As I Lay Dying - Part 2

[namichan89]

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The day is as horrible as any. At least he doesn't have a vision at work today. However, it doesn't spare Jensen a massive headache on his way home from work.

And he has to take the subway. Great, just great.

As soon as the train rolls into the station, Jensen does his approved breathing exercises. Calms himself down enough so he doesn't lose his mind in there. When the doors open, Jensen is waiting in the first row and heads for a seat immediately after the few waiting people have gotten off the train. Seats have one major advantage - you don't have to touch a bar or handle in order to not fall over. Any bar that someone may have had his head whacked against. Any handle that someone may have held on to as a pickpocket kicked him in the nuts. Really, almost everything in a subway brings up the most horrible visions.

Jensen sits down on the bench without touching anything and lets out a relieved breath. Lifting the paper cup from where it rests against his thigh, he takes a mouthful of the delicious, black coffee, closes his eyes, and just enjoys the burn down his throat.



People start to fill up the car, a father and his little daughter taking a seat to Jensen's right, a young girl to his left texting on her cell phone. A guy in his twenties stands a few feet away, holding onto a bar with one hand, the other one clutched around the handle of a plastic bag with carry-out in it.

Jensen has developed a habit of watching people. First, because he expects the worst, expects for something bad to happen any second. Second, because he naturally has seen a lot happen to people, so he often wonders what their story might be. He's sure that the second reason is kind of a quirk of his profession. And his gift.

For example, the girl beside him has probably just started college and is on her way to a date. She's wearing nice clothes; not the kind you wear to a job interview, but the kind that make her seem like a good catch. And she's texting her date with to let them know she's on her way.

However, when Jensen looks at her from the corner of his eye again, he sees that she isn't smiling. And that just doesn't fit into his theory. It's only 5 p.m., and Jensen had the luck to get off work early today. By the bitter lines around her mouth that Jensen notices just now, he guesses the date didn't go like she expected. Maybe the guy stood her up? And now she's texting her best friend to break the news to her, frustrated and disappointed. Jensen quickly averts his eyes.

There's a guy standing in the large empty space right in front of the door, one hand wrapped around the bar in the middle, the other hand clutched around his commuter bag, holding it close to his body. He's very tall, probably even taller than Jensen, and has half-long brown hair. Jensen can't make out his face from this angle, though. Maybe the guy is on his way home to his family after work, taking his laptop because he's one of those workaholics that work on their project until late at night, when the kids are in bed. And while people with commuter bags that possibly contain a laptop are pretty common in the NYC subway, it's still kind of risky. A potential thief sees a bag like that and knows immediately that there's probably something valuable worth committing a crime in a public place.

The little girl beside him talks endlessly to her dad, and Jensen shifts his attention to her. Apparently, they've been to the zoo today, so there isn't much to guess for Jensen here. She coos over a stuffed animal in her lap, a hippo with an oversized head. Something about the man's behavior towards his daughter makes Jensen think twice. The father's smile is wide, truly happy, but his brows are knit a bit too tight together. He seems kind of rueful, hearing his daughter ramble like this. Like he wouldn't see or hear that very often.

“Thank you, Daddy!” she says then, throwing her arms around his neck.

“You're welcome, princess,” he replies quietly, holding her tight for a moment. Jensen still gets a glimpse of his face over her shoulder, and he gets it. Obviously a divorced father, and his daughter lives with her mother - he doesn't get to see her very often, and when he does, he tries to do everything for her. Taking her to the zoo, for example, and buying her the stuffed animal she wants so much. Showering her with all the affection he isn't allowed to when the child's mother is around, because she constantly tells her daughter that her father is a selfish bastard. Or something like that.

Even here - a father and his daughter taking the subway home from the zoo - there's a sad story lying underneath the surface.

Jensen sighs and looks around the crowd to see if he can read anybody else.

Thinking about things like these helps Jensen focus on something else than his visions. It's a neat trick that has helped him through a lot of subway rides already, even if he mostly comes to a dark end with these musings.



