deep subconscious level, one that you’re only able to reach when you’re lost in your art, you do remember some things. This?” she says and holds her hand over the table, fingers spread. “I think this might be the little boy, trying to break through the barrier.”

Jensen shakes his head. That’s not possible. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember any of it.

She goes silent, watching him. “You were ten years old, and you walked away from three weeks of captivity with no memory of it,” she finally says. “Some would consider that a blessing.”

He shrugs. His mother kept telling him how lucky he was. How he should just forget everything and start anew. Put it all behind him. Whatever. Not like it made a difference. He was still fucked up enough from what he did remember.

“Well, it’s not their life, is it?” Sam says gently. “It’s yours. What it comes down to is what you want.” She leans forward, eyes watching him intently. “Jensen, do you want to know what happened to you?”

He hesitates. Does he? He looks at the drawings on the table and swallows. They are detailed. Very detailed. More than anything he’s ever done before. He hadn’t even realized how gruesome they were, until he’d heard Chris suck in his breath behind him that morning and whisper a broken, “Jesus fucking Christ. Jensen, what are you...? Oh God.”

He’d followed Chris’s gaze to the flood of drawings and paintings littering the floor, and suddenly he’d seen what Chris was seeing, had seen what his brain and hands had mindlessly made him do. It had scared the living shit out of him. He only barely kept from throwing up all over himself.

If his subconscious brain is already showing him this, how much worse can the truth be?

Jensen reaches for the sketchbook that had been lying on the table, waiting for him. He hesitates a moment then he writes, hand shaking with the effort, ‘KNO, Y. REMMBR, N.’

She nods, thoughtful. “Repressed memories are tricky. Usually we like people to just deal with what they actually can remember. If things are unclear, and the person wants to dig deeper there are ways to bring more memories forward, like, for example, through hypnosis. The problem in your case is that you’ve had twelve years to think about what might have happened to you, and whatever memories we might be able to bring to the surface they would most likely be tainted by your imagination. So even if you wanted to remember there’s no way we would know which memories are real and which are fake.”

She pauses, clearly looking for a reaction but he just stares back, waiting. He can feel the muscles in his back stiffen in anticipation, his calves and thighs getting taut and ready, his eyes fighting the steady gaze, wanting to dart to the door, to ensure he has a way to escape.

“But we can work with these,” she continues, indicating his work. “Talk about what is happening in them, how they make you feel. At the moment they’re the closest thing we have to real memories, and dealing with them would help a lot, I think.”

He stares at her in disbelief, his anger flaring when she drops her gaze. What the hell? She knows! He knows she knows, so why the hell doesn’t she just tell him? He’s not gonna sit here and talk about drawings that might or might not be accurate, not when she already knows what happened. Closest thing? Fuck that!

He leans forward and taps the table. When she looks up he points at her folder and makes a ‘c’mon’ gesture.

“What?”

Jensen clenches his jaw and impatiently repeats the gesture. She looks down at the folder then back up again, frowning. Frustrated he picks up the sketchbook again and writes with crooked letters ‘I KNO YU NO. SO TEL M.’

Christ. His brain must be getting desperate if it thinks fucking up his spelling like that will keep him from finding out.

She blinks, clearly taken aback. “How-?”

He raises his eyebrow, and she cuts herself off, looking awkward and a little angry at herself for being so transparent.

“I contacted the hospital you were brought to,” she finally admits. “I asked for a copy of your file. It took a while, their computer system doesn’t go that far back.” She stops, looking flustered. “This is not a good idea. Your memories are being repressed for a reason, Jensen.”

He purses his lips, eyes narrowing. ‘I don’t care. Tell me!’

“There’s no way to know how you will react. It could trigger you to-”

He launches forward and snatches the folder out of her hands, eyes skimming the first page before she has a chance to stop him

“Jensen, wait. You can’t… Jensen, give that to me!”

But he can’t hear her. His head is swimming, the words jumping up at him, black, and sharp and screaming.

