If you can dream...

That'd be easier if...

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 10:43:06 GMT

Title: That'd be easier if...
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov, Scotty (Star Trek XI)
Rating: R
Warnings: Voyeurism, rough sex
Disclaimer: Not mine! Just playing in someone else's sandbox.
A/N: Originally written in answer to a prompt for Voyeur!Scotty with side order of Chekov/Sulu at st_xi_kink. For that reason, this is unpolished and unbetaed.

The barely muffled moans are the first things he hears - soft, almost-whines and low broken groans. Scotty stops short, glances left and right and behind him, and then creeps slowly towards the turbolift, which is where these sounds are coming from, and just glances in.

Then his jaw drops, his mouth hanging open, sandwich completely forgotten in his hand.

Sulu - easy grin, proper as pie pilot Hikaru Sulu - has Chekov pressed against the wall of the turbo lift, clearly and expertly fingering him open, lips pressed against his ear, murmuring to him. Scotty can't catch most of it but, whatever the hell he's sayung, Sulu must be bloody good at dirty talk because Chekov's practically melting against the wall, rocking and barely keeping from crying out, liquid temptation against Sulu's body.

Their uniforms are still on, Chekov's pants half way down his legs, which are spread as much as they can be, but the material's rumbled to hell and they've clearly been going at this a while.

"Yeah?" Sulu says. "You ready for that?"

Chekov keens and spreads just a little further, flailing behind him to try to claw at Sulu.

"No," Sulu says, snatches up both Chekov's hands, stretches them above him and uses his grip to pin them there. The lube still glistening on his fingers, smearing the wall, is almost obscene.

And then Chekov whines when Sulu starts pressing in, loud enough that Sulu as to lean down, stop that sound stretching out too long with his lips, bites and says, "Quiet."

Scotty swears Chekov actually sobs, but he nods, squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

Sulu shifts them, pulls Chekov's hips away from the wall, bends him over a little and keeps his wrists pinned as he pushes in deeper and starts thrusting, fast and hard and dirty, and Chekov just squirms, pushes back, sounds barely bitten back as Sulu fucks him mercilessly, the picture of concentration.

Eventually, all rhythm disappears and Chekov practically sobs, "Hikaru, Hikaru, Hikaru," like it's some language Scotty doesn't understand - and maybe it is because, in one movement, Sulu pulls out, turns Chekov around and crashes their lips together as they meld into one writhing, needing, being, rutting against each other hard and fast and - then he understands why.

Chekov practically screams when he comes, a sound that Sulu swallows greedily.

He lets go of Chekov's wrists and Chekov's arms immediately wrap around Sulu's neck, hanging on and resting his head on Sulu's shoulder.

Then he opens his eyes.

"Oh." His eyes are wide, panic clear as his face goes redder than a fucking beetroot. "Ohmygod, Mr. Scotty! What are you - you. Here. Mr. Mr. Scotty is here, sir."

Sulu turns around slowly, looking a little mortified. And, okay, more than a little bit annoyed. He's also not so subtly trying to keep Chekov from view.

"Y'know," Scotty says, and he's not surprised his voice is a little roughened, raw, mouth too dry. "That'd be so much easier with a kilt."

Different Kinds of Hero

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 10:34:31 GMT

Title: Different Kinds of Hero
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov (Star Trek XI)
Rating: R
Warnings: Abuse and beating, author making up physics as she goes along
Disclaimer: Not mine! Just playing in someone else's sandbox.
A/N: Originally written in answer to a prompt for in a hostage situation, after Chekov watches Sulu get flogged and almost raped he goes slightly crazy and uses his genius level intellect to plan their escape at st_xi_kink. For that reason, this is unpolished and unbetaed.

He's crying. It's not particularly manly or brave or whatever, but he doesn't care. He can't care. Kirk's holding him, trying to shield his eyes, telling him to turn away, to stop looking - but he can't.

How can he be such a coward when Sulu's being so brave?

He cries out when Sulu goes down, barely catching himself before his head hits the floor - and Kirk's arms around him are the only things keeping Chekov from throwing himself forwards, from doing something stupid - from making Sulu's sacrifice mean nothing.

They'd meant to take him. Sulu had intervened, insulted and challenged and done everything until there was no way they couldn't hurt him. Which meant they'd left Chekov alone, to watch Sulu get half beaten to death.

He'd been strong at first. Been stoic and gritted his teeth, which had turned out to be a mistake.

There's absolutely nobody in the universe that could stay silent, stay still and unaffected after what they've done, what they're doing to Sulu.

Chekov feels every slap of the cane, every crack of that whip, every bruise and every cut like they're on his skin. Maybe it'd have hurt less if it'd been him - because watching Sulu scream is breaking him, shredding him far better than any whipping of his own.

Sulu barely has the energy to push up on his hands and knees anymore, and every time he manages it, they kick him back down. He eyes are squeezed shut, blood and sweat smearing his skin - and god, Chekov's never seen anything more amazing. He concentrates on Sulu's breathing; if he's breathing, he's still alive - and some part of his mind tells him they'll keep him (keep them all) that way until they get what they want, but they've done so much harm, Chekov's not entirely sure how Sulu's still breathing.

When the beating stops, Chekov watches in horror as the man - if you could even call him that - runs the flogger slowly up Sulu's back, crouches down and grabs Sulu's chin, turns his head to face him.

No one in the room makes a sound. Everyone holds their breath, and all they can hear is Sulu's harsh breathing.

"What do you think your little boyfriend would do if I fucked you?" The man asks, laughing. "You wouldn't even be able to fight me. Maybe you'd even enjoy it." He looks over to Chekov, and Kirk moves almost imperceptably in front of him.

The man laughs again, turns and leans down, tilts his head - and gets a face full of blood and spit. Sulu bares his teeth - and the sound of the flogger makes when it slaps Sulu in the face echoes around the room.

"Filthy bastard," the man snarls and all but throws Sulu back onto the floor. "Like anyone would touch you now."

Kirk waits for the click of the door to loosen his grip on Chekov, who practically scrambles across the room, ignoring the blood and whatever the fuck else to get to Sulu, lifts his head carefully into his lap, brushes shaky fingers over Sulu's skin, tries to avoid the injuries - but god, it's so damn hard.

"Hikaru?" he whispers, voice breaking. "Hikaru, please, open your eyes."

Sulu's always been bad at denying Chekov anything. His eyes flutter and open slowly, and Sulu tries to smile. "I'm okay," he tries to reassure, and Chekov just snorts, wiping at his own eyes.

"Oh Hikaru, oh love, why did you... Why? You should not have. Maybe they would not have hurt me so much." He probably would have broken easier, earlier.

"Because that would have hurt me more," Sulu admits, and closes his eyes, tired and in pain. "Can't stand to see you hurt, my Pasha. Not even a little."

Chekov knows they'll come back. He knows it in his heart that this isn't over, that negotiations cannot be going well. They need to get out. "Rest now," he says, leaning down to kiss Sulu softly. "I will get us out of here."

-

He leaves Sulu with Kirk, giving Kirk the evil eye when he tries to protest, and flutters around the room, from person to person, looking at what they've got with them, what they're wearing - noting every detail, every bit of wire however small. Then he has a go at going around the room.

He's a genius, for crying out loud. He's smarter than every one of those terrorists put together. At least, that's what he's got to believe. He occasionally circles back to check on Sulu before he flutters off to check the wiring of the doors again, checks the measurements of the room, the make up of the lights and the ventilation.

Someone has a pencil, and he finally settles in the corner, mumbles quietly to himself as he lists everything down, tries to figure out what the hell he can make, what he can do.

His eyes keep going back to Sulu.

When he finally makes himself concentrate, he realises that the wiring's not that complicated. That the mechanism of everything in the room is so much simpler than it looks.

He can do this.

He can really, really do this.

He goes back around the room, collects everything he needs and enlists the help of one of the diplomats who knows systems used on the planet better than he did. Then he gets to work.

It takes time - too much time, in his opinion, because he's unfamiliar with everything and he's distracted. Sulu's hurt and Chekov's no doctor, but he's pretty sure that the longer he goes without medical attention, the closer Sulu is to dying, and it makes him panic, makes his hands shake and his breathing hitch, and he can't afford to think like that.

Knowing that doesn't stop him from jumping every time Sulu groans or from circling back to Sulu every once in a while.

And then, when it's done, they wait.

By the time the terrorists come back in, Sulu's half awake and Chekov is supporting his weight as they lean against the wall. He keeps Sulu's head on his shoulder, brushes his fingers gently through his hair, crusty as it is with dried blood. He glares at their attacker when the man starts to head their way.

"He needs water," Chekov says quietly. "Or he is going to die."

The guy laughs. "That wouldn't be any great loss, would it, kid?" He's actually unbuckling his belt. "Or would it? Is he really that good a fuck? Are you?"

He takes three more steps closer and Chekov counts them, looks past the guy at the one-two-three-four others in the room, walking closer too - and then shouts, "Captain, now."

The lights change - shift and slams around the four men, sends guns and metalic objects flying, belt buckles almost ripped from clothes - and outside the field of energy, everyone hangs on, shields themselves from the equipment forced outward.

Kirk throws up his hands and laughs. "You did it, Chekov. It actually fucking worked."

He picks up a couple of guns, comes slowly back to their side, careful to avoid the energy field. "C'mon," he says, helping Chekov get Sulu to his feet. "Let's go."

Very calmly, Chekov takes one of the guns. "Just one minute, Captain," he says, surrendering Sulu to Kirk's hold. "There is one last thing I must do."

Directly in front of him, the terrorist's eyes go wide. "You...shit, kid, you wouldn't."

"Shut up," Chekov shouts. "Shut up, shut up, shut UP." His hands are shaking with rage but he knows he won't miss. He's going to hit the bastard in the center of the fucking forehead and he's going to watch him bleed.

The man drops to his knees. Chekov's hand follows, finger on the trigger of the blaster.

"Pasha," Sulu rasps, hand curling around Chekov's, coaxing him into lowering the gun. "Don't do that, love."

"But he. You. He deserves to die for what he did to you," Chekov cries, turns to Sulu, steps up closer when Sulu reaches for him, stumbles out of Kirk's grasp to curl his arm around Chekov's neck. "He should die. I want to watch him suffer."

"I don't want you to kill him," Sulu whispers. "I don't ever want you to enjoy killing anyone."

"I will enjoy killing him."

"That's not you," Sulu says softly. "You are not a killer, Pavel - not unless it's out of necessity. Come on," he whispers, tired now. "Let's go home."

Chekov's breathing hitches and he looks at the blaster - raises it before Sulu can stop him, and shoots the man in the leg. Then he hands it back to Kirk, slides his arms more securely around Sulu and heads for the door.

"He deserved to suffer more," he complains as they head towards a communicator, as Kirk shoots down two more terrorists to get to the panel.

"I know," Sulu says and smiles as Spock's image appears on the screen, eyes wide and looking surprised to see them. "But let's leave the punishment for other people, my love. Your mind is far too beautiful to be ruined by that."

Sulu knows him too well. Chekov lets out a soft sigh and turns a little into Sulu's touch as Sulu tucks his face into Chekov's neck, and the Enterprise prepares to beam them home.

Forget and Follow

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 10:25:31 GMT

Title: Forget and Follow
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov (Star Trek XI)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Forced slavery.
Disclaimer: Not mine! Just playing in someone else's sandbox.
A/N: Originally written in answer to a prompt for collar and leash around Chekov's neck at st_xi_kink. For that reason, this is unpolished and unbetaed.

He doesn't know how he ended up here. Just knows there was a diplomatic mission and it went wrong, and some time, he blacked out. Now there's a collar around his neck, attached to a leash that keeps getting pulled around - and there are hands that keep touching him, slapping him every time he tries to look up, tries to see what's going on.

Head down, they snarl. Head down and be a good little slave, boy. This is it. This is your life now. Forget everything that came before.

Sometimes, the voices were almost kind. It's the best thing to do. Forget everything before. Don't remember so you don't miss it. No one's coming for you. You'll never go back to whatever it was. Wherever it was.

He thinks about home - Earth home, and how his mother will cry. He thinks about the Enterprise - Real home - and wonders what everyone's doing. He tries to figure out what day it is, what time, what he would be doing, instead of kneeling at someone's feet, a stranger's hand in his hair, naked as the day he was born.

He tries to remember Kirk's voice, remembers Uhura and Spock and Sulu - what they'd say, how they'd sound, and all he gets is a tug on his collar, a firm slap on the face when he tries to instinctively look up, and all he hears is, Forget who you were.

His leash gets passed on to someone else. And someone else. And he loses track. They all feel the same - the hard tug that sends him scrambling wherever they're pulling, to kneel at their feet, to look at nothing and let them touch him, pet him, assess him.

It gets passed on again, but he notices this one; the tug is gentle, coaxing, careful. He comes back from that place he's found in his head, where it's quiet, and he remembers he was once the youngest navigator in Starfleet, a boy genius - and not someone's toy.

"I'll take this one tonight," he hears, and his heart actually stutters. He's been inside his head too long. It almost sounds familiar. He doesn't dare raise his head, just stares at the floor and keeps pretending - because it's better (and it's worse but it's almost better) than knowing it's some stranger, than letting that little bubble shatter and accept what's going to happen.

He gets to his feet when he's told, follows where he's led - squeezes his eyes shut and prays when he hears a door click behind him. He's shaking, he can feel it, he's trying to go back, back to that place where he doesn't have to be here, where he's Ensign Pavel Andreivich Chekov of the USS Enterprise. Tries so hard he hears, "Chekov. Chekov, open your eyes," like its actually in the room with him, like he's on the Enterprise and he's having a nightmare.

"Pavel," the voice says. "Pasha, please, open your eyes."

He never lets his dream call him that. There's only one person that calls him that. His eyes snap open and he finds himself staring into Sulu's eyes.

"Hikaru?" He chokes - and all but throws himself at him, wraps his arms tight around him and sobs like he hasn't let himself since he woke up here.

"It's me," Sulu says, lips pressed into his hair. "It's me, Pasha. I'm here. We're going to get you out of here. God, it's going to be okay, I promise. I promise." Sulu's hand trails over the collar then slowly down his back.

And Chekov lets go, stops repeating everything in his head - the authorization codes, the protocols, the maps and systems and charts. He just lets go and trusts Sulu to hold him.

It's the one hand in the entire universe he'd trust to hold his leash and not lead him astray.

Bad Advice (And the good advice he didn't take)

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 10:09:15 GMT

Title: Bad Advice (And the good advice he didn't take)
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov (Star Trek XI)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Umm...fluff?
Disclaimer: Not mine! Just playing in someone else's sandbox.
A/N: Originally written in answer to a prompt for the crew keeps giving Chekov dating advice and he keeps taking it at st_xi_kink. For that reason, this is unpolished and unbetaed.

Chekov isn't even sure how the news got around.

Okay, maybe he's a little sure because they'd celebrated his 18th birthday in style and everyone had banded together to get him completely, mindblowingly drunk. He knows he babbles when he's drunk (which is why it is a good thing that he has high alcohol tolerance). They'd tried to hire him a hooker, if he remembers rightly (it's all a little fuzzy) and he turned them down.

Which probably means he'd babbled to the entire bridge that he already had his eyes set on someone. He'd hoped they'd just forget it and move on. He was wrong.

It starts the day after his birthday. They don't even give him time to get over the hangover.

1

McCoy laughs when Chekov shows up at the door looking for something to help ease the hangover. It's not his fault; he hasn't had one since he finished his first bottle of vodka when he was 9.

"So," McCoy says. "This mystery person of yours..."

-

He collapses just before their shift ends. Goes down hard - harder than he'd meant to - head hitting the corner of the console. He doesn't even have to fake the whimper. He pushes himself up, puts a hand to his forehead, eyes wide at the blood staining his fingers.

"Chekov!" Kirk shouts, swooping down beside him. "Are you okay? What did you think you were doing?"

Behind him, Chekov can see Sulu standing, half way out of his seat, hands outstretched. "Aye, Captain, I'm okay. Sorry, Captain," he says, looking sheepish.

Kirk turns his attention to Sulu. "Why didn't you catch him?" Kirk demands and Sulu gapes. "You were right there!"

"Uh, Captain..." Chekov says, moving. "I'm okay."

"No, no!" Kirk says dramatically and sweeps Chekov off his feet, picks him up and carries him out the door.

McCoy blinks at them when the door opens and, when Kirk's finally gone back to the bridge, McCoy looks back at him, raising one eyebrow. "Kirk? Really?"

He shakes his head, winces a little. "It didn't work, Mister McCoy," he says sadly. "The Captain..."

McCoy snorts. "Had to be the hero. Yeah, yeah. Now, let's have a look at the damage." He prods him. Chekov winches again. "I said pretend, Ensign," he says with a sigh. "Not give yourself a concussion."

McCoy doesn't even let anyone visit him. So much for helping him out.

-

2

Chekov has to admit he's a little scared when Scotty corners him, draws something out of his jacket and winks.

-

They're sitting on the floor in Sulu's room, giggling like little girls.

One bottle of vodka had turned into a bottle of sake. And back to vodka. And Chekov might have lost count. He's giggling too hard, and Sulu's on his back, practically dying of laughter, choking a little, wheezing breaths between snorts.

Chekov tips backwards, grinning like a fool, turning a little to look at Sulu, who's looking back at him, all soft, intoxicated easiness.

He doesn't really remember what he had planned but he knows he wants to lean forwards, kiss him and - Sulu shoves the bottle of whatever-they're-drinking back at him and he just grins stupidly, sits up and takes a wobbly drag. He can kiss him later. "Ah," he says. "I love vodka."

"That's sake," Sulu slurs.

"Whatever," he says, beaming at Sulu's ceiling. "I love that too."

He doesn't remember falling asleep. He does, however, wake up with a pounding headache. He should know better by now.

-

3

"Ensign," Spock says. Chekov fights the urge to groan. "Might I suggest logic?"

At Chekov's confused look, Spock continues. "In order to woo the object of your interest, I would suggest using logic."

-

"Sulu," he says. They're in deep space; there's not much to do except sit there and wait. Sulu looks over at him, raises an eyebrow. "We're good together, aren't we?"

Sulu looks a little worried. "Yes. Are you okay?"

Chekov nods, laughs a little and shakes his head. "Yes, yes. I just. We are a good pair, yes?"

"Yes." Sulu slides over in his chair, sticks a hand on Chekov's forehead. "Do you not think so?"

"Well yes, but...I want to know what you think. Is that bad?"

"We're the best," Sulu says, laughing. "Everyone knows that."

Chekov huffs. "Is not what I meant. I mean, personally. You and me. We are good, yes?"

"Yes...you're my best friend," Sulu says. "Everyone knows that too. What the hell is wrong, Chekov?"

He throws up his hands and swears in Russian. "Nevermind," he says, and storms off the brige back to his room.

-

4

"You could try writing it down," Uhura suggests. And Chekov stares.

"Uhura...?" He says carefully. "Writing what down?"

"What you wanted to tell Sulu," she says, grinning a little. "I think everyone got it except the Lieutenant. If you're embarrassed, you could write it in Russian. And then he'd have to come and ask you, right?"

-

"Chekov!" Sulu says, running to catch up with him.

"This is it," Chekov thinks. "He is finally going to ask me. And I will finally tell him."

"You left a letter in my room." Sulu grins lop-sidedly at him. "You must have forgotten it there last night."

"Yes," he says slowly, nodding. "And?"

"I sent it off to your mother for you."

Chekov gapes. "You didn't." He says, eyes wide as saucers. "Oh niet, Sulu, tell me you are joking. Tell me you didn't..."

His PADD bleeps. A message from his mother.

He's never going to get to tell Sulu; he's going to die of embarrassment first. And it's all Sulu's fault.

-

5

"Why don't you just tell him?" Kirk asks.

Chekov pouts at his sandwich, taking a vicious bite. "I have had enough advice, with all due respect, Captain," he says. "It does not work."

"Have you tried telling him?"

"What do you think I've been trying to do?" Chekov cries. He sighs and stares morosely at his lunch. "He does not want to know, maybe. It is Sulu. He is probably trying to be kind. Proper, as he says."

He ignores Kirk's raised eyebrow.

"This is not proper, yes?"

Kirk slides his chair back, pats him on the head and says, "Tell him."

-

"Sulu," Chekov says - and then falters when Sulu looks at him, head tipped to the side.

"Yes?"

He bites his bottom lip and thinks about failure, shakes his head and looks back at his console. "Is nothing," he says after a moment. "Sorry. I was just. Is okay. I've worked it out."

It isn't proper and Sulu is always proper.

When it comes to romance, why would Kirk's advice be the best anyway, right? They always say his advice is not so good.

Ensign, they always say, never take the Captain's advice.

He's just doing as he's told.

-

6

"Chekov!" Sulu says, and Chekov quickens his steps, walks with determination towards his room. "Pavel, wait. C'mon, wait up."

Chekov turns around with a long sigh. "Yes, Hikaru?" If Sulu is going to cheat and use his first name, Chekov is going to do the same. He's determined to deal with this well, like the grown up that he is.

He tips his chin up a little. "What is it?"

"So, I heard you're interested in someone," Sulu says. "They're talking, on the bridge, about...well, advising you."

Chekov's lips thinned. "Yes," he says. "And?"

"Want my advice?"

"Not really," Chekov says with a sigh, shakes his head. If Sulu hasn't noticed, maybe he doesn't want to. Or maybe he has noticed, and he's been trying not to. Because they're good together, yes. As friends.

"I'm going to give it anyway," he says and takes one step closer. "Maybe the guy's just really clueless and the subtle stuff isn't working."

"It's not even subtle," Chekov cries, throwing up his hands. "Not even a little bit."

"Okay, so maybe he's noticed but he thinks...you know, you can't mean it. Or that there's a misunderstanding, and you...there's some kind of language mix-up, and you can't really be saying what you're trying to say because...well, everyone likes you and why would you like them?"

This must be something to do with different languages and cultures, and Chekov thinks he must be translating this wrong. Because Sulu cannot be saying what he's saying.

"You want me advice?" Sulu says after a moment, taking another step closer until they're practically sharing breath.

Chekov nods mutely. His heart is blocking his throat.

"Show them," Sulu whispers. "Just kiss them. So there can be absolutely no mistake."

-

This is the best advice he's ever been given.

Ever.

Because as soon as his lips touch Sulu's, he finds himself being spun around and pressed into the wall, Sulu's tongue trailing along the seam of his lips, sliding in to tangle with his own - hot and wet and hungry and perfect.

"Bedroom," Chekov finally manages to gasp. "Bedroom now, so I can take fully your advice, lieutenant Sulu, sir. You are wise indeed."

Sulu snorts out, hand curling around Chekov's as they almost run towards Sulu's quarters. "Wise? Yeah right." He shook his head, stopping still and looking at Chekov, letting out another laugh. "Did Kirk really give the best advice?"

Chekov opens his mouth.

"Except mine," Sulu adds, "but that's because I cheated."

Chekov grins. "Turns out the Captain gives good advice," he admits. "It is everyone else that is wrong."

Everyone, that is, except Sulu. But when he pushes Sulu back onto the bed and starts with the showing rather than the telling, he thinks Sulu probably gets that.

(Not) The First Time

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 09:51:15 GMT

Title: (Not) The First Time
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Sulu/Chekov (Star Trek XI)
Rating: R
Warnings: Implications of abuse in the past.
Disclaimer: Not mine! Just playing in someone else's sandbox.
A/N: First attempt at writing in the fandom in answer to a prompt for Chekov not really being a virgin at st_xi_kink. For that reason, this is unpolished and unbetaed. Originally written under anonymity but someone asked me to delurk and post to comms so now you're all stuck with it too. Sorry!

The first time Sulu kisses him, he holds Chekov gently, cradles his face and licks slowly into his mouth. He pulls back, presses his lips to the corner of Chekov's besotted smile and whispers, "okay?"

Chekov fists his hands in Sulu's shirt, pulls him close and crashes their lips back together, moans, "yes, yes, god yes," and kisses him hard and deep and hungry.

Sulu touches him like he's a fragile thing, like he's going to break apart if he's not handled with care, undresses him with reverent fingers and even more reverent lips, leans over him on the bed, weight braced on his arms and looks down at him. He whispers, "Pavel," soft and sweet, like it's a sacred word, like he's never said a prayer more precious.

And it's incredible, amazing, like the best fucking feeling in the world, and the Enterprise doesn't fly high at all when compared to how he feels. He reacts, arches and moans, and god, there can't be anything better than this feeling, better than the way Sulu touches him, like he's something to be loved and cherished and adored.

"I want to suck your cock," Chekov says, low and breathless, green of his irises swallowed by widening pupils. "Hikaru, please."

Sulu goes stock still. "You don't have to," he stutters out. "Pavel, you don't - I mean - I don't want you to do anything you aren't - "

Chekov flips their positions, presses down against Sulu, lips curled up into a smile. "I'm not a virgin," he says and, before that damn pride and honor can get in the way of this, Chekov slides down the length of his body and swallows his dick. Sulu clutches at his hair, groans rough with abandon - and maybe it's not the same, maybe he won't ever touch Chekov with that same softness again, but Chekov tells himself that the weight of Sulu's dick on his tongue, the taste of him flooding his senses, is more than enough to make up for it.

He's not an innocent, pretty little virgin anyway (they used to call him, "slut" and "whore" and he'd moan with the best of them), and he doesn't want to lie to Sulu like that.

That blissed out look on Sulu's face is enough to drive away the demons, and the way Sulu pets his hair, still gentle, apologetic, is more than enough for him to forget everything. "Pavel," Sulu says again, and Chekov is never going to get tired of hearing his name from Sulu's lips, goes willingly to lick the shape of those syllables from Sulu's mouth.

He squeaks with surprise when Sulu flips them back over, when he goes back to those sweet, gentle touches, fingers sliding along Chekov's skin like there's nothing different. The warmth is still there, bright and burning in Sulu's eyes - hands trailing down (down, down, down).

Sulu's lips rest on his pulse. "You're just full of surprises," he whispers, moves slowly over his skin, kisses every inch of him until he's practically writhing, hand creeping towards his dick - gasps in surprise when it's swatted away.

"What are you doing?" Chekov asks, voice going thready with want and need and panic. "Hikaru, what are you - bozhe moy." The feeling of a tongue flicking over the head of his cock is - Chekov doesn't even know how to describe it. He just twists, fingers tightening in the sheets as he whines.

Sulu stopps, fingers pressing almost-bruises into his hips. "Pavel?" He says, concern lacing those syllables now - and still it sounds sweeter than anything Chekov's ever heard. "I thought you said you've done this before?"

I am that obvious?. Chekov opens his eyes and stares back. "I have."

"Then...what...?" Sulu's obviously confused. He's obviously misunderstanding something, and Chekov has to correct him before he gets that deep hurting look in his eyes.

"You do not have to," he says breathlessly, slowly reaching out to cup Sulu's cheek with one hand, tugs him a little, tries to get him to come back up so Chekov can relax, can get himself off and it'll be okay. "It is okay. I don't - you don't - I do it for you."

Some kind of understanding creeps into Sulu's eyes - and Chekov prefers the blissed out look, the soft, sweet stare - anything but the angry and digust that's slowly filling them.

"No," he cries, clutching a little at Sulu. "Hikaru, please, it's okay. I don't - please, please, please don't be angry. I'll be good. I'll be so good. You can fuck me and I - please, please, Hikaru."

He almost doesn't notice he's been moved until he finds himself craddled in Sulu's arms, clutching at his neck, clinging on for dear life. "Please," he whispers, hiccuping a little. "Hikaru, please. Don't be angry."

"I'm not angry at you," Sulu says quietly, strokes a hand through his hair and down his back, voice low and soothing. "Shh, Pavel - Pasha - I'm not angry at you."

"But you are angry," Chekov says, sniffling a little, confusion clear.

"Yes," Sulu says, careful and controlled. "But not at you." He shifts them slowly, lays Chekov back down onto the bed, leans down and kisses him slowly. "Let me show you," he whispers, back to that tone - that tone that makes Chekov feel pure and fragile even though he's anything but. It makes him feel like something precious, something important. "Let me show you how it's supposed to be."

Chekov doesn't dare close his eyes, not even when Sulu's mouth wraps around his cock, does something incredible and amazing - and god, so, so good with his tongue, sends sparks up Chekov's spine until he feels the tingles in his toes. Warmth spreads, and he's moaning, whimpering, almost sobbing with want and need and Hikaru - right there, so close, pulling him higher and higher and higher until he goes supernova, comes so hard he whites out.

When he opens his eyes, Sulu's settled beside him, twisted on his side so he's pressed up close, watching him. He tucks a curl behind Chekov's ear, and Chekov grins at him, stupid and sated and wonderful.

There's open adoration on Sulu's face, and Chekov thinks he gets why Sulu was so angry. It's never been like this before. It's never felt so good. He's never felt so good, and he can't even remember the names they called him once. Just remembers Pavel and Pasha and Sulu's eyes when he calls his name. He feels like he's something special - he has to be for Sulu to touch him like this.

His smile gets brighter when Sulu leans down and kisses his lips, soft and slow, and the taste of himself on Sulu's tongue is intoxicating. He doesn't think he can ever live without it again.

"Pavel," Sulu whispers, bites lightly on his lower. "Don't ever tell me their names."

Chekov pulls back and meets Sulu's eyes, and then he shakes his head. "I won't," he promises. "I don't even remember them anymore." All he remembers is Sulu.

On The Gas

Tue, 21 Jul 2009 20:16:32 GMT

Title: On The Gas
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Jax/Eliot - Sons of Anarchy/Leverage crossover
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is loved.
Summary: Eliot doesn't like guns. Jax does.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just playing in sandboxes.
A/N: A huge thank you to kali1967 and gingerpig for their help whipping this baby into shape and assuring me it didn't suck. This is written for itinerant_vae, who prompted me a million years ago.

For someone who doesn’t like guns though, Eliot’s sure fucking fascinated by the Reaper, M-16 and all...

Eliot doesn’t like guns. It’s the reason they met in the first place, in a bar, a little ways away from Charming. There was a game of pool and some girls, and a scuffle about to turn nasty – and even Jax had to admit he was a little impressed by how fast every gun had been disarmed. He would have been less impressed if the guys had been Sons, but they weren’t and so Jax figures it’s neither here nor there. He could sit there and appreciate the man’s grace without getting too pissed off. He could even offer to buy the guy a drink afterwards without feeling guilty.

Jax doesn’t much like anyone else having guns either and, after the shit with the Nords, the Mayans and the Niners, he thinks he might agree with the whole damn sentiment. At least, in theory. Mostly just about running guns, because he feels a hell of a lot safer with his semi-automatic in his hand than he does without.

For someone who doesn’t like guns though, Eliot’s sure fucking fascinated by the Reaper, M-16 and all, but Jax is more interested in Eliot’s scars tonight, and he’s damn sure Eliot’s never met a gun wielder like him.

“I said,” Eliot growls, “I don’t like guns.” He’s tense as a bow, but the muscles in his stomach move as Jax shifts the barrel of his gun along Eliot’s skin.

“You don’t have to like ‘em,” Jax says carelessly. It’s not like there’s much Eliot can do, cuffed to the headboard like that, and Jax isn’t stupid; he’s seen how quickly Eliot moves, how hard he hits. He’s straddling Eliot’s legs, effectively pinning him in place. There’s nothing Eliot can do. He grins, slow and predatory. “I’m gonna make you love them.” He presses a little harder as he slides past Eliot’s navel. “This one, at least.”

“I said – ”

Jax slaps him with the gun, hard enough to be felt, careful enough to not do damage. “Easy there Eliot, I’m not gonna shoot you. If I’d really wanted to, you’d be dead already.” It’s probably not entirely true but, for one thing, Eliot wouldn’t be cuffed to the headboard naked. Eliot’s head snaps to the side, and then he’s turning back slowly, eyes darker, sharper. He glares at Jax, lips pulled back in an almost-snarl.

“That’s what you think.”

There’s a look in Eliot’s eyes that’s dangerous, that says Eliot’s not making idle comments and, if nothing else, it just makes Jax’s blood pump faster, need and want clawing higher. He doesn’t doubt it – doesn’t doubt that Eliot would have disarmed him as fast as he had those guys at the bar, and there’s no small thrill at having this dangerous man helpless like this.

He likes his bikes fast and powerful, barely contained fire and energy moving under him. He likes all kinds of rides exactly the same way.

When Eliot opens his mouth to talk again, Jax does the logical thing; he fills it. With his gun.

Eliot goes wide-eyed with surprise, breath catching – and if Jax had doubted how much his appreciation of the circumstance was one-sided, there was no doubting the twitch of Eliot’s dick against his thigh now. He smirks, slow and predatory – slides the gun out before shoving it in deeper, presses down against Eliot’s tongue, makes him almost choke.

“Like that, don’t you? What’s this bullshit about not liking guns?” The question’s rhetorical; it’s hard to do more than mumble with a gun half way down your throat. Even if Eliot’s lips look really, really good stretched wide and wrapped around his gun like that. Jax is pretty sure it’d look damn good wrapped around anything. Later, he’s gonna test out that theory with his dick.

For now though, he doesn’t want to move. As much as Eliot’s body seems to be all for this idea of guns, his eyes are still dark and threatening. Not nearly where Jax wants him to be.

He slips the gun from Eliot’s mouth, presses it to his lower lip in quiet warning, before he trails it down his chest again, not stopping at his navel this time, carries on further – down, against warm skin, watching the pressure turn skin white – then red – wherever the barrel goes. Metal against skin; Jax isn’t sure there’s any kind of contrast prettier. Eliot’s trying not to make a sound, trying to stay still, to not pant or moan or twist, and the effort puts more of a strain on his body than giving into instinct would have. Jax can almost taste the power, lets that fight fuel his need.

If Eliot’s fucking beautiful when he’s fighting other people, he’s out of this world when he’s fighting himself.

He rubs the side of the gun against Eliot’s cock, finally coaxing a low, choked back groan, even as Eliot’s whole body shakes with the effort not to give in. He repeats the action, flicks lightly over the head of Eliot’s dick, tries to get him to lose that iron-hard control.

“Stop fighting it. Fucking let go.”

Eliot stubbornly doesn’t.

That’s okay though; Jax loves a challenge. Actually, he’s never been able to resist one. This wouldn’t be half as fun if Eliot just caved, just gave himself over. Half the thrill’s in the journey, working towards the destination slowly – and this is one journey Jax has every intention of enjoying.

He repeats the routine a few more times – down the length of Eliot’s dick, up to flick over the head – until it finally earns him a full, drawn out moan, one that can’t be hidden or locked away behind clenched teeth anymore. When he looks up, Eliot’s eyes are almost completely black, mouth slightly parted as Eliot pants.

Jax grins, slow and feral and, on the next slide, keeps going back – shifts down further and nudges Eliot’s legs apart – and back still, rubs the metal against Eliot’s balls, and presses the barrel against his perineum. Jax would have thought it was impossible but Eliot’s pupils blow wider, expanding until there’s only the slightest hint of blue. Eliot sucks in a deep breath and holds it.

There’s lube within reaching distance, thank fuck, because Jax doesn’t think he can get off Eliot long enough to get some. He somehow manages to wrestle the cap off, coats both his hand and his gun liberally in lube, and doesn’t bother to fight the smile that stretches across his face as he watches realization dawn in Eliot’s eyes. Eliot tries to shake his head, opens his mouth and says, “Hell no.”

Jax grins wider. “Hell yes,” he purrs.

“Hell no,” Eliot hisses, eyes starting to narrow again, starting to change into a whole different meaning of dark. Jax doesn’t want that; he wants that deep, hungry arousal from minutes earlier. He glares back at Eliot.

“Why the fuck not? And if you say you don’t like guns, I’m going to shoot you with it.” It’s an idle threat but it doesn’t really matter if Eliot believes him or not. He just wants a straight answer.

“Don’t even fucking know where it’s been,” Eliot says, twisting in the cuffs. Jax moves fast, sits on his legs again, keeps him pinned. He shifts his weight pointedly. Eliot could probably move him, if he was really trying but, well, he’s not really trying.

“Stop fucking moving.” He moves the gun, hits Eliot’s dick with it lightly, warning – but with how hard Eliot is, it’s got to fucking hurt. He doesn’t want to cripple him with pain, but he wants Eliot to get the point. Eliot swears but he stills, which is exactly what Jax is after.

There’s a condom in his wallet, and the look on Eliot’s face as he looks from the condom to the gun, to the condom again is definitely worth the interruption. Jax rubs the barrel just behind Eliot’s balls, teases by skating it over the crack of his ass, trails lube wet and cool over warm skin, watching Eliot twist and hiss with each movement. “Don’t like guns, huh?” Jax asks again and chuckles. “What else don’t you like?”

Eliot grins at him, too much teeth and absolutely no humor. “You,” he snarls. He almost sounds like he means it. “I really don’t like you.”

Jax smiles back, just as feral, and moves the gun up to rest against Eliot’s dick as he roughly slides two fingers into his ass, fucking him with them, rough and unforgiving. He crooks them just so, and watches Eliot curse, arch and whine. He stops moving them, and Eliot tries to glare.

“You got a real strange definition of ‘don’t like’, Eliot,” he says, rubbing against Eliot’s prostate again, harder this time, presses in and holds for a few moments to get him really writhing. “Because your body’s certainly not agreeing with your mouth. And mouths can lie.”

Eliot’s hands clench around the cuffs. “I ain’t lying,” he pants. It ends in another groan when Jax screws his fingers upwards, deeper. “Guns are – ”

Jax himself pushes up, rests the gun on the corner of Eliot’s mouth as he leans forward, almost kisses him, watches for a moment as Eliot’s pupils blow wider still.

“Stop lying,” he whispers. He shoves his fingers up into Eliot’s body, twists them slowly, enough to make Eliot moan again, this time, loud and wild. There’s no holding back now. He taps the gun against Eliot’s cheek as he pulls his fingers out, sits up to tear the condom packet open with his teeth.

Eliot’s still watching the gun. Jax grins and trails it back down his chest, rubs the barrel against the tip of Eliot’s cock as Jax slides the condom on – and then pushes in without anymore warning. Eliot’s back arches, bow-tight, tugs hard at the cuffs and groans.

“Don’t like guns,” Jax says as he presses in, slides the gun over Eliot’s dick again, watches him work to take Jax in. “Don’t like me. That’s your mouth lying, Eliot, because this doesn’t feel like dislike.”

It feels fucking amazing, tight heat and strong muscles squeezing around his cock. He groans, pushes in harder, deeper, grits his teeth as Eliot’s muscles clamp around him. This is definitely gonna be one hell of a ride.