Suddenly, the train brakes violently in the middle of the tunnel, sending the passengers lunging sideways and holding on to the nearest bar or handle. On instinct, Jensen grabs the arm rest of the seat, and doesn't get that warning buzz he often feels before a vision when it actually starts.

It's a subway train. Of course it's a subway train. It's almost completely empty, just like it almost always is in Jensen's visions. The vision gets surprisingly clear within a split second, and Jensen sees him.

A guy is lying on the floor, three men with their hoods pulled into their faces crowding around him. His eyes stare at them in disbelief, pupils blown open wide, his lips parted and gulping in as much air as he can. Jensen studies him, is pretty sure he's maybe 29 or barely 30. The first thing Jensen notices after his face - slanted eyes, chiseled features, full lips, laughing lines around eyes and mouth - is the blood dripping from his side. He presses his right palm tightly onto it, trying desperately to stop the blood flow. His hands are large and smeared with blood.

One of the three muggers picks up the commuter bag that had dropped to the floor beside the barely conscious man. “See, that's what you get for not giving it to us in the first place,” he sneers. The guy beside him lifts the butterfly knife once more, and Jensen holds his breath, expecting him to make the final cut to the poor man's throat.

Great. He's witness to yet another murder.

Instead, the mugger just wipes the knife's blade clean on the man's shirt. Jensen barely has time to focus on anything beside the man on the floor. The train starts to slow down as it approaches the next station.

And that's when something happens to Jensen that hasn't happened in all of his 34 years.

The man in the puddle of red blood on the floor turns his head and looks right at him. Sees him and looks him right in the eye, although Jensen isn't even supposed to be there. Coughs and says, “Please help me. Call 911. P-please, Sir!”



And Jensen just stares, is unable to move just like in any other vision. But he wants to reach out to the man, wants to help him, wants to hold him and tell him everything's gonna be alright. The urge is overwhelmingly intense, more than any other of his visions have been during the past years. He wants to cry out, wants to shout for help, for somebody to help this unfortunate man. It's tearing at him, punching him right in the chest, his heart hammering in a pace that can't be healthy.

But he's helpless, can't do anything.

“Who the hell is he talking to?” one of the muggers says.

“There's no one here to help you, buddy,” the one with the commuter bag says, and kicks the man on the floor for emphasis.

He winces in pain, presses his mouth shut in order to not scream. It hurts Jensen almost as much as he sees how much he's suffering, but he can't do anything. He's frozen. Like always.

The train stops at the station, and the three guys are jumping off the train and run as fast as they can. Jensen couldn't even make out their faces.

Normally, his visions stop right then.

This time, though, the man on the floor still looks up to him, locks eyes with Jensen as he presses both hands onto the open wound on his side. “Why aren't you helping me? Please...” he whispers, desperation and pain written all over his face, eyebrows drawn together as he tries to suppress another pained groan.

Jensen wants to shout, wants to ask him for his name, wants to ask where he is. But he can't move, and somehow he's never felt worse in one of his visions. The train isn't moving any more, and it's completely empty now. Only the man bleeding to death at Jensen's feet is here, and as much as Jensen looks around, he can't find anyone else, not even on the platform beside them. When his eyes travel down again, the man stares at the ceiling, barely breathing. His keys have dropped out of his bag and are lying next to his head.






The train brakes again, and Jensen is thrown back into the present.

He blinks into the neon light above the seat row opposite of the car, focusing back on what just happened. What surprises him is how, for the first time ever, he wants to know more about the situation he just witnessed.

Something about this vision was very, very off. Not only that for the first time, someone could actually see him during one of those visions. There has to be something else going on.

Energy is pulsing through Jensen's veins, making his heart pump way too fast and his head ache is long forgotten.

He doesn't know who this guy was, doesn't know his name or where he's living. He doesn't know if he was stabbed yesterday or in 1985. But he knows that he has to do something.

He will find this man.

Who is he and why the hell could he see Jensen?

He gets off the train at the next station, which is the nearest one to his house anyway. As soon as he's out of the subway train, Jensen takes his cell phone out of his pocket and calls Misha. It seems like an eternity to Jensen as he can barely stop fidgeting until Misha eventually picks up at the third ring.

“Jen-?”