---------

Jared’s nodding off ever so slightly, thinking of Thanksgiving, which was surprisingly nice, and wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do for Christmas, once that comes around. So it takes him a moment to realize that the guy walking away from the building he’s been watching, walking in the opposite direction of where he’s parked, is Jensen. Shit.

Jared fumbles for the door, but Jensen is already disappearing around the corner, so he curses and starts the truck instead, driving over the sidewalk rather than wasting time with the exit. A car going the other way honks its horn, and he gives the driver a small apologetic wave, eyes on the spot where he saw Jensen last. He’s got one hell of a gait, because he’s already one block down, and judging by the way he’s walking he’s extremely upset. Even more upset than the quiet rage he’d been trying to hide when Jared dropped him off. Jared had chalked it up to him and Chris having an argument but maybe it was something else altogether. Something much more serious. And Jared hadn’t even asked, because for once he’d felt too tired to deal with Jensen’s mood swings. Shit.

Jared drives up, slowing down as he gets closer, so he won’t spook Jensen. He rolls down the window as they’re side by side, but Jensen won’t look at him. He’s got his head bowed, eyes set on the pavement, arms crossed around his waist.

“Jensen, hey! What’s wrong? Where you going? C’mon, man, don’t do this. Talk to me.”

Jensen ignores him. Actually, it’s like he can’t even hear him. Jared swings up on the sidewalk and is out of the car, before the engine’s stopped rumbling.

“Hey,” he says, running to catch up with Jensen who’s already ten feet away. “Jen, what is it? You’re scaring me. Jensen, please.”

He runs to get in front, blocking the way and without a warning Jensen punches him, right in the gut. Jared goes down like a sack of coal, the wind knocked out of him. Fuck.

“Jensen, wait,” he croaks. “Don’t...” He coughs, fighting to get his breath back. Jesus Christ, it hurts!

Jensen walks on, but suddenly he stops and turns around. The look on his face hits Jared harder than the fist did.

“Jen,” he whimpers and rolls over so he can get up on his knees.

His stomach hurts like a motherfucker, and he’s cold and wet from lying in the snow. He lifts his head as he struggles to get to his feet. Jensen is still staring at him. He’s pale and trembling, eyes wide and blank. He looks like he’s going into shock. Fuck. Jared slowly straightens up, his stomach still cramping, and his lungs aching.

“Jensen, it’s all right. It’s gonna be all right. Hey...”

Jensen shakes his head. His lips twist downwards, and he starts blinking rapidly as tears well up in his eyes.

“Did you remember something?” Jared asks carefully. “Jensen?”

Jensen shakes his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. His breath hitches.

Jared’s hearts sinks. “She told you.”

Jensen goes rigid. His eyes fling open, wide with shock. He sucks in his breath, the accusation clear in his face.

“Your mother told me,” Jared says quietly.

Jensen’s breath hitches, red spots blossoming in his otherwise pale face. Jared can practically hear what he’s thinking. ‘She knew? They all knew? Chris? You all knew?’

“Jensen, listen to me. It’s not like that. Listen! I told your mom we needed to know what to expect if you started... if you started to remember. I asked her if it was true, and she said...” Jared swallows, tears in his eyes. “She said yes. Fuck, Jensen, I’m so sorry. I was gonna tell you, I just... I promised her I’d be careful. That I wouldn’t just drop it on you. That’s why I hadn’t... I was scared, okay? I was just so fucking scared.”

Jensen shakes his head, his face a grimace of pain and anger. ‘My life,’ he mouths. ‘Not yours. Mine!’

“Yes, it’s your life!” Jared shouts back, something snapping in his head. “It’s your life, Jensen. And it’s fucking precious, okay? You, your life, it means more to me than anything. And I was afraid if I told you I might trigger you to... God, Jensen, you were talking about killing yourself!” He’s crying now, big blubbering tears running down his face, but he doesn’t even care. “How was I supposed to tell you? I couldn’t just... I love you. I love you so much, and I was so, so scared. I...”