Eliot pulls at the cuffs again, rocks into Jax as he pulls back and thrusts hard – and he’s watching him, eyes challenging. Jax bares his teeth, moves to lay the gun against Eliot’s cheek and concentrates on fucking him hard, dragging out growls and groans – and fuck, it’s good, really fucking good, all need and want and hard. No holding back, no careful to speak of.

Full throttle, head down, power and grace, and no need for slow or gentle or easy. Exactly the way Jax fucking loves his rides.

He moves his other hand to clutch at Eliot’s hair, twists his fingers in and grips tight, gets his knees better under him to fuck him harder, faster, folds Eliot forward a little more so he can lean in and drag his teeth over Eliot’s skin, licks along his neck – rests his lips on Eliot’s pulse, beating and fluttering under his tongue for a moment. For a second, Eliot feels almost fragile.

But the body under him’s anything but that – and Eliot twists, swears in five different languages and hisses, “Fuck me harder, you fucking pussy. Your goddamn sister could do better than this.”

He doesn’t have a goddamn sister but he takes the challenge for what it is, tugs hard at the strands wrapped around his fingers and slams into Eliot, grins wider with satisfaction when Eliot moans, hands clutching tight at the cuffs. Eliot looks back at him and smirks, heat and invitation and more challenge than he’s ever seen.

“That all you’ve got?” And Jax snarls, hand untangling from Eliot’s hair to wrap around one shoulder, using that grip to slam in again, harder, deeper, fingers digging in with the aim to bruise. The whole fucking bed moves, slams against the wall as he fucks into Eliot over and over, until Eliot’s got no more words, no more cocky attitude, just moans and whines, and his body’s pushing back against Jax’s, shifting the world with the same rhythm.

Jax comes with a growl, Eliot’s legs locked tight around his thighs, back arched as Jax groans, “Come on, motherfucker, come,” at him, presses the gun against his skin a little – hardly any threat, hardly any control of his muscles as he tips over the edge. Eliot follows him down.

It’s a fucking explosion.

He manages to roll off Eliot, collapse to the side, gun clutched loosely in his hand. “Damn,” he says, grinning. “Fuck, that was good.”

He hears the tug of the cuffs against the headboard. “Get these off me, asshole.”

Jax snorts and closes his eyes. “Later,” he promises. “Can’t fucking move.” He hears Eliot cussing as he falls asleep.

*

When Jax wakes up, he’s the one cuffed to the headboard, and his gun is neatly disassembled on the bed beside him. Eliot leans in close, bites his jaw and says, “I really don’t like guns.”

And then he’s gone.

I'll hold you up (And drive you)

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 18:58:12 GMT

Title: I'll hold you up (And drive you)
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Parker/Eliot
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is loved.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just playing in Chris Downey and John Rogers' sandbox.
A/N: My first post in a new fandom! And, of course, I have to kick it off with kink. This was written in response to a prompt that asked for Eliot/Parker, pegging. Thanks to maerhys for the once over and itinerant_vae for the hand-holding. Title taken from Melissa Ferrick.

“Parker, no. Parker. Don’t.” He tugs on the ropes but it’s really quite futile. She tied the knots; they’re not coming undone in a hurry. “Parker. Put that down."

“Parker, no. Parker. Don’t.” He tugs on the ropes but it’s really quite futile. She tied the knots; they’re not coming undone in a hurry. “Parker. Put that down.”

She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t. She just keeps coming towards him, innocent smile on her face, eyes twinkling with mischief, brandishing a dildo in her hand. “You asked what it was.”

“I wanted to know what it was,” Eliot argues. “I never said I wanted to try it out – ohholyfuckingshit, get it away from me.” There’s a headboard and a wall, and, right that moment, Eliot is cursing their existence. Scrambling away isn’t working. Instead, it gives her enough space to bounce onto the bed. Right between his legs.

“C’mon, Eliot,” she says sweetly. “It’ll be fun. You’ll enjoy it.”

He turns and tries to pin her with a suspicious gaze. It doesn’t work. “How d’you know that?” He demands. “You don’t know that.” She really doesn’t know that.

Parker gives him a look and puts her hand on his cock. She leans up to kiss him on the lips, lets it linger before biting his lower lip. “I promise,” she purrs. “I’ll make it so good.” She pauses, head tipped to the side. “I can’t believe you’ve never done this before. I thought you’d had a lot of sex.”

“Why’d I let anyone do this to – ngh?”

Her fingers curl around his dick and his brain short-circuits. He doesn’t notice much else except she’s telling him to close his eyes, to relax, all soft, warm heat moving against his skin, breasts pressed against his chest, rubbing cat-like against his body. He’s only a man; that’s really hard to resist.

When two of her fingers press inside him without warning, he almost knocks himself out on the wall, head thrown back, gasps low and then growls at her giggle.

“Relax,” she says again, curls her fingers a little and brushes over his prostate, makes him moan again. “This’ll feel real good. You’re just thinking too hard.”

He wants to tell her he’s not a fucking chick – but she’ll probably hit him – or anything; he doesn’t need soothing or reassuring or her sweet-soft-so-careful touches. This pegging thing is just weird as fuck.Where the hell did Parker learn about pegging anyway? He wants to tell her all this, except it’s really hard to say any of that when his blood is flowing rapidly southward, and her clever little fingers and slowly stealing all control from the muscles in his body one at a time. Apparently starting with his tongue. She’s having way too much fun brushing his prostate every time he tries to talk.

“Just enjoy it,” she says, laughing again. “Stop being such a man.” If his brain was doing the thinking and not his dick, he would probably be offended. As things stand, however, his dick’s really quite happy to go with whatever Parker wants to do.

Three fingers have him twisting against the ropes, feels them burn his skin, headboard hitting the plaster behind. He doesn’t know whether to push back against them or try to pull away, and he ends up twisting again – and that just means Parker’s fingers screw in deeper, harder, and ohgod. Oh holy fucking god.

She puts her hand back on his chest, pushes him back down. It’s more coaxing than anything else; neither of them is under the impression she could force him to do anything if he doesn’t want to. Well, force him physically. Parker’s been spending way too much time with Sophie lately, and she’s getting really good at that feminine wiles thing. And the ropes are really fucking well tied.

“Stay relaxed,” she says, and parts his legs a little more, settles back onto her knees to focus on whatever she’s doing next. He thinks it’s going to be another finger, frowns when she slides her hand out and grins bright at him once before she looks down again. And then he feels the blunt head of the dildo against his ass, and there’s a look of concentration on Parker’s face.

Stay relaxed. Is she fucking kidding? There’s a blunt object being shoved up his ass and the last time something like that happened, it sure as hell wasn’t for fun.

“Parker, fuck this, don’t – ngh.”

Her mouth slides down on his cock. That’s really fucking distract, and it’s really hard to complain about anything when her lips are stretched around his dick, slip-sliding, all warm, wet heat. She flattens her tongue against the underside of his cock, slides back up, lightly grazes with her teeth, and presses the dildo in deeper as she slides almost off him, flicks her tongue right over the head.

He groans because, holy shit, this feels good. Really good. And it feels even better when she repeats it again, slides down slowly until his cock hits the back of her throat, moves back up as she works the dildo in deeper, keeps that up until the feels the base of the toy right against his ass – and then he groans at the loss of that heat, pulls at the bindings because he wants to sink his hands into his hair, push her back down because it feels too fucking good for her to stop.

“There,” she says, looking very, very smug. “That’s not bad, is it?” She wriggles her hand – and the toy – a little and…fuck, that feels weird. He can’t bite back the moan though, feels himself pushing back onto it without thought. When he opens his eyes to look at her again, she’s looking even more pleased with herself. “Not bad at all,” she adds, and moves it again. This time, she pulls it out just a little and pushes it back in again and again, a little more each time.

It still feels strange, but the stretch and burn is slowly fading. He can feel the ridges in the rubber brushing inside him, surreal and hard, and only very slightly giving. Parker definitely knows exactly what she’s doing with that; each movement is almost calculated.

She rips open a condom packet before he even notices that she has one in her hand and slides it over his cock without anymore preparation, then grins at him, bright and happy as she twists the toy inside, finds his prostate expertly. She moves to straddle him and slide down on his dick all in the same breath.

He chokes on a moan, body shuddering, not sure if he wants to push up into her wet, tight heat or down against the dildo inside him. “See?” She says, all bright smiles and slow rocking. He feels a little smug himself when he realizes she’s considerably more breathless than she was. “This is fun, isn’t it? You’re enjoying this.”

He’d be fucking insane not to. “Fuck, Parker,” he growls, and she just laughs, gets her legs under her properly and moves, rides him slowly as she keeps the toy moving inside him to the same rhythm, twists it with some complicated movement of her hand as she rolls her hips. He almost whites out from just how fucking good that feels.

Suddenly, just as he’s getting used to the rhythm, Parker shifts, turns completely on his cock and moves her hands to fuck him harder, faster as she rides him, and he just about manages to keep his eyes open to watch the muscles in her back move, watch his cock disappearing between her thighs each time she fucks herself on his dick. He lets his hips snap forwards into her, lets himself push back onto the toy, lets himself groan with every single movement – and fuck, it’s good. It’s really fucking good, and her moans and breathless, happy pants just make it better.

“Come on,” she demands, shoving and twisting the dildo deep as she practically screws herself down on him – and then he feels her tighten, clamp down, muscles spasming around his dick as she comes with a long, drawn out moan. That throws him over the edge and he climaxes with surprised shout, eyes slamming shut as he thrusts up into her body once more, hard enough that she whines. His body and muscles shake as he settles back completely on the bed, breathing raggedly to get air back in his lungs. He doesn’t even try to bring the world back into focus.

After god knows how long, Parker finally moves, pulls the toy out and tosses it to the side before she lifts herself off him, moves back up his body to kiss him slowly. His tongue tangles with hers as she unties the ropes from his wrists.

“See?” She says. “You have to learn to trust me.” He barks out a soft, surprised laugh and shakes his head.

As soon as his hands are free, he catches her around the waist, flips them over and pins her down. “You’re a damn cheat.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, arching up against his body, all cat-like, easy grace. “You loved it.”

He snorts and leans down to bite her lower lip hard. “Whatever, Parker. You tell yourself whatever you need to to get your rocks off.” It’s her turn to laugh.

“Next time,” she shares, letting her lips trail over to his ear, before she bites down gently on the lobe. He can feel her smile against his skin – that smile that always spells Trouble. With the capital T. “I’ll show you just how good I am with a strap-on.”

He absolutely does not moan.

Having A Real Good Time (With Miscommunication)

Thu, 09 Jul 2009 09:08:56 GMT

Title: Having A Real Good Time (With Miscommunication)
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is loved.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: This started out as an attempt to write happy porn. This didn't happen. I'm sorry? But at least I'm writing again, right? Title taken from Kane's "Don't Come Home." Thanks to waterofthemoon for the beta.

He misses Christian. He cracks jokes about wanting to be taken advantage of, puts everything into the music, and tries to drink enough to drown the absence beside him.

England’s an escape, really, but if it’s supposed to give him distance from Chris, it’s all only physical. Passing the same places, seeing the same sights they saw on their England tours, and none of it looks the same. The colours have faded, somehow, and there’s an ache in his chest that won’t leave him alone.

His heart breaks a little more every time he sings those songs.

He misses Christian. He cracks jokes about wanting to be taken advantage of, puts everything into the music, and tries to drink enough to drown the absence beside him.

-

It’s amazing how easy it is to avoid someone even though you run in the same circles, have the same friends. Then again, after the UK, he’s pretty sure his friends are doing the scheduling for both of them, and they’re doing a damn good job of making sure they’re never at the same place at the same time. Steve’s thankful for it, even though he never acknowledges it. He’s not sure anyone would admit to it, even if he did.

He ignores all news of Chris, especially when he does his radio tour, someone else trailing him around the country, singing and playing beside him. Poor fucker, Steve thinks. Chris is a damn handful, especially when he has somewhere to be in the morning. He feels sorry for whoever got roped into it, and he wouldn’t trade places with him for the world. At least, that’s what Steve tells himself.

He concentrates on his music.

“Let’s try something else,” Darren says, when all his major chords turn to minor, lyrics turned lost and lonely. “Let’s go for a drink.”

Even Vegas’ lights look dimmer.

-

He’s lost track of the parties he’s supposed to be at, places he’s supposed to be. Riley’s so drunk that he’s not helping at all, but fuck if it matters; it’s a party. There’s food and people and alcohol, and besides, Chris is probably still prancing around radio stations with some stupid country guitarist that knows nothing about him anyway.

He’s lost Riley and that girl he’d been talking to earlier – what was her name? – and it’s kind of a pity because he’s pretty sure she might have been gunning for finding somewhere quieter to go, but whatever. He doesn’t really care, anyway. She was pretty enough, sure, but it’s probably better this way.

And he really, really needs to take a leak.

“Steve?”

There is absolutely nothing graceful about being surprised when you’re trying to answer nature’s call, but if Kane actually had good timing, maybe they wouldn’t be in this damn mess in the first place. Steve swears loudly and stumbles over to the sink, shooting a glare at Christian as he sticks his hand under the water.

“Do you even fucking have a brain, Kane?” He growls out. “What made you think that was a good idea?”

Chris gapes at him. “You’re…uh. It’s. Steve.”

“What?” Chris is still staring. It’s starting to get a little unnerving. “What, Christian?”

“You changed your number.”

Steve rolls his eyes and turns off the tap. “What do you care?” He turns his full attention to Chris. Who is still staring. There’s a look in Chris’ eyes that’s far too familiar, only Steve can’t think of a single reason why Chris would… and then there’s a flick of Chris’ tongue over his lips and a soft, helpless moan, and the reason Chris’ pupils are slowly expanding makes itself very, very clear.

His dick, at least, is very excited to see Chris again. And if he’d zipped back up, he’d be able to tell Chris to go fuck himself more convincingly.

Chris, apparently, is just as eager to see it because Steve doesn’t get any more warning than a choked sound that’s almost his name. Then his back’s against the wall, and Chris is on his knees, and he’s watching Chris’ mouth stretching wide around his cock. His hands slide into Chris’ hair automatically, pulls him forward, sinks deeper down Chris’ throat – and fuckfuckfuck, it’s still fucking perfect, warm heat, and he feels an urge to reclaim this. To punish Chris for leaving it so long, for fucking disappearing.

He winds his fingers tighter in Chris’ hair, pulls Chris back only to push in again. He starts to fuck Chris’ mouth hard, wants to fucking chokehimfillhimremindhim, and all Chris does is moan like it’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him.

He doesn’t last. He comes down Chris’ throat with a choked off moan, and he pulls out to find Chris’ fingers wrapped around his own cock, hand moving faster, twisting in a way Steve recognizes. It takes a moment for him to realize Chris has had his legs spread the entire time, jerking himself off as Steve fucked his mouth, and fuck, he feels a light tug in his balls as his dick makes an attempt to let him know exactly how much it likes that idea.

Fuck, he’d forgotten Chris is pretty much sin personified. He brushes his thumb over the corner of Chris’ mouth, catches the come Chris hadn’t managed to swallow, slides it across to press against Chris’ lips. Chris whimpers, opens for it – and fuck, how could he forget?

“So close, aren’t you?” He mutters. Chris nods, eyes squeezed shut. “Fucking look at me, Christian.”

Chris has always looked fucking amazing on his knees.

Steve sinks down to face him and curls his hand around Chris’. He shifts it once, twice, flicks his thumb over the head of Chris’ cock, and Chris comes with a low groan.

This time, Steve remembers to do up his pants. He doesn’t forget to give Chris his new number; he just doesn’t do it.

-

There’s banging on his door.

“You can’t fucking do that to me!” Chris has been banging for a little while now, cursing and swearing, and Steve’s pretty sure if he leaves him out there for a little while longer, one of his neighbours is going to call the police. Wouldn’t be the first time Chris gets done for disturbing the peace.

That last statement, however, is something he wants to answer.

He unlocks the door and opens it, and he almost gets a fist in the face for his troubles. Chris manages to stop his hand before it lands, though, even though he looks like he really regrets it a moment later. He’s probably cursing his reflexes.

He’s absolutely fuming, breathing hard, eyes wild and angry. The fact that his lips are bruised and his voice is rougher than usual ruins the effect of the glare.

Steve crosses his arms.

“You can’t fucking do that to me,” Chris repeats. “You – you can’t. You can’t just – and then leave me there without even your goddamn number. I know where you live.”

“I can see that,” Steve answers calmly. “What do you want?”

“You – Steve,” Chris says. “You can’t just fuck me and leave me there without a fucking word.”

“Why not?” Steve asks. “That’s what you did. Now you know what it felt like when you left me for that fucking deal.”

Chris flinches, takes a step back. “What?”

“You heard me,” Steve says, and he shuts the door.

-

He doesn’t hear from Chris again. He tells himself he’s relieved, that the incident in that bathroom was closure – that he’s glad he’s got the last say, that it’s over for him. That he doesn’t feel like his bed’s too damn big at night and his coffee never tastes quite right.

He’s over it.

Then Aldis fucking Hodge and Academy Award Winner Timothy fucking Hutton himself turn up on his doorstep.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Hutton demands as they push inside. Apparently, being an Academy Award winner means you require no introduction, even when you’ve never met. And despite that Aldis is the geeky guy on the show (yes, Steve’s watched it; no, it wasn’t because of Chris), he’s apparently the muscle today. Not that Steve’s convinced Hutton needs any back up.

Maybe they both just want to grill him.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” He returns. He doesn’t need to answer anything; they weren’t invited in.

“Asking you questions.” Apparently, Aldis Hodge is also a fucking smartass. Brilliant. “What the fuck did you do, Carlson?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Hutton whirls around and pins him with a stare. “To Chris, Carlson. What the fuck did you do to Chris?”

“You flew all the way here to ask me that?” He’s not answering any fucking questions; it’s none of their damn business. “You could have done that over the phone.”

“Flew?” Aldis says. When he laughs, Steve gets the feeling that he’s really, really missing something. “Are you fucking kidding?”

Now he’s confused. Chris had flown out – Nashville, then Chicago, then god fucking knew where – but they hadn’t flown in?

“We shoot in LA.” The look on Hutton’s face says everything; he thinks Steve is a complete and utter idiot.

Steve feels like a complete and utter idiot. He gapes. “What?”

Aldis snorts. Steve’s a little stuck on the fact that there’s a twenty-two-year-old snorting in derision at him. “You really didn’t know? Kane’s been on a fucking high since we got the news. Kept saying he couldn’t fucking wait, he was coming home, and maybe he’d finally get enough time to find you and apologise, make shit right.”

“Came to set the other day looking like someone shot his dog,” Hutton accuses. It doesn’t help the pit that’s opened up in Steve’s stomach. In fact, he’s pretty sure his guilt just digs deeper. “And he’s been wandering around looking like that ever since. Hasn’t said a single fucking word about you, and looks damn well more out of place here than he ever did in Chicago.”

“What?” He’s not going to add to his humiliation by fainting, but he’s pretty damn close to it. He’s not getting enough air – there’s no way he’s getting enough oxygen in his lungs, to his brain. He can’t process this.

There’s a few moments of silence. “You didn’t know, did you?” Tim asks him. “That he’s wanted to come back to you for months. He wanted to be able to stay.”

Steve shakes his head. He can’t process this. He can’t find the words. God, Chris.

“I didn’t know,” he finally manages, whispered and broken. Chris. “God, what did I do?”

-

It’s not easy to convince Tim and Aldis to help him, especially when they won’t say a word until he’s told them exactly what he did. Well, the CliffsNotes version because, really, they didn’t need it in all its gory details.

And he wasn’t sure he could stomach the shame of retelling the full story, not now he knows Chris’ side.

They do agree eventually, mostly because Steve’s not above begging for help. He’s got to make this right. It doesn’t even matter if Chris won’t take him back now; he’s got to make some part of this right again, and he can’t do that if he doesn’t know where Chris is. Luckily for him, after promises of pain and retribution should he fuck this up anymore, Tim and Aldis help him plan.

Turns out, they’re pretty good at plans. Despite them pretty much telling him that they’ll be listening outside Chris’ trailer door, Steve’s so grateful he could cry.

He sits quietly in Chris’ trailer, looking around and waiting for Chris to finish shooting. It doesn’t help alleviate the guilt at all, doesn’t help him with anything except missing Chris more.

Chris has pictures taped to the walls. Steve can make out David, Stephanie, and the rest of the Angel crew in a group of photos, Chris’ family in another. There’s some of Jerrod and Brandon, and Riley, Jason – familiar faces everywhere – and more recent pictures of the Leverage cast and crew – people he only knows by sight and name. The part of Chris’ life he’s never shared.

And then there’s an almost space, wallpaper ripped and peeled. Someone tore whatever was there down in a hurry, and there would be no way to know what occupied that space except for a couple of snapshots that survived the destruction. There’s a picture of them, his arm thrown carelessly across Chris’ shoulders, pulling him close as he whispers something in his ear. The smile on Chris’ face is absolutely breathtaking. There are a couple more, similar ones, of them and their friends, one of the band at Country Thunder. And then there’s one he’s never seen before, torn in half and taped back together again. It’s a fuzzy picture of him, fast asleep and settled in their old bed, easy smile on his face, one arm thrown over the space Chris should have been in.

His eyes burn, but it’s only when he catches sight of the Stripped Down case next to the CD player that the tears fall.

Of course, the cast chooses that exact moment to escort Chris back to his trailer.

“We’re just going to be outside,” Gina says, voice soothing. It’s the same voice Steve hears sometimes on TV.

“It’s going to be okay,” Beth adds.

“Right here.” Hutton’s looking past Chris, though, and right at Steve. Steve registers that on some level, but his attention’s completely focused somewhere else. On someone else.

Chris hasn’t turned around yet. He’s looking at his friends like they’re talking a different language. “Guys? I’m just going to change. It’s not like I’m – ” He stops talking. Stops turning. Stops moving, and just stares at Steve.

“Just outside, brother,” Aldis says as he reaches up and squeezes Chris’ arm. “Just call if you need us. Need anything. If you want us to throw him out or hide his body or something, you just yell.”

It’s really not reassuring, but Steve knows he deserves it. He stands up slowly but doesn’t make any attempts to go any closer to Chris, even as the trailer door shuts behind him.

Chris is the one calling the shots, even if he doesn’t know it.

“Just… give me a few minutes, okay?” Steve starts when, a few seconds later, Chris is still standing there silently. “I… fuck, Chris.”

“You already did that,” Chris says coldly.

Steve let out another breath, swallows hard, and just nods. It’s the truth, and he can’t make excuses if he’s going to get Chris to listen. “I know. And I didn’t just fuck… you, I fucked up. I didn’t know you – I didn’t know Leverage was shooting here. That you were back in LA.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I know, and I should have. I don’t have any excuse for it except I was hurt and drunk and – fuck, Chris, wrong. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to hurt you like you hurt me.”

“Well, congratulations,” Chris says. He steps to the side, giving Steve a clear path to the door. “You succeeded.”

“And I want to make that right,” Steve whispers, heart in his throat. He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want Chris to tell him to leave. “Like you tried to make this right. To make us right. Please, Chris.”

Chris looks between him and the door, hand going up to carelessly brush against something familiar. Steve has to squint slightly to make it out between Chris’ fidgeting, but there’s no mistaking it. He bites his lower lip, waiting for Chris to look back at him.

“You’re still wearing it,” he says. At Chris’ confused look, he gestures to the necklace. There’s a matching one around his neck. Despite everything, he’s never been able to bring himself to take it off. “That’s got to mean something, right? Please, Chris. It doesn’t have to be much – doesn’t have to be anything at all. Just, please, let me fix something.”

He pulls a piece of paper out from his pocket. “Starting with my phone number. And maybe coffee some time, somewhere with people around. Please.”

It takes another moment – Steve doesn’t know how long because, to him, it feels like hours – but Chris finally nods and crosses the room. He takes the piece of paper carefully from Steve’s hand, then pulls out his phone and punches in the number. In his pocket, Steve’s phone vibrates, Chris’ own voice singing One More Shot back to them, loud and clear.

And I've got a lot of nerve
To ask you back at all.

Their eyes meet, just for a split second, before Steve drops his gaze to the floor. “Give me a call when you can fit me in,” he says finally.

“Wednesday,” Chris says, just as Steve’s about to turn the handle of the door. He looks back at Chris, who’s now standing in the middle of the trailer, his phone still in his hand. “I’m free on Wednesday.”

Steve lets himself hope.

These graces that hold me

Mon, 18 May 2009 15:47:46 GMT

Title: These graces that hold me
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson, Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is loved.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: This is so schmoopy, it'll give you cavities. Part of the baby!verse, set just over 9 months after Apocalypse Please. Thanks for itinerant_vae for the superfast beta. Title from Vienna Teng.

“Hello there, beautiful,” Steve murmured quietly, his voice rough with emotion, rocking her a little as she shifted in his arms.

They’d been waiting there for hours by the time the nurse came out of the room, carrying a small pink bundle in her arms. Chris was out of his seat and beside her in moments, wide grin on his face; he’d never had much patience, after all.

When the call had come, they’d just been messing about with a new song (about waiting and about hope) and then Chris had almost got them killed before they’d even become parents. If you asked Chris though, Steve was just exaggerating and he was driving only a little bit too fast. Adrenalin and all that.

The moment Chris set eyes on the tiny baby though his entire world turned itself over onto its ass before presenting him with an entirely new world view. And self-view or whatever it was called. He’d been driving way too fast, and he really was the most irresponsible person ever and he was going to drop the baby or break her or something. He edged behind Steve and nudged Steve forwards instead, watching the nurse carefully hand her over to Steve and peering at her over Steve’s shoulder.

“Hello there, beautiful,” Steve murmured quietly, his voice rough with emotion, rocking her a little as she shifted in his arms.

“God, she’s so tiny,” Chris breathed. He didn’t want her to start crying or something if he talked too loudly and scared her by mistake. He reached over Steve’s shoulder and – so, so gently – ran one finger over her cheek, jumping a little when she turned blindly into it. He smiled, looking more than a little awed before adding quietly, “Hey, baby girl.”

“Did you choose a name yet?” The nurse asked after a few moments. Chris didn’t take his eyes off the baby – their daughter - but he could hear the smile in her voice. “Melody,” he finally answered and then got distracted by Melody’s little yawn.

“Melody Anne Carlson-Kane,” Steve finished for him, rocking her a little more. The little hitch in Steve’s breathing made Chris smile even wider, head turning a little to press his lips against Steve’s temple. “Shit, Chris. She’s ours.”

“Our baby girl,” Chris repeated, lips still against Steve’s skin. “This is it, Carlson. There’s no leavin’ me now. You’re stuck with me forever.”

Steve laughed, smothering it at Melody’s tiny protest. “I kinda figured that was signed, sealed and delivered the day you said “I want to have your baby, Steve,” fucker.”

“And you went and got me pregnant without puttin’ a ring on my finger too.” Chris pouted, then just grinned against Steve’s cheek. “Very unconventional.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said with another soft chuckle. “I’ll be sure to remedy that. Just wanted Melody to be the flower girl and all. We’re good at doing things the wrong way round; wouldn’t be us if we got it right.”

Chris just laughed again and tucked his fingers into the pocket of Steve’s jeans, tugging him closer as he watched Melody happily settled in Steve’s arms. “Oh, we got it right,” Chris assured Steve quietly. “This time, we really got it right.”

~

“Chris, if you drive any slower, we’re going to get arrested for being too far under the speed limit,” Steve said, laughter clear in his voice as he watched another car zoom past them.

“Shut up,” Chris muttered darkly. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“No, Christian, really.” Another car whizzed past them. “I’m pretty sure that was someone’s grandmother that just passed you.”

Chris didn’t even turn to look at him; he just kept his full attention on the road, his knuckles going almost white at the restraint it was taking him not to be honking on his horn or overtaking the soccer mom going at about thirty miles an hour maximum.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Kane, drive,” Steve exhaled, exasperated. He prodded Chris’ side a little and then moved to unclench Chris’ hand from the wheel. “I want to get Melody home some time this year, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Chris swatted Steve’s hand away, looking over a little to glare at him, before turning his attention back to the road. “Which is why I’m driving carefully.” He wasn’t about to kill them before they got their baby girl home, after all. Steve was always complaining about his driving and, well, maybe Steve had been right; it had been reckless and everything else he’d said – and now that Chris was driving more responsibly, he was complaining again.

Steve was totally the wife in this relationship. Nag, nag, nag.

“Chris,” Steve tried again, moving his hand to Chris’ hair, fingers brushing softly through the strands. “Seriously man. Just drive, okay? Stop freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out!” Chris defended. The traffic light blinked red and Chris pulled the car neatly to a stop. He glanced in his rearview mirror before giving up and just turning all the way around to look at Melody, who was sound asleep in her car seat. He felt Steve’s lips on his temple a moment later.

“C’mon, baby,” Steve said. “You’re gonna do a great job. Stop over-thinking everything and just go with it. She’s gonna be just fine.”

“Right,” Chris muttered back.

“Really.” He could hear Steve rolling his eyes. “Chris, look at me, man.” He sighed then finally tore his eyes away from the sleeping baby. Steve’s expression was a mixture of fondness, exasperation and amusement. Mostly amusement, though, which – Chris really didn’t think any of this was funny. Not really anyway.

Okay, maybe it really was kind of funny. Chris let out a soft laugh, making a face before ducking his head slightly, embarrassed. Steve grinned wider and reached up to flick Chris’ ear softly. “Now drive so we can get home before her first birthday.”

Chris just shook his head a little, reaching out one hand to punch Steve’s arm, before he just drove.

~

He rested his head on his arms, curled as they were on the edge of the cot, eyes half-closed as he watched her tiny intakes of breath, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her eyelids fluttered just a little in sleep. Behind him, Steve was fast asleep on their bed, arm thrown over the side of the bed where Chris should have been.

It wasn’t like Chris hadn’t tried to sleep. It was just that every time Melody shifted in her sleep, or made a soft noise – or she went completely quiet, Chris started back awake. What if something was wrong with her? Or she needed something? What if she wasn’t comfortable or woke up and couldn’t find them? And when he started thinking like that, he knew it was hopeless to even try to sleep.

Instead, he slipped out of bed and sat watching their baby girl.

Her breathing changed as she woke up, twisting a little in her cot, fingers clenching as her face screwed up, ready to cry.

Chris was picking her up carefully before the first sound could leave her lips. “Shh,” he soothed, cradling her against him and rocking her gently. “Hush, beautiful. Don’t cry; you’re gonna go wakin’ your daddy up if you do.”

Melody made a soft, pathetic little noise, turning a little into Chris’ warmth. He brushed light fingers over her cheek, leaning down to kiss her forehead softly. “M’right here, baby girl. You hungry? S’that it?”

He made his way through to the kitchen, keeping her settled in the crook of his arm, murmuring quietly to her as he stuck a bottle in the microwave. She was still fussing, making soft little hiccupping sounds, hands waving blindly around until he obligingly offered her a finger.

She put it straight into her mouth, sucking on it a little, making another face when there was no milk. “Patience, little one,” Chris said with a soft grin, letting her mouth at that finger for a while longer as they waited for the milk to heat up. “It’s just comin’. Not long now.”

He took the bottle with him into the bedroom when it was finally ready, settling in the rocking chair they’d put in the corner to make sure that he wasn’t going to drop her or it wasn’t going to be at an angle that would make her choke. It never hurt to be too careful. He rocked them slowly, humming softly to her as she happily attacked the bottle – and then it wasn’t long before she was blindly turning into him again, all sticky little fingers and soft sounds.

“Shh, c’mon, angel,” he murmured quietly, once he’d burped her and was trying to get her settled again. “Go back to sleep now. Ain’t no good stayin’ up all mornin’.” She fussed a little more, twisting in his arms. “Hush, you’re gonna wake Steve.” He finally gave up on that tactic and shifted her in his arms, settling her carefully on his shoulder, one hand supporting her neck.

He went back to rocking her softly, starting up a quiet tune, finding himself singing More Than I Deserve to his little girl. To his surprise, she was settling easily, breathing evening out before he’d even finished the song. His lips tugged into a little smile when he finished and he found her fast asleep again.

“That’s our girl,” he murmured, throat tight, keeping her cradled close for a while longer before he settled her back in the crib.

Arms wrapped around him from behind before Steve kissed his ear softly. “She’s sleepin’,” he mumbled sleepily against Chris’ skin. “Come back to bed, baby.”

“When did you wake up?” Chris asked quietly, covering Steve’s hand with his own. “Thought you were still sleepin’.”

“Don’t sleep as well if you aren’t in bed,” Steve complained, mouthing at Chris’ ear. They were quiet for a few minutes, just watching Melody sleeping, then Steve’s arms tightened around him. “I love watchin’ you with her. You’re real good, Chris.”

Chris shrugged a little, leaning back against Steve more. He could feel Steve’s smile against his cheek. “And to think a week ago, you were scared to even pick her up.”

“Shut up,” Chris complained with a soft laugh. “Don’t be mean.”

“Ain’t being mean, baby.” Steve chuckled quietly before he tugged Chris back in the direction of the bed. “You being out of bed instead of wrapped around me? Now that’s being really mean.”

~

“I can’t believe the Js painted James’ room before he was born,” Chris muttered, carefully drawing another flower onto the wall, balancing precariously on the step-ladder.

“Chris, that’s what normal people do,” Steve pointed out, turning to look at him before his attention went back to the carefully painted lines, absently dipping the brush into the black paint and stirring as he considered the space in front of him.

“It doesn’t mean it makes sense,” Chris pointed out. “It’s A by the way.” He gestured at the notes Steve was working on.

“Yeah, Chris, I’m just trying to figure out how to make it actually all fit on the wall.” A flourish of the brush and three more notes graced the artfully curled lines of manuscript Steve had drawn there earlier. Figured the guy would be just as good at art as he was everything else that involved working with his hands. “But yeah, that’s what normal people do. This? Really isn’t.”

“Yeah,” Chris drawled back, adding a few orange swirls to the petal he was working on. “But it doesn’t mean it makes sense. I mean, how’d you even know the baby’ll like it?”

“They can’t even see further than a few feet in front of them to start with, Kane,” Steve pointed out. “They’re not going to start commenting on the décor.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Yes, but they’re gonna have to stay there for a long time. Imagine if we’d painted this place violet, green, pink and stripy – and then Melody came along.”

There was a horrified pause from Steve before he looked over, one eyebrow raised. “Chris, we’re not colorblind. I’d never do that to my kid!”

“That’s not even the point!” Chris protested, fighting the urge to flick paint at Steve; it might ruin Melody’s walls. “The point is that it wouldn’t have suited her. We couldn’t have known she’d settle anytime she heard More Than I Deserve or that she’s not a stripes kinda girl.”

“Oh, right,” Steve said after a moment, shrugging. “I guess.” He glanced over and smirked at Chris. “But then again, most people probably don’t spoil their baby as much as we do.”

Chris made a pfft sound, waving the paintbrush around a little before he dipped it back into the paint. “Everyone spoils their baby to fuckin’ pieces.”

“But not as much as we do,” Steve pointed out. “Or, well, you do.”

Chris ignored him, adding another few shades to the flower. It so wasn’t true. Steve was just as guilty of it as he was. He couldn’t help the fact that she was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen in his life – well, one of the most perfect because there was Steve, after all – and he wanted to be close to her all the time. Steve did it too – he was singing to Melody all the time these days; he totally couldn’t pin this one on just Chris.

When he looked over to Steve again, Steve was on the other side of the room and almost done with the song. It wasn’t a surprise; they’d always played it a lot – had always loved it because it was their song – but since that night, they’d practically breathed the song for Melody’s pleasure.

He finished up the flower and stepped down to look around. “What’s it missing, Steve?”

Steve wrapped his arms around him from behind, tugging him back against his chest and brushing his cheek over Chris’ before light fingers turned Chris’ face so Steve could kiss him easier. “Nothing,” he reassured quietly. “Except the baby. But that’s got to wait until the paint dries. And then I know you’re gonna be sticking night lights and god knows what else all over the place, aren’t you?”

“No!” Chris protested, pulling back to look at Steve – who just looked back at him expectantly. He tried the staring contest for a few moments before he gave a soft, suffering sigh. “Okay, yes. But they’re – ”

Steve just laughed and swallowed his protests with practiced ease.

~

“Did Chris drop the baby yet?” came Mike’s obnoxious question about two seconds after the doorbell rang. Chris was pretty sure Steve hadn’t even pulled the door open completely yet.

“Don’t listen to a single thing Uncle Mike says, okay?” Chris told Melody quietly. He bounced her softly on his knee. “He’s bad for your mental hea – .”

“Holy shit, did you dress that baby in the dark?!” Steve’s not-so-subtle statement followed before Chris had even finished the sentence. Apparently, today was not a good day for Steve’s filters – or maybe it was just being around this lot that did it to him. Chris blinked and stood, carefully settling Melody as he walked through to see what the fuss was about.

“You shouldn’t pay much attention to your daddy when he’s like this either. That’s not good for any of - oh monkey fucker. What did you do to my godson?”

“You should watch your language,” Jensen said matter-of-factly, breezing through the living room with James in his arms. James, who, if Chris did say so himself, looked sort of like a pumpkin in the orange shirt and green trousers. “You’ve got a daughter now. What would you do if her first words were holy monkey fucker?”

“Laugh,” Chris replied. “But not as hard as people will when your kid goes to school. I can’t believe you and Jared seriously call yourselves gay men. What did you put on James?”

“They’re called clothes, Chris,” Jared said. “Same as Melody’s got there.” At Chris’ look, Jared turned defensive. “What? She’s wearing bright colours too!”

“Firstly,” Steve said, starting to usher Jensen towards Melody’s room. “She’s a girl. Secondly, they’re coordinated bright colours. Which isn’t what James has on.” He sighed a little. “Come on. I’m sure there’s a t-shirt in there that’ll fit him.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jensen could be heard protesting as Steve just shepherded them deeper into the house. “My art teacher used to say opposite colours on the colour-wheel…..”

Chris found himself being studied by Jared, Mike and Tom. Like they’d only just noticed his existence. Well, more like, they’d only just noticed that the baby was, in fact, in his arms.

“You’re holding the baby,” Tom said, pointing.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “No shit, Sherlock.” They stared some more. “Oh fuck you,” he finally said, bouncing her a little as she started to fuss, somehow knowing Chris’ attention wasn’t on her anymore.

“Say that a few more times and the first thing she’s gonna say really will be fuck,” Jared said, moving a little closer. Chris was starting to wonder about his sanity when he realised that he had in fact made that guy his daughter’s godfather. One of them anyway. What could you say? She was a beautiful little baby who deserved to have lots of choices in her life.

“At least they’ll know she’s mine,” Chris pointed out, carefully handing her over to Jared. There couldn’t possibly too much harm that could come from that; James was still a perfectly healthy – albeit really badly dressed – baby, after all. He ran gentle fingers over Melody’s cheek when she realised she wasn’t in familiar arms. “Hush, angel. It’s only Jared.”