“Mish, I need your help,” he bursts out even before Misha can say anything else. “I just saw, you know, in one of my visions, there was a man and he-”

“Jen-”

“- he spoke to me! Can you... I mean how does this work, I can't-”

“Jensen!” Misha raises his voice and effectively silences Jensen's incoherent rambling. “First, you're gonna calm down, and then you're gonna tell me where you are. I'm on patrol, so I'm gonna pick you up, and we'll talk about this in a place where there aren't a dozen people probably overhearing you, okay?”

Jensen swallows and takes a deep breath. He knows Misha is right. “Okay. I'm at the 86th street subway station. Right beside the entrance.”

“Good. I'm on my way. You stay there, okay? Give me five minutes.”

With that, Misha hangs up on him, not accepting any argument.

The next five minutes are the five cruelest minutes of Jensen's life. He steps from one foot onto the other, nervous and a split second away from climbing the walls. It's driving him nuts, urging him on to do something. If Jensen just knew what the hell is going on.

Breathe, he tells himself.

Suddenly, Jensen smiles. Smiles to himself like he hasn't in months, and realizes it right this second.

He hasn't felt so alive in a long time.

True to his word, Misha shows up just in time, and Jensen hops into the passenger seat without further ado. “Hey,” Misha greets him with a short wave and puts the car into park. “So. The whole story, and please begin at - you know - the beginning.”

Jensen nods, concentrates, and says, “I've just had a vision where a guy was talking to me.”

Misha's eyebrows shoot upwards. “Well. That's a new one. Are you sure he was talking to you?”

“He was looking right at me, Mish. Like, making eye contact and all,” Jensen exclaims, and he knows he's a bundle of nerves right now, but- well, but. Something very special has just happened, and a part of Jensen knows it means something. And he has to find out about this. He has to. “And apart from that, this vision was totally different from the usual. It was way longer, and it was very clear, you know?” Jensen gestures wildly towards his friend as he tries to explain.

“Woah,” Misha replies, waving Jensen's hands away from him. “I think I haven't ever seen you this excited.” And he's grinning.

And Jensen, oddly enough, finds himself smiling in return before he looks down into his lap. “I don't know, man. Apart from the whole talking and looking at me, something about this vision was just special. I need to find out who this guy is. I need to, you know. I want to know why he could see me.”

“So, do you think he's still alive?” Misha asks. “It wasn't a vision of a murder?”

“I don't know,” Jensen answers, picking on a piece of fluff on his jeans. “No, not really. But... okay, from the beginning - I was in the subway, right? And when I had to hold onto the arm rest, the vision started. The guy was mugged by three guys who stole his commuter bag. He was already laying on the floor when the vision started, and he had a stab wound on his upper right side. Apparently, the three guys had threatened him beforehand to give them the bag, and when he refused, they stabbed him. And then he looked right at me and begged me to help him, to call 911. Asked why I didn't do anything. The muggers just looked at him and were like 'What the hell, who are you talking to?'”

Misha nods along to Jensen's summary. “And what makes you think this one was special? Apart from the fact that he talked to you?”

“He begged me to help him, and I want to. I just want to find out who he is. Not that I could prevent anything if this already happened, but I want to meet him. If he survived, that is.”

“Okay,” Misha says, looking out of the windshield. “So, think about your surroundings in the vision.” They have done this a few times before, recreating the vision so that Misha could find out and tell Jensen what happened to the victim.

“The subway. Also the subway station at the end,” Jensen says.

“Did you recognize the station?”

“No, not exactly,” Jensen answers, rubs his thumb over his right temple. “But I didn't exactly try to. I saw it very clear, though. It was... wait, I think there was a sign. Not an underground station, so it has to be a bit out of Manhattan. Uhm, black posts holding up a wooden roof. It's-”

And suddenly, it's like scales fall from Jensen's eyes. “Misha, I know this station. It was the Van Cortlandt Park station, the subway's termination.”

“Good. So, what were they wearing? Anything 90s-ish?”

Jensen shakes his head. “No, pretty up-to-date. The victim wore a... uhm, gray cardigan? Very hipster-like? And a black t-shirt underneath. And jeans. I'd say very current clothes.”