He doesn’t expect the arms pulling him in tight, and so the dam bursts wide open when it happens. He holds on, clinging to Jensen and crying his fear, and guilt and shame into Jensen’s neck, knowing it should be the other way around, that he should be the one comforting a traumatized Jensen. Instead it’s Jensen who is gently stroking Jared’s back, Jensen’s lips that are moving silently against Jared’s ear, mouthing words Jared can only guess.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he hiccups between sobs he just doesn’t seem able to stop. “I’m so sorry.”

Jensen’s breath hitches in Jared’s ear before he continues his silent consolation, arms cradling Jared’s head on his shoulder. They stand like that for what seems like hours. Jared is vaguely aware of someone telling him he needs to, “Move your car, son” and then a gentler, “Just don’t leave it for too long,” a moment later, before the man (cop?) leaves them to it. A bright voice asks, “Mom, why are they crying?” only to be hushed by the child’s clearly embarrassed mother. The sky grows darker, and Jared slowly realizes his shaking sobs have been replaced by a different kind of trembling as his wet jeans turn to ice around his legs. Finally Jensen pries him gently off and holds his face between cold hands, gazing at him with concern.

“I’m okay,” Jared manages, then he's crying again. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying anymore. If it’s for himself, for the fear of losing Jensen, for feeling so helpless or useless; or if it’s for Jensen, grieving for the child he should have been, the person he should have grown into. It’s just too much, all of it. He’s never felt so... eighteen before. So young and stupid. So goddamn lost.

Jensen shakes his head then kisses him, cold lips pressing against his like he doesn’t even notice the smear of tears, and spit and probably snot all over them. Then Jensen pulls him back to the truck and pushes him into the passenger seat, belting him in and patting him reassuringly before getting in behind the wheel. The truck jerks to a start, gears protesting loudly, but Jensen just scowls and hits the wheel with his hand, shaking the stick and kicking the gas pedal, until finally the car starts rolling. Jared watches him, brain swimming. He absently wonders if Jensen actually has a driver’s license. From the look of it he’d say no. It seems like Jensen is simply imitating what he’s seen Chris do a thousand times and not really doing such a great job of it.

Wouldn’t that just be hilarious if they both died in a car crash, because Jared was too much of a crybaby to drive the damn truck? Just the thought has his breath hitching, and Jensen looks over at him in alarm, jerking the wheel and almost hitting a traffic sign. It’s all Jared can do not to start bawling again.

By the time they close in on Jensen’s apartment building, Jared feels like he’s not really there anymore. His head hurts, and his eyes burn, and he can’t think beyond wanting to crawl into bed with Jensen and never get up again. Jensen is staring straight ahead, his face having smoothed out into a blank mask that makes Jared want to start crying all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, for the twentieth time since they started driving. Jensen just shakes his head, his eyes flickering briefly to Jared before going back to the road. He finds their parking spot and by some miracle manages to get the truck into it without bumping into the cars next to it, the engine coughing and hiccupping before finally dying with the screech of the handbrake.

They get out, Jensen hurrying around to Jared’s side and supporting him in and up the stairs. The apartment is empty; Chris is still at work Jared presumes. He has no idea what time it is. He grabs hold of Jensen’s hand after he lowers him to the bed, afraid Jensen is going to leave him there. Jensen shakes his hand free and goes to tug Jared’s boots off. He wrestles him out of the wet jeans as well as the jacket and hoodie before covering him with the duvet.

“Jensen,” Jared chokes out as Jensen starts to turn away. Jensen gives him a brief smile that doesn’t reach his eyes before walking into the bathroom and closing the door behind him. Jared falls back on the pillow and closes his eyes for just a minute, just so he can gather his thoughts.

-----------

The difference between suspecting and knowing is like the difference between sand and quicksand. One tickles your feet, gets into every crack and fold, gnashes between your teeth, irritating and intruding. The other pulls you down and suffocates you.

Jensen is suffocating.

He stands in the shower, warm water beating upon his chilled skin, until his knees suddenly buckle, and he’s gliding down the wall like a glob of spit, hitting the bottom hard. He starts shaking, head cradled in his arms, but he doesn’t cry. He feels frozen, numb, his thoughts skittering around like rabbits, jumping up out of nowhere and skipping out again, unfinished. His mother’s face flickers by, his sister’s, Chris’s. All gazing at him with hurt and pain and worry.