Mike and Tom were still staring at him like he’d grown an extra head. And possibly a tail too. Chris ignored them. That would be the advice he’d give to Melody when she could understand what he was talking about as well. And maybe every day before that just in case she was a fast learner.

Steve and Jensen reappeared a couple of minutes later with James more suitably dressed. The orange had been exchanged for a nice neutral brown. Thank God.

“Seriously,” Chris said, walking over to take James’ hand, letting him tug on his ring futilely. “You should have got Sandy to write you a manual.”

There was a pause. “She did,” Jared said.

There was another pause. “We might have lost it.” Chris raised an eyebrow and glanced up at Jensen – who rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that look, Kane. The only reason your lil’ girl doesn’t look the same is because your boyfriend over there is the only one here with enough fashion sense to actually deserve to call himself gay.”

“If it’d been up to you,” Jared added. “She’d probably be wearing cowboy boots and a hat already.”

“Which, by the way,” Jensen continued with ease. When the hell did those two start functioning as a single unit anyway? Finishing each other’s sentences like that. It was kind of creepy. Or…well, not really, but they hadn’t known each other as long as he and Steve had. “I saw she already has in the closet.”

“But that’s cool,” Chris defended, glaring as Mike and Tom burst out laughing. Melody started sniffling in Jared’s arms, probably scared by the crazy snorting sounds that seemed to be coming from close by.

“Yeah, cowboy, they’re real cute,” Steve said, brushing past them to take Melody from Jared, settling her against the crook of his arm and shushing her softly.

“Steve!” Chris said, nudging Steve lightly on the arm – but only because he was holding Melody. Otherwise Chris would totally have hit him. It wasn’t fair that his own partner was siding with those assholes – especially when Steve hadn’t said anything when Chris had bought them.

“It wasn’t sarcastic,” Steve told him, offering him a half-smile. “I let you buy them, didn’t I?”

“He says that as if he had a choice,” Mike muttered almost under his breath. Almost. He beamed at Steve when Steve shot him a glare, safe in the knowledge that Steve couldn’t hurt him when he was holding a baby.

Jensen laughed, passing James over to Chris. “C’mon. You guys need to look at this baby’s room, man,” he said, gesturing a little in the direction he’d come from a few minutes earlier. “Next time we redecorate? We’re totally getting these asses to do it. It looks really damn good – cutesy night lights and all.”

~

“So, how’s this family life thing treating you?” Jason asked, leaning back in his chair and sipping at his beer. “Do you get as little sleep as they say you do?”

“Do we look like we’re getting a lot of sleep?” Chris slid his sunglasses off his nose, grinning a little before putting them back on again. “Actually, she’s got a lot better. Sleeps more than an hour or two now.”

Jason grimaced. “Really? That’s a lot?”

Chris smirked. “She started sleepin’ around five hours a few weeks back. We almost had a party.”

“Says the guy who spent most of the first few weeks awake and watching the baby sleeping,” Steve said with a grin, coming back with another beer and settling beside him – only for Chris to punch him in the shoulder.

Bastard never did play fair. Steve just beamed back at him. Chris sighed and kick his feet up into Steve’s lap in retaliation. Instead of complaining, Steve just took to massaging his feet. And then it was hard to stay mad at the guy.

Dirty, cheating bastard.

On the floor in the middle of their living room, Riley was showering attention on the new love of his life. Their six month old daughter already had that one wrapped around her little finger – or she would have if she’d known what a little finger was. As it was, she hadn’t figured out much beyond “da-da-da-da-da.”

They were still arguing about who it referred to, and the clever little girl just used it with both of them, always looking at them innocently with those big blue eyes of hers.

Definitely Steve’s daughter.

She was also showing signs of being her daddies’ little girl by being far more interested in the turquoise necklace Riley was wearing than the squishy picture book he was trying to read her. Then again, she was always more interested in anything she wasn’t supposed to stick in her mouth than anything she was allowed to chew on.

Definitely their kid.

Chris laughed when Riley gave up on the book and started to reach around to undo his necklace. If six month old babies could beam, that would be exactly what Melody was doing.

“Riley,” Steve said, laughing as well. “Don’t you dare let her play with that.”

“Why not?” Riley asked, looking over with a sheepish smile.

“Because she’s teething.” Chris was still chuckling. Riley was such a sucker. At this rate, Melody was going to be more spoiled than most princesses in the world. “She’ll just put it in her mouth.”

“I don’t mind,” Riley said, shrugging slightly, making to take off the necklace again.

“And you’re going to completely spoil her,” Steve added, obviously amused. “Then, when she’s fifteen and going ‘Uncle Riley, please let me drive your shiny new sports car’ you’re not going to know how to say no.”

Riley pouted and opened his mouth to argue.

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head. “You need to practice saying no right now. It’s already too late for Chris – and just Chris spoiling the girl is more than enough to summon the Four Horseman to fucking LA itself.”

And oh, that was not fair! He’d actually been trying to be good and stop Riley from giving in to Melody. Chris growled a little – louder when Steve looked back at him innocently, hand running up Chris’ legs. “What? It’s true. You don’t know how to say no….”

Riley started to laugh.

Chris hit Steve in the shoulder again – as best as he could from the position he was still half-lying in. “Bastard. I’m not that bad!”

“Yes, you are,” Steve answered, laughing, trying to wriggle away as Chris changed tact and started tickling Steve with vengeance. “You really, really are.”

“I’m really not,” Chris said, laughing as well, knowing Steve was completely right but not willing to concede the point anyway. Where would be the fun in that?

Jason was doing the smart thing and moving out the way as Steve kicked out a little, still trying to escape.

“Ten bucks says Steve wins,” he piped up, glancing over at Riley.

“I’m not stupid,” Riley said with a laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna take that bet.” Steve let out something that sounded dangerously close to a giggle as Chris tried harder, setting out to prove his friends wrong.

“Chris!” Steve shouted, laughing hard. “God, Chris, stop, you fucker!” Chris just grinned a little wider and pinned Steve down more firmly.

“Say you’re sorry,” he said, mock seriously, but he knew he was grinning like an idiot. His fingers found all Steve’s most ticklish spots with practiced ease. “And I’ll stop.”

“Actually, Jason? You’re on!” Riley was about to say something else when Melody started fussing, soft little demands for attention reaching all their ears.

They all froze. A moment later, Riley had picked her up and was bouncing her slightly – and in her little fingers, she clutched at his necklace, trying her hardest to get it in her mouth from its place on Riley’s neck.

Chris turned and looked at Steve, who just shook his head, lips tugging up into a helpless smile Chris knew matched the one on his features. Then they started laughing.

They were all so whipped and Melody hadn’t even started talking yet.

Love's Not Time's Fool

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 15:26:39 GMT

Title: Love's Not Time's Fool
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: R
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: My thanks to waterofthemoon for the beta; remaining mistakes are all mine. Title taken, obviously, from Shakespeare. Written for elebridith, who bought me a million years ago at fics4books and has been very, very patient. I hope you like it, honey.

Chris turns up on his doorstep, easy as you please: hair longer, that damn cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes, cocky smirk on his lips.

It’s raining outside the day it happens, the day everything changes again. Chris turns up on his doorstep, easy as you please: hair longer, that damn cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes, cocky smirk on his lips. Only sign he’s not so sure is the way he’s standing, the slight slouch, one leg back and foot turned like he’s ready to run away.

“Chris,” Steve says. Surprise and alcohol don’t make for creativity.

Chris gives him that infuriatingly beautiful smile, made even more devastating by the vulnerability that seeps into it. “Hi.”

“Uh.” Steve blinks. His mouth’s moving, but no words are coming out. What do you say to someone you’ve hardly seen in months who disappeared out of your life and turns up to stand on your doorstep at three o’clock in the morning when it’s pouring down rain? “Hi.”

Chris’ smile falters, and his weight shifts backwards as he steps back. “I, uh. I shouldn’t—I should go. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—I just thought—”

“Nuh uh,” Steve says, hand going out to grab Chris even as Chris moves away. “You don’t get to roll up here, say hi, and disappear again, Kane. That’s not how this works.”

Chris shakes his head, shakes him off, backs up a few more steps, out into the rain where he obviously thinks Steve won’t follow. It’s warm and dry inside, and the rain has a bit of a bite; he feels faint splatters against his shins. He hasn’t talked to Chris in months, got left behind, singing broken love songs. He’s got no reason to follow Chris out into the rain.

But Chris looks up, swallows hard, and offers him that tiny, crooked, shy smile. There’s so much there in that one look, and he can’t stop himself. He takes three steps forward, knocks the hat right off Chris’ head, fists his hands in Chris’ hair, and crushes their lips together.

It’s been building for years—building since forever. Steve doesn’t know what possessed him to actually… but Chris is reacting, arching against him, arms going around his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. Kissing back like he’s drowning for it.

“Steve,” Chris whimpers when they break to breathe, brushing his lips against the corner of his mouth, pressing in closer like it’s even possible. His eyes flutter, mouth open as he pants a little. “Oh god, Steve. I’ve waited—I’ve wanted this. Steve, I—”

“I know,” Steve says, kisses Chris again, licks deep into his mouth. He can feel the heat of Chris’ skin through his t-shirt, and he wants—he wants to trace Chris’ muscles, wants to feel them move under his fingertips, wants to find the places that make Chris moan that sweet sound he’s only almost heard. He slides his hand under Chris’ shirt and pulls it over his head, then dips his head and licks the raindrops from Chris’ collarbone, where he tastes rain and salt and Chris. God, it’s better than he’s ever imagined—and there’s that sound.

That gorgeous, beautiful sound he’s never heard from Chris’ lips, not for anyone Steve’s seen him with. He can’t stop touching, can’t stop tasting, can’t stop his hands from sliding down Chris’ spine to the waistband of his jeans. He undoes them, slides them off Chris’ hips, fingers following as Chris clutches at him, tugs at his shirt. Takes it off.

Chris is shaking, pulling at his hair, and Steve tips his head until Chris can kiss him, needy and wanting. He’s never imagined Chris to give so sweetly, so easily to him. Comes with him, step by step—almost trips, struggles to get his damn boots free of his jeans, but stays skin against heated skin as he moves them back towards the house. Steve wants more than he can get outside on the drive. He can’t fight the urge to press Chris back against the nearest hard surface, the doorframe, and fits in close, slides a thigh between Chris’, and rubs up. Chris’ whine is just plain dirty. They’ve got to be breaking more than one law, but he can’t stop yet, can’t break away enough to stumble those three steps that would get them inside. He dips his head and licks the raindrops from Chris’ jaw as he rubs against Chris’ cock, rubs until it’s hard and leaking, and Chris is almost thrashing where he’s pinned.

He turns—because if he does any more, he’s pretty sure they’ll be finishing this off in jail—kicks the door shut behind him, and walks Chris back thirteen steps before the backs of Chris’ legs hit the armrest of the couch. Steve just pushes, topples Chris back onto the cushions, legs still hanging off the side.

And then he moans Chris’ name because fuck if Chris isn’t looking like sin: rain-soaked, lips swollen and bruised, eyes dark and heavy as they watch him, dick hard against his stomach. Damn boots still on.

Steve pauses only to take his own jeans off before he’s sliding onto the couch, straddling Chris and leaning down to fuck Chris’ mouth with his tongue, deep and dirty, want and need built up over years just pouring into it. There’s nothing careful or fine or particularly mind-blowing about it; they don’t even get as far as any actual fucking. They’re too worked up, too needy, and there’s not enough of anything, but it’s all almost too much.

He shifts down until he can curl his hand around both their dicks, rocking his hips to pin Chris down when Chris arches, twists under him, claws at his shoulders and rocks into his hand. He jacks them both off, rough and fast, swallows all of Chris’ moans, feels Chris’ fingers digging into his skin—it just drives him on, pushes him harder.

Chris comes first with a choked-off cry, back arching off the couch as he tears his mouth away, tips his head back, and just lets go. The look on Chris’ face is all it takes to tip him over the edge, makes him follow Chris down, paint Chris’ stomach with their come. He collapses against Chris and presses his mouth to Chris’ jaw, lazy and sated and too boneless to move.

It takes Chris a few minutes to respond. “We’re gonna get real sticky real fast,” he says. Steve sits back up slowly and doesn’t resist the urge to lean down and kiss Chris again, to slide his hand in to tangle in Chris’ hair. When he slides off him, Steve offers Chris his hand, pulls him up, and doesn’t let him go as he leads Chris into the bedroom. Steve leaves the door open when he goes into the bathroom, listens to Chris kicking off his boots, and comes back in to find Chris already making himself at home in his bed.

Chris looks up at him and grins, pulls him into another kiss when he finally makes it to Chris’ side. Chris keeps kissing him, slow and warm and easy, as Steve cleans them both up and throws the towel to the side.

“Tomorrow,” Steve mumbles as he pushes Chris back onto the pillows. “We talk.” There’s a rumble of a sound, something that’s maybe agreement, from under him, but he’s already half asleep. He keeps Chris pinned under him in case he tries to get away while he’s sleeping, and he relaxes when he feels a familiar hand in his hair, an open-mouthed kiss pressed against his temple.

Chris murmurs something that could have been “fuck you” or “I’m sorry” or, knowing Chris, maybe it’s just “you’re heavy,” but it’s all the same to Steve. Chris is warm and solid under him, and Steve’s not letting him go any time soon. Not until he’s gotten answers, made the stubborn bastard talk. And definitely not until there’s been some fucking when he’s sober enough to know it’s not another hallucination.

Hymns for the Exiled

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 03:10:59 GMT

Title: Hymns for the Exiled
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Jensen/Steve/Chris
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: This has been a very long time in coming, and I'm really quite proud of this. An insane amount of thanks goes to waterofthemoon for the epic beta, and to everyone else who's held my hand and offered so much support and encouragement; any remaining mistakes are mine. Title taken from Anais Mitchell.

Summary: The last time Steve saw Chris was eighteen years ago and the war had just ended; Steve waved at Chris as he was ushered into a car and driven away to his new life. He never found out what happened to Chris, where Chris ended up, no matter how hard he searched.

When they found him, bloody and beaten, hiding in the most disgusting, dangerous part of the city - a runaway slave - there was nothing Jensen could say to convince him not to take Chris home.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Hymns for the Exiled (3/3)

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 03:00:03 GMT

[ Previous ]

He drifted in and out of consciousness, making it hard to define dream from reality. Shapes and shadows all around him. People talking, whispering to each other and to him, maybe. He didn’t know.

“Please. Please, don’t die.”

Were they even there? He didn’t have enough energy to open his eyes and look. He supposed it didn’t really matter. They were all in that space between real and not to him, anyway.

“God, there’s still so much to tell you. So much we haven’t told you.”

Fuck, everything hurt.

Sleeping seemed like a good idea. Anything to stop hurting so damn much. There were other reasons, too—reasons he should just let go. Drift away. Good reasons. Not that he could remember them, but they were there, lurking in the back of his mind.

“Come back already. Don’t fucking give up so damn easily, Chris.”

Kind of like consciousness, really. Oblivion tugged at him, and god, it was inviting as hell.

“Don’t let go.”

C’mon, Kane. David’s voice. Trying for light and teasing, but coming out strained and worried. Don’t be a fucking pussy. Get up already.

Fucker, Chris thought. It motherfucking hurts like a bitch. I’m not being a pussy.

Dave laughed. You are. You’re such a fucking bitch, Christian.

I was run through with a sword. Oh, yeah. That’s what happened. There was a sword and someone in his apartment. No, no, not his. Theirs. In their apartment.

Wait, there was an apartment?

Chris frowned. David?

Now you’re just being stupid, fucker. Chris really needed to imagine up more sympathetic people. David had always been so bad at sympathy. Or, well, he’d always tried to come across as bad at the caring-sharing bullshit, but it was probably exactly that that had—wait.

You’re dead. I watched you die. He could almost see that half-smirk.

Well, hello to you, too. You’re not looking too hot yourself, you know. Should really think about that before insulting other people.

Chris mentally threw up his arms. Or he would have thrown up his arms if he’d had some to throw up.

God, that was confusing.

Saying you’re dead when you are isn’t an insult! You’re dead. Why are you talking to me?

Because you’re being a fucking pansy, David answered. He sighed, long and suffering. Stop being such a whiny bitch and open your eyes, Kane.

I hate you, Chris thought, almost hearing David’s laugh as his eyes fluttered slowly open and—oh, monkey fucker, it was bright, and everything really fucking hurt. David was probably still laughing somewhere, and fuck, if the guy wasn’t already dead, Chris would fucking kill him. It was really not funny.

He closed his eyes for a moment before he opened them again, looking vaguely around the room.

It took a few more seconds for the present to catch up with him—for David’s memory and David’s laugh to fade away, shift to bright green eyes and blue ones, the grim memories to disappear in favour of laughter so light and carefree it had made Chris ache .

Jensen and Steve.

He was in Jensen and Steve’s room. In Jensen and Steve’s bed.

The door was ajar, and he could hear voices outside murmuring to each other, but he couldn’t quite catch the words. He glanced at his arm, at the needle in his skin attached to the morphine drip, and at the almost-empty bag of blood beside it. He frowned, turning a little to push the blankets down enough to see his carefully bandaged side.

Jensen tied to a chair. Steve, his grip knuckle-white on the gun, shaking like a leaf. The fear, the desperation in their eyes.

You think you can protect them? They’re going to keep sending people after you, Chris. They’re never going to let you go.

In the corner of the room, he could see a picture of Jensen and Steve from what he assumed was college or some time during college, anyway. Before he’d come stumbling into their lives. Before they’d had random killers jumping them in their own apartment looking for him.

Chris glanced back at the door before he carefully took the drip out of his arm and climbed unsteadily out of bed.

He’d had worse wounds, or so he’d keep telling himself. He’d always been able to put one foot in front of the other, and just because he’d been comfortable for a little while, it didn’t mean he’d lost that instinct that had enabled him to survive for so many years.

He pulled out a shirt and a pair of pants from their closet, dressing as quickly as he could before he edged towards the door.

Steve and Jensen were in the kitchen. There was no way he could get out without them noticing. He lingered for a moment where he was, watching the way Jensen’s hand rested on the small of Steve’s back, the way Steve leaned against his chest, the way Jensen whispered softly in Steve’s ear, lips against skin and—

The door creaked.

Jensen looked up and right at him.

He grunted a little with pain as he pushed himself back and stumbled across the room towards the window, unlatching it with shaky hands.

“Chris! Shit. Don’t—” Jensen’s hand gripped his arm and pulled him back against a muscled chest, arms in a vice-grip around him as he struggled futilely. “Stop—fuck, you’re gonna hurt yourself again. Stop being a fucking idiot!”

“Chris, please,” Steve said. He was right there behind him, hands resting on Chris’ hips. “Please. Stop being so fucking stubborn.”

Chris stilled but didn’t relax at all. “Let me go,” he said, trying for low and threatening, but it came out a whole lot more pleading than he wanted. “Just. You gotta let go. I could take you both out—you know I could—so let go of me now. You—I have to—fuck, just let go. You gotta fucking stop doing this because you’re grateful, for fuck’s sake, because he was right. He was right, and they’re gonna keep coming, and nothin’ I’ve ever done for you’s worth th—”

Jensen’s mouth stopped the almost desperate flow of words, and Chris froze.

“Shut up,” Jensen said, lips still against his. “Just… shut up, Chris. It’s not about that. Not anymore.”

Chris exhaled shakily, and then Steve’s fingers were there, turning his head so he was facing him. Steve’s lips replaced Jensen’s as Jensen rested his forehead against Chris’ temple. Steve kissed him, soft and reverent, trembling a little himself.

“Chris,” he murmured. “God, fuck, Chris. Don’t go.”

“Don’t fucking leave us,” Jensen added quietly, arms tightening around Chris just a little. Chris finally noticed they’d both been so damn careful to avoid his wound. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“But —”

Steve kissed him again. “No. We—we don’t care. We don’t fucking care how many people walk through that door looking for you.”

“But—” Chris tried again.

“We’ll be ready next time,” Jensen promised. “We’ll figure something out. Better they find you in here with us than out there alone.”

“Where we won’t know what happened. We wouldn’t even know if you were still alive. Chris, I can’t live like that again. And it’d be worse than last time, and I can’t. I won’t.”

“Please,” Steve added, lips shifting over to the side a little, kissing the corner of Chris’ mouth. Jensen’s immediately moved into the space Steve left to bite gently at the other corner.

“Don’t leave.”

Chris swallowed hard and leaned into those touches, eyes fluttering closed. “Okay,” he breathed. Fuck, he wasn’t strong enough to say no, and he wasn’t selfless enough to leave and protect them. He didn’t want to be alone again. “All right.”

He felt them relax a little as he let out another slow, calming breath—and blacked out as the pain replaced the adrenaline, completely overwhelming him.

~

Jensen caught him before he could hit the ground, pulling Chris tight against him, taking his weight easily. "Fuck," he breathed.

"It's okay," Steve said shakily, fingers on Chris' pulse. "He's just passed out. Probably from exhaustion and pain. Let's…" He gestured back to the bed.

Jensen nodded, lifting Chris up carefully to settle him again on the mattress, brushing Chris' hair back from his face.

"He shouldn't have even been able to move," Steve said, letting out a soft, humorous laugh. He carefully cleaned Chris' arm before putting the IVs back, running gentle fingers over Chris' skin. "What were you thinking, Chris?"

"Shoulda figured he'd think like that," Jensen whispered. He looked up at Steve, eyes over-bright. "We shoulda told him. We shoulda let him know."

"We have time," Steve said, voice trembling. "We're gonna have time." He looked back up at Jensen before he just pulled him into his arms, holding him tightly and offering comfort as much as taking it. "We're not gonna let him go."

Jensen nodded, kissing Steve softly, Chris' taste still lingering on their lips. He rested his forehead against Steve's, staying close, just breathing. Listening to Chris breathe.

He looked over to the drip before he looked back at Steve. "Can we… is there any way to move that so we can both stay close to him?"

"Lemme…" Steve offered him a weak smirk. "Lay down on his other side. I don't want you to kick so much this falls over."

Jensen let out a soft laugh, punching Steve's arm gently. He moved to settle on Chris' other side, carefully curling as close as possible. It wasn't long before Steve was mirroring him on Chris' other side, hand resting on top of Jensen's on Chris' heart.

"It's gonna be okay," Steve murmured. Jensen knew it was for both their sakes. "He's gonna be okay."

"We're gonna be more than okay," Jensen whispered, kissing Chris' shoulder before he met Steve's eyes again. "We're gonna be so much more than just okay."

They both fell silent, resting against Chris as much as they could without hurting him. Their hands rested on his heart, feeling the almost-steady beat, letting it reassure them until it finally lulled them both into a light sleep.

When Jensen jerked awake hours later, it was already dark, and he wasn’t quite sure exactly what had woken him up. Until he heard it again: a soft, sleepy, but almost scared sound. Chris was stirring beside them, eyelids fluttering wildly. Jensen looked over to find Steve looking right back at him, blue eyes clear in the dim light of the room.

“Shh,” Steve whispered, brushing soft fingers through Chris’ hair. “Chris, it’s okay. Take it easy.”

“It’s just us,” Jensen added, running the back of his fingers over Chris’ cheek. He didn’t even know if it would work—didn’t know if they had enough of a place in Chris’ life to be able to actually help, or if they should just both move away and give Chris space. Jensen swallowed hard; there was still so much about Chris they didn’t know, but god, he wanted to find out. “You’re safe,” he tried again.

To his surprise, Chris actually settled. Steve kept his hand running through Chris’ hair, and Jensen moved to rub at Chris’ chest slowly and reassuringly, how he’d watched Steve get countless people through panic attacks at the clinic before.

When Chris’ eyes slowly opened a few minutes later, there wasn’t a hint of fear in them. They were calm, soft, and drowsy with painkillers. Chris looked so open, so vulnerable right then and there—no hint of the hardened killer they’d seen back in the living room—that Jensen just wanted to be able to wrap him up in their arms and protect him from the whole fucking world.

“Hey,” Jensen said, throat tight.

Chris looked from him to Steve and back again before he flicked his tongue over his lips. “Hey.” Chris looked between them again, confusion clear.

“It’s okay, you know,” Steve said softly. “Me and Jen….” Steve looked up at Jensen, meeting his eyes, silently reaffirming the things they’d already considered, what they’d already said. “We….”

Jensen laughed, shaking his head as Chris’ eyes snapped to him. “To be honest, we don’t have any idea what we’re doing,” he told him. “All we know….” He swallowed, looking back at Steve before looking down at Chris again.

Chris was looking at them more and more like they were crazy. Well, they probably were.

“All we know, Chris, is that we want this,” Steve finished.

“We want you,” he clarified quietly and slowly, making sure that, even if Chris wasn’t listening to him, he could read his lips. “We both want you.”

“You guys are insane,” Chris croaked, looking at them both with wide, almost hopeful eyes. Fuck, Jensen was so screwed. The urge to protect Chris was still tugging at him, even though Chris had proven enough that he didn’t need protecting. If anything, they were the ones that needed it more. But god, when Chris was looking up at them like that, it was almost too easy to forget what Chris could do.

Jensen offered him a teasing smirk. “Yeah, that’s what I said to Steve when we brought you here, so that’s probably true.”

Chris laughed a little, wincing as it jarred his wound, but offered them a smile nonetheless. Steve turned Chris towards him. “It’s not about gratitude anymore, okay?” Hhe said. “Hand to god, Chris, that’s not what it’s all about anymore.”

“Okay,” Chris finally breathed, and Jensen could see the tentative hope starting to take root. He could see Chris wanted to believe them so badly.

The fact that he didn’t quite dare just made Jensen all the more determined to get it right, even though he was pretty sure Chris was only this receptive and expressive because he was high on painkillers. Without the drip attached to his arm, he was going to go back to his sarcastic, bitchy self. Not that Jensen minded; he’d manage to fall in love anyway, hadn’t he?

“D’you want a drink?” Jensen asked Chris with a small smile.

“Is there whiskey?” Chris said, grinning up at him cheekily. Apparently, the morphine was already wearing off. Or Chris was getting immune. Jensen swatted him on the arm. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“Talk to your nurse over there,” Jensen said, gesturing to Steve. He couldn’t resist leaning down to steal a kiss from Chris, then brushing his lips over Steve’s as well before he got up.

“Your mother hen wouldn’t let you drink even if I said yes,” Steve said with a small laugh when Chris transferred his gaze over, eyes wide and pleading. Chris pouted. Honest to god pouted, and Jensen could only laugh as he slipped from the room to get Chris a glass of water.

When he came back, Chris was turned a little more into Steve, and Steve had his hand brushing over Chris’ cheek, lips millimeters from Chris’. Chris froze as he heard the door creak, eyes turning to look at him almost guiltily. Jensen just smiled back.

Steve gave them another moment before he was turning Chris back to face him, kissing him softly.

Fuck, a few months ago, he would probably have laughed at the idea that he could watch Steve kissing someone else without feeling a pang of jealousy. He’d probably have hit the assholes if they’d tried to tell him he’d actually enjoy it.

He made himself move, pushing away from the door to join them on the bed. Steve didn’t let Chris pull away in a hurry, instead, letting his lips linger as he pulled away reluctantly. Jensen slid his arm around Chris’ shoulders, mindful of his injury, and helped him sit up carefully. He batted Chris’ hand away when Chris tried to reach for the glass, ignoring Chris’ glare. Instead, he just brought the glass to Chris’ lips and let him sip at it slowly.

“I’m hurt,” Chris complained—after the careful sips, Jensen might add. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Same thing,” Steve said.

“No, it’s not.”

“You tried to throw yourself out the window,” Steve argued, as if that had any relevance to the conversation at hand.

“What’s that got to do with it?” Chris asked in amazement, looking at Jensen for support. Jensen looked back at Steve before he shrugged at Chris.

“Whatever Steve said.”

“That’s not fair!” Chris said, and yes, that was a whine Jensen was hearing in Chris’ voice. God, that really shouldn’t have been cute at all. Nothing about Chris should have been cute after he’d watched him rip a sword from his side and pierce someone else through, but he was.

Not that Jensen would admit to thinking that under pain of death.

“You can’t gang up on the sick guy!”

“When the sick guy tried to throw himself out the window, yeah, we can,” Steve said calmly. Jensen could see Steve was trying to bite back a grin.

“I wasn’t going to throw myself out,” Chris said with a—yes, there it was again—pout.

“Oh?” Jensen raised an eyebrow. He was totally with Steve on this one. “It looked like you were to us.”

“I was going to climb out gracefully, scale the wall, and leave without using the door.”

Jensen’s raised eyebrows mirrored Steve’s incredulous look.

Chris rolled his eyes. “How d’you think I got in the day Fred was here? Fly?”

Oh. Huh. They hadn’t thought of that one.

Chris smirked. “Now, boys, I know I was impressive back there, but, really, I ain’t a superhero.”

Steve let out a choked laugh before he was leaning against Chris’ temple, eyes closed. His breathing pattern changed, quickened, deepened and starting to get erratic and—

“Easy, Steve,” Jensen whispered , looking over at Chris with a small smile as he reached over with the hand not supporting Chris’ back to rub at Steve’s arm. No one could ever say Chris was slow, even doped up on painkillers. His hand settled on Steve’s thigh as his other hand brushed over Jensen’s hip.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Just—just don’t do that again, okay?”

Chris blinked, looking at Jensen, the confusion in his eyes clear. “Make a joke about it?”

“No. The—” Steve waved his hand vaguely. He took another deep, shaking breath before he looked at Jensen, silently pleading for help.

“The fighting,” Jensen said. “The trying to sacrifice yourself for us.”

Chris dropped his eyes, fingers clenching a little. When Jensen looked up from Chris’ hand on Steve’s leg, he could see the stubborn set to Chris’ jaw. “Chris…” he started.

Chris cut him off with a definite shake of his head. “No.”

“Please,” Steve said. “Chris, please. Promise.”

“No,” Chris just argued. “I can’t. I won’t. That’s not fair.” They both opened their mouths, and Chris cut them off again. God, who knew the guy could still be so damn stubborn and forceful even with a patched up hole in his side. “I won’t. Don’t ask me again because I won’t cave. I brought this on you.”

“No, you—”

“No,” Chris said again, fingers tightening on Jensen’s hip, and, Jensen guessed, on Steve’s thigh, too. “No, no, no, and no.”

Steve looked up at Chris with those big, soulful eyes, and Chris was most definitely a stronger man than Jensen was because Jensen caved every damn time. Chris just shook his head and closed his eyes tight—so maybe he wasn’t immune, either.

“Stop asking me,” Chris said, soft and tired. “I won’t promise. Not ever. Not even if I have to go back to sleep on my mattress in the living room because I won’t. And even if I promised you now, I wouldn’t think twice about breakin’ it, and I’ve never broken a promise to you—and I won’t start whatever this is by making a promise I wouldn’t think twice about breaking.”

“But Chris—”

“There’s no but,” Chris interrupted. “There isn’t. You’ve never killed anyone—and fuck, I don’t want you to ever have to—and you never had any of shit coming at you until I came along. And god, even if you had, even if they weren’t in here looking for me and you’d brought this on yourselves, you still don’t know how to protect yourselves. I’ll be damned if I swear to stop protecting you when I can!”

“Chris….”

“Please,” Chris said. Fuck, Jensen’s heart didn’t know whether it was full enough that it could burst or if it wanted to shrivel up and die. “Stop asking me.”

Steve’s hand brushed over Jensen’s arm before he pulled both of them closer, and they were suddenly cradling Chris carefully between them. “You’ve protected me pretty much all my life, Chris,” Steve said.

Chris relaxed a little, apparently knowing surrender when he heard it. “Yeah, so it ain’t like I’m gonna stop now.”

Jensen took a slow breath. “We just. We don’t want to do it again. We don’t want to lose you.” He swallowed a little. “I don’t know if we could....”

“Well, you’re idiots,” Chris muttered, trying to sound offended, but the slight tremble in his voice betrayed him. “Have a little more faith. It’s not like I’m gonna throw myself at the next chance to die.” His lips curled up a little. “Just means I got more to fight for—more to lose—don’t it?”

Jensen made a face. “Since when are you so logical?”

“Since you guys stopped with the logic thing,” Chris replied without missing a beat. The tension eased as Steve chuckled, turning his face up to nip playfully at Chris’ chin.

“You’re a real piece of work,” Steve said with a small smile.

“And I’m gonna be a real flat piece of work if you keep squishing me like this,” Chris pointed out, but it was funny how his fingers fisted as much as they could in Jensen’s jeans. Jensen could see Steve’s shirt gaining some new wrinkles, too.

Steve chuckled again as he pulled back enough for them to be able to push Chris back on the bed. Steve met his eyes for a moment, and he couldn’t help leaning over to steal a kiss before they both settled against Chris’ sides.

“You’re such girls,” Chris said through a yawn, pulling them both closer to him. Jensen looked over to Steve and shared another knowing grin, and Jensen knew the relief in Steve’s eyes mirrored his own.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said with a teasing sigh. “Go to sleep, you manly man, you.”

“Fuck you,” Chris managed to mumble as his eyes closed.

“When you’re better,” Jensen promised with a soft laugh. “Just go to sleep, Chris,” he added when Chris’ eyes fluttered, lips parting to give another (no doubt) sarcastic response.

“Fuckin’ painkillers,” Chris said, letting out another slow breath. “‘Wise ‘d kick your ass.”

Jensen laughed softly as he put his hand back on Chris’ heart, and Steve moved to kiss Chris’ temple. “You can do that when you wake up again.”

There wasn’t a reply to that because Chris’ breathing had evened out. By then, he was already fast asleep.

~

Chris knew it was Jared from the cold, wet nose that nudged his hand. It was followed quickly by a slight dip in the bed and then a tongue bathing his fingers and wrist. The nose proceeded to make its way up his arm, over his shoulder, until it could slobber at his neck and chin.

“Sadie, Harley, no! Don’t get—” Thump. Something big landed on his bed, and then another tongue joined the first. “Guys, c’mon, don’t—”

“It’s all right,” Chris said with a small laugh, opening his eyes and freeing his hands enough to bring them up above the covers, pushing at the eager noses and greeting the two dogs by rubbing at their ears. “I’m awake.”

Jared looked at him sheepishly before he opened his hands, gesture helpless. “Don’t let them get too close to that wound. Steve will kill me, and then Jensen will skin my puppies alive.”

Chris laughed, sitting up carefully. “I’ll think of the dogs, then,” he said, giving Jared another smile. “So you’re on babysitting duty, huh?”

He wasn’t surprised someone had turned up; Steve and Jensen had done their best not to leave him alone since the incident with Fred. They’d hovered and fussed in every way imaginable to man, and, as much as Chris enjoyed it—not that he’d ever admit it to them—there were limits to how much fussing someone not used to it could take.

“I’m not babysitting unless you’re a baby,” Jared fired back. Chris could see he was biting back a smile, and Chris was going to continue to ignore the smugness there in favour of playing with Jared’s dogs, who were making themselves extremely comfortable on Chris’ legs.

Harley poked curiously at the bandages around Chris’ waist and then sneezed, shifting his nose away to prod at something else instead. Apparently, Harley did not like the smell of antiseptic. Chris rubbed at his ear in silent apology; he didn’t like getting a noseful of that bland smell, either.

Jared settled himself in a chair that had appeared in the room some time during the last few days—Chris was still trying to figure that one out—and just looked at him. After a few minutes, it got a little unnerving.

“What?” Chris finally asked, looking up from where he was drawing patterns on Sadie’s head to meet Jared’s eyes.

Jared tipped his head to the side before his lips quirked up into a smile. “You look better.”

Chris blinked. “No shit, genius. I’m not bleeding to death.”

Jared rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant, Chris. I mean, you look…” He gestured vaguely with a flap of his hand. “Better.” Which made completely no sense to Chris at all.

Chris raised his eyebrow. “Want to put that in real words that real people understand?”

“I’d debate calling you a real person,” Jared said, smirking a little, before he just shrugged. “I mean, even before you were….”

“Run through with a sword, yes—go on?” Chris just didn’t understand why everyone had so much trouble saying the words or talking about that whole thing with Fred at all. It wasn’t like gesturing and vaguely implying things helped the hole in his side in any way, and saying it wasn’t going to suddenly drudge up an ocean of pain or something.

“Yeah, that,” Jared continued. He shifted a little uncomfortably before he just looked up at Chris, gesturing again. “Even before that, you didn’t look as good as you do now. Even though you weren’t as hurt then, y’know?”

Chris raised his other eyebrow. “No, I don’t know.”

Jared gave him an exasperated look. “I mean, you look happier, Chris. More comfortable.” He paused, and then said more quietly, “More at home.”

Chris wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. He didn’t even know what to think, really. So instead of replying, he just shrugged and looked back down at Sadie’s head, going back to petting her absently.

Jared stayed quiet for all of a minute, which was probably a miracle in itself. “You don’t feel it?” Hhe asked him tentatively, as if Chris was going to explode if he wasn’t careful enough. Chris could hear the worry in his voice, but whether the concern was for him or for Steve and Jensen, Chris didn’t know.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything,” Jared corrected. He was quiet for a few minutes longer before he just sighed and edged the chair closer to the bed. “Chris?”

Chris closed his eyes for a second, trying to figure out what to say, before he finally looked back up at Jared. “I am. All of the above.” He hadn’t really thought about it—hadn’t let himself. He hadn’t wanted to jinx whatever this was. It was stupid, but he hadn’t wanted to say anything out loud, whether anyone was around to hear it or not, because he didn’t want anything to change.

The truth was that maybe he wasn’t actually still as hurt as all of them, himself included, made him out to be. He didn’t need to keep sleeping in their bed between them so that they could check he was still there, still breathing. He didn’t need to be in bed all the time. He wasn’t weak enough that he needed help getting around the house or someone in the apartment to watch out for him all the time.

He just didn’t want things to change.

He fidgeted with Harley’s collar and shrugged again.

“C’mon, Kane,” Jared tried. “What the fuck’s going on? Why d’you look like someone shot your puppy?”

Sadie and Harley’s heads snapped up, and Chris gave Jared a nasty look. Jared grinned back sheepishly and petted the dogs on the head. “Sorry, guys. I didn’t mean it like that.” He looked back at Chris. “Point still stands, Chris. If you feel it, then what’s up with that face?”

Chris didn’t answer. Jared prodded him, then huffed when Chris didn’t say anything. At the sound from her master, Sadie, the little traitor, looked up with those big brown eyes and stared at him like he’d done something horrible. When Chris finally looked at Jared, Jared was looking back at him exactly the same way.

Chris rolled his eyes. “You’re fucking impossible, Padalecki.” Jared just kept looking back at him, patient like Chris has never seen before. Chris finally let out a soft sigh and looked away. “Because it’s not mine, Jared. Because this can’t last.”