“Anything else?” Misha urges on. “Movie posters, an iPhone 5?”

“Uhm, his car keys lay beside his head. Simple Ford keys, not one of those new key cards, but they looked pretty old and beat-up, like from an old car and he carried them around for quite some time. He didn't have an iPhone, but I saw one of those really big, new smart phones fall out of his pocket. I guess it couldn't have happened too long ago. No movie posters, though.”

Jensen presses his eyes shut, focuses again on the situation he's been in. He remembers a red dot in the background, from where he had looked around to search for anyone who could help. Some kind of advertisement for a new drug.

And that one he recognized.

With renewed excitement, Jensen turns in his seat to fully face Misha. This is huge. Adrenaline rushes through him in waves by now.

“There was an ad in the subway,” he says as calmly as possible. “And I know that one. The campaign has only started today and we had to put it in tomorrow's paper. We just talked about it today in the editor's conference, because we didn't find a large enough space in the layout to fit it in.”

Misha opens his mouth, wants to answer, but suddenly his eyes widen. “Wait a minute,” he finally manages, “So it happened today?”

“Apparently,” Jensen nods vividly. “That's a new one, too.”

“So, this morning? I haven't heard of anything of any mugging and a guy being stabbed today. And I was on patrol, so I would definitely have heard of it,” Misha ponders out loud.

They have double-checked enough times to know that Jensen's visions are always true. Their eyes meet, Misha leaning his head sideways against the headrest of the seat while Jensen leans a bit forward, hands clenching and fingers rubbing against palms.

“No, not morning. It was definitely dim outside when the train reached the station... like just right after sunset. A red sunset.”

They look at each other for a moment, both realizing what that means. The penny drops at the same time, both men turning their heads to look at the sky through the windshield. The sun has barely touched the horizon yet.

It's not sunset. Yet.

“You saw...” Misha says, nonplussed and amazed, and stares into space.

“Yeah, the friggin' future. The maybe very near future. Shit. But it could happen anytime, right? So what do we do?” Jensen asks, panic rising up in his chest.

Misha bites his lip, thinks about it.

It's the first time ever that Jensen could maybe, actually help someone, and for the first time ever, Jensen feels like his gift is actually of use. The feeling is maddeningly good. But he can't deal with this at the moment, just feels overwhelmed and has yet again do a few breathing exercises to calm down.

Jensen closes his eyes, focuses on deep, even breaths.

The man of his vision appears again. Slanted, blue-green eyes, deliciously curved lips pressed together in pain. Half-long, brown hair. Jensen remembers his body on the floor, slender and muscled, obviously very tall. The commuter bag lays-

The commuter bag.

Half-long, brown hair.

“Fuck!” Jensen curses loudly.

“What?”

“I've seen this guy. He was on the same train that I took when I came here. If he hasn't gotten off that subway, he's right on his way to Van Cortlandt Park.”

“Are you sure?” Misha asks, shocked.

“Pretty sure, yes,” Jensen confirms.

Without hesitation, Misha grabs the mobile radio from his belt. “This is Collins, ID 8-4-0-7-9. I’ve gotten a report of a mugging on the 1 train northbound to Van Cortlandt Park, taking place right now. The perps are three young men. They could have stabbed a man and left him to die on the subway.”

It's risky, and they both know it, and it'll be hard to explain, but it's also the only thing they can do right now. They're too far away to drive there themselves. Jensen makes a quick mental calculation after a short look at his wrist watch - the train will arrive at the termination within the next five minutes.

“Confirmed. Two patrol cars on their way,” the man on the radio says.

Jensen lets out a relieved breath. “So. What do we do now?” he asks.

“We're driving to the police station and wait for the news.”

With that, Misha puts the car in gear and drives out onto the street, siren and lights on.



By the time they reach the police station, Jensen is even more riled up than before. No further information came in on the radio while they drove here, and despite the fact that it took them barely ten minutes, Jensen almost lost his nerve every few seconds.