‘This is why they don’t hate me,’ he thinks. (“…catatonic…”) ‘Because they know.’ (“…weak from malnutrition…”) They know what happened. (“…severely dehydrated…”) That’s why they still care. (“…bladder infection…”) Because it’s not really about him, it’s about who he was. (“…bruises from restraints around the wrists, ankles and throat…”) They look at him,, and they don’t see a grown up. (“…knees badly scraped…”) They don’t see a jerk or an insensitive asshole. (“…sand and gravel, most likely from the basement floor, deeply embedded in the wounds…”) They don’t see a person that most people would rather ignore than deal with. (“…lacerations on the inside of the mouth and throat…”) They don’t even see a survivor. (“…severe tissue damage…”) They see a victim. (“…evidence suggests frequent and extremely brutal…”) A ten-year-old rape victim. (“…needed extended surgery…”) Because that’s what he’ll always be to them. (“In my opinion any delay in treatment would have resulted in the patient’s death due to extreme blood loss.)

He throws up on his lap then sits staring blindly at the mess until the water has washed most of it away, leaving chunks of undigested food trembling over the drain. His head hurts.

He gets up when the water goes cold, turning it off and stepping out of the shower on shaky legs. His clothes lie in a bundle on the floor, cold, wet and dirty. He leaves them there.

Jared is asleep. He’s snoring, his nose stuffed, cheeks flushed red. His hair is plastered to his sweaty forehead.

Jensen gets dressed. Underwear, jeans, socks, t-shirt. Jared’s hoodie that’s become too small for him, because, insanely enough, he’s still growing. Jensen reaches for his coat, pulls on his boots. His gloves, his beanie, his scarf.

He opens the door and walks out, down the stairs and into the streets. He turns left and keeps going.

---------

“How long have you been feeling like crap?”

Jared swipes Chris’s hand away from his forehead. “What does it matter? We need to-” He doubles over, coughing until it feels like his lungs are on fire. When he looks up, tears stinging his eyes from exertion, Chris gives him a pointed look.

“For being a college boy you’re plenty stupid, aren’t you?” He sighs when Jared’s jaw tightens. “You have a raging fever, Jared. I’m no doctor, but even I can tell you’re sick as a dog. Plus you look like you haven’t eaten in weeks. What the hell have you been doing to yourself?”

“Nothing,” Jared mumbles, voice hoarse. His throat feels like he swallowed razorblades. “Been busy.”

“Christ.” Chris rubs a hand over his face, seeming exasperated. “I can’t do this, you know. I can’t be taking care of the both of you.”

“I can take care of myself-“

“Clearly you can’t,” Chris cuts him off, angry. “Jesus, Jared, this ain’t Texas! You can’t be running around dressed in long-sleeves and a denim jacket in fucking December! You ain’t even got fat for insulation, you skinny-assed hick. What’s the matter with you?”

Jared flinches. “This is all I’ve got, okay?” he mumbles. His head is killing him. “Don’t have any money for clothes. Or food. Been living on Ramen. When I’m not here, I mean.” His face feels hot and not just from the fever.

Chris stares at him. “Why didn’t you say something?” he finally asks. “We could have-”

“What?” Jared asks defeated. “What could you have done?”

“Asked you over for dinner more times, for one. Helped you find a job maybe.”

“Tried. Were all across town or fucked up hours I couldn’t fit in with school and, and...”

“Jensen?” Chris sighs when Jared doesn’t answer. “So you’d rather starve? I’ve been taking care of him for years. I think we can get by without you for a few hours.”

“Yeah?” Jared shoots back. “So where is he?”

Chris’s face shuts down. “He’ll be back.”

“How can you know that? You didn’t see him! He was... God, what if he does it? What if... Chris, what if he kills himself? It would be my fault. I fell asleep when I should have-”

“Jared, shut up. He’s not gonna fucking kill himself!” Chris snaps. “I’ve got people looking. If we haven’t heard from him tonight I’ll call the cops. Nothing they can do anyway until it’s been 48 hours.” Chris sighs when Jared just keeps glaring at him. “It won’t come to that. He’ll come back because one, he doesn’t have anywhere else to go and two, you’re here.”