There was a confused pause before Jared let out a breath. “Are you sure about that?”

Chris let out a brittle laugh that had Sadie and Harley lifting their heads from his lap. “What isn’t there to be sure about?” He gestured around the apartment. “This isn’t my apartment. Not my bed—I’m only in it because they can’t possibly expect me to sleep on the floor after being run through with a sword—and this isn’t my room.” On the table beside that very bed sat a picture of Steve and Jensen from before. From happier times. They probably didn’t even know at the time that the picture was being taken—Steve was leaning casually back between Jensen’s legs in some bar, relaxed and carefree.

He—an ex-slave, a wanted man—didn’t have any place in that kind of world.

“Chris,” Jared said slowly, as if he was expecting Chris to explode at any time. “I… well, y’know, I don’t know exactly what goes on in this place when we aren’t here, but Jen’s my best friend. I’ve been here, I’ve watched them with you, and, well… maybe it’s not like that.”

Chris just snorted and shook his head, fingers running over the sheets.

There was another long silence before Jared said, “They love you.” Chris’ head snapped up. “They’re in love with you,” Jared repeated, eyes on Chris’ the whole time. “I don’t know much about what’s going on or how it works, and it confuses me, but that’s a fact that I know. I watched them get together, fall in love; I’ve known Jensen since we were kids. I was there when he kissed his first girl, and I was the one he called when he had his heart broken. There’s nothing I don’t know about him—and I know he loves you.” Jared paused, waited for that to sink in. “Steve loves you.” Another pause. “And I think you already knew that.”

Chris raised an eyebrow. “They don’t give you half enough credit for how perceptive you are, do they?”

Jared beamed at him. “Well, that’s how I get away with it. Wouldn’t if they were always being careful now, would I?”

Chris laughed a little and shook his head. “I suppose not.” He rubbed at that spot behind Sadie’s ear again, making her whine happily and collapse back against him.

Jared’s hand covered his on Sadie’s head for a second, calling Chris’ attention back to him. “Just think about it though, Chris, okay? Think about what you’ve got—and what you could have. Because I think you could if you’d let yourself.”

Chris just snorted a little and nodded. “Fine, fine. Jesus. You’re worse than they are.”

Jared laughed, loud and carefree. Chris really loved that about Jared; he still had some sort of innocence that had died in most people sometime during the war. “I don’t think anyone could be worse than those two, Chris. Not when it comes to you.”

Considering the last few weeks—and the fact that Jared was even here at all, puppies and all—Chris couldn’t disagree with that one.

~

Steve laughed a little as he pushed the door open and tossed his keys onto the table by the door. He shrugged out of his coat.

“I can’t believe that,” he said to Jensen, still grinning. “And what did Kripke say?”

Jensen smirked. “What can you say to that? He really thought it was some kids from college when it turns out it’s Allison and Alona. S’why we were sent packing early.”

“Wait until Chris hears about that,” Steve said as he turned around to a completely empty house. No lights were on. There wasn’t a single sound. They both froze, breaths simultaneously catching.

Jensen reached out and put a hand on his arm, stopping him from going any further. Steve shook his head and edged closer, Jensen right behind him, his heart pounding.

Oh, god, Steve thought. When he looked back, he knew Jensen was thinking exactly the same thing from the look in his eyes. What if something had happened to Chris? What if… god, what would they see when they flicked on the lights? Steve hesitated, fingers on the light switch, images of Chris, lying on the floor, blood everywhere going through his mind. What if someone had come for Chris when they were out? What if Chris had lay there, dying and alone, and they’d been out doing god knows what?

His hand shook. Jensen finally covered his hand with his own, and the lights clicked on.

Nothing. No Chris lying in a puddle of his own blood. Nothing overturned, nothing even out of place.

Jensen almost tripped over him trying to get to their bedroom.

Empty.

There was no sign that Chris had even been there.

Ever.

No keys. No clothes. No medication. Nothing.

“Oh, god,” Steve breathed. He turned and met Jensen’s eyes, shaking his head. “No. He… he can’t have… he wouldn’t. He….” And then Jensen’s arms were around him, holding him tight, Jensen’s face buried in his hair.

Then they were on the floor, clinging onto each other as if the world was about to break.

“What are we supposed to do now?” Steve asked Jensen softly, what might have been hours later. Jensen just shook his head and held him tighter. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Steve? Jensen?” They jumped, and suddenly Chris was there, crouching down in front of them, hands pulling at them, eyes wide and panicked. “What happened? Are you hurt? Are you okay? What happened?”

Jensen’s hand fisted in Chris’ shirt at exactly the same time as Steve’s fingers closed around the material. Chris tumbled against them with a soft sound, and, moments later, Chris’ arms slid around them and he pulled them close.

“What happened?” Chris asked again.

“We thought….” Jensen managed before his voice broke.

“Why’re you up?” Steve said, pulling back a little, his hands going to Chris’ wound. They were still shaking. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Anything to distract him from those moments he’d really believed Chris was gone.

“Because….” Chris hesitated and then lifted his eyes to meet Steve’s. “’Cause we all know I’m not that sick anymore.” He swallowed hard. “I’m… I’m better.”

“What’s that mean?” Jensen asked, voice muffled against Chris’ neck.

“That… that we can’t… we can’t pretend that I’m… I’m sleepin’ here because—”

“Because we want you to,” Jensen interrupted. “Because we love you. Because we want you here with us.”

“It wasn’t about you being sick,” Steve added, tipping Chris’ chin down so he could meet his eyes. “Don’t think that, Chris. We told you. We love you, and we want you.”

Chris let out a shaky breath and nodded, fingers combing through their hair. “So… if that’s what was wrong? Why’re we on the floor?”

Steve let out a small, surprised laugh. “We thought you’d gone.”

“Gone?”

“Left,” Jensen said. He ran a hand over Chris’ cheek. “That you were better, and you’d left so that we wouldn’t be in danger or some stupid shit like that.” He sniffled a little and then hit Chris’ arm. “Fucker, don’t scare us like that. Where did you go?”

“Dinner,” Chris admitted, gesturing behind him to the shopping bags, spilled out over the kitchen floor from where Chris had dropped them as he’d rushed towards the two of them on the floor. “I went out. Needed to… I… Jared said some stuff, and I needed to clear my head, so I thought I’d grab us dinner.”

Steve hit his other arm. “Don’t ever fuckin’ do that to us again.”

“I just went out and got dinner!” Chris said, trying to defend himself as Jensen hit him again.

“Leave a fuckin’ note.” Chris looked back at him like that hadn’t even occurred to him. “Almost gave us a fucking heart attack, Chris. Thought something had happened. We didn’t know where you were, or… or if you’d…”

“Sorry,” Chris said softly. He dropped his head and, a second later, brushed his lips tentatively over Steve’s, then turned to repeat the gesture with Jensen. Jensen’s hand slid into Chris’ hair and pulled him in for a longer kiss. Steve watched for another moment before he stole Chris’ lips from Jensen, licking into Chris’ mouth as Jensen nosed at their cheeks.

“It’s not just about you anymore,” Steve whispered. “We’re in this together now. You can’t leave us without taking our whole fucking lives with you. D’you understand that, Chris?”

“You can’t leave us without breaking us,” Jensen breathed against their skin.

He could feel Chris’ breath catch. It was hard to miss, pressed together like that. “I won’t leave you,” he promised. “I’m not going to leave. S’long as you want me here, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Steve repeated.

“Nowhere.” Jensen’s lips touched the corners of theirs before Jensen trailed down over Chris’ jaw, moving to mouth at his neck, then Chris’ breath caught and Steve looked down to see Jensen’s teeth on scraping over Chris’ skin. He moaned, and Chris moaned with him.

There was a pause, then something occurred to Steve. “Since we’ve finally admitted that you aren’t so hurt anymore,” he whispered, anticipation making his voice shake. “I think that means we can get on with a whole lot of other things as well. Don’t you?” He was looking at Jensen.

Jensen grinned slowly, pulling back enough to tug Chris to his feet, and continued on backwards towards the bed. Steve was right behind them, hands settling on Chris’ hips as he stepped up, mouthing at the mark Jensen had left on Chris’ neck.

Chris whined in the back of his throat, completely pliant as they moved him onto the bed and settled in close, hands bumping as they started to get his clothes off him. Jensen finally gave in and moved his hand up to get rid of Chris’ shirt, and he was able to make quick work of the pants, tossing them to the side without even thinking about it.

“Fuck, Chris,” he breathed a minute later. There was just skin.

“Forgot to put the wash in,” Chris breathed with a laugh, arching into Steve’s hand. “Didn’t know it’d work to my advanta—” He was cut off by a moan. Steve didn’t want excuses; he wanted to watch Chris fall apart under them.

When he felt Jensen’s fingers curl around his own, he knew Jensen was thinking exactly the same thing. The both pulled back to look over at each other before looking down at Chris, who was flushed and looking back up at them through wide, dark eyes, already breathing hard.

“What d’you want?” Jensen asked quietly.

“Tell us.” Steve leaned over and kissed Jensen, eyes still on Chris, watching as Chris’ eyes fluttered and his breath caught. “What d’you want?”

“This is just… fuck.” Chris was almost whimpering. “Perfect. This is—this is—it’s perfect.”

Steve cupped Chris’ cheek, thumb sliding over the cheekbone before he leaned down to kiss him again.

“Changed my mind,” Chris whispered. “Don’t want to just—want to do something.” That was just fine with Steve. He moved his hand from Chris’ cock to slide it into Jensen’s hair, easing Jensen down. He knew the moment Jensen took Chris into his mouth from the way Chris’ lips parted in a silent moan.

Steve grinned and kissed Chris again, muffling his next sound, then fed his own moan to Chris as Chris’ hand wrapped around his dick. “How’s that feel?” Hhe asked, his own breathing already shot. Fuck, it’d been a long damn time since they’d done anything—hadn’t seemed right, not when Chris hadn’t been well enough to join them.

Nothing was right without Chris anymore.

“Steve… Jen….” Steve grinned and bit on Chris’ lower lip as Chris moaned again. He glanced down to watch Jensen—more to the point, to watch Chris’ cock disappear between Jensen’s lips. “Oh, god, Jensen…” Chris moaned. Then Jensen looked up, and they moaned in harmony. Steve could see the grin in Jensen’s eyes.

When Jensen turned his eyes back down and took Chris in deeper, Steve’s eyes were half closed, attention torn between watching that and watching Chris’ face. He finally turned to watch the expressions chase themselves over Chris’ face until Chris was stuttering out Jensen’s name in warning, back arching under their touches.

Steve leaned down to kiss Chris again, hand trailing down Chris’ side, then settled on his stomach. “C’mon, Chris,” he murmured against Chris’ lips. He leaned back so that Jensen could watch. “Come for us.”

Then he watched bliss wash over Chris’ face. It was one of the most fucking amazing things Steve had ever seen, and he wanted to watch it over and over again. He was never going to get bored of it.

He was still watching Chris lazily opening his eyes to look at them as Jensen moved up beside him, turning his head into a kiss. He moaned deep in his throat when Jensen’s lips parted against his, practically feeding him Chris’ come. And when it was mixed in with the familiar taste of Jensen, it was intoxicating.

“Tastes good, doesn’t he?” Jensen whispered against his mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve muttered. “Fuck, yes.”

“What?” Chris murmured. Steve leaned down and kissed Chris again, sharing their combined tastes. He knew the exact moment Chris realized what had happened by the way Chris’ hand tightened around his cock, and Chris’ entire body trembled.

He pulled back as Jensen nudged him to the side to kiss Chris, so Steve took that moment to curl his fingers around Jensen’s cock, watching the two of them together as he jerked Jensen off. Even though he’d done this a thousand times before, it felt different. Better. It felt more amazing than any other time they’d done this.

His own climax hit him by surprise, and he felt Jensen following close behind him.

When he opened his eyes, Chris was licking his fingers, and fuck if that wasn’t hot overload.

“Wanna taste Jen,” Chris whispered. He was staring at Steve’s hand. Steve grinned and brought it to Chris’ lips, letting Chris lick Jensen’s come off his fingers. He really didn’t know who was making what sound anymore because that was just… god, it was phenomenal.

And they hadn’t even got to the good stuff yet.

“Can’t leave us now, Chris,” Jensen said as he shifted to lie down next to Chris, tucking himself close to Chris’ side. “Because Steve’s just not going to be enough.”

“We’ll never get off without you again,” Steve added, laughing a little as he settled on Chris’ other side.

“You’re such fucking girls,” Chris muttered, but Steve could see that little smile tugging at Chris’ lips. “And your pained cries and desperation and uncontrollable urges have ruined dinner.”

Steve hid his grin in Chris’ neck and closed his eyes, curling his fingers around Jensen’s. They all knew dinner was the furthest thing from any of their minds. Instead, there was them—all three of them, safe and warm and starting to actually understand each other. There were still a hell of a lot of questions to answer, a lot more about them to work out, and Steve wasn’t naïve enough to think that it would be easy, but they were together. And maybe—just maybe—for once, he would believe the stories; just this once, he would believe that it was enough.

~

Additional A/N: Writing this was an incredible ride. It started with such a small idea and it's grown and grown into this - and into something bigger than this. Apart from waterofthemoon, I also have to thank my Chat girls - clex_monkie89, sophie_448, celtic_cookie, brynviridian, gigglingkat - and also ashley, itinerant_vae and ilovemybaby for the cheerleading, for not thinking I'm insane (or supporting me despite thinking I'm insane) and for keeping me sane as I worked through this.

And, finally, thank you for getting this far. ♥

Hymns for the Exiled (2/3)

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 02:56:02 GMT

[ Previous ]

“Well, you’ve heard of dog or cock fighting, bear baiting, that kind of thing?”

Steve had finally convinced Chris to talk to them. To tell them more about what he’d meant the day they’d found him, why he was so worried about them being in danger, why he’d said they didn’t even know what he was. Chris was well enough to move around on his own, more or less, and he was being taken off the medication slowly. Chances were, he was going to be well enough to be able to survive out there without their help in maybe a week or two. Jensen had watched Steve get more and more worked up about it before he’d finally suggested that they find other reasons for Chris to stay.

He didn’t exactly like the thought of Chris leaving, either, even if he hadn’t let himself analyze it all that much. Too much, too soon, and it was all too confusing to deal with. It was easier to just let things be.

But they’d finally managed to get Chris to tell them about his last few years. His owners’ brand hadn’t been registered in any of the records they searched through, and, as Steve had already known, Chris’ own existence wasn’t in the system. The rest of the organisation had got more curious and had become more determined than ever to find out what the hell was going on so they could figure out what the hell they could do about it.

But this, Jensen thought, was not a good start at all. All eyes were on Chris, who sat a little over from him, next to Steve, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Jared was on Chris’ other side. They’d somehow become closer over the weeks—something about bonding, but mostly about how Chris’ entire face lit up when Jared brought over his puppies, and Sadie and Harley’s easy love of Chris.

Now, though, there was nothing about Chris that looked even remotely like the man they’d watched get on his knees to greet Jared’s babies. Instead, he resembled students about to walk into interviews or exams when they hadn’t studied and didn’t have a clue what kind of questions were going to come up. Jensen had to fight the urge to reach over and offer reassurance; as far as they’d come, he was still pretty sure Chris wouldn’t hesitate to break his arm if he tried.

“You know what that’s about, right?” Chris asked again.

They all nodded. Chris tipped his head to the side, looked away and then unflinchingly met their eyes, something cold and hard in his irises. Jensen’s stomach sunk even before Chris had opened his mouth.

“Well, it’s like that,” he carried on. “Just… y’know, not with animals. Or, well, with those kinds of animals.”

Jensen swallowed hard. Holy shit. Chris couldn’t possibly be saying that. It was almost too awful to contemplate. And yet it all made sense: Chris’ skittishness, his scars, his nightmares, the way he was always amazed by any small act of kindness. It all made sense if they were treated like animals whose only purpose was to fight and kill and die.

Jensen looked around at their little group. Allison was covering her mouth—of course the good doctor couldn’t understand why anyone could do that to each other. Kristin and Alona looked steps away from being sick, and Lauren was in even worse shape. Even Mike, Tom, Chad, Jared…. and Steve. Steve looked like his whole world had just fallen down. Jensen could tell he was fighting the urge to pull Chris to him. He wasn’t surprised to find his own hands fisted, knuckles almost turning white with the force of his own restraint and anger.

“Living conditions weren’t so bad,” Chris carried on, his tone lacking passion. He sounded almost bored, like their lecturers sometimes did when they were describing events and facts. Things. Not the kind of voice they used when talking about people.

Living, breathing, feeling people.

“Weren’t as bad as durin’ the war. Just barracks, and… they kept us warm enough, fed us enough to make sure we weren’t starvin’ or sufferin’—that we were always strong enough to fight.” Chris let out a breath and glanced at something off to the side, not meeting any of their eyes. Jensen couldn’t blame him in the least. It was hard enough just listening to it, never mind imagining actually living through any of this, and in a time of peace and prosperity, too.

“Guess you’d probably fight about once every couple of days, a little longer if you got injured in the last fight and they didn’t want to risk it, or shorter if you could manage and there was… demand. It all varied, all depended—the only certainty was that you’d probably have to fight, and you’d probably have to fight each other one day or another, so it wasn’t ever a clever thing to do to get attached to anyone.” He trailed off and shrugged again. “The more you fought and earned and the better you were, the more privileges you got. Just like how it works out here, ain’t it?”

“What… what kind of privileges?” Allison asked, voice small, as if afraid of the answer. They all were, Jensen supposed. Here they’d been all worried about the house slaves and the pleasure slaves, trying to work on saving the ones that ran away, to protect the ones that weren’t well taken care of, when somewhere outside their city….

“First to get medical attention,” Chris answered quietly. “First to get the showers or the bedding or the new clothes that came through. Sometimes, you got better food or were even paid a little in coins that you could “buy” some of the rarer stuff with, but also with the promise that, if you saved enough, maybe you’d be able to walk free one day.” Chris shrugged and snorted a little. “It all seems so stupid now. It isn’t war time anymore; those things aren’t so hard to come by, and we… they were almost fuckin’ gold to us. Simple things: a softer pillow, soap… paper and pens.”

When everyone went home, Jensen was going to empty out his whole goddamn drawer into Chris’ hands. Actually, screw that; Jensen was going to make it even more damn clear that not only was Chris welcome to anything in the kitchen, he could damn well help himself to absolutely anything they owned. He felt Steve’s hand slip into his, sweaty and shaking, pulse beating almost wildly.

Chris smiled humourlessly, looking from one face to another. “So that’s that,” he said. “That’s me. That’s what I am. A gladiator, I suppose. They used to say we ain’t better or worth more than dogs, just it was more fun to watch us fight ‘cause human nature and survival instincts make for one hell of a show.”

“So….” Jared started. Jensen turned as Chris’ attention shifted to him. “Why do they want you caught so badly? Ain’t never seen people so furious over an escaped slave before.”

“I killed a man,” Chris said quietly. “To get out. I counted my coins and earned myself enough to fuckin’ buy my freedom, and then I realised it was all a lie. They didn’t give us freedom, only the choice to die there and then or go back into the cage.” The corner of his lips tugged up just a little, eyes sliding to Jensen and Steve, before Chris looked away again and shrugged. “So I killed him and ran. And it’s not like they’re about to start lettin’ me set a precedent so the others in there would figure out they could damn well do the same.”

There was complete silence. Jensen wasn’t sure anyone was breathing. He could feel Steve, tense and almost vibrating beside him, hand clutching his hand so tight Jensen was sure it was going to bruise.

It was Chris that finally broke it. “When they find me,” he said, looking down at his hands. “They’ll make sure I’m made an example of. That no one will ever even think about doing what I did.” He swallowed hard. “And they’ll make sure no one will ever help someone who dared to do it like you’ve helped me, too.”

“They won’t find you,” Steve promised, voice rough and breaking as he spoke. “I swear, Chris, we won’t let them take you back.”

Chris turned and offered them a small, soft smile, vulnerability leaking in around the edges. Jensen’s heart flipped, and he reminded himself that this was all for Steve. This Chris was Steve’s.

“You always were a dreamer,” Chris said.

Steve shook his head, breath hitching. “These days, I make sure I’m prepared to make them real. They won’t find you, Chris—or, when they do, it’ll be on our terms. We’ll help you.”

“Steve….”

“No,” Steve interrupted before Chris could get any further. He glanced around and met all their eyes, and Jensen knew what he was going to say even before he said it. “We will. That’s what this organisation’s always been about. Bringing humanity back to this world, to this fucked up society that’s forgotten people were born equal. That we all believed in before we blew ourselves up with greed.” He reached out for Chris, and Chris didn’t pull away. “Help us, Chris. You’re the only one who knows what’s really going on.”

Jensen watched the indifferent escaped slave Chris had been as he’d clinically told them about the torture he’d been through disappear, melting into the boy Steve had told him Chris had once been – they Chris they saw everyday - right before his eyes. Chris’ whole body language softened before he just let out a sigh.

“Okay,” he answered softly. He looked around at the rest of the people in the room. When he found everyone watching him, that same conviction in their eyes—the conviction that held their group together and kept them working night and day despite the dangers—his eyes came back to Steve, and he nodded once. “Okay.”

“We’ll bring the whole thing down,” Allison said. “Blow this whole bullshit wide open.”

“It’s all going to burn,” Mike said, with a glee that never failed to make them smile.

“We’ll get them, Chris,” Jensen murmured, reaching out to squeeze Chris’ shoulder. “We’ll make them pay.”

When Chris turned to him and smiled, he imagined the sweetness in it was for him and hadn’t come from the way Steve still cradled Chris’ hand in his own. It was almost good enough.

~

Chris started awake, eyes snapping open. He stilled completely, steadying his breathing as he focused, trying to figure out what had woken him up. His body was tensed and alert, ready to fight if he needed to.

Ready to put himself between the intruder and the apartment’s single bedroom if he had to.

He strained his senses again, knowing something had definitely woken him up. It wasn’t like he’d been sleeping very deeply—ever since he’d come off most the medication, especially the sleeping pills, he’d had too many nightmares for him to be able to sleep well.

Thunk.

Chris turned his head and slipped off the mattress, moving silently towards the bedroom, heart hammering with a fear that had nothing to do with the intruder himself and everything to do with what could have happened to the people in that room during the time it had taken Chris to—

A moan. It was quickly muffled but was followed by whispering in rough, hushed voices, sounds muffled against skin and cloth.

Chris moved more quickly, pressing himself against the wall beside the door and leaning forwards, just enough to look through the slight gap where they’d left it open, trying to figure out how to make sure they didn’t get hurt while he dealt with whoever was there. He froze as his eyes focused on what was actually happening on the bed.

Chris’ reaction was immediate. He sucked in a breath and held it, and fuck, he knew he should walk away now, just go back to bed and pretend he’d seen nothing, but… it was… fuck. He’d never seen anything like it before, and it had been hard enough to look away from Steve and Jensen’s soft, affectionate touching, but this… this was….

He couldn’t look away. He could hardly even blink.

They were on the bed, Steve on his elbows and knees, face pressed into a pillow, muffling soft, helpless sounds. Jensen was behind him, hand stroking down Steve’s spine, over his hip, around to his stomach, as he worked two fingers inside, his own sounds breathed into Steve’s neck.

Steve whined low in his throat, lifting himself onto his hands and rocking back a little impatiently.

Chris’ breath caught. His eyes traced the curve of Steve’s neck, and his fingers almost twitched with the want that coursed through him—the desire to run his hand through Steve’s sweat-soaked hair, down his back and over that glistening skin, the toned stomach, and fuck. Chris wanted.

“Shh,” Jensen murmured, almost too low to hear. “You’ll wake him.” Jensen’s voice shook, obviously having to work hard to stay in control as Steve made another sound. His hand came up to brush over Steve’s lips, and Chris had to bite back his own whimper when Steve sucked Jensen’s fingers into his mouth. “Steve, c’mon,” Jensen almost pleaded, pulling his hand back and steadying Steve’s hips. Chris could see him working in another finger, movements more frantic, more needy.

“Hurry, Jen,” Steve whispered. “Fuck, need you.”

Look away, Kane. You’ve already seen too much.

But his eyes wouldn’t obey. Instead, they ran over Jensen’s bare, unmarked, unmarred skin, watched the way he touched Steve, the ripple of muscle.

“Jen, please.” Steve looked over his shoulder and canted his hips, legs widening, and that was the final straw for Jensen. He pulled his fingers out, coating his cock almost roughly, and then, in one smooth, practiced thrust, slid all the way inside Steve.

They both tried to muffle a moan, but the sensation was apparently too much for any sort of control because the sounds didn’t stop then, as if floodgates had been opened and they didn’t have the power to shut them again.

Chris’ traitorous eyes took in the sight hungrily, etching it into memory: the way Steve’s hands were clenched in the sheets, knuckles almost white; the way Jensen’s muscles shifted and changed with each hard thrust, hips twisting just a little when Steve pushed back to meet every single one of them. The way they muffled their sounds, trying so hard to keep it to themselves, but each movement brought them closer and closer to losing control completely, made them whine and whimper, whisper and curse, gradually louder until Chris was pretty sure there was nothing in the world they knew right that moment but each other.

Until they didn’t remember him.

That thought hit him hard, hurting more than a punch in the gut. More like a knife, one that sunk into his flesh and then twisted sharply more and more the longer he watched Steve and Jensen together. The louder they got, the more desperate their movements, the more Chris wanted, and the more it hurt to know they probably didn’t even remember he existed.

And it was more than just unlikely that he would ever know anything like that. That either of them would want him, too. Either of them.

Chris bit down on a soft sound, eyes immediately going back to Steve and Jensen, checking to make sure they hadn’t noticed. They hadn’t, still completely wrapped up in each other, and Jensen had reached around to jerk Steve off as he fucked him harder, deeper before he squeezed his eyes shut.

Either of them. Both of them.

Oh, god.

He could still hear them. He couldn’t make himself move away. The realisation that he wasn’t jealous of Jensen, didn’t hate Jensen for being able to have Steve, didn’t even just want Steve… it was too much. He felt winded and confused, completely off-balance, but the wall was holding him up. Through the crack in the door, he could hear them.

He could hear the way Steve stuttered Jensen’s name, soft and pleading, need lacing the syllables, and Jensen’s answer, the love all too clear. Then he was listening to them coming, sounds wet and muffled by what Chris could only assume was kissing.

All he could do was swallow hard and try to remember how to breathe. He couldn’t remember anything ever hurting this much.

He didn’t remember how he made it back to his mattress in the corner without Jensen or Steve knowing he’d been there and had seen them, but somehow, he managed. When he fell asleep, a part of him wanted it all to be a dream and another part wasn’t sure he wanted to wake up to face reality.

He slept deeply.

He didn’t sleep without dreams.

~

He’s bleeding. There’s a weapon in his hand, and he’s bleeding. Not hard because he’s not feeling light-headed from blood loss, but enough that he can taste the coppery tang in his mouth, can smell it in the air.

He’s back in the ring. Figures stay just out of his line of sight. They’re the enemy—the friends turned foe that will go back to being friends when this is over. If they’re all still alive.

His eyes sting—from sweat or from blood, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t have time to check.

His grip on the weapon in his hand, a pike this time, tightens as he watches the shadows circle. He feels adrenaline pumping, feels the desire to live flow through his veins stronger than blood—the instinct and need to survive.

His grip tightens, and the figure makes its move. Pain flares in his side, but he’s moved in time, and the pike’s gone straight through the shadowed figure’s throat.

The shadow bleeds into Dave, and Chris feels the bile rise in his throat, his mouth opening as he watches the light in David’s eyes start to dim, watches David’s mouth try to form what Chris knows are comforting words, watches the blood gargling as David tries to just breathe—

And then Chris screams because Dave’s features melt into Steve’s and then to Jensen’s as Chris drops the weapon, shuffles forwards on his hands and knees to slide his arm under the rapidly cooling body. It’s Steve again, looking up at him, dead and cold but lips moving.

Asking him why—why Chris had to come into their lives and destroy what they’d worked so hard to build, why he’d had to ruin everything—and then it’s Jensen once more, telling him that it’s his fault they’re dying.

It’s his fault they’re dead.

Chris screams again.

~

Steve jerked awake at the first bitten-off scream, eyes going immediately to the door, before he looked back at Jensen, who was watching him. Steve swallowed hard as he heard the rustling of the sheets, the soft, helpless sounds Chris was making. The second scream had him out of bed and through the door before his sleep-addled brain could even fully process the movement.

He wasn’t sure how surprised he was to find Jensen right behind him, hovering a little as Steve kneeled down and shook Chris gently.

“Chris,” he said, shaking him more roughly as Chris stayed buried in his nightmare. “Chris, c’mon, wake up. Open your eyes.”

Steve’s heart broke at Chris’ quiet whimper, at the way he tried to push himself away from Steve’s touches, fighting something that was all too vivid to him. His desperation was clear in every movement.

Steve looked up at Jensen helplessly, and Jensen moved to crouch beside him, hesitating for a moment before he brushed soft fingers over Chris’ cheek, slapped him lightly, and held him so he couldn’t turn away. “Wake up, Chris. It’s just a dream.”

Chris’ eyes snapped open, wild and afraid, and Steve bit back on a soft sound at that look. It wasn’t fair, god, it just wasn’t. No one should have to look so… haunted.

“Chris?” Steve murmured, hand slipping over Chris’ cheek, turning him to face them. He waited for Chris to focus, but the seconds ticked on, and that blank, almost unseeing look stayed in Chris’ eyes.

“Here,” Jensen muttered from behind him. A pair of boxers appeared in his line of sight, and he turned enough to look up to find Jensen offering him a small smile. Fuck, they’d both completely forgotten they were naked in their hurry to get to Chris, and Steve hadn’t even noticed Jensen leaving to get their underwear.

“Thanks.” He tugged them on roughly as he turned his full attention back to Chris, who still didn’t look like he’d quite registered the fact that they were there and that he was safe.

“Chris,” Steve said again. He ran his fingers through Chris’ hair. “C’mon, Chris, look at us. You’re here. You’re safe.” He thumbed at the tears that escaped Chris’ eyes before just shaking his head. He gave up fighting the urge to move and wrap his arms around Chris, holding him close. “C’mon, Chris, please. You’re safe with us.”

And Chris finally shifted, then turned his head and buried his face in Steve’s neck, clinging for all he was worth. Steve’s breath caught in his throat. This time, he found himself fighting the urge to cry.

“Stay with him,” Jensen finally said. Jensen’s fingers were in his hair, brushing through the strands, before Jensen tipped his head up so Steve could meet his eyes. “Stay here with him for the rest of the night.”

“But Jen—”

“No,” Jensen interrupted before he could even start arguing. “Just… he needs you, okay? He needs you here.”

“Are you sure it’s—”

“It’s okay.” Jensen kissed him, and it was only as he pulled away that Steve noticed Jensen’s hand dropping from Chris’ neck almost reluctantly. “Take care of him.” And then Jensen disappeared back into their bedroom, leaving Steve with an armful of Chris Kane.

“Fuck,” Steve swore to himself. He shifted both of them until they could get comfortable, curling around Chris the way he remembered Chris used to curl around him when they were smaller and he was scared of the world. He had to remind himself to just breathe, to keep it together, when Chris turned into him and fitted against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s okay,” Steve soothed when he finally found his voice. If it came out rough and scratchy, well, no one would ever know. It was just him and Chris and Jensen, and the rest of the world could go fuck itself. “It’s okay, Chris. We got you. It’s gonna be okay.”

He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince more, but Chris settled, breathing finally evening out as he fell asleep.

That night, Chris didn’t dream again, but Steve stayed awake anyway, watching him. Just in case.

~

After six days of waking up with Steve curled around him, Chris finally asked him something that hammered home the fact that Jensen had made the right choice—and that made having Steve in their bed for only half the night more than worth it.

Jensen walked out of the bedroom, padding through the living room and into the kitchen, grabbing their mugs and pouring in the coffee without ever really waking up. Chris was already awake, as he’d been every morning, and Jensen came back and settled on the couch, handing Chris his cup, careful not to spill it on Steve, wrapped close around Chris, and curling his hands around his own. He sipped at it slowly, finally turning his head to meet Chris’ eyes when he had enough caffeine in his system to register the fact that Chris was staring.

That was different. Jensen tipped his head to the side in silent question.

Chris sighed, ducking his head and staring at his coffee before looking up at Jensen again. “Why don’t you hate me?”

If Jensen had been drinking, he probably would have choked. Instead, he just kind of balked before furrowing his brow. “Why would I?”

Chris looked at him like he was a really dumb child. It still didn’t make sense, so Jensen just stared right back. Chris sighed again, glaring up at him like it was somehow his fault Chris wasn’t making any sense. “Because,” Chris said.

Jensen just waited. Chris rolled his eyes and then looked away. “Because I came into your neatly ordered lives and fucked everything up. And now Steve spends half the fucking night in my bed because I can’t sleep, and… and you’re not pissed off. You’re not angry. You still act like everything’s okay, and you don’t mind… and what the fuck, man? Aren’t you a little ticked off? Don’t you hate me for it just a bit?”

It took a few moments for Jensen to even find his voice to reply. How did you answer something like that? How did you even find the words to reassure someone who’s had to fight for everything he had that you didn’t mind sharing if you needed to?

Jensen finally looked at him and at Steve still sleeping soundly, wrapped around him, and shrugged. “No, I’m not. And no, I don’t hate you.”

“Why not?”

Jensen shrugged again. “I don’t know. I just don’t, Chris. You’ve gone through hell and back, and you’ve… you deserve it, okay? You’ve done more than earn a little love in this world.”

“But—”

“Stop asking questions that don’t have answers,” Jensen said, shaking his head. “No buts. No whys. This is the way things have turned out, and I’m okay with that. You should be, too.”

Chris looked like he wanted to argue the point further, but Steve stirred, mumbling something and tightening his arms around Chris. Chris’ attention immediately shifted as he moved into Steve’s touch, settling Steve again softly. Jensen watched the interaction and felt a small tug in his chest; it was one he didn’t want to examine, but he knew it had nothing to do with jealousy.

And if it was jealousy, he didn’t really want to think about the details.

~

When Jensen woke up in the middle of the night, the other side of the bed was empty, and there were soft, muffled sounds coming from outside. Chris was dreaming again, and Steve… Steve was on the night shift tonight.

“Fuck,” Jensen swore. He moved, sliding out of bed and making his way to Chris’ little corner of their apartment, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do. It wasn’t like he could wake Chris up and curl around him to soothe him back to sleep like Steve did.

He settled on the edge of Chris’ mattress and shook him awake, waiting for him to focus on Jensen before Jensen brushed his fingers through Chris’ hair. It was pretty much the only time Jensen had done that—the only time, he was almost sure, Chris would let him.

“Steve’s out,” Jensen explained when Chris finally looked coherent enough to understand anymore more than gentle, soothing words. “He’s on the night shift tonight.”

Chris stared at him, his eyes dangerously wide. So fucking freaked out by whatever he’d been dreaming about.

Fuck.

“Anything I can do?” Jensen finally asked, slipping his thumb over Chris’ cheek. Chris leaned helplessly into that touch like he craved the contact. “Chris?”

Chris’ hand came up and closed around his wrist before he tugged softly, insistently, eyes doing the pleading that Jensen knew Chris would never voice. Jensen’s eyes widened at the implication, and he froze, a million things going through his mind at once.

It wasn’t a good idea. He wasn’t the one Chris wanted. Chris was Steve’s, and it wasn’t his place to—

Chris tugged again, and Jensen folded like a pack of cards.

He slipped onto the mattress and settled, letting Chris curl against him and get comfortable without saying another word. He tried to figure out where he was supposed to put his arms, and if he was supposed to actually pull Chris closer, or whether it was just that Chris needed another body in the bed with him, or—

Chris buried his face in Jensen’s neck, and Jensen’s brain short-circuited for the time it took Chris’ breathing to even out into sleep.

Jensen finally wrapped his arms around Chris and just held him, trying to calm his own breathing and stop his mind from thinking way too much. He didn’t need to figure out what this meant—really, he didn’t.

But fuck, he wanted to. He really fucking wanted to because, as awkward and fucked up and everything as this was, Chris actually felt good in his arms. And, apart from the occasionally stirring, the occasional movement to get more comfortable, Chris didn’t dream again.

And Jensen didn’t sleep. He was still wide awake and staring at the door when it opened several hours later and Steve walked through, worried and exhausted. All Jensen could do in reply to the surprised look on Steve’s face was to shrug helplessly, careful to avoid waking Chris up.

He watched Steve swallow hard before Steve moved towards them and, without another word, slipped onto the mattress on Chris’ other side, arms wrapping around them both as he kissed the back of Chris’ neck softly.

Steve’s hand ran reassuringly over Jensen’s skin. “We’ll figure it out,” Steve promised him. “It’s gonna be okay, Jen. We’re gonna figure this out together.”

~

It was the fourth morning that Chris had woken up with them both curled around him, and he still didn’t act any less surprised by it. Jensen was already awake, but he was keeping his breathing carefully controlled, noticing what Chris did.

Four days later, Chris still did exactly the same things he’d done that first morning. It was almost amazing, the wonder that could come across with sleep-soft actions.

Chris glanced over at Steve, then at Jensen, and back to Steve again, as if that alone could tell him what was going on. Steve mumbled something, the way he did when whoever he was sleeping on moved too much, and Chris settled almost immediately. He was still for about a minute before he wriggled again, trying to get comfortable, and Jensen slipped his hand into Chris’ hair, tugging him closer, and murmured to him.

The first morning he’d done it, it had been more from instinct than anything else; Jensen had forgotten it was Chris beside him, not Steve. But Chris had moved into it, had turned into that touch just a little. While a surprise, that had been enough of a sign that maybe, just maybe, Steve was right.

“What if… y’know, what if he wants us both?”

It had seemed impossible that first day, after waking up and watching Steve and Chris curl against each other. It had been natural for Steve to lie down beside Chris in the early hours before dawn, but in the sunlight, it had seemed all too stupid. It wasn’t possible. That kind of thing just didn’t happen to people.

Even if Steve was really okay with him starting to… starting to feel for Chris more than he should, and even if Steve was feeling it, too, it wasn’t like they could make Chris love him.

Four days later, Jensen was starting to think that maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe “normal” or “real” or “possible” was overrated.

“You love him,” Steve says when they finally get a moment alone together. “Or, at least, you could love him.”

“I love you.”

“But you could, couldn’t you? You could love us both.” There’s something in Steve’s eyes that gives him away, not that Jensen hasn’t been able to figure it out himself, that he hasn’t spent a few weeks wondering what the hell was going to happen to them. Because Jensen knew, even then, that he couldn’t have asked Chris to leave or Steve to let him go.