He runs the situation through his head for the umpteenth time. What if it had been further in the future? What if it wasn't happening today, but tomorrow? Misha sure was in trouble if he made them order two patrol cars to the station and then nothing had happened there.

What if the stabbing would be tomorrow, and he won't see the guy in the subway again to warn him? He'll run right into them, and the police won't be there tomorrow and it'll still end up like in Jensen's vision. And that would make it officially the most horrible vision he's ever had. He would be responsible for this guy's death. Jensen is so unable to deal with that in his current state of mind.

“Relax, it'll be fine,” Misha says and pats Jensen's shoulder as they enter the police station from the subterranean garage.

Jensen just groans, because he knows Misha is as unsure as he is. His best friend just doesn't loose it like Jensen right now; maybe because he's a trained police officer, for crying out loud. It's kind of his job to keep a crisis under control, even if it's just Jensen freaking out here.

They take the elevator up to the ground floor, and the second they're stepping into the office, Misha addresses the guy behind the counter. “Any news on my report, Jimmy?”

Jimmy looks up at Misha. “Nope, not yet. The train should've reached the station about two minutes ago, but it might be delayed or-” the other police offer is cut off by the radio. Three heads snap up and Jensen waits breathlessly until the white noise turns into a voice.

“Report: Three male suspects captured at Van Cortlandt Park station. Victim found in subway severely injured. Ambulance is on the way. We need forensics here ASAP.”

Jensen flops down in a nearby chair and doubles over, cradles his face in his hands. Tears are rolling down his cheeks, but he laughs. Everything seems just crazy.

He just hopes the guy makes it.

Fuck.

Misha pats his back on his way to his desk. He has a report to write. Jensen has to calm the fuck down, which seems kind of hard at the thought that he maybe just saved someone's life.



They've been waiting here for hours. It's midnight, and Jensen has to be at work tomorrow morning at 8 o'clock sharp, but he honestly couldn't care less.

Jensen has been walking around the station with his third cup of coffee in hand for an hour now, while Misha managed to talk some other officer into taking his patrol shift and currently handles the phone at the station desk.

And each time the phone rings and Misha answers it, Jensen jumps up from where he's sitting or rushes in from where he's pacing up and down the hallway.

No further information comes in for a long time.

Misha taps his pen idly against his desk and looks up worriedly at his friend. “Don't you think you better head home?”

“Do you seriously think I could sleep?” Jensen counters as he flops down onto the bench in the reception area, resting the cup of coffee against his thigh.

“You could always try.”

“Yeah, right,” Jensen huffs out. All he would do right now was probably sitting in front of his laptop, drinking himself to sleep. Thinking about it, this might be the first night he's actually spending sober since... well, a couple of months ago? But Jensen can't really remember the situation that made him not drink in the evening. Maybe his parents were visiting?

No. The other way around. It had been Christmas, and because of work he had only managed to fly down to Texas with the latest plane that evening, and there was a snow storm in NY, so they had a delayed start on top. By the time he was in Dallas, it was half past two in the morning and his Mom had sent him straight to bed. It would've been a bit weird to ask her for a bottle of his Dad's scotch, so Jensen just settled in. He had barely slept one hour, and the rest of the night was wasted away with rolling from one side to the other feeling restless and riled up and pathetically craving a drink. Well, it's not like Jensen doesn't know he's got a problem.

He rubs his burning eyes and has to blink a few times to readjust his contacts.

“Is it still that bad? With the sleeping?” Misha asks after the beat, eyeing Jensen carefully.

Jensen just nods.

“How much did you have last night?” Misha resumes the questioning, and they both know he's not talking about hours of sleep.

After a short look around, checking that none of the other officers is within earshot, Jensen admits quietly without looking at Misha, “Two thirds of a bottle of Jack and half a bottle of vodka?”

Misha's eyes don't waver as they level on Jensen. It seems like he expected something like that. After a deep sigh, Misha changes the topic. “So, you really wanna stay? Don't you have to work tomorrow?”

“I do, but... I want to know what happened to him,” Jensen's voice breaks midway through the sentence. He clears his throat quickly.

“Jen, he's probably still in surgery right now. They won't even tell us anything until it's clear how he's doing.”