Jared swallows. “I’m not sure that’s enough this time.”

“It damn well better be,” Chris growls and gets up. “Eat your soup. And sleep. If Jensen is anywhere near as bad as you say then I need you up and alert when he comes back.”

“If he comes back,” Jared murmurs but Chris pretends not to hear him.

It’s starting to get dark when Jared finally gets a text message that says, “Nt ded” like Jensen knows that’s what they’re thinking. Nothing about where he is or when he’s planning on returning. Jared tries calling him - for the fiftieth time - but Jensen doesn’t answer any more than before so Jared sends yet another text saying, “Please come home. I love you.” There’s no answer.

Jared sleeps in Jensen’s bed, keeping Chris up half the night with his coughing and sniveling. Chris makes him tea in the morning and heats up the rest of the soup.

“No getting out of bed,” he warns before going to work. “And call me if you hear anything.”

“You too,” Jared wheezes. His voice is shot to shit.

Their phones stay silent.

“Maybe we should call his parents,” Jared suggests between coughing fits that night, “ask if he’s been in touch?”

Chris looks at him like he’s insane. “You want to call the parents of a kidnap victim and tell them he’s gone missing again?”

Jared goes red. He hadn’t thought of it like that. “No. Sorry. What about that damn shrink?”

“Already did that,” Chris mutters. “She told me not to worry, that he’s stronger than I think. The hell? She just met him, what does she know? Fucking doctors. Tell you what, next time I meet Michael soon-to-be-Doctor Rosenbaum I’m punching his motherfucking face in.” He squirms when Jared looks at him. “Well, I can’t punch her. She’s a woman!”

“I must be sicker than I thought because your logic makes sense.” Jared lies back on the couch, groaning when the movement changes the pressure in his head. His fever seems to be down a bit, but his head still feels like it’s split open, and he thinks he might have cracked a rib when coughing earlier. It makes breathing hurt even more.

He falls asleep and dreams of someone crying. When he wakes up Chris is sleeping next to him on the couch, face a little too shiny. Jared coughs around the lump in his throat and closes his eyes again.

The next time he opens them it’s morning, and Jensen is sitting on the coffee table, watching him.

“Jen,” Jared murmurs sadly, reaching out. He had this same dream yesterday. His fingers meet Jensen’s solid knee, and Jared bolts upright, heart caught in his throat, almost knocking Jensen over in his eager to wrap his arms around him. Just for a second before he catches himself, but it’s still long enough to feel Jensen go rigid, and his breathing speed up, shallow and panicked. Jared quickly pulls back, hands seeking out Jensen’s face instead, touching him with trembling fingers.

“You came back,” he breathes hoarsely, searching Jensen eyes for an explanation, an answer, an apology. There’s nothing there. Just the same silence, the same wary look of the last few weeks. Like he hasn’t been gone for almost three days. The anger flares up, as unexpected as Jensen suddenly being there, and Jared opens his mouth to shout it out but instead ends up coughing and fighting for air, his ribs stinging his side like a knife, the tears in his eyes using the excuse to flow over.

Jensen’s eyes widen in alarm. He’s instantly at Jared’s side, butt landing half on top of Chris’s curled-up legs as Jensen slips his arm around Jared’s shoulders.

Chris stirs, mumbling, “Jared?” before he opens his eyes and sees Jensen, and just like that all hell breaks loose.

It’s like a fifties sitcom with Chris yelling out accusations while Jensen waves his hands, too upset to make any sense, and Jared coughing and gasping for breath, until the pain becomes too much, and he only just manages to push Jensen away and run for the bathroom. That puts a stop to the fight, for now.

Chris hovers in the doorway as Jensen rubs Jared’s back and holds back his hair as he vomits Chris’s soup and tea and the orange juice he only drank for the vitamin C. It hurts so damn much his eyes start rolling back in his head, that’s how close he is to passing out.

“Call 911,” Jensen growls, voice almost as hoarse as Jared’s own. “Chris! Do it!”