He nods. “You already do,” he says after a moment. It’s not a question because Jensen already knows.

“Nothing would have happened,” Steve says quickly, trying to reassure him, and Jensen knows he’s telling the truth. He’s never doubted Steve. “Not ever. And it won’t if this doesn’t work out. As much as I love him, Jensen, you’re my life now.”

“I know,” Jensen says, pulling Steve against him and kissing him softly. “But what if I could? Even if I could, he doesn’t. That’s not how life works.” You just don’t get that lucky.

Steve stays quiet for a moment before he looks up, locks eyes with Jensen. “What if he could love us both, too?”

He curled his fingers at the nape of Chris’ neck and tugged gently. Chris turned into him without hesitation, pulling Steve with him, until they were as piled up and wrapped tight around each other as they were before Chris had moved. It didn’t take long for Chris to fall asleep again, and it was taking less and less time for Jensen to join them; he seemed to have less to worry about with each passing day.

“Touch him more.”

Jensen felt stupid at first—really fucking stupid—because he’d spent so long trying not to touch Chris too much, avoiding too much intimacy. He still remembered the strength of Chris’ grip on Steve’s arm that first day before he’d figured out who Steve was. Even that injured, Chris could have snapped Steve’s arm in half. Jensen had never for a moment forgotten that Chris wasn’t like the others they’d rescued, even if, most of the time, Jensen really just wanted to wrap him up in a blanket and keep him from the world. Not that Jensen had plans to ever tell Chris that. Ever.

That wasn’t even the point. The point was that they’d started making everything a little more intimate, a little touchier than the weeks before. As stupid as Jensen felt at first, he made the conscious effort to brush up against Chris when he was walking past him, let their hands touch when reaching for something in the same area, or look at Chris far less discreetly than before.

After the first day, it had been almost natural to squeeze Chris’ arm softly when he thanked him or to stand that little bit too close when he was telling Chris how much sugar to put into the cookie mix.

Of course, Chris was confused. Confused was probably an understatement for exactly how much the change had thrown him off-balance, but that had only helped Jensen and Steve more. Every reaction Chris had to them was unconscious and natural, and it was getting clearer and clearer that maybe this could work out for everyone.

“Steve and I are both out late tonight,” Jensen said to Chris, leaning over to steal the remains of the piece of toast Chris was eating. Chris gave a half-hearted little glare. “News that maybe there’s been another escape or something. Weird stuff’s been coming up lately in the hacks, and the gossip’s all over the place.”

Chris nodded. They’d tried to keep him as up-to-date with their underground work as much as possible, but they’d never told him everything. It was a silent agreement between them. Jensen wasn’t sure if it was because Chris was still healing and they were protecting him, or if it was because they were both scared he’d do something reckless if he knew everything.

“When will you be home?” Jensen almost sighed. It also wasn’t like they hadn’t noticed how much Chris hated to be home alone. They’d both done what they could to switch shifts around so one of them was with Chris as much as possible.

“I don’t know,” Jensen admitted. “We’ll get done as soon as we can.” He hesitated a moment before he handed Chris some money. “Why don’t you make dinner? I’m sure Steve’d love to come back to a meal.”

Chris smirked. “What if I burn the place down?”

Jensen laughed and ruffled Chris’ hair, ducking the playful swing. “Try not to, okay? We gotta have somewhere to come back to if we want to eat that home cooked meal.”

“I’ll just boil pasta,” Chris said, but Jensen knew he was joking. Chris loved watching them cook, and he loved helping whenever he could.

Jensen laughed again and nodded. “Whatever you want, Chris.”

“Just don’t come home too late,” Chris said when Jensen was almost at the door. “Or I’m going to eat it all myself.”

It was as close to be careful as Jensen had ever got but Jensen had started to learn all the little nuances in Chris’ character, in the way he talked and what he said, and he knew there was more to it all than just the surface. So much more.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jensen replied, sending a smile over his shoulder, and fighting the urge to turn the fuck around and kiss Chris, who stood there in the middle of the living room, watching him go like some abandoned puppy. Focus, Ackles. There will be the right time for that. “Just make sure it’s edible.”

Chris’ quiet laughter followed him to work, and there was nothing anyone could do to wipe away the smile that tugged at his lips whenever he thought about it.

~

It was the silence that Steve noticed first as he opened the door to their apartment. There was no TV on in the living room, no shower running in the bathroom, not even the hint of sound from the kitchen.

There were no lights on, either.

Steve frowned. Jensen had finished going through the case he’d been working on before Steve was done, and he had insisted Jensen go home while Steve finished up some filing he’d promised Alona he’d do when he’d finished the case. That had been hours ago. There was absolutely no reason why the house should be so still.

Especially since he was pretty sure Jensen had been itching to get back to check on Chris. Who wasn’t here, either.

“Jensen?” Steve called out, flipping on the light in the hallway. No reply.

Steve frowned a little and wandered down the corridor to the living room, turning on the light in there as he walked through the door. “Are you—” He froze, hand still on the light switch.

There was someone in their house. And whoever they were had Jensen tied to a chair in the middle of the living room.

“I was wondering when someone would get home,” the man said. He was sitting on the back of the couch, feet propped up on the chair Jensen was tied to, right between Jensen’s legs. “For a while, I thought I might have to just play with pretty boy here to help with boredom.”

Jensen whimpered past the gag, and Steve wondered how the fuck he’d missed the big-ass sword, the flat of which was running up the inside of Jensen’s thigh.

Steve swallowed hard. “Who are you?” His eyes stayed glued to that blade now that he’d caught sight of it, and it took a lot of willpower to transfer his gaze to check Jensen over for injuries. Apart from a nasty looking bruise starting to purple on Jensen’s temple, where the mystery man presumably knocked him out, Jensen looked okay, if pale with fear could be called okay.

“The name’s Fred,” the man—Fred—said. He flicked his wrist a little, the blade slicing through Jensen’s jeans easily, proving just how sharp it was. A thin line of red followed, and Steve held his breath. “Not that it matters much.”

Steve tried to stop panic from rising, tried to think of his options. “What—what are you doing here? What do you want from us?”

Fred cocked his head sideways, transferring his attention to Steve. “You? Nothing. Well, nothing much, anyway.” He lazily made a matching cut on the inside of Jensen’s other thigh. “I’m waiting on one more person to join this party.”

He saw Jensen freeze at about the same time he felt his heart stutter to a stop, the meaning sinking in slowly.

Chris.

“One more person?” Steve asked. Even as the words left his lips, he realised he’d paused too long. Hesitated too much. Given the game away.

Fred rolled his eyes, amusement flittering through the dullish blue. Old, Steve’s mind supplied. Weary. Wild. Crazy. He didn’t think someone could look more unhinged than Chris did when he woke up from his nightmares, hands reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Steve had never had the courage to ask what it was, but meeting Fred’s eyes now, he wished he had.

“I don’t know where he is,” Steve said shakily. There was a gun hidden in a small compartment close to the door, so close to where he was standing. God, he just needed to get himself together. “Please,” he offered when he saw Jensen tensing. He knew the blade had to be vibrating, biting into skin a little more. “We really don’t know anything.”

“But he was here,” Fred noted, sounding almost bored. He glanced at Jensen again, shifting so the sword slid up his chest, cutting clean through his shirt. As much as he didn’t want to risk Jensen being hurt any more and as scared out of his mind as he was, Steve used the moment to slide over the last few inches, hands working fast to get the lock undone. The tip of the blade rested over Jensen’s throat. “And since he was here, maybe you are more valuable than I thought.”

Steve’s fingers closed around the metal. He pulled it out, both hands curling around the handle as he pointed it at Fred, willing his body to stop shaking. The gun felt cold and alien in his palm. “Back away from him.” He wished it had come out more convincing.

He wished Fred looked even a little bit scared.

Instead, Fred just turned a little more, moving the sword to rest on Jensen’s shoulder. His lip quirked up into a small smile. “Or what?” Hhe asked, voice laced with amusement that shouldn’t be there when he had a gun pointed at him. “You’ll shoot me?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled quietly. “Drop it, boy,” he said when Steve just clenched his jaw, finger on the trigger. “You don’t have it in you.” His gaze turned so piercing that Steve wanted to hide from it. “You’ve never killed anyone.” It wasn’t even a question. “You’re not a killer.”

Steve’s hands shook, the traitors.

“No,” another voice said from behind Fred. The kitchen. Chris’ voice. Steve’s stomach bottomed out. “But I am.”

Fred’s slow, Cheshire grin sent a shiver up Steve’s spine. God, Chris. Fred turned slowly. Steve almost didn’t want to look. He finally raised his eyes and looked past Fred’s shoulder at Chris.

Chris pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against, looking almost relaxed, stalking slowly closer. He had a pair of kitchen knives in his hands, but they did nothing to reassure Steve because an easy twirl of Fred’s hand had the sword spinning carelessly. Away from Jensen, though, which was the only thing about this whole scene that Steve could feel any relief about.

Fred nudged the edge of the chair, sending Jensen sprawling backwards with a muffled pained sound, but Fred's attention was completely focused on Chris. Steve shook himself and rushed to Jensen’s side, slipping the gag out before trying to work those knots free.

It wasn’t an easy task when his eyes kept flickering up to watch Chris and Fred sizing each other up. Somehow, Chris had managed to turn them so he was standing between Fred and the two of them on the floor.

“What are you even doing here, Fred?” Chris asked, voice low and cold.

“You even have to ask?” Fred’s eyes flickered for a moment to Steve and Jensen before they went back to Chris. “It’s nothing personal, but I can’t stay there—can’t be a fucking possession—any longer.”

“So?” Chris asked. “Why are you here?”

“Still don’t get it, do you?” Fred looked back at them again, and Steve tried not to look away first. But God, he couldn’t hold those eyes. He dropped his attention back to trying to undo the knots, trying to get Jensen out of that chair.

A knife appeared in his line of vision seconds later, but when he looked up, Chris hadn’t even looked away from Fred.

Fred sighed, the sound and movement both over-exaggerated like this was some big cosmic joke.

“You pissed off a lot of people, Kane,” Fred said. “A hell of a lot of people who are willing to do a hell of a lot to find you and drag you the fuck back for your just desserts.” Fred shook his head, and Steve kind of wished he could see what Fred was seeing. Chris was still as a stone. As if to make up for it, Steve was shaking like a leaf as he cut carefully through the bindings. “The deal,” Fred continued like he was explaining something to a particularly dumb child, “is that I bring you back. Dead or alive. And I get my freedom.”

When Chris laughed, it was dark and bitter, and Steve almost slit Jensen’s wrist by mistake in his surprise. “You think they’re really going to give it to you? Don’t be fucking naïve, Fred. They wouldn’t give me mine. Hell, these people up here don’t even know we exist. There’s no such thing as freedom. You’re out now, so make fucking use of it and run.”

“Ain’t no one’s ever pissed them off like you, either.” Fred pointed the sword at Chris, and Steve had to lower his eyes and focus on helping Jensen up. “For a bonus, they’ll even help me set up someplace. This… this will get me a real life. I can’t live like you—like some rat, hiding and hunted.”

“Every man for himself,” Chris parroted cynically. “So what? You just take me—or my body—back, and they let you go, then set you up somewhere nice? Just like that?”

Fred’s eyes flickered, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it movement, to Jensen and Steve. Steve hadn’t blinked, and Chris didn’t miss it. Steve watched the muscles in Chris’ back tense. “No.”

“They know someone’s hidin’ you,” Fred said quietly. “Because you were beat to hell when you left. Someone’s keeping you breathing. They want to know who.”

Chris’ hand tightened around the knife he still had, stance finally showing something more than boredom. Aggression. “It’s not going to happen.”

“You think you can protect them, Chris?” Fred asked, not unkindly. God, Steve was so fucking confused. Here they were, standing there, ready to kill, yet they obviously shared a lot of history. Fred sounded almost like he cared. “You don’t even have a real weapon.”

Chris laughed again. Fuck, Steve hated that sound. “I don’t need a real weapon.”

“You’re out of practice, kid,” Fred said. He was also moving, shifting slowly, almost imperceptibly. Like the panther Steve had seen once when he was at the zoo with Jensen as it had readied itself to strike. “You’re still healing, still hurting, and I’m fresh out of the cage.” He sighed. “Give it up, Kane. This doesn’t need to hurt any more than it has to.”

“Steve,” Chris said tightly. “You and Jensen need to back up a whole lot.”

Fred frowned for a moment before he gave Chris an incredulous look. “Christian, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’re… them? This is about them? Did you learn nothing from Dave?”

“Fuck you,” Chris hissed. “Fuck you. You know nothing about that, so don’t fucking say it.”

“Sentimental shit will get you killed,” Fred spat back. “You almost fucked up your life then, and you’re going to fight me because of them? You’re going to die defending them when it’s fucking futile? They’re going to keep sending people after you, Chris. They’ll never let you go.” Fred looked at Steve again, and this time, Steve managed a defiant stare back. Almost, anyway. Fred dismissed it entirely. “Turn them in. Maybe you can cut a deal. Maybe, if you come easy, bring ‘em with us…”

“I’m not the one dying tonight.” Chris’ answer was cold. “And you two need to move. Now.”

“Fine,” Fred said. As Steve helped Jensen to his feet, he watched the person he’d glimpsed in Fred slowly disappearing. Something cold, something inhuman, replaced whatever had been in the man before. “Let’s do this the hard way, then.”

“Steve,” Jensen said softly. All Steve could do was nod and help him back into the corridor, away from where the room’s temperature seemed to have dropped a few degrees. “We can’t—what if he—”

“We have to,” Steve said, throat tight. He was almost surprised at how he sounded, choked up and shaking. He reached for Jensen’s hand at the same time Jensen reached for him. They gripped each other tight as their attention went back to the living room, where Chris had given them two heartbeats to move before he was kicking the knife up into his hand, flipping them around as he crouched lower.

This wasn’t the Chris who’d sat on their kitchen counter, watching with interest as Steve made dinner. It wasn’t the man who’d hardly hesitated before crouching down to play with Sadie and Harley, who Jared trusted to babysit his two babies. It wasn’t even the man Chris woke up as, wide-eyed, frightened, and desperate, scream dying in his throat.

The person standing there was a fighter. A killer.

But it was still Chris.

Still their Chris, who was protecting them, who stood between them and a desperate man. It was Chris, who was injured and still favoured his left side. Steve wanted to hide his eyes against Jensen’s neck, wanted to stay there and not have to watch. But he couldn’t look away, and he wasn’t sure he’d do Chris that injustice even if he could.

Their sudden movement took him by surprise, and the sound of metal against metal was almost deafening in a room that had been still for so long. Jensen’s fingers tightened against his skin, grip bruising as he swore under his breath.

It was almost too fast to follow, sometimes appearing as though they were watching a movie where the sound was out of sync. The flash-spark of blades meeting followed by a split second pause before the crash-skid of noise, and the thump of feet-knees-hands on the floor before another flurry of motions followed. Jensen’s grip on his arm tightened every time Chris stumbled, as if Steve needed the reminder; Steve was barely breathing as it was, and every time he watched Chris fall, his heart skipped a beat or three.

It was Jensen who finally almost threw himself into the room, only stopped by Steve’s death grip on him, when Chris’ knives went skidding across the floor. Chris was standing there, weaponless and breathing hard, the weakness of his right side clear.

“Chris,” Jensen was shouting. “Fuck, Chris, stop it. Stop this. We’ll go. Just… fuck, please, don’t—” Steve didn’t know how Jensen could still shout when Steve didn’t think he could make a single sound or even take a breath. “Fuck, no!” Jensen was practically screaming.

Fred threw all his weight into the next swing. It was over in the blink of an eye.

For Steve, it went in slow motion. Chris sidestepped the lunge, gritting his teeth as his full weight strained his still-healing muscles, and then the sword was in his hand, buried in Fred’s body, up through his heart and throat.

“I’m sorry,” Chris whispered, lips right against Fred’s temple as Fred slid to the floor, eyes wide, expression frozen in surprise. “I’m really fucking sorry.”

Steve and Jensen almost tripped over each other trying to get to Chris.

God, Steve had thought—and so had Jensen—that for sure Chris was going to —and now he—

They watched in horror as Chris withdrew the bloody blade from Fred’s body, dropped the sword, then fell to his knees, hand clutching his side. Steve realised with sickening certainty that Fred’s blood wasn’t the only one on that sword or on Chris’ hand.

“Chris,” he breathed, sliding to his knees and slipping one arm under Chris to keep him from falling completely, letting Chris lean heavily against him. “God, how bad is it? Fuck, Chris. Chris? Hold on. Let me see.” He eased Chris’ hand away slowly and was suddenly very glad he’d come home on an empty stomach.

Chris’ side was torn. Steve could see it in his mind’s eye: the sidestep that wasn’t far enough, the pained expression on Chris’ face, the blade that had slid into him before he had leaned far enough for the blade to rip out of him.

Now Steve understood the surprise that had been on Fred’s face.

“Oh, god, Jen—”

“Allie’s on the way,” Jensen said. He appeared beside them, pressing a towel to Chris’ side. “I just called. Tom and Mike are on their way, too, and Alona and Kristin are already working on the paperwork. How’s he doing?”

“I—Jen, he’s—I don’t—”

“I’m not the nurse, Steve,” Jensen said, the harshness in his tone surprising Steve enough for him to look away from the blood that was soaking the towel. “Focus, okay?” Jensen looked just as worried, freckles standing out against his pale skin. “How’s he doing?”

Steve breathed, then tried to pull the plug on his personal side and look at this more professionally. “We… we’ve got to stop the bleeding. Got to keep him with us.” He looked up at Chris, fingers brushing softly through Chris’ hair. “Can you open your eyes? Chris?”

“C’mon,” he heard Jensen muttering beside him. “C’mon back to us, idiot.”

Chris’ eyes fluttered open. “Fuckin’ bastard,” he managed through clenched teeth, no heat in the words. And god, Steve wanted to pass out because if Chris could still insult people, his world was still turning.

“Okay,” Steve breathed, trying not to panic. God, it didn’t look good at all. “That’s it. That’s good. Stay with us, okay? Please, stay with us.” His voice broke on the soft plea.

“Yeah,” Chris mumbled, word starting to slur. “Yeah.”

He could have kissed Allison and Chad when they knocked on the door, banging out the code, rough and shaky but recognisable. Jensen opened it and talked rapidly as they hurried down the corridor, explaining what he could, and then they were easing Chris from Steve’s arms.

“No,” Steve said, voice tight, trying to hold on. He couldn’t let Chris slip away from him. He wanted to be there, wanted to hold him and reassure himself that Chris was still breathing and alive.

“You can’t do this,” Allison said softly. “Chad’s here. He’s going to help me.”

“Chad’s just a vet,” Steve said, voice rising a little in pitch.

“You can’t do it,” Allison said again. Chris was—Chad was setting Chris on the kitchen table carefully, pulling out the emergency supplies they’d brought with them. “He can. Trust us. Let us work.”

Then Jensen was there, pulling Steve into his arms, turning him away from Chris—from all that blood because god, how could there be so much blood when Chris’ heart was still beating. Jensen held him tight, face buried in Steve’s hair, rocking them slowly where they stood as the sounds of Allison and Chad came from behind them.

Steve heard every word, but none of it was registering. Nothing was registering further than the fact that it was Chris on that table. That it was Chris there, dying, and he was going to lose him again.

When they hadn’t even really found him yet.

Jensen stayed there, holding him close and tight, whispering comforts that Steve was pretty sure neither of them believed.

[ Next ]

Hymns for the Exiled (1/3)

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 02:53:40 GMT

[ Master Post ]

“You wanna remind me again why we’re out here, freezing our asses off at ass o’clock?” Jensen asked, wrapping his coat around himself tighter as he glanced into one of the side alleys. He side-stepped a broken—was that a shopping cart?—and hurried to catch up with Steve.

“Reports said it looked like someone was hanging around here,” Steve repeated. “Looked like a runaway. Descriptions matched the ones Alona managed to hack into on U-Net’s server.” Descriptions was probably too generous a word for the vague stories that had filtered through to them.

It was frightening, one girl had said, voice dropped, low and conspiring as she told her ghost story in the library two nights ago. Covered in dirt and grime, totally deformed, all limping and bleeding everywhere, panting and snarling, and its eyes almost pierced us through when it looked right at us. So we screamed and ran. God, it was scary.

If they hadn’t been looking or listening out for something like this since the beginning of the week, when they’d finally traced some sort of coded message about an escaped “pet,” they would have ignored it altogether. Most people would still have ignored it, but then, they weren’t most people.

As it was, their little organisation had spent years figuring out how to decipher exactly these kinds of private codes. Even though the whole tone of this one was different, with a whole lot of stuff they either hadn’t seen or hadn’t worked out before thrown in, it still translated to roughly the same thing. Someone had lost a slave and was willing to pay a hell of a lot of money for its return.

The reason they’d all doubled their efforts at tracking this one down was those extra things that had piqued their curiosity even more. Everything had been more mangled than usual—weird, confusing words, terms that didn’t make any sense. Even Lauren and Jensen hadn’t been able to make heads or tails of it, and most of the time, they knew as much of the lingo as there was to know.

“And Lauren’s been saying there’s a lot of hushed whispering about some sort of disappearing act going around at the country club,” Steve went on. “She says it’s even freakier than usual because no one’s saying anything outright—no one’s even speculating loudly. It’s definitely an escaped slave, but there’s none of the usual descriptions or loud gossip about their training or the state they’re in or anything. Even the girly gossip’s not touching the details. It’s just… there’s something about this case.”

Jensen bit back a sigh. To Steve, there was always something about every case. Not that Jensen would ever say that to him—fuck, he loved and respected Steve too much for that—but he really wished Steve would tell him a little more about why he joined up in the first place. Why he traced down every slave, worked on every case, tried to save everyone like it was his own personal crusade.

Was it guilt? From having been one of the lucky kids from the war? But he’d seen people driven by that before. Allison was a survivor, Tom was, Katie was; Jared’s family had reclaimed him a few days after the end of the war, when they’d climbed out of their bunker and realised the world was changing again. A lot of the ones they’d been able to recruit were. But Steve… there was something more to it than that. Steve still wouldn’t tell him a hell of a lot even though they’d been together for two years and friends for longer.

“And Katie thinks they’re hiding out here?”

Steve nodded. “It’s the only place in this city you could really hide, isn’t it? If you’re as beat up as that girl was saying.”

“Steve, nothing can survive here that long,” Jensen tried. “Maybe—”

“Just keep looking, okay? I want to get back to bed as soon as I can, too.” Steve picked up his pace.

Jensen didn’t even bother biting back a sigh this time. He looked into another alley. Just dirt and dust and—god, he didn’t even want to know what that was. Rats were lucky if they could survive in this part of town, let alone—

“Jensen!”

He turned around and ran to Steve’s side, pulling out the gun he had tucked there as he went, and froze. What the…? There, pressed into a corner between a wall and what used to be a car, was what looked like nothing more than a pile of rags and blood. It couldn’t possibly still be alive.

Steve swallowed and crouched down, letting out a shuddering breath and reaching out to—then a hand shot up, faster than either of them could react, fingers wrapping in a vice grip around Steve’s wrist. Steve bit back a cry of surprise and horror and hurt, trying to pull away, but the grip seemed to just get tighter.

Jensen fumbled with the gun a little, raising it and lifting his eyes to look. The man’s gaze was absolutely piercing, his eyes more alive than they had a right to be, considering he’d almost thought this man was a corpse. And if Jensen had thought Steve’s eyes were bright, the blue staring back at him actually froze him in place for a second before his brain kicked back on. His finger started to squeeze on the trigger as he tried to calm himself and wipe person from his mind, replace it with thing because he wasn’t killing anyone. This was a… god, he didn’t know, but it had Steve’s hand, and—

Steve stopped struggling and seemed to stop breathing before he let out a quiet, almost completely silent, “…Chris?”

The man’s eyes cut to Steve as he snatched his hand away from Steve’s wrist like it suddenly burned, cradling it back against his body. His eyes widened, and he stared back at Steve, fear and weariness and pain clear where, moments before, there had only been a calm, calculating, cold look.

“It is, isn’t it?” Steve said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. He shifted closer, and Jensen’s hand tensed on the gun. But the man on the ground almost shrunk away from them and made absolutely no move to grab Steve again or to defend himself. “It’s really you, isn’t it?” Steve put a hand on the guy’s shoulder, and, while he looked like he wanted to go further away but was stuck, he still didn’t make a move to hurt Steve.

The rag fell off his shoulder almost too easily, but there, clear as day under the grime and dried blood, the letters C.K. stood out, burnt into his skin. Anyone would recognise that brand anywhere: the orphan’s brand. Jensen had spent hours tracing Steve’s initials on his shoulder when Steve had tried to use that as a reason for staying away from him.

“Fuck,” Steve breathed, voice shaking and choked with tears. “Fuck, Chris, it’s me. It’s Steve, Chris. It’s me.”

Then he realised why the name sounded familiar to him, coming off Steve’s lips like that. It was the word that left Steve’s lips more nights than Jensen cared to remember as Steve tossed and turned, locked in nightmares. And now Jensen knew why the man’s—Chris’—features were almost too familiar to him; sitting on a table in their apartment, there was a small, worn photograph of two little boys, hanging off each other and grinning so wide, it almost made him want to believe in humanity’s inherent goodness.

‘That’s Chris,’ Steve says the first time Jensen comes over to his house and sees the picture sitting there. ‘I was an only child, but Chris was my brother in every way that counted. He was… he was more than that. My best friend. My protector.’

‘What happened to him?’ Jensen asks , resting his hand on the small of Steve’s back as Steve stares at the frame. He watches Steve brush careful, reverent fingers over the face of the boy who’s holding his childhood self close.

‘The war happened,’ Steve says before he turns and walks away.

“Please,” Steve was saying – here and now, and not in Jensen’s memory offering Chris a hand. “Chris, please, come back with us. Let us take care of you.”

Chris shook his head. “You should go,” he said, voice scratchy and rough with disuse. The drawl caught Jensen by surprise. “You shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be anywhere near me. If they find me….”

“They won’t find you,” Steve insisted, looking up at Jensen for support. “Jensen, tell him. We can hide him. We can look after him. At least until you’re better.” He directed the last part back at Chris. “I’m a nurse. We know a doctor. We’ve done this before—helped escaped people, and—”

“That’s not the same,” Chris whispered. “I’m not like them. This isn’t—”

“You can’t stay out here,” Jensen said finally. “You’re injured, and you’re a mess. If they’re looking for you, chances are it won’t be long before they look here, and you’re in no shape to do anything.”

Steve wasn’t wrong; they’d helped hide runaways until they’d healed and been able to get away before.

“Come home with us. Please, Chris. It’s me. Trust me. Please.”

Wait, what?

“Steve,” Jensen said, warning in his voice. Yes, they’d helped slaves before. No, they’d never brought one to their own apartment and compromised their own safety.

“Please,” Steve said, looking back over to Jensen. The plea could have been directed at Chris, but Jensen knew Steve well enough to know it was to him. “Please.” He was as close to begging as Jensen had ever seen him.

God, everyone was right; Steve had Jensen wrapped around his little finger.

“You’ll be safe with us,” Jensen added, more for Steve’s sake than the—than Chris’. Chris looked like he’d make his decision one way or the other regardless of what Jensen added to this conversation.

“You don’t understand,” Chris argued weakly. “It’s not about me. It’s because it’s you, Steve, and… fuck, you don’t understand what I am, do you? You’ve got no idea. None of you do.” He let out a soft, bitter laugh; the sound made Jensen’s skin crawl. What did you have to go through to sound like that?

“Just… for once, Chris,” Steve begged. Begged. “Please. Let me take care of you.”

Chris shifted, moving a little, mouth open to answer before he cried out as something jarred. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, the pain from that tiny movement knocking him out cold.

~

It was probably a good thing that Chris had been unconscious when they’d moved him. Steve didn’t look like he could stand hearing another whimper leave Chris’ lips, and they realised when they finally managed to look him over that there would have been a lot more than just whimpering. Steve was shaking enough that he wasn’t much help getting Chris to the car and back to their apartment; if they’d had to do it any quicker because of Chris’ screaming, they wouldn’t have had a chance.

Chris’ right side was almost completely wrecked: cracked ribs, some sort of cut—a knife wound—deep in his side, and definitely something wrong with his hip. The rest of him wasn’t much better off. There was bruising everywhere, scratches and cuts in just as many places, and, from the looks of things, this was nothing new, either. Chris’ body was littered with scars: thin, neat lines where a practiced hand stitched a wound together, less professional-looking ones, right down to the ones that looked like they might never have seen stitches at all.

Allison had been horrified when she’d finally made it over, and Steve… well, Jensen couldn’t even find a way to describe what Steve was doing or how he was acting.

The gentle way he’d bathed Chris and cleaned off the sweat and grime, the way he’d treated the wounds he could deal with himself, the determination he’d showed as he’d helped Allison with the rest of them, and just the way he watched Chris—if Jensen was a lesser man, he’d be more than just a little jealous.

Okay, he was giving himself a little too much credit there. Chris was so beaten to shit that there was absolutely no way any sane person could be jealous of him for getting a little kindness from anyone, and Steve was the most giving soul Jensen knew.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to demand explanations, though, because fuck, he wanted to know what the hell was going on. He knew that Steve and Chris had been close as children, but there was more to it than that—far more, and if Chris was going to stay with them like Steve was insisting, Jensen needed to know exactly how much more.

And not just on Steve’s side of things. There was something different about Chris. It wasn’t just the state they’d found him in and the whispers flying around everywhere, though Jensen was sure they were all related, especially now he’d seen the escaped “goods.” The thing was that Chris was just too well-built to be a household slave and definitely not treated well enough to be an entertainment slave—even for the dodgier kinds of “entertainment” —and it was all too hushed up and weird to be either of those.

No, Chris was something entirely different. Chris’ own words more than confirmed that.

But Jensen wasn’t getting any answers by standing there brooding. He sighed and looked back over to Steve, who was settled on the floor beside Chris, checking one of his bandages for the thousandth time. They’d got Chris settled on their sofa-bed, and Allison had managed to smuggle out enough equipment to have the drip, blood transfusion, and morphine all set up.

“Steve,” he said, sitting down on the armchair close by. “We need to talk.”

“Yeah, I just…” Steve brushed a lock of hair from Chris’ forehead before his hand hovered over the bandage again.

Jensen sighed and shifted onto the floor beside him, taking Steve’s hands in his own, stopping him from fussing anymore. “He’s okay. Allie says he’ll be fine. You know he’ll be fine. And he’s as comfortable as he can be right now.” He tugged gently, drawing Steve’s attention to him. “Steve. Tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s Chris, Jensen,” Steve choked out, looking over to the table where that picture still stood. “It’s Chris.”

“I remember,” Jensen said, pushing Steve’s hair back behind his ears. “He was like a brother to you. Closer, even. But that’s all I know. You… you’ve never said much about him, Steve, but I can tell you’re not going to let me tell you he can’t be here, and if he’s going to be here… tell me why I should let him stay without fighting with you about it.”

“This should have been me,” Steve whispered.

Jensen rolled his eyes a little. “Steve, we… we talked about this, remember? You’ve been doing this since the war ended—you all went to classes to deal with this and still go into therapy once in a while, but it’s not your fault that you were the luc—”

“No,” Steve interrupted, voice even more choked. When he looked up and met Jensen’s eyes, Jensen realised they were filled with tears. Fuck. “No. You don’t understand, Jensen, this should have been me.”

“Steve…” Jensen started.

Steve just shook his head violently. “You don’t understand! I wasn’t the lucky one. I wasn’t supposed to be. I didn’t pick the lucky ballot—Chris did! I was supposed to have been sold, but Chris took my place..” His voice dropped as he raised a hand, fingers brushing over Chris’ cheek, tears falling. “He took this—all this—every bruise, every broken bone, every cut that’s scarred and that hasn’t—in my place.”

Jensen was stunned. He couldn’t understand—just couldn’t wrap his head around that at all. He didn’t know what he could possibly say to that. “Steve….” When Steve looked up at him, Jensen just shook his head, unable to find his voice.

“We were together when our parents died,” Steve started softly, his eyes getting that faraway look that Jensen had never been able to touch. “We were out playing at this base we had behind my house. Our parents worked together and were best friends, and we’d practically lived in each other’s pockets all our lives. I was… I was a small kid. Frail, awkward, all blond hair and freckles, and… I was sick a lot. To make it all worse, I was… I liked music and cooking, and I wasn’t good at football and not interested in wrestling, and the boys were always picking on me. And Chris… Chris was everything everyone wanted to be.” Steve let out a soft laugh, so lost in his own world that Jensen hardly dared touch him. “But he never hung around with the cool kids or tried to show off, and he never… he was always with me. Always had my back. Always protecting me, and he’d get into fuck loads of trouble for beating up the other boys when they’d hurt me.”

Steve’s eyes had dropped to Chris again, but Jensen couldn’t bring himself to call Steve’s attention back to him. Steve never talked about it, not really, and the glimpses of before the war he’d got were usually happy memories of his family or something of that sort. Not Chris. Steve never talked about Chris even when he woke up half-screaming Chris’ name.

“That didn’t stop when the war came,” Steve carried on, voice dropping even more. “He was the one that clung to me, kicking and shouting and biting—fighting tooth and nail—when they tried to separate us. All through the war, he stayed by my side. It didn’t matter if I was healthy or sick or if anyone else tried to help one of us, tried to get him somewhere else faster because he was healthy—Chris never left my side.”

Steve let out a soft, bitter laugh, finally looking up at Jensen. “That last day, when they told us the war was over but everything had to be different, I was… I’d been sick for weeks. By then, they’d almost run out of medicine, and Chris had had a harder and harder time trying to steal any, so I was… I could hardly stay awake for a few hours at a time, found it hard to focus, couldn’t walk without Chris there supporting me.” Steve pushed himself up to walk to a drawer on the other side of the room where he kept so much of the stuff from before—the old stuff, the memories he’d once told Jensen he never wanted to revisit.

Steve came back carrying a small box, one Jensen had seen once before. Just once. Steve opened it slowly now and ran light fingers over the glass-encased piece of paper, the Carlson written in an elegant hand across the page. His ticket to freedom, Steve had once said. The thing that had given him—and people like him—the chance at an actual life. Not all the orphans from the war were able to be re-homed, and drawing lots had been the fairest way they could think of to reallocate everyone.

“This… this isn’t the one I drew,” Steve said softly after a few long moments. “Sandy didn’t show this to me until I was twenty-one, but the moment I saw it… God, Jensen. That day, they came around with this huge box of bits of paper. I was so tired, so dizzy, and I just picked one out, opened it up, and… the look on that man’s face. I guess I should have known. But it didn’t really register. I just remember Chris carefully taking it from my hand and pulling my head back into his lap, his fingers soft and reassuring as he ran them through my hair. Sleep, he told me. It was going to be a long day, and I should rest. He’d take care of it for me. He told me he’d take care of me.” Steve’s voice choked up again, eyes filling with tears once more.

He looked back at Chris before he had to look away, eyes coming back to Jensen. Then he just shook his head. “When I woke up again, it was because Chris was getting up, pulling me with him, waving my piece of paper around. There was a family standing at the end of the corridor waiting, and Chris handed me over to this lady—to Sandy—with a half smile. He gave me a hug, and… and he said not to forget him, and then he waved—and I was being ushered into this car.”

“I—I didn’t draw this, Jensen,” Steve finally said, gesturing at the paper again. “I drew this.” His fingers went to the blanket covering Chris, and he tugged one corner back. MADDER was branded in block capitals—probably with hot iron—stark and unforgiving across Chris’ arm. Slave-owners. Chris’ owners. Steve’s thumb ran over the word gently. “I was twenty-one by the time I realised what Chris had done, and I’ve spent the last eleven years trying to figure out what happened to him. Trying to do something. It was why I joined the Org.” Steve took a shuddering breath. “We were… what? Fourteen? Fifteen? When the war ended. It was bad enough when I didn’t know, and now I know he’s spent, what? Eighteen years in some sort of hell in my place?” Steve looked at Jensen again, voice soft and weak. so young it was almost painful to hear. “How can I live with that? How am I supposed to turn him away? How can we—”

“We’re not going to,” Jensen reassured, finally giving into the urge to pull Steve into his arms and hold him tight. “We’re not gonna throw him out or turn him away or anything like that. Jesus, Steve….”

Jensen knew he couldn’t hate the man on their couch now, no matter what problems he was going to bring with him or how Steve looked at him because it was Chris that had given Steve everything, and so he’d given Jensen everything, too. Jensen wasn’t stupid; from those few words Steve had used to describe all those godawful years, he knew what it all came down to.

He knew what Chris probably knew that day he switched their lots and gave up his own future; Steve could never have survived.

Jensen just tightened his arms around Steve as Steve’s body started shaking, finally losing his fight with the tears. “Shh,” he whispered, trying to reassure as much as he could. “We’ve got him now, Steve. He's going to be okay. We're going to keep him safe. We’ve got him now.”

Whatever happened now, there was no way any of them could let anything happen to Chris without putting up a fight. No way in hell; Steve would die before he let anyone hurt Chris again, and Jensen would rather kill himself than let Steve get hurt.

~

Chris woke up slowly, feeling a little like the world was submerged in water. He struggled to get some sort of bearing on where he was, what had happened, but he felt sluggish. Drugged. Panic threatened to seep into him at the thought, and he forced his eyes open. He didn’t recognise anything about this place and only knew the names of half the things in the room—he hadn’t seen, let alone used, half of this stuff since the war. His eyes finally found the armchair a short distance away, and he froze.

The night before came rushing back to him as he took in the sight of the two men curled up together in it. Steve—older, healthier, but definitely his Steve—wrapped up in another man’s arms, practically in his lap, head tucked against the guy’s neck. The guy—Jensen, if Chris remembered rightly—had Steve cradled close and tight, arms wrapped protectively around him. He felt a sudden and immediate burn of resentment towards Jensen for that, for the obvious familiarity Steve used to have only with him, for getting to hold Steve like that. Jensen had everything Chris hadn’t had the chance to get, and, in that moment, Chris hated him for it.

He looked up to study Jensen, only to find bright green eyes looking right back at him.

There was nothing Chris expected to see in those eyes—no hatred, no suspicion, no resentment. Jensen didn’t even demand answers like he’d expected him to, like Chris imagined he would have done if their positions had been reversed. Instead, Jensen offered him a small smile before he nudged Steve awake.

This time, the familiarity made Chris ache. The hatred from before had almost been better.

Steve still woke as slowly as he had as a kid: soft flutter of eyelashes and the small noise of discontent before blue peeked out from under his eyelids. Something unspoken passed between them, and Chris felt like he was intruding on something not meant for his eyes at all before Jensen nodded in his direction and Steve’s attention snapped to him. Steve was scrambling away from Jensen to reach Chris’ side within moments.