“I know, but-”

“Jensen. Go home. And whatever the hour, I'll call you immediately to let you know everything. Okay?” Misha offers with another sigh.

Jensen bites his bottom lip, thinks about it. He could at least try to sleep. Freckles is also waiting at home. “Oh, shit,” he says, sudden guilt flaring through him. “Shit, I forgot Freckles.”

Misha waves him off with a smile. “I texted Vicky. She went over to feed him. She says hi, by the way, and you should really clean up your living room sometime this year.”

Despite his relief about the fact that Freckles isn't starving to death right now because he's a horrible, horrible human to him, Jensen feels deeply ashamed. He's always anxious about letting people into his flat. Mostly, it's only Misha who's allowed and, occasionally, Vicky if he knows beforehand and gets to take out at least a few of the empty bourbon bottles. It's embarrassing that she saw it, and Jensen can't help but look down, trying to hide his reddening face from his friend.

Jensen fumbles with the cup of coffee in his hands. His hands are shaking, and he's pretty sure it's not because of Vicky being in his apartment, but because he's in withdrawal. God, he needs a drink. Part of him just wants to tell Misha to bring him home so he could at least put a few shots of vodka down.

The other part of him knows he's got a serious problem with the whole booze thing. Sure, it helps him sleep. Sure, it helps him space out for a while. , but he can't kid himself here anymore, it's an addiction - his fucking hand shakes as he puts down the cup of coffee - alcohol was just always the easiest way out, to forget about his visions while still being able to function during his normal life.

“Are you okay?” Misha asks then, watching Jensen again closely.

Jensen doesn't nod. No sense in lying to Misha. He doesn't shake his head either, because that’s something he can't even share with his best friend right now. He has to deal with this on his own, so he just hides his face behind his hands, rubs his palms over tired, itching skin and burning eyes and chapped lips.

He feels like shit. And he still craves a drink. A beer would be totally enough, just - he needs something.

Who is he kidding here, it wouldn't be just one beer.

Jensen takes a shuttering breath and only realizes after he dropped his hands that Misha is sitting on his haunches in front of him. Not shaking his shoulder, getting him to focus. Not putting any pressure on him.

“You know that there are people who will help you if you just ask them, right?” he says quietly.

“As if anyone could help me,” Jensen snorts out bitterly.

Misha tilts his head to the side, still looks at Jensen even though the latter has turned his head and looks out the window. “Hey, promise me something,” Misha tries again, his voice still a soft flow, nothing urgent about it. And that's probably the only reason why Jensen even lets him continue the sentence. “Say, you saved this man's life today - well, technically yesterday, but that's beside the point. Anyway. Say you saved a guy's life. Isn't that worth thinking about changing your life? It might do wonders, you know. As it is, you're about to push up daisies sooner than you'd like to. And that I'd like you to, for that matter.”

“Who says I'd like it to be later,” Jensen answers bitterly, on impulse, and only realizes afterwards what he truly said with this.

Misha's lips open in disbelief, but he doesn't say anything and Jensen sees how the concerned look in his eyes shatters, leaving only pain and sadness and pity. He doesn't answer, doesn't say a word. Just leans upwards and wraps Jensen up in a tight hug, as best as he can manage.

And Jensen can't deny that it's really comforting. His eyes are burning, not only from tiredness but also from unshed tears now. After a moment's hesitation, he holds on to Misha with his arms around the other man's waist, holds on for dear life and doesn't want to let go. It's been too long that he felt another human's touch, that he felt like someone truly cared about him. It feels good. Jensen buries his head against Misha's shoulder.

“Don't do anything stupid, I beg you,” Misha coughs out, and Jensen realizes just then that his cheeks are wet. That Misha is crying at the idea of Jensen killing himself.

“I try to, Mish. I try to every fucking day,” Jensen presses through his teeth.

“Never stop trying, then,” Misha says. “You'll see. Whatever it is, it will come around and you'll see why it's worth to be alive.A Just wait for it.”

Misha and his usual cryptic, optimistic shit. Jensen even manages a short, bitter smile at that.

They are interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on Misha's desk.

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