“It’s just a cold,” Jared tries to protest but ends up coughing again. He’s having trouble breathing, and his head is spinning. He thinks he might be passing out after all. Just to be safe he grabs Jensen’s hand and holds on, figuring if he doesn’t let go then Jensen can’t go, can’t disappear again. “Stay,” he manages to slip out, before he’s coughing again, and, that’s it, he’s gone.

---------

“You selfish sonofabitch.”

Jensen ignores him. His eyes are on Jared. Jared who looks impossibly pale against the white bedding, the last trace of summer tan gone sickly grey. Pneumonia they say. Viral infection. Two cracked ribs from coughing. Dehydration and malnutrition. Jensen had almost laughed at that. How fucking ironic.

“Do you have any idea how worried we were? We almost called your fucking parents!”

Jensen takes Jared’s hand, stroking his fingers lightly over the wrist. He can feel Jared’s pulse, fluttering under the thin skin. The palm is dry, the fingernails bitten down to the core, skin pink and ragged where Jared has gnawed as well.

“Jensen!”

Jensen sighs. He looks up, fixing his eyes on Chris.

“Where were you?”

Jensen shrugs. Walking. Sitting in cafés, drinking gallons of coffee. Lying in a hotel room, staring up at the ceiling. Does it matter?

“Jared thought you’d run off to kill yourself. Said it would be on him if you did. His fault.”

That makes him wince. He looks back at Jared, at the dark circles under his eyes. Reaches over and pushes back a lock of Jared’s hair. ‘Sorry,’ he thinks. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just needed some space.’

“Jesus, Jensen, you can’t just...”

He looks up again just in time to catch Chris wipe at his eyes.

“It’s not just about you anymore, do you get that?” he continues after an awkward moment of silent staring. “I know you don’t care how I feel, but, fuck, look at that boy! He’s been worrying himself sick over you - literally! And I don’t mean just the last couple of days. Shit, man, you sleep together. How did you not notice he’s gone thin as a fucking stick?”

Jensen looks away, cheeks burning. He hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t noticed anything. Too wrapped up in his own problems to see anything else. A selfish fucking bastard, that’s what he is.

“It’s not just that. He has no decent clothes, Jensen. No money, no family, no nothing. All he has is you, and you ran away.”

Jensen’s breath hitches. His fingers have gone rigid where they clutch Jared’s hand, hard enough to leave white fingerprint on the grayish skin. He wants to run out, to breathe in fresh air without Chris there to needle him, to push and prod and lean on him when he can hardly stand to be in his own skin. But that means leaving Jared, and he’s not doing that. Not now. Not again.

“Jensen.” Chris voice has gone quiet, soft. Tired. “You knew. You’ve always known. I don’t get why you’re so... You knew.”

Jensen closes his eyes. He shakes his head slowly, lips twisting. Yes, he knew. He knew the same way you know your parents have sex, that one day you’ll die, that all the evil in the world can be reflected in the eyes of a scared child. Facts and truths that mean nothing in theory and everything in praxis. He knew but now he knows.

“If nothing had happened, there would have been no reason for you to block it out,” Chris continues. “You’ve always known that. So why...?”

Jensen lets go of Jared’s hand and fumbles into his pocket, pulling out the sheets of paper that have been weighing him down like a stone. They’ve been folded, and crumpled and thrown away and retrieved so many times the letters have worn away in some of the creases, and there are stains of coffee and grease smudging the rest. He holds them out, waiting until Chris takes them hesitantly from his hand before he resumes his hold on Jared’s fingers, the soft flesh of his palm, the fragile strings of his backhand bones. How did he ever think that hand was gigantic? It seems so small now.

He can hear Chris unfolding the paper, ironing out the creases with the palm of his hand. The silence that falls as he reads. Then...

“Oh Jesus.” A hitch of breath, a soft noise in the back of Chris’s throat, and then he’s out the door, the battered pages fluttering to the floor.

Jensen closes his eyes. He rubs his fingers over Jared’s limp hand. Then he lays his head down on the bed and sleeps.

Chapter 10 | Chapter 12