“Chris,” Steve said, lips tugging up into a soft smile. Chris had to stop himself from moving away from the soft fingers Steve slipped into his hair. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Chris answered, not quite sure what he was supposed to do with all this gentleness. He swallowed hard before he offered a tiny smile back. “…God, you look good, Steve. You look… you look good.”

Steve’s face fell a little as his fingers drifted over Chris’ cheek. “Chris….”

Jensen had slipped off the couch so as not to disturb them, but Chris had been forced to learn to keep track of everyone moving in the room, and his instincts hadn’t faded, even though he was dosed with painkillers. His head turned before he’d even realised.

“I’m going to make some food,” Jensen offered softly. “You must be hungry.” Even without knowing Jensen, Chris could read the and you need the time alone in his eyes. It was confusing and disorienting; it should have been impossible to read someone so easily.

At least, it had been impossible for people like him.

He turned back to Steve, looked into those all-too-open eyes, and knew without a doubt that he’d made the right choice all those years ago.

“Chris,” Steve whispered again.

Chris brushed his fingers over Steve’s cheek before he pulled Steve down gently to rest their foreheads together the way he used to when they were little.

“Chris.” Steve’s voice broke a little. “God. I’ve spent so many years… I always wondered….” His breathing hitched. “Why? You son of a bitch, why did you leave me? Why did you…?”

Chris shook his head, tipping it a little to the side before he settled them again, soft and comforting. “I had to,” he whispered back. He opened his eyes and offered Steve another soft smile that said all he couldn’t put into words. “You’re looking so… you look good,” he repeated. “Happy.”

Alive.

He’d never forgotten the last time he’d seen Steve: so sick he could barely keep his eyes open, leaning so heavily against him, breathing ragged and clogged, small and frail in his arms.

And now here he was—tall and gorgeous, eyes bluer than the sky, and, Chris would bet, a smile that could light up the world. There was a time when it used to light up Chris’ world.

He just offered Steve another soft smile, hands running through his hair. “I did the right thing, Steve.”

“But what you—the things you—the….” Steve swallowed hard, fingers hesitantly touching one of his scars. “What happened to you?”

“Better me than you,” Chris breathed. “You never could have survived.”

“What happened in there, Chris?” Steve whispered. He pulled back to look into Chris’ eyes. “Please, Chris. You said… what you said before, that we didn’t know what was going on or anything about you—that we had no idea—and you’re right. We don’t know. Chris… what… what is it that we don’t know?”

Chris swallowed hard and dropped his eyes, resting his forehead back against Steve’s again. He shook his head. He couldn’t do that to them; couldn’t walk into their house and tear their organised little lives apart.

“I can’t stay here.”

The sound Steve made in response reminded Chris of a wounded animal, soft and helpless, as his fingers tightened in Chris’ hair, hands sliding down to Chris’ neck to hold him close. “You can’t leave.”

“I can’t stay here, Steve. They’ll find me.” They’ll find you. Chris swallowed hard, eyes dropping closed. His fingers brushed over Steve’s cheek again. “Steve…”

“You can’t leave,” Steve whispered. “You can’t go. You… you can’t… you’re too injured. You can’t—”

“I can’t stay,” Chris murmured again, pulling back to cup Steve’s face in his hands. “They’ll come for me.”

“They won’t find you here,” came a quiet voice from what Chris assumed was the kitchen door. Jensen carried a tray through into the room and set it on the coffee table. “It’s a little simple,” Jensen said when he saw Chris staring at the bowls. “But it’s not too bad, I promise.”

To Chris, though, the soup was the best thing he’d smelled in… he couldn’t remember how long. Fresh and hot, with pieces of vegetables and meat that actually looked recognisable.

“It looks… looks good,” Chris said softly. “It looks fuckin’ fantastic.” He glanced up at Jensen a little uncertainly before looking back down at the bowls and up again, biting at his lower lip.

“Here,” Jensen said gently, handing him one bowl and a spoon carefully. “Eat slowly; it’s hot.”

Chris nodded and dropped his eyes to the bowl, taking his time, trying not to rush—trying to eat as slowly as he saw Steve and Jensen eating, like he remembered everyone used to back before the war had started to starve them. His hands shook a little, and he almost didn’t notice until Steve’s were there, cradling his, supporting gently.

“There’s more if you want it,” Steve said, voice trembling.

Chris looked up almost guiltily, obviously torn between what he wanted and what was polite. Steve bit his lip to muffle a soft sound before he was handing the bowl to Jensen and Jensen was disappearing back into the kitchen.

“It’s okay,” Steve soothed, swallowing hard. “It’s—we have plenty.” He took another shaking breath, fingers easing through Chris’ hair again. “We have plenty.” His hand slid to Chris’ chin, tipped up his head until Chris reluctantly met his eyes. “Stay,” he whispered. “Let us take care of you, Chris.”

“Even if it’s just until you’re better,” Jensen said. Chris almost jumped. He hadn’t noticed him moving, hadn’t noticed him coming back. Either Chris was that tired, or… well, he didn’t really know, but whatever the reason, it wasn’t good to get too comfortable. He couldn’t stay.

He opened his mouth to answer but found himself distracted by the bowl of soup settled back in his hands—this time, Jensen had dropped a piece of bread into it as well. Chris swallowed hard and felt his stomach twist, eyes going up to meet Jensen’s, and there was nothing there but kindness.

No ulterior motive—nothing. God. Chris couldn’t even hate him, didn’t have any reason to, and the tug and pull of some unnamable emotion brought a lump to his throat. He hated that feeling because he was helpless to do anything about it; at least he’d known what to do with hatred.

He dropped his eyes back down to the food, almost hesitant to take another bite in case it disappeared or he woke up or something, but no, it was still there moments later. He unconsciously made a small, appreciative sound, which earned him a strained chuckle from Jensen.

“Wait until you taste Steve’s cooking,” Jensen said with a smile. “He’s the real cook in this house.”

Chris stopped, swallowing the mouthful before looking guiltily up again. He glanced back down and then shook his head, offering the bowl back. “I can’t stay.”

Steve just pushed it back at him. “Eat it. Please. That’s—that’s nothing to do with the conversation.”

Chris nodded, carefully taking another few spoonfuls.

“Stay,” Jensen said softly. “At least until you’re stronger— ‘til you can actually get by out there. You’re hurt, and Steve’s a nurse. And a damn good cook. Just… you can’t go out there.”

“They’ll come here,” Chris said, looking up. “When they find me, there’s gonna be hell for you to pay. They’ll—”

“Stop worrying about us,” Steve said quietly, shaking his head. “We don’t need you to—we don’t want you to. Please. We can help. We’ve helped people before.”

“Not like me,” Chris whispered, staring into the now empty bowl.

“So be the first like you,” Steve finally snapped. His eyes, when Chris finally looked up into them, were over-bright, slightly shining with tears. He bit his lip before he just looked pleadingly at Chris. “Chris, please. For everything you’ve ever done… just, help us. Let us help you—and help us by telling us what’s so different, why you’re so different.” His voice dropped, and he sounded young, lost. So much like the little boy Chris had spent hours curled around. “You’re right; we don’t know what’s going on. How can we help you and everyone else like you if we have no idea where to start?”

“Steve….”

“I’ve spent so many years looking for you, Chris,” Steve whispered. “I’ve spent so many years trying to find a way to… to do something—to give something back for everything you’ve ever done for me—and then we find you just like that? It’s not… it’s not just… I can’t let that go, Chris. It’s a fucking godsend; you are a fucking godsend, and I can’t—I won’t—let you go.”

“Steve,” Chris started again, swallowing hard. His shaking fingers lifted to slide over Steve’s cheek. He looked up to Jensen, who was still watching them with that soft look in his eyes, then turned his gaze back to Steve’s wide, pleading eyes.

“Chris, please,” he whispered. “We want to help you. And we need your help. Just…” He shook his head before he leaned against Chris again, knocking their foreheads softly together before settling. “And… I just… I need you. I need you here. Like I’ve always needed you here.”

Chris’ heart and his resolve waved a little white flag. It had taken almost everything to convince himself that he’d rather leave than stay, and he wasn’t a good enough liar to be able to make himself believe he’d rather be out in the cold, scared and hurt and hungry, than in here with a person—two people, if he’d let himself acknowledge Jensen’s kindness—who looked at him like they actually cared.

Besides, he’d never been able to deny those big blue eyes much since he’d first set his eyes on Steve. Apparently, eighteen years in hell hadn’t changed that at all.

~

Steve had to remind himself that he didn’t need to hurry. Actually, screw don’t need to hurry, he had to remind himself to walk rather than locking, loading, and zooming home like a late FedEx delivery. Chris was fine now, healing well. He was off the drips and could handle changing his own bandages; he wasn’t in danger of falling over and killing himself in the bathroom or stabbing himself when trying to butter bread.

Chris was fine—as fine as he could be, all things considered. According to Allie, he was steadier on his feet than anyone had a right to be after the injuries they’d found him with, and, logically, Steve’s professional brain told him that was true.

Steve was still worried.

He forced himself to slow down again, offering the old lady he’d almost run into a small, apologetic smile.

He’d been like this for days now, ever since they’d found Chris—anxious and distracted, and everyone was right when they kept telling him to snap out of it. Being this skittish would only lead to people being suspicious, but Steve couldn’t help it.

It hadn’t helped that, apparently, Chris’ appearance had brought more questions with it than it had answers. They hadn’t even been able to track down who owned him—didn’t know anything at all about this “Madders” person, and yet, through the underground channels, everyone still seemed to be desperately and furiously looking for Chris.

And it wasn’t just the non-existence of Chris’ owners, despite the name branded onto Chris’ skin; it was Chris himself, too. Steve still hadn’t figured out what he’d meant by his “you don’t understand what I am,” and he didn’t have it in him to push. It all had to be linked: the muscular build, the scars and wounds, the death grip he’d had on Steve, that look in his eyes—and, except for the wounds, Chris had been healthy and not malnourished like some of the others that they’d helped.

There was a logical link there somewhere, Steve knew, but his mind shied away whenever he seemed to come close to thinking up anything, like it still didn’t believe people to be cruel enough, despite all that he’d seen.

For now, though, he contented himself with watching Chris rather than getting answers, although “contented” was probably the wrong term to use. It didn’t make him happy, not in the conventional sense. Instead, Chris wandering around the house, looking around in awe, savouring the simplest food like gourmet—all those things made his stomach turn, his throat hurt, and his eyes burn.

There was almost a soft innocence about it—the gentle wonder Steve was sure he hadn’t seen since before the war—and it was hidden under a layer of fear and a wall built to withstand things Steve couldn’t even imagine.

And when he remembered that, Steve wanted to scream. He wanted to know what had happened, wanted to shake Chris until Chris told him everything. Jensen had told him it was stupid, had asked him if he’d just wanted to torture himself some more, which, really, hadn’t been fair. Jensen wasn’t supposed to side with Chris so early on, even if it was something that made sense.

A car honked as it rushed past, swerving a little to keep from hitting Steve. He’d almost walked into the road when the light was red. Great. Perfect. Steve had to stop and mentally shake himself; he needed to get a damn grip. He wasn’t any good to anyone—least of all Chris—dead.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, glancing around and taking in the people on the streets as he waited. A moment later, his eyes came to the fruit stand a little way down. He hesitated for a second before he walked over, offering the lady behind the stand a smile. His fingers brushed over the strawberries before he nodded.

“I’ll take some,” he told the girl. “Just… fill the bag, please.” He counted out the money and handed it over without the usual guilt that sometimes came with buying a whole lot of stuff he didn’t need, even when Jensen insisted it was fine and they could afford it. He was never going to get used to spending money on anything that wasn’t necessary, but he had a feeling his definition of necessary was about to change.

He was almost humming by the time he unlocked the door to their apartment, tossing the keys onto the table by the door and pulling off his coat.

“Chris?” He called out. Steve found him sitting on the floor, resting back against the couch. Chris looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

“Hey,” he offered with a smile. “Jensen’s sleeping.”

Steve’s lips tugged up. At least Chris was actually leaning against the couch now; the first day, he’d settled in the corner of the living room and hadn’t been able to make himself comfortable anywhere else. They’d ended up making a small nest for him in the corner, and the less Steve thought about the reasons why, the better.

He lifted the bag in his hand. “I bought something for you.”

Chris frowned, looking confused. “For me?”

Steve nodded. “Uh huh. C’mon through to the kitchen.” His gaze lingered on Chris as Chris stood gingerly up, but he’d figured out a couple of days ago that the only way Chris was going to stay around with them for any length of time was if he didn’t feel like they were coddling him. The drive Chris had to be back on his feet and independent again was so insanely strong it scared him, and, even if Jensen hadn’t said a word, Steve knew it rattled him, too.

“What is it?” Chris asked, slipping through almost silently a minute later.

By then, Steve had started washing the strawberries in the sink, putting the clean ones into a bowl and sliding it over to Chris with a small grin.

“I’m not sure if all these years have changed your tastes,” he said with a small smile. “But damn, when we were kids….”

Chris’ eyes widened almost comically. “For me?” He asked, looking at Steve with wonder. The blue of his gaze lit up at Steve’s nod. Chris turned his attention to the strawberries, picking one up carefully. Steve’s lips curled up into a helpless grin as Chris licked his lips, eyeing the fruit like it was going to disappear at any given moment, before bringing it up to his mouth and taking a bite.

The noise he made was—Steve could only think up one word to describe it. And he was pretty damn sure it was indecent and wrong of him to be thinking that way when Chris’ reaction was so damn innocent, but that sound Chris made as he finished up the strawberry was nothing less than pornographic.

Chris reached for another one before he looked up at Steve, offering him a half-guilty, half-sheepish smile.

Steve laughed a little even as his stomach twisted. “They’re for you,” he said again. “Just don’t eat so many that you get sick, okay?”

“Like that one time we actually got to go strawberry picking?” Chris asked innocently, and Steve had to grin. This time, without feeling so damn winded. “Although, as I remember it, you were the one that got sick.”

Steve laughed. “Yeah, and you had my head in your lap all the way home.” He ruffled Chris’ hair playfully. “So I’m going to assume you know when to stop eating, then.”

“When I get full?” Chris said, giving him a small, cheeky grin.

Steve just chuckled and shook his head. “I guess it’s a good thing we have a complete set of medical supplies here,” he teased. “I’m sure, somewhere in there, I can find a cure for gluttony.”

Chris laughed, bright and happy, and Steve felt it like a punch to the gut. His breath caught, and, a moment later, he felt his eyes burn. It was the first time he’d heard Chris laughing like that—the first time he’d cracked more than a half-smile—and it was so beautiful, all Steve could do was stare.

“I think I’m missing something big here.” Jensen’s voice came from the doorway. Steve turned to look at him and didn’t miss the brightness in Jensen’s eyes. He vaguely wondered how long Jensen had been standing there, but it was pushed to the back of his mind when Chris answered Jensen, still grinning.

“Steve was predicting the future,” Chris shared, making another small noise as he started on another strawberry. “He says I’m going to get sick from overeating.”

Jensen laughed a little and nodded before he crossed the room and pulled the sugar pot out from the cupboard. He pulled out a few stray strawberries onto the side, then sprinkled a liberal amount over them.

“Try that,” he said, pushing them back to Chris. “Trust me. They taste really damn good this way, too.”

Chris eyed him dubiously before he took a bite, then quickly finished up that strawberry, too, eyeing the sugar with a new respect. Jensen just laughed a little and patted Chris’ shoulder gently before coming back to Steve’s side, hand brushing over the back of Steve’s.

Steve turned his and caught Jensen’s fingers, bringing them to his lips. He met Jensen’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he mouthed while Chris was distracted. “So much.”

Jensen’s eyes softened, and he just shook his head, his gaze going back to Chris before coming back to Steve. He brushed his thumb over Steve’s lips before he leaned down and followed that up with a brush of his lips. “Don’t mention it.”

Steve just gave him another soft smile that conveyed more than he could possibly put into words. He’d never expected Jensen to just give everything over to Chris—that Jensen would just open up his house and home and heart to a stranger he’d never known. To an escaped slave at that.

But he had. Jensen had gone beyond the call of duty, and he’d done everything Steve would never have dared to ask him to without a single word from Steve and without a single complaint.

Steve brushed his hand over Jensen’s cheek again before he pulled him into another kiss. He couldn’t have asked for a better man to share his life with. He pulled back when he felt eyes on him, but when he turned to look at Chris, he found Chris with his attention still completely focused on pouring a little sugar over a few more strawberries.

“Everything okay?” Jensen asked softly.

“Yeah,” Steve said, looking back with a smile. “Everything’s… everything’s great, Jensen.” He looked back at Chris before shaking his head fondly. “I think we’re going to have to keep dinner small and simple, or he’s going to give himself a stomachache to add to the rest of it.”

Jensen just laughed as Chris glanced over and gave them another sheepish smile. Steve couldn’t help feeling lighter and happier than he had in a long time.

~

For the first few days, Chris really enjoyed the time he spent on his own. Solitude was a rare thing when you lived like he had, packed into barracks with minimal space between you and the next person, constantly in each other’s space no matter what you were doing. Having time to himself—having a whole house to himself—was not something Chris knew what to do with.

He’d sat in his little corner for pretty much all of the first day, back against the wall, fighting at the urge to tear the drip from his arm and run the fuck away at every small noise. His sleep the night before had been fitful and uncomfortable, the couch of Steve and Jensen’s apartment too soft—so soft his body couldn’t adjust. He’d ended up on the floor, and, in the morning, Steve had arranged a nice little nest in the corner of the living room for him.

Even that was almost a luxury. Steve wasn’t having him sleeping on the hard floor, though, so, apparently, he was going to be adjusting to ever-softening bedding over the next little while he was spending with them. If Chris had anything to do with it, he wasn’t going to be getting used to anything too soft before he was out of there.

He’d spent the second day looking out of the window. The space and the almost-silence was too creepy, too eerie, and Chris felt almost trapped. But he couldn’t move much without feeling light-headed, and, when the medication had run out the day before, the pain had been excruciating. Chris was sensible enough to know that Jensen had been right; he couldn’t survive out there like this. He needed to get stronger again, fitter, and then he could get away from everything and not worry about bringing the wrath of those… people onto Steve and his friends.

On the third day, Chris started getting restless. Steve added another layer to his bedding, and suddenly, for some reason that was completely alien to Chris, he seemed to realise Chris hadn’t been doing much while he was out. He’d settled some books beside him, then had shown him how to work the TV. Chris didn’t touch them.

He finally gave in on day four and started reading one of the books. Staring at the walls and out of the windows had started to get old, and he was getting more than restless, almost to a point of vibrating in place even with the drip still attached to his arm.

Once he was capable of moving around without being in too much pain, Steve took him off the drips and showed him around the house, telling Chris to make himself at home.

It wasn’t until a few days later that Chris was comfortable enough with it all to actually walk around freely in the house. By then, he’d grown bored of the silence and solitude. He hadn’t been able to wait until Steve or even Jensen got home. Somehow—and Chris didn’t want to think too deeply about it—they seemed to make the place a lot more familiar. He was sure it was just the fact that he was used to having company all the time; that was all.

The strawberries Steve had brought home that day had been just the start of… Chris didn’t even know what to call it. Steve would bring little things home, things he’d liked when they were younger, back before the war: strawberries and chocolates, ice cream and donuts and… he hardly ever came home empty handed. After a while, Jensen started doing the same, bringing back things Chris had never seen or tasted in his life.

Jensen would tell him it was for all of them, that it was something Steve loved or some other excuse, but Chris wasn’t stupid enough to not notice the way Steve and Jensen rarely ever ate more than a little of whatever they’d brought home. For him. The biggest share was always for him.

If Chris had been good with words, he’d probably thank them more than the soft murmurs he offered every day. Mostly, he was still stunned by it every time, and he couldn’t quite process the kindness he was being shown.

Most of all, he couldn’t quite figure out Jensen’s kindness.

Chris sighed softly as his fingers ran over the edges of the book, and he glanced up at the clock on the wall. Steve was supposed to be home in a few minutes; he’d headed out for an early shift this morning. Chris shifted impatiently. Occasionally, he felt kind of stupid. He was acting like that old family dog he’d once had, back before the world burned, who’d wait just inside the gate for them to come home, tail wagging at the attention that inevitably came with it.

Then again, being a well-loved pet was so much better than any other kind of dog.

The door opened with a click, followed almost immediately by Steve’s soft call of, “Chris?” They’d learned on the first day that startling him was never a good idea. Chris’ lips immediately curled up into a grin as he got to his feet.

“Hey.”

“Hey right back,” Steve answered, offering Chris a bar of chocolate. “I didn’t want to spoil your appetite. We’ve got enough time to actually get a good meal going before Jensen gets home.” He glanced over with a knowing grin. Bastard. It wasn’t fair that Steve already knew him that well. “You wanna help me?”

Chris just rolled his eyes and walked into the kitchen. Steve really already did know the answer to that one. It hadn’t taken them long to discover Chris’ fascination with watching them cook, and “helping” mostly consisted of them doing most of the work and him occasionally helping stir things. Sometimes. He was also pretty good with a knife, but, understandably, he supposed, they were still keeping those away from him.

He obligingly washed his hands before he hopped up onto the counter, settling easily. “How was the day?”

“So so,” Steve said as he pulled out the chopping board and grabbed a knife. He glanced up and handed Chris a small bag of potatoes and the peeler. Chris made a face but reached for it nonetheless. “Same as always, really. Saved some people… didn’t manage to get to a couple more on time.” Steve’s eyes dropped, and Chris bit back a sigh. Jensen was right; Steve’s compassion was going to get him killed one day.

“You’re not superman,” Chris reminded him, as he did in one way or another every day. As he knew Jensen did, too. “You can’t save everyone.”

“I know that,” Steve answered, rolling his eyes at Chris. He started cutting up the vegetables. “There was just this kid today that had one of those allergies to the dust still left over from the war.” Steve paused for a moment, and Chris knew Steve’s mind wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. It was somewhere else, back in the past, when Steve had had the same problems. “We couldn’t save him. He just didn’t respond to the meds we gave him and… he just… stopped breathing.”

“Sometimes, that’s just the way things are,” Chris muttered. He remembered how horrible it was to watch people die like that. He remembered the helplessness he’d felt when sometimes it had felt like Steve would slip away from him like that.

“Anyway,” Steve said after a moment. By the time Chris looked back at him, Steve was smiling again. “We managed to safely deliver a baby, though. Didn’t think the mother or the baby was going to make it, but they both did.”

Chris just grinned at him and carried on with the manual labour as Steve talked on about his day. Chris never got much of the detail, but he could listen to the passion that bled through in Steve’s voice and never get bored.

Even if it made his heart ache sometimes.

It was just like the way he’d begun, somehow, to start taking comfort in Steve and Jensen’s closeness. Even when it brought a lump to his throat and made his gut twist, which was yet another thing he wasn’t ever going to analyse too deeply.

Seeing that kind of love, though, gave him faith in humanity again. Because that’s what the war—the death, the despair, the devastation and destruction—that’s what it had all been for. Humanity. He’d almost forgotten it over the years, doubted its existence, but here it was.

It was in the way Jensen would wrap his arms around Steve’s waist from behind him, tugging him in close, and Steve would go with it, settling and fit back against Jensen like he belonged there. Love was etched so deep in the way Steve leaned up for a kiss just as Jensen moved, the way they talked to each other without needing to actually use words.

And god, Chris wanted to hate Jensen—hate them both—for it. But when they’d look up at him and smile, his resolve found itself a new home somewhere in the pit of his stomach in the form of a knot of something that seemed scarily like envy. Chris really, really hated that.

Mostly because, well, it hadn’t taken him more than a couple of days to realise he didn’t regret making that switch—Steve’s future (his life) for his own—in the least. Not even now that he had something to compare it with. Especially not now that he’d had a chance to know the kind of person Steve had become. It didn’t take him long to realise that he was and had always been completely in love with Steve. He’d been in love with the boy Steve had been, and he’d fallen right back into love with the man Steve was now.

And, for fuck’s sake, he really wanted to hate Jensen for the way Steve looked at him, for the way Steve loved him, for the fact that Jensen had what Chris wanted.

But he couldn’t. He just… he’d tried. He wanted to. He wanted to hate him so he could just do something, and maybe he could have Steve back. Maybe Steve would be his again.

But when Jensen came home with some strange thing for Chris to try, when he looked over at Steve, love clear in his gaze, and smiled, Chris could hardly remember what hatred really meant. All he could see and all he could remember was what love looked like.

In his world, this kind of love didn’t—and couldn’t—exist. If you loved, you lost; if you made the mistake of feeling, you got hurt. And even if you had someone—not like this because nothing in there was ever this pure—but if you had somebody that meant something to you, you didn’t make it so obvious. Couldn’t let it show. Chris wasn’t sure any of his kind of people knew how to be like Steve and Jensen were anymore.

He sometimes watched them and wondered what David would have said. Not that David would have said much, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered.

He really wondered what David would have thought, and then he figured that Dave was probably somewhere out there laughing his ass off at him.

Compassion had never been a strong point of theirs.

[ Next ]

Whizz, Bang, SPLAT!

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 05:08:34 GMT

Title: Whizz, Bang, SPLAT!
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles
Rating: R
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: Written for cathybites for spn_j2_xmas. I'm so sorry it's late! I owe so much to grayscaled and waterofthemoon for their amazing super-fast betas, and a thank you to everyone in chat for cheerleading!

Compared to some of the things he’d had to figure out before, “come meet our new puppy” was relatively simple.

Come and meet our new puppy.

The note was cryptic. Short and, well, very Kripke-like, just appearing on the specifically designed Post-It notes-look-a-like computer messaging device… thing Kripke had insisted they use in place of normal communications tools.

“For guaranteed secrecy—no one would suspect important Superhero Network information would be on a Post-It note,” Kripke had said. As much as Jensen hated to admit it, the bastard was right. No one would ever look for secret messages on something so ordinary. Especially when they were so damn small that when normal people who were not Kripke attempted to relay messages, they had to use multiple notes, or the words were so squished together only Justin and his ability to read anything in existence could actually make sense of it without the help of a magnifying glass.

Compared to some of the things he’d had to figure out before, “come meet our new puppy” was relatively simple. If really confusing because seriously, what the hell did the Heroes Network need a puppy for?

Unless it was an extra special super-powered puppy. Like Underdog. That had to be it; they had to be getting a super puppy, or else Kripke was really starting to lose it. Or he was bored—really, really bored.

Jensen reached into his bag and pulled out the comic book stashed there, flipping through until he reached one of the panels with a door, slid his finger over it, and promptly fell into it. One of these days, he was going to start finding Kripke’s methods funny. Until then, he was just going to sigh every time he had to dig out something fictional superhero-related in order to get into his very real superhero headquarters. Ha-fucking-ha.

He stepped out into the teleportation room and headed straight for mission control. He glanced towards the corner as he came through the door, lips twitching at he caught sight of Chris and Steve, who were smoking something that definitely wasn’t a cigarette. As usual. If there was a more fitting partnership in the world, Jensen had yet to see it. The plant-controlling guy and the pyrokinetic? It was just asking for trouble.

Chris waved him over and offered him the joint. “You want?”

Jensen shook his head. “Nah. What’s going on with this new puppy Kripke posted about?”

Steve gestured to the other side of the room. Jensen had somehow managed to completely miss the three puppies bouncing around the big, tall guy, tails wagging, tongues lolling as the guy managed to somehow play with all of them at once.

“I thought Eric wrote puppy. Singular. Why are there three, and which one is ours?”

“The big tall one in the middle,” Kripke said, laughing. He patted Jensen on the arm before he used that grip to pull him along. “Come and meet your new teammate, boys.”

“So what does he do?” Jensen asked, trailing along after him. “Train super puppies? Is that why we have the dogs here, too?”

Kripke stopped and looked at him. “No,” he said after a minute. “The puppies are here because we found them, they’re cute, and Jared asked if we could keep them.”

“Jared would be…?”

Kripke gestured to the new guy, eyebrow raised.

“Oh.” That had been kind of a stupid question. Then again, it wasn’t like Jensen was expecting Jared to have managed to con Kripke into keeping dogs on the first day at HQ. “And… Jared wanted to keep the puppies.” He glanced over and watched Jared turn one over and playfully pin it with his hand as the others jumped out, nipping and barking happily. “And it has nothing to do with his abilities at all.”

Kripke shook his head. “Nope.” He was almost sing-songing, which usually didn’t mean anything good.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Kripke smirked. “Nope.”

Jensen sighed. “I hate you.” Kripke knew he hated not knowing things, and he really, really loved to toy with Jensen. It drove Jensen insane.

“Jared!” Kripke called out before Jensen could say anything else. The guy looked up and pulled himself to his feet, and god, he was a giant. “This here’s Jensen.”

One giant paw appeared in his line of sight. “Hi, Jensen, I’m Jared. It’s really good to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you even before I—and Eric’s told me so much. And…. hi.”

Jensen took the offered hand and shook it. “Hi.”

Jared beamed at him. “Hi.”

“So,” Jensen said, lips twitching. He couldn’t help it. Something about Jared’s enthusiasm was catching. “What is your power? This bastard here loves to torture me and won’t tell me.”

Jared laughed. “I’d hate to get on the wrong side of the boss on the first day,” he said with a cheeky grin and a wink. “I’m going to have to leave you guessing for now.”

And if the grin wasn’t so infectious, Jensen would probably have hated him then and there. As it was, he was beginning to understand why there was now a puppy trying to eat his shoe. Jensen was also starting to suspect that was Jared’s power—the ability to make everyone like him, even when they should really be suspicious of him. Or his super power was in those damn eyes. And that grin. And the dimples.

“Is your power just being stupidly nice or something?” What? Did he just say that out loud? His eyes narrowed. Maybe that was Jared’s power—making people tell the truth—but that would be a little stupid. Chad could do that, and they really didn’t need another Chad on the team.

Jared laughed. “That depends,” he said with another teasing grin. “Is yours being exceptionally pretty?”

Jensen should hate him. Really, he should. What he shouldn’t have been doing was fighting the urge to blush. What the hell was this guy’s deal, anyway? He wasn’t sure he could think up a witty retort for Jared’s comment, so instead, he went with arching one eyebrow.

Jared ducked his head and flushed, grin tugging at his lips. “Sorry. It’s just, y’know. You are. Even though I know it’s not your power, and it’s—I mean, I’ve heard of you, like I said before, and Kripke briefed me before I joined, and—I… uh… I was joking.”

Jensen stared. “I know.” Anger, Ackles. Not thinking that the whole mumbling and blushing and head-ducking was adorable. They were supposed to be superheroes, damn it, not schoolgirls.

Jared was starting to shift uncomfortably. Jensen looked up, and how was that even fair? He was the one with the super strength, and there was some overgrown puppy, fidgeting and attempting to look small, standing four or five inches taller than him. He hoped Jared’s power wasn’t to… get bigger or something.

And his mind totally just took a dive into the gutter.

This new kid was really starting to fuck with his head. He looked at Jared again, trying to figure out if maybe this wasn’t as innocent as it seemed, but all he found were a pair of huge eyes looking back at him, wide and apologetic, and a tiny hopeful smile that was starting to fall.

Jensen rolled his eyes and nodded towards Chris and Steve, then tried not to look too horrified when he turned to find Chris blowing smoke at one of the puppies Jared had brought in. It was wagging its tail enthusiastically, paws on Chris’ knees, trying to get closer. He tried not to stomp over, and, for the most part, managed. Or so he thought. Steve just smirked at him when he picked up the puppy. Jensen ignored him.

Distracted from the smoke, the little bastard turned to lick enthusiastically at Jensen’s face.

“Aww, look,” Chris said. “You’re gonna make such a good mommy one day, Jenny.”

“I hate you,” Jensen told him.

Chris puckered up. “I love you, too.”

Jensen flipped him off as he turned and looked at Jared. “You don’t want those—” He pointed to the dogs. “Anywhere near them—” Jensen pointed to Chris and Steve, “If you don’t want them to be addicted to cannabis before they learn to lift their leg when they pee.”

“Actually,” Steve said, still smirking. “The one you’re holding’s a girl.”

Steve was just lucky Jensen was still holding the damn puppy. “You probably don’t want to be anywhere near them, either,” he said to Jared, then nodded towards one of the other doors. “C’mon. I’ll show you around. We can find a place for these rascals, too.”

*

“What do you mean ‘take the kid out, show him how you do things’?” Jensen demanded, hurrying after Kripke. “I don’t even know what the kid does. You can’t expect me to babysit him when we’re out there.”

“You won’t need to,” Kripke said, sighing. “He can take care of himself if he needs to.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know that,” Jensen argued, reaching out and turning Kripke to look at him. “I can’t take him out if I don’t know how he can take care of himself or what the hell he can do to help me.”

“Just do it, okay? Stop arguing.” Kripke opened the door to the control room and gestured at the screen. “Kim’s already done the preliminary work. Looks like it’s just Kreuk up to her usual cat burglary.”

“You’re sending me out to hit a girl. Again.”

Kripke raised an eyebrow. “You want me to send Kane out to burn her?”

“Point taken,” Jensen huffed, grabbing the palm device from the table and attaching it to his belt. “If the kid gets in my way, I’ll hit him, too.”

“I’ll be sure to duck,” Jared said, grinning as he joined Jensen on his way out of the control room.

“This isn’t a joke,” Jensen told him, turning to look at him. “Get yourself killed on your first mission, and I’ll get Jeffrey to resurrect your zombie ass so I can kick it for ruining my damn reputation.”

Jared patted his shoulder. “I won’t, Jen,” he said, squeezing. Jensen should smack him one just for the nickname and for taking this so damn lightly, acting like it’s some kind of game. “I’m a superhero, remember?”

“Yeah?” Jensen said, raising an eyebrow as he opened a gateway. “So why’re you acting so much like a sidekick?”

Jared, the infuriating little fucker, just smiled at him and stepped through the portal.

*

He was trying to get some idea of where the hell Jared had disappeared to. What they’d stepped into was definitely not what he’d been expecting, and Jared had come through that damn portal first.

“Damn it, Eric, you said it was just Kreuk!” Jensen shouted into the comm. He smashed a table that was flying towards him, feeling the splinters hit and bounce off his skin. “Didn’t even scratch,” he added in the direction it’d come flying from. Where the fuck was Jared? The kid wasn’t going to be so damn lucky, and Jensen couldn’t even see him. He turned his attention back to cursing Kripke. “You didn’t say shit about Mack or Venti… Milo being here, and there’s a damn difference between just dealing with someone who can climb walls and all three of them.”

And if you couldn’t get close to the telekinetic, you couldn’t hit them. Not to mention that if Venti… Milo was here, then there was probably a bomb somewhere.

Mack threw a coat rack at him. Who the fuck put a metal coat rack in a bank? And the little bitch actually managed to catch him right in the stomach—because he was still looking for the damn kid—and send him flying into a wall. “Oh, that is fucking it.” It was only fair to send the thing back where it came from.

He followed the path of the makeshift javelin quickly, grabbed a chair as he passed and threw it right at Milo, then threw himself at Mack. She shouted, jumped to avoid him, then reached up and grabbed Kreuk’s hand.

“Milo!” she was shouting down. “Kristin’s got it. Let’s go!”

“Fuck that,” Jensen said, making a grab for Milo, but it was too late; they’d teleported away. “Damn it!”

There was even more to swear about when he turned to catch sight of the bomb sitting almost innocently where Milo had been. “Shit.” He reached for the device he’d put on his belt and found only scraps of metal.

“Eric, we have a really fucking huge problem,” he said. “Where the hell is Kim. Or Tom?”

“Not here,” came the answer, crackling ominously over the comm. “What the hell is it?”

“One of Milo’s damn electronic bombs,” Jensen said. “And my computer device is broken. Fuck. We should evacuate the area immediately and—Jared, what the fuck are you doing?”

“Disabling the ‘damn electronic bomb,’” Jared said, looking up at him before looking back down, frowning as he looked it over. Where the fuck had Jared even come from?

“What? You can’t do that! It’ll blow up.”

Jared laughed and gave him another small, tense grin. “Have a little faith, pookie. I know what I’m doing.”

“Is that your power? Oh my god, please tell me it’s your power.” Jared ignored him. “A kid is trying to disable a fucking bomb left by a fucking super bomb-laying villain, and he says I should have faith.” He was talking to Kripke. Really. He wasn’t resorting to mumbling to himself or anything.

“Did Jared just call you pookie?”

“Shut up, Eric. We’re about to get blown up, and you’re—” Click. Jensen looked over at Jared with wide eyes. “Tell me you didn’t just blow us up.” What? It could be one of those delayed bombs you always saw in cartoons. Where it gave you a second to think on what a waste of time your life’s been, and then KABOOM!

Jared raised an eyebrow. “No, genius. I stopped it from blowing us up.”

Jensen glanced at the bomb suspiciously before he looked back at Jared. “Seriously, is that your power?”

“No,” Jared said, laughing, the sharp edges gone from his eyes and from his smile. The dimples were back in full force. He threw an arm around Jensen’s shoulder. “That’s pure geekiness right there. C’mon, let’s go find us some fictional superheroes so we can go home.” He paused. “I actually think pookie is kind of fitting.”

Jensen was ignoring Eric laughing in the background. He was also ignoring Jared because he wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer. Even if Eric kept laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

“Shut up!”

“Sorry,” Jared said, offering one of those damn grins. “It’s just a joke. You know I’m just playing with you, right, Mr. Impenetrable Man, sir?”

“Seriously, kid, shut up.”

“But ‘impenetrable’? Really? Isn’t there another way they can describe your ability? And is that actually the truth?” Jared actually waggled his eyebrows at him. As if he hadn’t heard that joke a million times before.

“Jared. Shut up before I make you.” He should have made him a long time ago. Jared was seriously lying; his power was that super niceness thing. It had to be; there was no other reason Jensen hadn’t beaten him up yet. He made a mental note to ask Chad about it later.

“You’re cute.”

Jensen glanced over at him. “That’s it.” And then he tackled Jared. He only tickled him instead of giving him a black eye because he was just a kid. Really. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Jared looked absolutely gorgeous when he was laughing like that.

*

He’d decided about ten minutes after he’d met the guy that ignoring Chad was possibly the best thing anyone could do. Ever. Especially after he found out what Chad’s power was. So when Chad leaned against the wall next to him, Jensen continued to ignore him.

“Why are you waiting for him?”

Jensen opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut again, turning to look at Chad, eyes narrowed. “Are you using your power on me? You’re not supposed to do that.”

Chad grinned at him. “No, you’re not supposed to hit me, Steve isn’t supposed to strangle me, and Chris isn’t supposed to set me on fire. Because, y’know, that’d hurt. I can’t hurt you.”

“Liar,” Jensen said. “One day, someone should turn your power on you for a day. I’d laugh.”

“You’d laugh anyway,” Chad pointed out. He looked at the door and back at Jensen. “You like him, don’t you?”

“I’m not saying anything; your stupid power is stupid.” Jensen crossed his arms and didn’t pout. No, really, he didn’t.

“My power is awesome,” Chad said, clapping Jensen on the shoulder. “And that answers it for me, you know.”

“I just want to know what the hell’s going on,” Jensen said, rolling his eyes. “I still don’t get how he managed to disable the fucking bomb without superpowers or… I mean, why the hell is he still in there talking to Kripke?”

“Mission report,” Chad said with a serious nod. “Remember, Jensen? We’re supposed to do those sometimes.”

“I did mine.” Jensen glared again. God, Chad was just bad for his eyes. And wrinkles. He was going to get wrinkles, and it would be Chad’s fault.

“Obviously, he has more to say.” Chad shrugged. “He probably saw something you didn’t or something.”

“And he couldn’t have said that when I was there?”

Chad raised an eyebrow. Okay, so he was being a little bit unreasonable, but he had a right to know. Jared wasn’t even in sight for the most part of the damn fight, and—oh. Maybe he saw something when he was hiding. Whatever, Jared still could have told him. Or told Kripke with him in there or something.

“You know new kids,” Chad pointed out. “Besides, it was his first mission, and this is his first report. Do you really want to sit through that again?”

Chad had a point, but Jensen was not going to concede that. He was just going to continue to stare at the door as though he would develop x-ray vision or… and then the door slid open, and Jared came bouncing out, then pulled Jensen away from the wall and lead him down the hallway.

Jensen didn’t even look at Chad. He could see the smirk well enough in his mind’s eye, and letting that bastard smirk at him was not in his plans for today. Truthfully, neither was trying to keep up with his new teammate, who was talking about a hundred words a second.

“Is your power just to talk really, really fast?”

Jared stopped and burst out laughing. He pulled Jensen closer again and ruffled his hair, and god, Jensen hoped Chad had already walked away and that the sniggering sound was just his imagination. He really should hit Jared, but by the time that thought crossed his mind, Jared’s hand had settled, warm and comfortable against Jensen’s neck.

Jensen wasn’t supposed to hit teammates anyway. And Jared was just a kid. He was sticking to that excuse if it killed him.

“It’s not, by the way,” Jared clarified a moment later. He was grinning when Jensen looked up at him. “I do that anyway.”

Jensen snorted and shook his head. “Whatever. After that near-death experience, I think I need a good cup of coffee.”

“You call that a near-death experience?” Jared asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jensen raised both of his. “Do you want that cup of coffee or not?”

“Sorry.” The boy actually managed to look sheepish. “Coffee sounds really good. Where are we headed? Tim Horton’s? Starbucks? There’s this really great coffee place not that far off fifth and—”

“Brazil.”

Jared choked. “Sorry?”

Jensen grinned, opening one of the portals. “We’re superheroes, Jared. We just saved the world. Why would we go to Starbucks?”

*

“You should let me pick a place this time,” Jared said as they headed away from where Kripke was gesturing widely and shouting at one of the policemen. One more bad guy down and still absolutely no idea where Evil Incorporated was keeping the giant diamond from the bank robbery. And why on earth they wanted it anyway because seriously, it wasn’t like they could sell it without someone noticing, and just sitting and staring at a diamond that size would get a little frustrating. It was very pretty and all—or, at least, it looked like it from the pictures—but it wasn’t very useful. And usually, these bad guys went for useful.

The fact that they were obviously missing some piece of the puzzle was incredibly annoying, and considering the look that’d been constantly stuck on Kripke’s face since the robbery, Eric also knew a lot more than he was telling them.

Or that look could have something to do with the fact that the bad guys had become increasingly good at slipping under their radar. Whatever it was, Kripke was not a happy bunny, and—Jensen felt an arm around his waist, tugging him back hard against a solid chest. He knew they both belonged to Jared in an instant.

He flushed, turning slightly and glaring. “What the hell, Jared? What is it with you and touching me all the time? I mean, little touches, that’s one thing, but wrapping your arms around my waist and—”

Jared immediately dropped his hand and rolled his eyes at Jensen, lips turning into an annoyed frown. “Don’t go getting your panties in a twist, Jensen,” he said, gesturing behind him.

Jensen turned back around and found his nose several centimeters away from the wall. The wall that was covered in glass shards from the earlier fight, all looking sharp and very deadly. Especially when Jensen’s power hadn’t been turned on.

“Oh.” He turned back around and gave Jared a sheepish smile. “Sorry. And uh… thanks.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “For that, you can pick where to go for coffee?”

Jared’s grin turned wicked. Jensen shook his head, eyebrows shooting up. “You can’t—no, seriously, you can’t.”

“You said my turn to pick.”

“After Brazil, Argentina, Indonesia, Italy… you cannot seriously…” Jensen shook his head again, more adamantly this time. “Jared. Seriously.”

Jared grinned, turned the corner, and clapped gleefully. “Starbucks.”

He took one step backwards but Jared was faster, fingers curling around his wrist (oh lord, they were big fingers) and pulling him towards the villainous building, proclaiming its existence as an empire in green and white. If there was any evil incorporation they should be fighting, he was convinced it was Starbucks and its ability to spread like a disease and lure people into its grasp. No one looked up when they went in.

Jared dragged him towards the line. He was practically bouncing already, and he hadn’t even had his caffeine intake yet. There was definitely something wrong with this place. Jensen glanced around. Everyone went about their business like superheroes came and went every day; the girl behind the counter didn’t even bat an eyelash when Jared stepped up to order.

“One venti double shot gingerbread latte for me, and…” Jared turned and looked at Jensen expectantly. Jensen stared back at him. “Uh, make that two,” he told the barista, smiling and handing over the cash as Jensen looked past the counter and up at the menu.

What the hell happened to regular coffee?

He was still staring dubiously at the menu when Jared put the huge cup into his hand. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s good,” Jared promised, already taking a big gulp. “Trust me.”

Jensen brought it to his lips and took a slow sip. “Is that… gingerbread?”

Jared nodded. “See? It’s good, right?”

Jensen shrugged and took another sip. When he looked up, he found Jared grinning maniacally at him, watching as he cradled the cup close. “You like it, right? Right?”

Jensen shrugged again.

“See?” Jared threw one arm over his shoulders and lead him out. “It’s good.”

“It’s not coffee,” Jensen said, stubborn. “Definitely, definitely not coffee.” It wasn’t. Whatever Jared wanted to call it, it wasn’t coffee. Sure, it might have caffeine in it, but it was just—no. No. Not coffee.

“Ah.” Jensen was going to ignore that tone of voice. He was also going to ignore Jared’s shit-eating grin because it was really not cute at all. “But you didn’t deny that you like it. You do like it! You went to Starbucks, and you liked it.”

Jensen was going to plead the fifth.

*

He didn’t get it. No one was even supposed to know that his powers needed turning on and off, let alone how to tell. It wasn’t like bad guys generally looked at the colour of his hair and eyes and went, “Oh, that looks lighter than usual; I wonder why.”

But they’d known. It hadn’t even been a lucky shot or a guess—they’d definitely known. The “throw it now, Allison, he’s vulnerable now” kind of gave that much away.

Jensen let out a breath and shifted the ice pack on his head, trying not to scratch or rub too much at the bandages. He wasn’t used to it; he didn’t exactly get hurt often, and the bandages itched. It had been a long time since anything had had to actually heal, and he wasn’t looking forward to trying to make himself ignore the itching that came with stitches and scabbing.

And to make things worse, being shipped off to get checked out at the clinic as soon as the fight had finished had meant he’d missed out on going for coffee with Jared.

Not that that was the important thing or a date or anything like that. It was just fun to have someone to hang out with for a change. There was only so much hanging around with Steve and Chris that you could do before you started feeling a little awkward and third-wheel-like, and it was just much better to have someone to share things with. That was all.

Yes. Really.

Denial? Who, him? Never.

It was just… well, that had to be Jared’s power. It had to be—the ability to make everyone everywhere like him, no matter how hard they tried not to. Not that Jensen could figure out how that would help superheroes anywhere though because, well, what could Jared actually do with it? Drown bad guys in kindness? Be nice to every villain until they felt bad, put down their weapons, and became a tree-hugging hippie?

He started at the knock on his door before he was pushing himself off the couch and opening it, making sure his powers were activated just in case. He wasn’t taking chances anymore.

Instead of attacking him, Jared grinned at him from the other side. He held up two cups of Starbucks in his hands.

“Since you couldn’t come for coffee,” he said as he breezed past Jensen, through the door and straight for the couch. “I thought I’d bring it to you.”

“That’s not coffee,” Jensen said, shutting the door and following him inside. He took the cup with a grateful smile and tried to keep the stupid grin that threatened to break out off his face. Too telling and really, really not manly. He had to remind himself that he was a superhero and not a teenager with a crush. Really. Seriously, he wasn’t. “That stuff is not allowed to be called coffee. How many times do we have to go through this?”

Jared just smirked at him. “Admit it. You’re glad I got it for you.”

To be honest, Jensen was just glad Jared came around, but he wasn’t about to actually say that. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. My teeth won’t thank me when they rot.”

Jared laughed and took a slow sip of his drink. “Not if you brush and floss them.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Yes, mother.” He sipped at the drink, cradling it in his hand, and looked up at Jared, who looked like he couldn’t quite sit still. He kept shifting and fidgeting and looking right back at Jensen. “What is it?” Jensen finally asked.

“Are you okay?”

That couldn’t possibly have been what Jared had spent the last ten minutes trying to say to him. Seriously, it just couldn’t. “What?”

“Are you—uh, are you okay?” Big hazel eyes stared back at him as he looked at Jared in disbelief.

“Yeah, I’m—I’m fine. It’s not that… y’know, it’s not that bad. Really.”

Jared didn’t quite look like he believed him. Jensen let out a breath and shifted to sit next to him on the couch, nudging Jared’s shoulder with his own.

“C’mon, Jay,” he said. “It’s not that bad.”

“You had to go to the infirmary.”

Jensen rolled his eyes. “Don’t argue. It’s really not bad. They let me home. In fact, I walked home.”

“But you never have to—you’re supposed to be impenetrable.”

“Except when I’m not.” Jensen let out a breath. “Look, it shouldn’t have happened.”

“Damn fucking straight it shouldn’t have! Why the hell weren’t you more careful? Why didn’t you—I—fuck, Jensen.”

Jensen stared at him. “Jared…” He trailed off. What could he say to something like that, especially when he could see the clear, almost panicked concern in Jared’s eyes. “I’m okay. They shouldn’t have—they shouldn’t have even known they could touch me. It’s not supposed to be common knowledge that I can turn it off, let alone… they shouldn’t have even known. But now they do.” He nudged Jared again. “I’ll be more careful.”

Jared was still frowning at him.

“Jared,” Jensen said softly. “I’m okay, all right? I just—I know it’s a bit—it’s unexpected for me, too. Superheroes get hurt all the time, and—”

“Not you,” Jared interrupted. “You don’t.”

“Not before, but it’s just—I’m fine, Jay. It’s just going to take a little while to heal, that’s all. I’m not used to it, either, but it’s not the end of the world.” He paused and really looked at Jared for the first time.

Really let himself look.

“Jared,” he said a little more gently as he put his hand on Jared’s arm. “I’m fine, really. Are you okay? I get it that it’s shocking, but… well, why is this bothering you so much?”

Jared looked at him, wide-eyed and obviously scared. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Huh? “Get what?” He tilted his head to the side, frowning. “Jared? What is it?”

“God, Jen.” The laughter sounded a little strained. “You really have no idea. You’re so fucking clueless, it’s really almost cute.”

“I don’t—wha—?” And then Jared’s lips were against his, pressing in and lingering before he pulled back. When Jensen opened his eyes, Jared was looking back at him, careful and nervous. “Jay?”

Jared licked his lips. Without really registering that he was doing it, Jensen mimicked the movement.

“I like you,” Jared murmured, and how could he reply to that except by curling his fingers into Jared’s shirt and pulling him back in close so he could kiss him again, deep and wanting. Jared moaned and arched into him, kissing back just as fiercely, and suddenly, it wasn’t enough anymore. He moved so he was straddling Jared’s lap and licked deeper into his mouth, rubbing against him.

“Jay…”

“Yeah,” Jared breathed, hands resting on Jensen’s waist and pulling him down again. “God, Jensen, yes. I—oh, god. You… you’re, fuck, Jen.”

“Yeah,” Jensen murmured, rolling his hips a little against Jared as Jared did that, feeling—oh, god. He moaned low in his throat and rubbed down again, slower this time, feeling Jared getting harder under him. And holy shit, maybe that was Jared’s superpower. “Jay…”

Jared moaned again, rocking up, fingers clutching at Jensen’s shirt. “Jensen. Want you. Really want you. Please… I need—I need to—oh, god, please.”

“Yeah,” Jensen breathed, lifting up onto his knees and pulling his shirt off before working on getting his jeans off as well. “You, too,” he breathed, hand dropping to tug at Jared’s shirt for a second longer. “C’mon, Jay, please.”

Jensen was pleased to see that Jared wasn’t wasting any time getting his clothes off, either, and as soon as Jared’s jeans came off, Jensen’s mouth watered. “Oh, fuck, Jared….”

Jared actually blushed and ducked his head, reaching up to slide his hands over Jensen’s waist and pull him back into his lap, touch soft and reverent as he leaned up to kiss Jensen, far more intimate than anything else they’d shared. “Fuck… you… god, Jensen, you’re even more gorgeous than I imagined.”

“You imagined this? Me?”

Jared actually laughed. “God, yes, Jensen. You’re…hell, yes. I’d—you’d have to be blind not to see how beautiful you are.”

Jensen made a soft sound and pressed down against Jared again, shifting until Jared’s dick slid against his own. They both moaned and clutched a little more desperately at each other, and Jensen started to rock against him slowly. He dipped his head and licked into Jared’s mouth, hand sliding over Jared’s skin, thumb brushing over the lobe of his ear.

“Yeah, fuck, Jensen…”

“Not enough time,” Jensen muttered, kissing him harder as he rocked a little more. “Need—need this too much.”

“Yeah, okay.” Jared’s hand curled around both their cocks and oh, god. His eyes almost rolled into the back of his head as he arched into it a little more. “Oh, god. Holy shit, Jared—that—oh, god.”

“Jen—oh—fuck, Jen, you’re…” He could hear Jared’s voice getting rougher and rougher as his movements got more and more needy, his strokes starting to lose rhythm. “C’mon—god, c’mon.”

Jared’s thumb slid over the tip of Jensen’s dick as Jared whispered his name, low and wanting. The sound of that, the way Jared said it—everything about this went straight down, and the world almost whited out as he came harder than he had in his life.

Somewhere in his haze, he felt Jared spilling over his stomach, but by then, it was all he could do to cling to Jared’s shoulders and rest his head on Jared’s shoulder.

It wasn’t much longer before he felt Jared’s lips on his temple, lazy and happy. He turned, tipping his head up so he could catch Jared’s mouth before he moved away. “That was fast.”

“Yeah,” Jared whispered. “It was.”

“Too fast,” Jensen said, kissing him again, still smiling. “We need to try that again.”

“Later.” Jared laughed. “Because as fast as that was, I think my brain shot out of my dick.”

“Mmhmm.” He was pretty sure there was something else he had to say about that, but he was feeling very, very sated, comfortable, and practically liquid. He didn’t even quite register Jared coaxing him onto his feet and the two of them somehow stumbling into his bedroom before collapsing onto the bed.

And then all he could think of was how nice it was to have someone to curl up with as he fell asleep.

*

There was no one beside him when he woke up—that much he knew almost immediately. It wasn’t late; the sunlight was still just filtering through the window, so there wasn’t even that excuse, but the other side of the bed was most definitely empty. And cold.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes, reluctantly opening them to confirm what he already knew, and caught sight of the bright pink piece of paper sitting on his bedside table. He reached blindly for it and squinted at the words on the page.

I had to go, but please don’t think it was because I didn’t want to stay. I really, really didn’t want to go at all because I wanted to stay ~~and you look really pretty when~~. Last night was amazing. And we should talk because I really want ~~you~~ to figure out where we’re going next.

It was so amazing, Jensen. You’re so amazing. I didn’t want to leave.

So. I’ll see you later, okay?

Jensen was grinning by the time he’d finished reading the note. It was just… so Jared, and Jared was really kind of irresistible. How a superhero—whatever his ability was—could be such a dork, Jensen would never know.

Then something occurred to him. If Jared was on a mission, and Jensen wasn’t with him, who was he with? Because Kripke had sent Jared tagging along on every single one of Jensen’s missions since he’d met him. Jensen rolled out of bed and grabbed his clothes, dressing as he opened the comic book and headed straight to the control room.

On the way in, he passed Chris, Steve, Chad, and pretty much everyone else. There was no one else Jared could be with.

“Who is he with?” Jensen demanded as soon as he stormed into the room. “Where is he?”

Kripke looked around. “What?”

“Jared,” Jensen clarified. “He’s out on a mission, isn’t he? And if he’s not with me—not with any of us—who is he with?”

“No one,” Kripke said, taking three steps back as Jensen moved forwards without even realizing he had. Once Jensen caught himself, he shook his head and turned back around.

“Where is he?” he demanded. “What is he dealing with? I don’t fucking care what kind of test you want to put him through, Kripke, but he’s just a kid. You can’t send him there alone. There’s no fucking reason for you to—”

“You can’t help him,” Eric shouted, interrupting him. “If you go storming out there looking for him now, you’ll do more harm than good, Jensen. You’ll get him killed.”

Jensen froze, then turned back around slowly. “What?”

“You can’t help him.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because he’s undercover,” Kripke said. At Jensen’s look, he sighed. “Jared’s a shapeshifter, Jensen.”

“Shapeshifter?” Jensen blinked. And then gaped. “Jared’s a shapeshifter, and you sent him under cover?” He grabbed Kripke’s shoulders. “Eric, you sent him in there alone? When there’s obviously—when someone’s obviously—they knew my secret, Eric, what’s to say they don’t know Jared’s too?”

“Because no one knows Jared’s,” Kripke explained patiently. “That’s why he couldn’t tell anyone, and the moment we heard about you getting hurt, we decided we couldn’t wait any longer.”

“So you… fuck.”

“He’ll be fine, Jensen,” Kripke said, and Jensen was ignoring the fact that he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well as Jensen. “Jared’s… he’s a good kid. Smart and resourceful, and no one knows about his power. He’ll be just fine.”

*

He didn’t get any sleep. In fact, he didn’t go home. He hung around the base, distracted enough that Eric and Kim attempted to sit him down and talk him out of it. After about five minutes, it started to sound disturbingly like “The Talk”—boyfriends and responsibility, and Jensen started getting a little freaked out that they were going to go into safe sex. So he broke down the door and walked out.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate their concern—and for the record, he did notice that they weren’t sending him out on any really important missions; he just didn’t care. It was just that he had more important things on his mind.

Like Jared.

And how he was a shapeshifter—but that somehow didn’t matter half as much as the fact that he was undercover, surrounded by enemies and alone. There was nothing Jensen could do to help him.

Six days later, Jared finally stumbled through a portal. Jensen fought the urge to grab him and shake him until Jared told him exactly what had happened or if he was okay. Considering the super strength, that would defeat the purpose completely.

“Jared!” He looked exhausted. When Jared turned to look at him, there was something in his eyes that Jensen didn’t quite recognise. It actually looked like trepidation, although what he was nervous about, Jensen couldn’t quite figure out. Maybe it was about the other night.

“Jensen. I…” Jared let out a slow breath. “Can we talk later? After I talk to Kripke. Please.”

“Sure,” Jensen said, reaching up to squeeze Jared’s arm. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Jared stopped, turned to look at him, and hesitated for a second. His eyes flicked down to Jensen’s lips, which really only gave Jensen one option. He moved his hand to the back of Jared’s neck and pulled him down into a soft kiss. “I’ll see you later.”

Jared gave him a smile, eyes lighting up despite the tiredness. “Later.”

Jensen walked with him to the control room anyway.

“What’s going on?” He looked up to find Steve coming his way.

“It’s Jared… he’s back.”

Steve leaned against the wall next to him. “You trust him, don’t you?”

That made Jensen turn. Steve wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was looking at the closed door. Jensen turned the look into a glare. “Steve. What did you just ask me?”

“Whether you trusted him.” Steve looked back at him evenly. “Don’t glare at me, Jensen. It’s a fair question.”

“You don’t? Trust him, I mean.”

“I haven’t—I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. Chris says—”

“Chris says?” Jensen almost shouted. “He’s always saying things, and you’re always going right along with him. Can’t you think for yourself for once?”

The look Steve gave him was hard to describe, but it made Jensen’s stomach twist. “Steve.”

“Don’t, Jensen.” Steve shook his head and pushed away from the wall. “Just… don’t, okay?”

“I didn’t—Steve. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. Please,” he said. “Just… wait with me. Please.”

Steve sighed. He looked torn for a moment before he just nodded and relaxed again, giving Jensen a look.

“I trust him,” Jensen said softly after a few moments. He owed that much to Steve, after all. “I… can’t explain it. I just… I trust him. There’s something about him, Steve….”

“Are you sure that’s not just his dick?”

“Steve!” Jensen hit him on the shoulder, feeling his cheeks start to burn. Steve chuckled, opening his mouth to say something else when the door opened and Kripke poked his head out.

“Call the others,” he said. “And come inside.”

*

“Shapeshifter?! That’s—”

“Chris, don’t!” Jensen shouted, finding himself between Jared and Chris within seconds. “Damn it, listen.”

“He’s a shifter, and he didn’t tell us?”

“Listen!” Kripke shouted. “That’s because I told him not to.” They all looked around and fixed him with a look. “I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed that the bad guys seem to know a hell of a lot more than they should.” Eric swallowed hard and looked at them one by one. “Someone’s leaking information to them.”

“The shifter.”

“Chris, stop fucking trying to blame Jared for something he didn’t—”

“It’s only just started. It’s the only explanation. It’s got to be—”

“It’s not.” Eric again. “There’s a leak—but there isn’t a traitor.”

“How does that even work?” Even Jensen didn’t understand that.

Jared swallowed hard. “It’s… information’s…” He sighed and looked at Tom. “Have you been talking to your new boyfriend about us? Everything here?”

“I… sometimes,” Tom said, raising his hands as all glances turned to glares. “I didn’t—I mean, we’re getting serious. It’s been stressful!”

“Mike’s… well, it’s Mike.”

“What’s Mike?”

“You know how we’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out who’s leading the villains? Who’s organizing them and planning for them?” They nodded. “It’s Mike.”

“No.” Tom shook his head and backed away. “No way. Mike wouldn’t do that.”

“Tom.”

“I’ve got to go.” Tom was still shaking his head. “It can’t be. I can’t—Mike wouldn’t. I’ve—I have to go.”

Steve took a few steps towards him. “Tom.”

“I just. Please. I need to go.” He was looking at Eric. Eric looked around at all of them before he looked back at Tom and nodded.

They watched as Eric sighed and rubbed at his neck before he looked back at them. “I think you all should go home and get some rest. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

*

He threaded his fingers through Jared’s and pulled him to the back of the group, waiting until everyone else had gone through before he directed a portal towards his own place. He didn’t let go of Jared’s hand even when he’d pushed the door shut behind him.

Instead, he just tugged Jared back to the bedroom and leaned up to kiss him, slow and easy, fingers sliding down his back.

“Jensen—I—Jen—” Jared’s fingers were trailing over his spine.

“Shh,” Jensen murmured against Jared’s lips. “It’s okay, Jared. It’s really okay.” He walked him back to the bed and then just pushed him down onto it. He slid his fingers through Jared’s hair and leaned down to kiss him again, licking into his mouth. “Jay. God, Jared, I was so worried.”

Their clothes were in the way. The only way to remedy that was to reach down and start on Jared’s buttons. His eyes flicked up, wanting to watch Jared’s reactions, but he found Jared’s eyes closed, his breathing beginning to even out.

Jensen couldn’t help but smile. “God, Jared…” He shook his head and closed his eyes, activating his powers so he could move Jared more fully onto the bed. He settled Jared carefully before he curled around him, still smiling. He should probably be offended; instead, there was this warm fuzzy feeling in his stomach. Jensen leaned down and kissed Jared, smile softening as Jared turned into it blindly.

He sighed, mostly at himself—when had he turned into such a damn sap?—and threw an arm over Jared’s waist, rested his head on Jared’s shoulder, and closed his eyes.

He was starting to feel those five sleepless nights, and, well, Jared made a very good pillow.

Party Line

Tue, 04 Nov 2008 14:27:32 GMT

Title: Party Line
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Jensen/Jared/Chris/Steve
Rating: NC-17
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: So much thanks to waterofthemoon for the super fast beta.

“Steve and Chris’re hot,” Jared says, and Jensen almost sends them both tumbling down the stairs he’s trying to navigate.

“Steve and Chris’re hot,” Jared says, and Jensen almost sends them both tumbling down the stairs he’s trying to navigate.

“What?”

“I said,” Jared says, like Jensen’s a particularly dumb child. Which is really kind of stupid, considering Jared is the one who’s drunk, and the one making seriously random comments about Jensen’s friends being hot. “Steve and Chris are hot.”

Jensen already knew that much. “Yeah, Jared, but why’re you telling me this?”

“Because they are,” Jared says, the d’uh implicit in his tone. Jared’s looking at him like he’s the guy that, until a couple of seconds ago, insisted that he was straight except for where Jensen was concerned; Jensen hadn’t known whether to be insulted or flattered. “They’re really hot,” he adds when Jensen doesn’t answer, like Jensen hasn’t been freaking out every time Jared throws his arms around some guy because he’s pretty sure that one day, Jared’s going to realise that guys in general are hot, not just Jensen. As if Jensen’s the one that’s just discovered that, hey, guys are hot, too.

“Yes, Jared,” Jensen says. It’s Chris and Steve, and it’s hard to deny that the two of them are hot. Besides, it’s Chris and Steve, so they’re no threat to Jensen; they come as a packaged pair, and if anyone tried to pry them apart, Jensen’s pretty sure no one would even find the body. “I know Chris and Steve are hot.”

Jared nods like Jensen just told him the meaning of life. “They are,” he says, nodding again. He’s still agreeing when Jensen dumps him on the bed. “’Specially when they’re all… all over each other and snuggled up and cute and stuff.”

Jensen files the snuggled up and cute for future mockery. He’s not sure whether it’s to mock Jared or Chris and Steve, but he’s sure it’s going to come in handy someday. He nods, and Jared just nods back. Wow, Jared’s pliant tonight.

“It’s really hot,” Jared says, “when they’re kissing and stuff.”

Jared is probably going to try to drown himself in the bathtub when he gets sober again, and Jensen’s going to milk it for everything it’s worth.

“Yeah, Jared, it is,” he says. “They are.” Jensen’s sure he should be panicking by now, considering his boyfriend is currently fixated by the hotness of guys who aren’t him, but, well, it’s ChrisandSteve.

He’s kind of relieved that Jared does, in fact, find other guys hot and that he doesn’t see Jensen as some chick. And he can’t really fault Jared’s taste in men; the floorshow those two almost gave the whole club tonight was pretty damn admirable.

And, well, Jensen’s never been one to miss an opportunity. Jared’s still young and new to all of this; he’s probably curious and wants to experiment and everything, but hell if Jensen’s going to actually let him go so he can do that. Jensen’s a nice guy, but it’s taken a damn long time to find someone like Jared.

But if Jared really is curious, then Chris and Steve are the perfect option. They’re his friends, so neither would run off with Jared, and they’re practically one person, so Jared can’t run off with one of them—and they’re really hot. And really, really fucking good in bed.

And yes, Jensen does know that for a fact. He’s really starting to love this plan.

“Didn’t think your pup had it in him,” Chris says when Jensen calls to share his master plan. “But it figures. No one you pick up’s ever exactly vanilla.”

“That’s not funny, Chris,” Jensen replies, frowning a little. Chris doesn’t quite sound right. “So?” he prompts. “What d’you think?”

“Yeah,” Chris answers. “Yeah, we’re up for it.”

Jensen tips his head sideways because it still doesn’t sound right. “Chris, are you sure? I mean, you don’t gotta if you don’t want to.”

“Fuck, yes,” Chris says, but there’s still that edge to his voice, and Jensen just can’t put his finger on what it is.

“Chris, if you guys aren’t—”

“I said, yes, all right? Fuck, yes, we’re sure we wanna help your boy discover the joys of—” He’s cut off by something that sound suspiciously like a moan. Jensen frowns again.

“Chris? Are you—”

“Holy shit, Steve. I’m on the phone, you bast—oh god..” Chris’ voice comes through the line, choked and needy. Jensen can tell he’s trying to cover the mouthpiece, but Chris never did have much coordination when Steve’s mouth was anywhere near him.

There’s a little fumbling around, and then the sounds get clearer. He can hear all too clearly the wet pop as Steve slides his mouth off Chris’ dick. One of them’s put him on the speakerphone.

“Jensen doesn’t mind, do you, Jen?” Steve says. Jensen can picture his smile and, from the way Chris moans in the background, the way he licks a line from the base of Chris’ cock to the tip.

“Kinky fuckers,” Jensen breathes, pressing a hand to his crotch because Jesus fuck.

“Says the guy who wants to have a foursome,” Chris says, chuckling. “Miss us that mu—” He’s cut off by another groan. Jensen closes his eyes and listens to those little sounds Chris makes just for Steve, the almost-pleas that leave his lips. He can picture the hold Chris has on Steve’s hair, Steve’s hands on Chris’ hips—hears the moment Chris comes, Steve’s name on his lips.

“So,” Steve says, his voice rougher than usual, throat raw. It’s so fucking hot Jensen almost whines. “Next time you’re in town, bring Jared around.” Steve pauses, and there’s the sound of lips meeting and Chris’ murmurs, so quiet Jensen almost can’t hear them. He hears Steve groping for the speaker phone button again. “Oh, and Jensen?”

“Yeah,” Jensen says, trying to keep his voice normal.

“Go jerk off in the shower or something,” Steve teases. Chris laughs, happy and sated, as the phone goes dead.

Bastards, Jensen thinks. Jared isn’t even home. He sighs, gets off the couch, and heads towards the shower. Why the fuck does he call them his friends again?

He’s reminded why when Steve calls him a few days later.

“You and your boy at home?” Steve asks him. Jensen glances over at Jared, who’s sprawled out on their couch, reading a book.

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’ much,” Steve says. “Except that part where I’m thinking with my brain rather than my dick, and I figured you probably haven’t told Jared about your great plan yet. How d’you know he won’t freak out?”

Jensen doesn’t actually have an answer to that.

He can hear Steve’s suffering sigh all too clearly. He can even picture the roll of Steve’s eyes. “Listen,” Steve says. “Here’s what you gotta do….”

Five minutes later, he’s sliding into Jared’s lap and putting the book to one side.

“Jay,” Jensen breathes, lips brushing over Jared’s.

“Hmm?” Jared slides his hands down Jensen’s back to rest on his hips, tugging him in closer, and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. His hand sneaks under Jensen’s t-shirt, thumbs brushing small circles over Jensen’s skin.

“You know how you think Steve and Chris are hot?” Jensen feels Jared go still under him and pulls back to meet Jared’s eyes, hands sliding into his hair. “It’s okay, you know,” he says when he sees the deer-in-headlights look in Jared’s eyes.

“Jensen?” The uncertainty in his voice is so clear that it makes Jensen ache a little. “I don’t—I mean—it doesn’t mean I—”

“Listen,” Jensen tells him, making sure their gazes are still locked. “It’s okay. It’s really okay, Jared.” He brushes his thumb over Jared’s ear and leans down to kiss his eyes before he pulls back to look at him again. “Back before I found you, I used to mess around with them sometimes.”

Jared frowns and opens his mouth, but Jensen cuts him off. “It wasn’t anything serious. It was just messing around. Hot as fuck. But, see, they’ve pretty much had each other’s ownership papers for years. Ain’t no one on earth who can get between that, and you’d have to be stupid to try.”

Jensen leans down, meets Jared’s mouth, and kisses him, lingering with his teeth scraping over Jared’s lower lip. “That was the first time I’ve ever heard you say any guy but me’s hot, and flattering and reassuring as it was to know you just wanted me, I don’t want you to feel like you never get to experience anything.” He bites down a little harder on Jared’s mouth and tugs. “If we let them, they’ll help you. If you want them, they’ll help us.”

When Jensen grinds down a little, he knows Jared wants it—he can feel Jared, hot and hard under him.

“Jensen…”

“Just as much as you want,” Jensen promises. “Just go as far as you’re comfortable. That’s all. We stop whenever we want to stop.”

“You’re not supposed to push your boyfriend on other people, Jen,” Jared says, his voice trembling a little. Jensen grinds down again and feels Jared’s answering buck.

“It’s not people,” Jensen replies, like that explains everything. “It’s Chris and Steve. They own each other. Doesn’t matter what we do—they’ll be each other’s, and you’ll be mine, just like I’m yours. Nothing about any of that changes.”

Jensen kisses Jared again and lets it deepen a little. “Like the sound of that?” Jensen asks when he pulls away, moving further back when Jared chases his lips. “Hm?”

Jared hesitates a little before he nods. His hands tightening on Jensen’s hips are the only signs of any real uncertainty in Jared’s body. Still, Steve’s right; they have to make sure.

Jensen grins and reaches over to the coffee table and dials a number, eyes on Jared the whole time.

Steve picks up on cue. “Hey.”

“Steve,” Jensen says, lips curling up into a soft, reassuring smile as he kisses Jared again. “What’ve you got for us?”

“Chris, actually.” Steve’s voice comes crackling over the speakers, low and intimate. “Hi, Jared.”

Jared swallows hard, and he looks at Jensen, uncertain. At Jensen’s nod, he manages a soft, almost shy, “Hi.”

“You doin’ all right there?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” Jared answers. Jensen can see him relax a little at Steve’s reassuring voice.

“Remember, Jensen can hang up whenever you get uncomfortable, yeah?” Steve reminds them all. Jensen can hear his smile as he continues. “Just relax and have fun, Jared. Enjoy it.”

“We gonna get started, or are you and the pup gonna make small talk all night?” Chris’ voice is breathier than usual. Jared’s eyebrows rise, and Jensen grins a little.

“Get used to it,” he whispers. “Chris sounds even fuckin’ better all fucked out. Steve swears it’s almost sweeter than the music he makes.”

“Jensen?” Steve prompts.

Jensen laughs a little. “C’mon then, Carlson, we’re waiting. What’ve you got?”

“Chris,” Steve repeats. “I hope you don’t mind us getting started without you. You just took a little longer than we wanted to wait, and we got a little ahead of the game.” Jensen raises an eyebrow as a soft moan filters through the phone.

“He’s cuffed to the bed,” Steve says, voice low and rough, practically dripping sex. Jensen feels Jared harden under him and grins, ducking his head to mouth at Jared’s collarbone. Jared makes a soft, breathy sound, and Jensen just smiles wider. “He’s all spread open….”

A louder, shakier moan comes through, and Jensen gets it. He slides his lips up to rest against Jared’s ear. “Steve’s probably got him naked, legs spread wide, and he’s teasin’ like fuck. Steve’s a goddamn cock tease.”

“What’s he doin’?” Jared asks, hips rocking up against Jensen’s a little more. Another moan from Chris, and Jensen slides his hand down to trace the insides of Jared’s thighs through his jeans.

“Right now? Probably nipping around Chris’ thighs, teeth and lips skimming close enough that his breath slides over Chris’ cock, but he won’t touch it. That’s not what he wants, is it, Steve?” he says, half to Jared, half to the phone.

“Mmhmm,” Steve hums over Chris’ low groan and soft cursing. “I’m gonna make him come, and I’m not gonna even touch his cock.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in, but then Jared’s moaning as well, echoing the sound that comes through their house phone. Jensen grins wide, rubbing against Jared a little harder.

“Chris loves it,” he whispers before his teeth tug on Jared’s ear. “Chris really fucking loves being opened up—he’s an absolute whore for Steve’s fingers, his lips and his tongue… he can’t get enough of it. Just arches up more, spreads his legs wider to let Steve in closer, easier. He practically begs for it—ain’t that right, Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “He’s already leaking, and I’ve only worked one finger in there. Fucking hot—really fucking tight.” There’s a pause, then a half-whimper from Chris. “Hear that?” Steve asks, considerably more breathless.

“This gets to him as much as it gets to Chris,” Jensen whispers in Jared’s ear. “He’s probably just as hard by now. Probably has to keep tellin’ himself to breathe and not just come right there, just watching what this does to Chris, knowing it’s him that does it.”

The whimper-moan comes again, a little louder this time. “Hear those sounds he makes?”

Jared swallows hard. “Yeah,” he breathes. His hand slides down, fingers slipping under the waistband of Jensen’s jeans. “Yeah, I hear them.”

That’s it, Jensen thinks. They’re getting there; Jared’s relaxing more with every sound that comes through the speakers, and Jensen can feel Jared starting to rub up against him more, trying to find friction.

The tone of the moan changes into a choked gasp that trails off in a clear groan of Steve’s name, and Jared’s breath catches at the sound. Jensen smiles.

“Like the sound of that?” Jensen asks, hot breath against Jared’s cheek. “Y’know what makes him moan like that?”

“Oh God, Steve—” Chris chokes out. “Again. Do it again.”

Jensen starts undoing Jared’s jeans, slipping his hand inside to cup Jared through his boxers. “That’s the sound Chris makes when Steve licks him open.” He tries not to grin too hard when Jared bucks up into his hand. “He’s probably sliding his tongue into Chris, fingers scissoring, using that to keep him open as he tongue fucks him. Ain’t that right, Chris? That what he’s doing?”

They get a moan in answer, followed by soft, almost imperceptible sounds of rustling material and the slight clink of cuffs on the headboard as Chris twists in the sheets. “Fuck, Steve,” Chris grits out, voice low and rough. “Fuck, don’t—don’t fucking tease.”

“There’s this thing Steve does with his fingers,” Jensen continues, quiet enough that they can hear the panting and muffled wet sounds coming through the phone. “His fingers and his tongue, and it always drives Chris insane, makes him twist, hips bucking, trying to get Steve to give him more. S’fucking gorgeous, s’what it is… the way Chris tries to screw his hips back, the way his legs spread more, the way he practically shakes with want….”

Jensen pulls back a little to watch Jared’s face as his hand curls around Jared’s dick through the cotton. He pumps hard enough to give him a little friction, but it’s more teasing than anything else. Jared moans, echoing a shuddery, shaky groan that comes through the speakers.

God, they definitely need better phones.

Jensen shifts enough to get one leg out of his jeans as he gropes for the lube they have stuffed somewhere in their couch. His other hand pulls at Jared’s jeans and boxers until he frees his cock and can wrap his hand around it.

“Oh fuck, Jensen,” Jared says, hips jerking up and—fuck yes—rubs up right against Jensen.

“Yeah,” Jensen says, loud enough that he knows Chris and Steve can hear him, too. “That’s the plan. You’re gonna fuck me as you listen to Chris fall apart.”

Three moans echo around him, sounding better than porn on surround sound. Jensen doesn’t bother with preliminaries—listening to those two is more than enough foreplay to get him relaxed—and just slides two lubed fingers into himself as he leans forwards to whisper into Jared’s ear again.

“Hear how breathless Chris got? Hear those tiny whimpers?” Jared stills under him, listening to the sounds Chris and Steve are making: quiet, wet licks; rustling and clinking of sheets and metal cuffs; panted breaths and soft, choked noises. Jared presses his face against Jensen’s neck and whines low in his throat.

“Steve,” Chris almost pleads.

Jensen has to muffle his moan against Jared’s skin when Jared echoes that. “Jen, please.” He takes a breath and nods, then shifts so he can sit back down on Jared’s cock, moaning as Jared slides all the way inside him.

“Oh fuck, Jen,” Jared groans, hips bucking up and sending a spark of pleasure-pain right up Jensen’s spine.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, his voice sending a shiver through them both because holy fuck. “Jen? Jay?” They hear a protest from Chris, one that’s half cut off by a choked groan as Steve screws his fingers up inside him.

“Jen’s—Jen’s—oh, fuck.” Jensen grins and starts to move, fucking himself on Jared, keeping the pace slow and steady. “Jen’s ridin’ me,” Jared finally gets out. “Ain’t even got our clothes off, but fuck, he’s so fuckin’ tight and hot and all flushed and needy.” There’s a pause, and then Jared surprises Jensen almost enough to make his rhythm falter. “Get Chris off. Wanna hear it.”

Jensen’s not even sure who’s moaning anymore. They probably all are, anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.

Jared grips his hips and fucks into him in earnest, and there’s only a blur of names and moans, whimpers and whines, and holy fuck, he loves the way Jared feels inside him. He’s pretty sure he’s going to bruise, which just makes this even hotter.

“Steve ain’t even fuckin’ him,” he purrs, leaning down to bite at Jared’s earlobe, tugging once before he blows over the wet, sensitive skin. “You should hear him when he is. But fuck, listen to that. He’s close. So fuckin’ close, and no one’s touched his dick.”

“C’mon,” Jared urges, hand closing around Jensen’s cock and stroking in time with their movements. The words are aimed at the phone, though. “C’mon, Chris…”

A few seconds later, there’s the telltale hitching of Chris’ breath. “Almost…” Jensen tells Jared. “Just, almost—there.”

It’s almost impossible to describe the sound Chris makes when he comes, but Jared must agree with how fucking hot it is because he slams up into Jensen hard enough to make him whine, hands gripping Jared’s hips to steady himself. His head falls back as his eyes close, and Jared takes that as an invitation to start lipping at the skin of his throat.

“C’mon,” Chris says, voice slow and sated, drawl more pronounced than ever. “Steve… come up here. Lemme taste you.”

Jared moans, and Jensen rocks harder against him, knowing exactly what’s coming next. “He ain’t gonna need much,” he manages to tell Jared. He doesn’t want Jared to be left out. “The moment Chris gets his mouth on him, Steve’s gonna shoot.”

Right then, Steve moans long and loud, harmonized with a muffled noise from Chris, the metallic clink of those handcuffs, slight squeak of the bed, and the sound of skin on skin.

Jared’s hand tightens around Jensen’s cock, then twists, and Jensen’s climax hits him by surprise. He groans Jared’s name as his back arches and his world whites out for a moment, but even then, he feels Jared coming apart under him, moaning low right against Jensen’s ear.

Once he can remember how to move, Jensen pulls back to kiss Jared, slow and lazy. “Good?” he asks, and he hears a low chuckle come through the phone.

“I fucking hope so,” Chris says. Steve laughs in the background. “Fuck, I feel like my brain’s been shot outta my dick.” Jensen hears him flop back onto the pillow and wonders when the fuck the handcuffs came off. Probably when he was off in “holy shit, this is what heaven feels like” land.

Jared nods, grinning wide. “Fuck, yeah,” he drawls. “I ain’t retarded. That was… yeah. Yeah.”

Steve laughs. “Sounds like Jared’s brain isn’t exactly turned on, either.”

Jensen smiles at Jared and kisses him again. “We’re down in LA soon,” he says. “Should drop in for a visit.”

“I damn well hope you can keep up with us, boy,” Chris says. Jensen can hear the smirk in his voice. “Wouldn’t be half as fun if you ain’t got it in you.”

“Count on it, fucker. You two are the old men here,” Jared sing-songs back, and then they’re all laughing, bright and happy. Jensen’s pretty sure none of them have the slightest idea why. “Wonder if it’ll look as good in technicolor as it sounds over the phone.”

“Wait and see,” Steve almost purrs. “We’ll give you one hell of a show, kid.”

I don’t doubt it, Jensen thinks because he knows what they look like. He knows what they are like, and that’s fucking hot. Really fucking hot. And adding Jared into that mix? Jensen’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven because this kind of thing can’t be real. People just don’t get that lucky.

“I’ll look forward to it.” Jared’s grinning at him still, hands starting to pet his hair, and Jensen kind of feels like all his muscles have turned to jello. He steals a lazy kiss before settling his head on Jared’s shoulder and hears the rumble of Jared saying something else to the phone, but it doesn’t quite register. He’s worn out and sated and really fucking happy, and he drifts off to sleep to the sound of laughter and then the dial tone as Steve hangs up.

~

Additional Notes: I'm being auctioned off for a good cause here. If you're willing to give a little to charity in exchange for getting me to write whatever you want then please head over to the auction and have a look. Details of why it's being done can be found here so please check it out. Today is the last day of bidding so please browse fics4books because there are so many brilliant authors and artists going for cheaper than you might think!

Break Every Clock [4/?]

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 22:40:08 GMT

Title: Break Every Clock [4/?]
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: PG
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay in getting this out. I just did a move half way across the world and started a university degree so things have been busy! My eternal thanks to waterofthemoon, without whom this wouldn't just have strange grammar but would also possibly be set in a parallel universe where schools are a little different. Title from Anberlin. Comments feed the muses, please and thank you!

[ Chapter 3 ]

Chris’ head tipped back onto the sofa, and somehow, Steve’s fingers ended up in his hair, combing gingerly through the strands.

The Sunday get-together wasn’t what Steve had been expecting. They hadn’t been kidding when they’d told him it was just a small group of friends hanging out with their guitars. Chris had picked him up from home, shouting out of the window and waving at Steve’s mother, who’d walked him to the door.

Steve had just blushed and slipped into the passenger seat, buckling up with a grin. He hadn’t been to anyone’s house or to hang out with anyone in… well, he wasn’t sure he could remember the last time he’d had someone to do that with. His mother had teased him mercilessly since he’d gotten back from the ice cream adventure with Chris, but Steve had seen that small little smile she hadn’t been able to hide.

“They’re gonna love you,” Chris had promised him outside the door, squeezing Steve’s arm. Then he’d thrown his arm around Steve’s shoulder and lead Steve inside.

Danneel and Sophia had pounced on him almost immediately, trying to pry him away from Chris. Chris had just laughed and brushed them away to introduce him to the others: Riley, Jason, Jensen, Jared—“Jared there is Jensen’s little shadow,” Chris said, glaring when Danneel asked, “Like you are for Steve?”—and Chad. “We keep him here to entertain Jared,” Chris told Steve with a grin.

They’d finally settled on the couch—well, Steve had ended up on the couch with Chris sitting on the floor close by. Chris had passed his guitar to Steve a few hours back, and Steve was now strumming along to something Jason was playing as Chris hummed along.

Chris sounded amazing. Steve had never heard him sing. Actually, he hadn’t even known that Chris was musically talented. Steve had talked a little about the music he loved, he’d known that Chris knew music from the country shit everyone played all the time, and he’d known that Chris knew how to play the guitar—but he hadn’t known Chris was this good.

Chris’ head tipped back onto the sofa, and somehow, Steve’s fingers ended up in his hair, combing gingerly through the strands. His stomach twisted a little when Chris didn’t pull away—and God, it flipped over completely when Chris smiled up at him like it was nothing strange.

Steve just smiled back and relaxed, his fingers carrying on the movements. He glanced at the others, who didn’t even seem to notice, or if they did, they didn’t care. It surprised him; back at his old school, they wouldn’t have just been teased mercilessly by their friends. The news would have gotten around the school by the next morning, and then everyone would either ignore them or make comments every time they walked past.

Or one of them would put all the blame on the other to save his own hide.

The hairs on Steve’s arms stood up a little at the memory, and the tension must have spread to his fingers because Chris leaned back again. He gave Steve a curious look, head tipping sideways in silent question.

“Okay?” Chris asked a moment later when Steve didn’t answer.

“Yeah,” Steve said, his voice a little shaky. He offered Chris a smile and moved his hand in Chris’ hair. “I’m good. Real good.”

“Okay.” Chris shifted and rubbed into Steve’s hand like a cat would, making a contented face, and Steve couldn’t help laughing. Chris opened his eyes and grinned back at him, then settled back down again, apparently reassured by Steve’s reaction.

Steve was so relaxed that he didn’t realize when he fell asleep, fingers still tangled in Chris’ hair while the chatter of the group continued around him. He woke up to Chris leaning over him again, one hand on his thigh, the other shaking his shoulder. Steve’s lips curled up into a helpless smile that Chris returned as he reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from Steve’s eyes. Apparently, he had been asleep for some time; everyone else was gone, and the room was almost tidy.

“You’re making a habit of fallin’ asleep on me,” Chris teased, fingers lingering in Steve’s hair.

Steve’s eyes fluttered—god, he had such a weakness for people playing with his hair—and he leaned into Chris’ touch without thinking. “I can’t help it. You pick the most comfortable places to be.”

Chris laughed, low and almost intimate. “My truck and a sofa? Really?”

Steve joined in the laughter, reaching up to brush Chris’ hair behind his ear. He sat up in that same movement and froze when he realized they were eye to eye, lips millimeters apart. Neither of them were breathing.

And then slowly—god, too fucking slowly—Chris closed that distance, tilted his head just a little, and kissed him. It was by far the softest and probably sweetest kiss he’d ever had, just a light touch of Chris’ lips against his own, careful and lingering—and then Chris was pulling away, lips curled up into a sweet little smile.

Steve’s breath caught again. God, Chris was… he didn’t even know.

“C’mon,” Chris said, tugging at Steve’s hands and pulling him to his feet. “Let’s get you home.”

“Yeah,” Steve answered, breathless. Chris let go of one hand, but he didn’t untangle their fingers on the other one. “Okay.”

He had absolutely no idea how this was even okay, but somehow, it was.

~

The next morning, things weren’t quite so okay. He’d gone to sleep with a smile on his face, but when he woke up, a whole lot of doubts came rushing in.

Chris kissing him was not a good thing. What if it didn’t work out? Chris was his lifeline in this town and pretty much his only friend in forever. If they fucked this up, or if things got weird and awkward and he lost Chris as a friend, he wouldn’t have anyone at all. More importantly, he wouldn’t have Chris, and he liked Chris. He liked him a lot.

And then there was the whole “small religious town in the middle of nowhere” thing. However bad things were back in the town before this one, they were bound to be ten times worse here, where everyone had known Chris since he was born. And even if nothing went wrong with Chris, the rest of the town couldn’t possibly take kindly to him “corrupting” one of their star football players, even though he’d never done that. Ever.

He wouldn’t be able to stay, and they’d have to move again when he’d just started to settle in.

His mother gave him a worried look when Steve didn’t rush breakfast and dragged his feet until he was later than normal—until he knew he’d miss Chris waiting for him. He hadn’t been so reluctant to go to school since before Chris had convinced him that things weren’t so bad. He ignored her and just focused on the road, jumping out of the car and running straight for his lockers when she dropped him off, resolutely not paying attention to anyone in the hallways.

He pulled his locker open harder than strictly necessary, and a small folded piece of paper dropped out. He bent down and picked it up, curious despite himself. He’d recognize Chris’ illegible scrawl anywhere.

I know we need to talk.

Go to our usual table in the cafeteria.

He was already late for class. He glanced in the direction of the cafeteria before he stuck the note into his pocket and ran towards the history classroom. Whatever it was Chris was playing at, it could wait until after class.

Only Chris wasn’t in class.

He tried to ignore Chris’ absence, tried to not think too much about the empty seat next to him. This was what it’d be like if Chris wasn’t his friend. He’d have to sit in every class alone, and people would talk, and….

As soon as the bell rang, he almost tripped over his own feet trying to get to the cafeteria. Chris wasn’t there, either, but there was another folded piece of paper taped to the table.

Not that easy, but you’re getting there.

My locker.

Steve huffed out an annoyed breath before he ran back for the lockers, sneaking past the classrooms. He was going to be so much trouble if he got caught.

So don’t get caught, the little voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Chris said.

He skidded to a halt in front of Chris’ locker, turned the right combination of numbers on his lock with shaky hands, and there was another piece of paper, this time taped to the door.

My other one.

You know the combination for that, too.

“Damn you, Kane,” Steve muttered, locking up before he headed for the changing rooms at a run. He wasn’t an athlete, and Chris was making him run halfway around the school to find his sorry ass so they could talk.

Getting warmer, the next note said. Bleachers.

Steve let out a frustrated sigh before he slammed Chris’ locker shut and headed towards the playing fields. He edged around and slipped under the bleachers, and there was Chris, sitting on some sort of box, head in his hands.

He looked up when Steve stepped in front of him and cleared his throat.

“You’re actually here earlier than I’d thought you’d be,” Chris said, head tipping sideways.

“Chris…”

“But later than I’d hoped.”

Steve sighed. “Chris.” Chris finally looked straight at him.

“We need to talk,” Chris said.

“And we couldn’t have done that by sitting down and actually talking like normal people?” He was more annoyed than anything else right now, even more than the nervousness and dread he’d been feeling since he’d woken up.

“No.”

It wasn’t the answer Steve had been expecting. He raised an eyebrow. “What? You had to send me running around the school?”

Chris sighed and nodded, standing up to finally be eye level with Steve. “Yeah, I had to because you needed to not think so hard.” At Steve’s confused look, he went on. “You came into school this morning already knowing exactly what you wanted to say to me. What you wanted to happen. You had it all planned out, and you weren’t going to listen to a single thing I had to say.” He let out a breath, hands behind his back, obviously fidgeting and trying to hide it. Steve’s stomach flipped. “You knew exactly what was going to happen, and you weren’t going to think about what I thought or what I wanted or anything except what you were thinking. You’d made up your mind.” Steve stared at him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Steve couldn’t. His opened his mouth but had absolutely no idea what to say.

“So… you needed to stop thinking,” Chris said. And when Steve really looked at him, he could see that Chris was more than a little nervous. “Before you got here. Before we talked. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have even gotten a chance.”

Steve wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. He just… he hadn’t expected Chris to know him so well. But when he thought about it—really thought about it—he realized that he did. Chris knew him, and he knew Chris.

He let out a breath, lips tugging up into a smile when Chris reached out to hook his little finger around Steve’s, sliding his hand into Steve’s when Steve didn’t pull away.

“Stop thinking so much,” Chris said quietly, tugging on his hand a little.

Steve breathed out. “I can’t. I… I can’t.”

“Steve…” Chris pulled again, and Steve was forced to take one step closer. “Why not?” Steve looked away. “Why can’t this work?”

“Because… because you’re my friend,” Steve whispered. “Because we’re friends, and if… if… then we won’t be, and it’ll… Chris, I can’t.”

“Because it might go wrong?” Steve nodded, and Chris pulled Steve one step closer. “Because if it goes wrong, I might not talk to you?” A nod and one more step. “Because then you’d have no one?” Another nod, and Steve found himself putting out a hand to stop himself from tumbling straight into Chris. “What if I promised it wouldn’t be like that?”

He looked up. “What?”

Chris met his eyes, open and honest and so Chris. “I like you. As a friend… and maybe as more. And I want to try.”

“Chris….”

“It’s not… I know… I don’t know what happened, but I can guess that it wasn’t good.” Which was the understatement of the century, Steve though. “But…but it’s not like that here.” Chris paused, probably waiting for him to look up, but he was hitting so close to home that Steve didn’t know if he could face Chris right now. Chris took his other hand and pulled him in. “I’m not like them.”

Steve finally looked up and met Chris’ eyes. He felt Chris’ breath against his lips, and it’d be so easy to close that gap and kiss him.

“Believe me.” Chris inched closer. “Please.”

Chris was right. There was absolutely no argument against that—against them. So Steve leaned forwards, closed that gap between them, and kissed Chris soundly.

“Okay,” he said when they parted for air. “I believe you.”

He tried to pull away, but Chris’ arms wrapped around Steve’s waist, pulling him in for another kiss. Steve laughed against Chris’ lips. “Chris, we should get back to class.”

“No,” Chris murmured, tugging him in closer again and chasing his mouth when Steve tried to turn away.

“We’ll get caught.”

“Shh.” Chris was still laughing as Steve finally gave in and let Chris kiss him again. “We won’t. Just… stop thinking.”

When Chris kissed him again, all slow and easy, lips curled into a soft smile, not thinking was surprisingly easy to do.

~

Additional Notes: I'm being auctioned off for a good cause here. If you're willing to pay a little to get another chapter of this out faster - or to get me to write whatever you want - then please head over to the auction and have a look. Details of why it's being done can be found here so please check it out!

Shelter Beneath the Mundane (I'm Gonna Fade Away Remix)

Sat, 25 Oct 2008 22:45:17 GMT

Title: Shelter Beneath the Mundane (I'm Gonna Fade Away Remix)
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: Sam began his day’s routine, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow would follow.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written for spn_remix, originally posted here. This is a remix of drvsilla's amazing Shelter Beneath the Mundane. My thanks to waterofthemoon the amazing beta.

Sam began his day’s routine, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow would follow. Eyes open first, senses extending and checking. Moving next out of the corner of Hell he’s hidden in, wiping all traces of his being there, and going through the fire, searching. Always searching. All things where they should be – people suffering, hanging, screaming, all in their own corners, their own carved worlds in efforts to survive, demons there just because.

Sam began his day’s routine, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow would follow. Eyes open first, senses extending and checking. Moving next out of the corner of Hell he’s hidden in, wiping all traces of his being there, and going through the fire, searching. Always searching. All things where they should be – people suffering, hanging, screaming, all in their own corners, their own carved worlds in efforts to survive, demons there just because.

He missed Dean, ached for him, spent every waking and sleeping moment trying to breathe through it – to imagine it as an annoying tickle. Ignore it, and it’ll go away.

Hell was endless, and Sam had no idea what kind of life Dean had made for himself to cope. So he searched every inch, nook and cranny, under every rock – figurative and not, mind-made and real – eased his way into every soul’s damnation, checking, wanting.

It had been over a year – that much, Sam knew – but he had no idea how much time had really passed. There were no days in Hell, no nights, just time passing, fast and slow and irregular. It had been over a year of slipping under the radar, of always concentrating, always working hard not to be noticed.

He stepped out of the garage where the mechanic’s work was never done, the car he was working on never ran smoothly because something was always broken, and had to redirect yet another demon.

Someone whose coping mechanism involved male strippers, karaoke, and a night that never turned into day came next. Behind the counter at that seedy almost-bar, settled where no one would notice him, Sam curled up and closed his eyes.

* * *

Sam began his day’s routine, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow would follow. Eyes open first, senses extending and checking – and stuttering, stopping to check again. There was something there, something almost familiar. Moving next, out of the corner of Hell he’s hidden in, wiping all traces of his being there, and going through the fire, searching. Always searching. All things where they should be – people suffering, hanging, screaming, all in their own corners, their own carved worlds in efforts to survive, demons there just because.

He missed Dean, ached for him, spent every waking and sleeping moment trying to breathe through it – to imagine it as an annoying tickle. Ignore it, and hope (pray) it went away.

He turned the almost-corner and found himself in a bar, dark and smoky. Blank shadows watched a man on the stage, playing the blues and singing low and raspy. The audience sat completely still, just staring blankly, never moving, never twitching, and the man played on for nothing and no one.

Sam watched for a moment and listened, the first real audience in seventy years, before he slid out the door and into a workroom where a man sat and drew and drew and drew. Sam recognized him somewhere in the back of his mind, like he knew the songs of the man before, like he knew the face of the woman that came next.

She couldn’t protect herself. She couldn’t construct a world around the things she’d had, the things she’d wanted, hadn’t had enough happiness or memories or hope to carry her through – hadn’t had enough time with the things that mattered. She just screamed and screamed, day after night after day.

This was Hell.

Routine, normal – same as yesterday, same as tomorrow would be.

* * *

Ava’s hands were always stained with blood. Lady Macbeth had nothing on the woman he’d known once. She killed her husband every night, eyes seeing nothing but the life bleeding out of him – killed him the way she’d killed all those other people, the special children, the chosen ones. The heavyweight champion that would spend eternity killing the only thing that might have saved her soul.

Bela’s door shut behind her father every night. Sam didn’t stay to watch, didn’t want to know.

What happened yesterday and what would happen tomorrow… that didn’t interest him. Not now. Routine was overrated, and for the last eighteen months, routine was Hell.

One more step forward, and there he was.

Their eyes met, locked. He looked exactly the same, gorgeous and familiar and amazing, and Sam ached for him – and Dean stumbled backwards into the shop and disappeared.

* * *

There were donuts. Icing and those tiny colored sprinkles, carefully arranged off to the side. Their donuts from another lifetime, another world altogether, where Dean curled his hands around Sam’s own as he helped him decorate them. Ended up with more on their fingers and lips and each other than on the donuts.

Dean stood behind the counter, staring at him with no hint of recognition, which made Sam ache. He told himself to treat it like a tickle – ignore it and pretend it went away.

Nancy, Sheriff Devins, and Jake came and went as Sam watched Dean trying not to panic, routine interrupted, everything thrown out of order by his appearance. Sam knew – could guess – that every day was the same. Today the same as yesterday, same as tomorrow should be.

But wouldn’t be.
He let his fingers brush over Dean’s as he took the plate, slipped away far enough to settle into one of the chairs in the corner, then sat and watched until the last of Dean’s customers vanished out into the almost-road. Waited until Dean asked him to leave, watched Dean finish his day.

Found his own little corner to hide in, to rest, for Dean’s night.

* * *

Sam began a new routine: wake up, eyes opening and checking, hiding and evading demons, then dropping in to see Dean – always at a different time, always buying two donuts. He shouldn’t have expected Hell to make it easy on him.

Shouldn’t have expected Dean’s mind to make it easy for them. Nineteen months was a long time, and while Hell was endless, time had no meaning here, and Dean had had to live in the fire and keep his soul from getting burned.

He watched Dean’s world crumbling, watched Hell squeeze around Dean’s fantasy, watched the fire start licking at the almost-walls and the darkness eating the almost-streets. The people they knew, lost and lost to, started wavering, their not-quite-selves unable to adapt to the newness, the lack of routine. Spontaneity wasn’t something this Hell could deal with.

“Come outside,” he said one day, standing in the doorway and holding out a hand. “Come have lunch somewhere with me.”

The routine was crumbling – everything about this safe haven was falling apart – but Dean was clinging on tight, trying to keep it all together and deny change. Sam understood and didn’t resent him for it. He’d spent enough time in this place, hopping from damnation to damnation, and knew souls found a way to cope or really, truly burned.

Dean had always been good at doing what needed to be done, especially when it was providing something for people who were in need. It had taken two days for Sam to realize what Dean had done, what this little corner of Hell contained.

Dean’s own sanctuary, as well as his own damnation – duty and helping other people.

And Sam knew what needed to be done.

* * *

Sam began his day’s routine, same as yesterday, same as tomorrow would follow. Eyes open first, senses extending – and fighting. Keeping them away from him, away from Dean, not letting them take him so far he can’t find the shop again, always finding moments (seconds, maybe, or sometimes more) to just watch and make sure.

He kept them away from Dean, stopping them from tearing everything apart and destroying this fantasy, from getting into Dean’s carefully constructed world to shred his consciousness. Just holding on tight and letting that ache become more than just a tickle reminded him what was at stake – what he had loved and lost and found again.

Eleven o’clock, and Dean didn’t lock the door. Sam didn’t hide, didn’t sleep, didn’t rest. He stormed up to the door and banged on it, then grabbed Dean and didn’t let go.

“Come with me,” he said.

"It's important that I stay. Might just be donuts and coffee, but people rely on that. My customers depend on me."

I depend on you, Sam thought. Instead, he said, “I know. What you did here was good, real good, but they won't be coming today.” He knew Dean needed to hear it, needed to have faith that Dean would believe him.

“Yes,” Dean said. “Go with you – yes. Okay.”

And then they ran.

* * *

They didn’t move. It was almost routine, but that was okay. They didn’t move.

Sam opened his eyes first, and then settled, sank into Dean, staying close and wrapped up in his brother. It had been two years.

Two years to tell each other about. Two years to make up for. Two years spent so alone. They didn’t move. Sam rubbed circles on Dean's hip with his thumb, and Dean’s hand rested on Sam's wrist. They stayed like that, curled close and finally resting, two worlds once more righted into one.

Interlude in Faith

Thu, 18 Sep 2008 19:15:19 GMT

Title: Interlude in Faith
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: None - GEN.
Rating: G
Summary: The drive to Nebraska is a long one. Faith-coda.
A/N: I've owed this to grayscaled for a long time and finally managed to finish it just in time for her birthday! Also inspired by spn_nostalgia! Happy birthday, Gray! you are made of awesome and I adore you! Betaed by the wonderful unperfectwolf!

Sometimes, he has to struggle to hear it.

Sometimes, he has to struggle to hear it. That’s what scares him the most, he thinks—the moments that he feels as though the whole world’s stopped moving and all he can hear is his own heartbeat, his blood rushing to his ears, and not that sound he’s so desperately listening for.

And then Dean shifts in his sleep—turns over, or moves a leg, or something—and the air rushes into his lungs and he can breathe again. He can breathe if he can hear Dean’s breathing.

Sometimes, he has to struggle just to see him. Other times, he just turns over to face the wall, tries to act like everything’s normal. He tries not to see the way the bed seems smaller than before, the way Dean only takes up part of it, the way he’s frail under the flimsy motel covers. The material does nothing to hide the state Dean’s in.

He tries to ignore it, tries to pretend—but he almost always ends up turning over, straining his eyes in the darkness, trying to make out the shape of his brother across the space between them. He focuses hard and takes one breath every time Dean’s chest moves.

Half way to Nebraska, in another motel room, Sam squints a little in the light that floods through the window and illuminates the patch of bed Dean sleeps in. Under the cover, Sam fidgets with his phone, wishes Dad was here. At least then, he’d have an excuse to be closer to Dean.

Then Dean stills—his breathing hitching, Sam’s stopping with it—and coughs as he takes in air again. Sam breathes out a shaky sigh and tries not to tell himself to close his eyes. Dean coughs again.

“Sam,” Dean says, and when Sam looks up from Dean’s chest, he finds Dean’s eyes on him. The bags are more pronounced than ever, the green slightly dulled by pain and effort. Sam’s breathing stutters. “Sam,” Dean says again.

“Yeah,” Sam finally answers, voice almost-but-not-quite breaking. “What is it?”

“I’m cold.” But it’s not that cold in the motel room. The windows are all shut, and Dean’s wrapped up in far more layers than he’s used to sleeping in. Sam fights the urge to bite the pillow. Instead, he just swallows hard.

“Want me to get you another shirt?”

“No.” Dean rolls his eyes before he shifts over in the bed, presses right back against the wall.

Sam takes that for what it is. He all but scrambles off his own bed, tries not to make it too obvious that he’s been wanting—needing—this since the accident, and climbs in beside Dean. He curls in close, ignores how they really shouldn’t fit on a bed together anymore. Somehow, they’ve always managed to fit.

And somehow, instead of wrapping himself around Dean, sharing his warmth with him, Sam finds himself pulled against Dean’s chest as Dean curls protectively around him. He finds himself with his ear against Dean’s chest, listening to the thud-thud-th-thud of Dean’s heart. It’s not quite steady – but it’s there.

“Go to sleep, Sammy,” Dean says, face pressed into Sam’s hair. His breathing starts to even out, and Sam focuses on that, takes one steady breath in with each of Dean’s.

It’s not until much later that Sam realizes Dean’s wearing less layers than he went to sleep in, the spare shirt and hoody bunched up, kicked away to the bottom of the bed. By then, Sam’s too grateful to care.

Break Every Clock [3/?]

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 17:55:54 GMT

Title: Break Every Clock [3/?]
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: PG
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: My eternal thanks to waterofthemoon, without whom this wouldn't just have strange grammar but would also possibly be set in a parallel universe where schools are a little different *g*. Title from Anberlin. Comments feed the muses, please and thank you!

[ Chapter 2 ]

It had become almost routine for her to drop him off every morning and Chris to shout his greeting before turning his full attention on Steve as they wandered through the corridors to class.

When Steve almost skipped down to breakfast, he spotted his mother hiding a smile. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. It had been almost two weeks already, and his mother still hadn't gotten over the fact that he'd made a friend.

He bit back his own smile as he poured milk into his cereal and glanced over at his mom. She caught his eye and grinned outright, walking over to ruffle his hair.

"You want me to pick you up today?" She asked, like she had every morning since Chris had walked him out of the school building to his car.

Steve gave her a small, almost shy smile. "No, thanks, mom," he said, leaning against her a little as she wrapped her arms around his waist. He'd always taken comfort in his mom's touches and that hadn't changed over the years; it was one of the only constants in his life. "I'm gonna stay and practice some. Not sure what time I'll finish."

She just kissed his temple. He could still feel her smile pressed against his skin. "All right, honey. If you're going to be home later than usual, give us a call, okay?"

"Will do," Steve promised as he wolfed down his breakfast and grabbed his bags. "C'mon," he said with a small bounce a few minutes later. "I'm gonna be late."

He wasn't going to be late; they both knew that. What he really meant was that he'd get there on time for class rather than a few minutes early and miss the usual chatter time with Chris, who had taken to waiting for him outside the school doors every morning. It had become almost routine for her to drop him off every morning and Chris to shout his greeting before turning his full attention on Steve as they wandered through the corridors to class.

He'd taken to walking home after school so that he didn't have a set plan for every day and could spend the evenings doing whatever he wanted. Mostly, that involved slipping into the orchestra room to play the piano until practice finished and Chris came to find him.

A few days ago, though, that had changed a little. It had surprised the fuck out of both Chris and him, but this new thing was working for them all right. In fact, things had relaxed even more between them since then.

He grinned a little as he folded the sheet music and slipped it into his bag, carefully closing the piano. He moved from the orchestra room, humming softly to himself, a small bounce in his step as he slipped through the doors - and out onto the football field.

He shifted his backpack a little as he climbed the stairs and settled into the bleachers, putting his feet up on the bench in front of him. His eyes scanned the field and located Chris, and he waved when Chris looked over before pulling a book out of his bag.

"Hi," said a definitely female voice. "Steve, right?"

He looked up to find a pretty brunette grinning at him. "I'm Danneel," she offered before he could embarrass himself. She dropped into the seat next to him. "We have home economics together." Then she kind of laughed. "Actually, that's probably the worse subject I could pick. I'm sure all of us kinda blend together in that classroom, huh?"

"A little," Steve said, ducking his head. He tried not to freak out and to remember what Chris had said about giving them all a chance. "But…you're in my…um. You're in my math class too, right?"

She beamed at him. "Yeah." She glanced over at the field, watching the boys throwing the ball around a few times before she looked back at him. "So I've seen you out here a couple of times this week. Waiting for Chris, right?"

Steve nodded, offering her another small smile.

"Chris says you play the piano like a pro," Danneel carried on, waving at one of the cheerleaders, who seemed to be looking for her on the bleachers. Friend located, the girl went back to her practice.

Danneel opened a bag of chips and offered him one. "Play anything else?"

"Couple of things," Steve mumbled. He'd never really advertised the fact much. "Mostly guitar and mandolin. But I guess I just like… playin' stuff."

Danneel gave him a smile. "Really? That sounds awesome." She studied him for a moment before she shrugged. "I'll tell Chris to bring you next time."

Steve blinked. "What?"

"Well," she started, winking at him. "It's not really my place to say, but Chris seems to be pretty damn enthusiastic about you, so I guess you gotta be a good guy." She fished out a can of Coke from her bag and popped it open, offering him a drink before sipping at it when he shook his head. "Couple of the guys - friends of mine and Chris' - they have these little get-togethers where they just hang out and jam. Chris hasn't come to many of them in the past little while, but he should totally just cut the possessive bullshit and bring you with him next time."

Steve let out a soft laugh. He didn't understand why his stomach flipped at Danneel's assumption that Chris had wanted to keep him to himself; it was completely ridiculous.

"Maybe Chris doesn't want me to meet them 'cause of some other reason," he offered with a half-smile. Other reasons like Steve just wasn't cool enough to meet his friends.

"Like you bein' too nerdy or boring or weird?" Danneel said with a small, knowing smirk. She shook her head. "No fuckin' way. He won't shut up about you. He just doesn't want to share you, the selfish bastard, but he's obviously forgotten that we're a small school and just cunning enough to totally go around him."

Steve laughed and was about to answer her when the cheerleader from before came bouncing to her side.

"Hi," the girl said with a smile. She flung her arms around Danneel's neck and hung off her back. "I'm Sophia. I hope she's not bothering you."

Steve grinned a little and shook his head. "No. We were just talking about…stuff."

"About how Chris should stop being a possessive bastard, and how we're awesome enough to come over and make friends while Chris is busy being repeatedly tackled to the ground," Danneel added, grinning at Sophia.

"Ah," Sophia said, winking at Steve a little. "She's finally found a time when Chris isn't shadowing your every move."

Steve laughed again, glancing up at the two of them. "Chris is a really good guy."

They beamed right back at him, sharing a glance that meant something Steve totally missed before nodding. "Oh yeah, he's very nice like that."

"But we're nice, too," added Danneel. "And now that we've talked to you, Chris really can't get out of taking you places with him anymore. He always talks like you're this anti-social recluse that's gonna have a heart attack if he lets you out into the big wide world. It's really kind of sweet."

Sweet? Steve was totally missing something here. He was about to ask, but an arm was thrown over his shoulder, and then Chris was right there next to him.

"Not scarin' him, are you?" Chris drawled. "It took forever to convince him that the football field wouldn't open up and eat him."

The girls were really trying not to laugh, but they weren't doing all too well. "We're just making friends, Chris, since you're so reluctant to bring him out to meet us. You ashamed of us or something?"

"That's it," Chris replied back. "I was totally freaked you were gonna ruin all my hard work, but it seems the boy's more resistant than I thought if he can handle the two of you." He ruffled Steve's hair playfully and tugged him a little closer.

Chris turned to grin a little at him, small and private, and Steve felt himself warm up a little and relax, the tension easing out of him.

"I'm gonna go shower," Chris finally said. He let go and bounced off towards the stairs, tripping on something at the end of the bench and catching himself on the railing. He laughed, bright and amused, before he waved and continued on his way.

"We sometimes wonder how he survived childhood, too," Danneel shared with a small chuckle. Steve noticed that Sophia had disappeared, but he couldn't, for the life of him, remember when that had been. The field was almost empty now; the football players and cheerleaders had all headed into the locker rooms to get ready to go out or home, eager for Friday night - and the weekend - to get going.

"How does ice cream sound?" Chris asked when he came back, gym bag slung over his shoulder.

"What?" Steve asked, looking over to Chris, a little startled. Usually, they just chatted for a bit as they walked out of the school, and then Steve headed home.

"Well, you survived Danneel and Sophia," Chris pointed out with a smirk, throwing his arm back around Steve's shoulder. "So I figured you've gotten further in your training than I suspected, young Padawan. It is time for the next step; further socialization off school property."

Steve laughed, punching Chris' shoulder. "Shut up, asshole. You suck."

Chris just winked at him before his smile softened again. "So, ice cream?"

"Ice cream," Steve agreed. "Let's see what more you have to teach me, Master." And if Chris' laughter made him smile a little wider, Steve wasn't thinking too much about it. This was really more than worth having to walk a little further home in the dark.

"Do you have to call your mom to let her know to pick you up later?" Chris asked, eyes widening a little as he looked over. "Shit, I forgot. Is she already here?"

Steve just smiled a little and shook his head. "Nah, man. Don't worry. I'm supposed to be making my own way home; didn't know when I'd be done with practice and all. Mom's finally convinced that I won't get lost walkin' home or something."

"You walk home?" Chris asked, incredulous. At Steve's tentative nod, Chris cuffed him, then started tickling him, earning himself an indignant almost-squeal.

"Asshole!" Steve said, trying not to laugh as he struggled to get out of Chris' hold.

"No, you're the asshole, you stupid fuck," Chris said, finally letting go and just rolling his eyes at Steve. "You coulda said. I wouldn't have minded drivin' you."

"I couldn't - "

"Bullshit," Chris said, pulling out his car keys and twirling them on his fingers as he led Steve to his truck. "I can pass yours on the way home anyway. I ain't lettin' you walk if you don't got to."

Steve was starting to learn that, especially when it came to particular things, you just couldn't win an argument with Chris. Chris just talked right over you and didn't take no for an answer.

Steve gave a mock suffering sigh. "Oh, fine, then," he said, biting back a grin at the smile Chris shot him over his shoulder.

"Get in," Chris said, trying equally hard for a serious expression. "Got to get you out of that bubble and show you the wonders this place has to offer and all that 'fore you decide we're all shitty again."

"I never thought that!" Steve argued as he climbed into the passenger seat and made himself comfortable.

"Just that we were gonna skin you and eat you when you weren't looking." Chris grinned. He reached out one hand and squeezed Steve's thigh before he slid it back to the stick. "We probably still will. I'm supposed to be fattenin' you up for Thanksgivin'. That's annual Eat-The-City-Boy day here."

The ice cream endeavor turned into a sort of mini-disaster. Well, it was a disaster insofar as Chris was horrified with Steve's choice of plain old vanilla and promptly attempted to attack his scoop with chocolate sauce and sprinkles, while Steve tried valiantly to protect the poor vanilla's purity.

It wasn't all that surprising considering Chris had ordered something Steve wasn't even sure he could pronounce. Okay, he could pronounce it, but you damn well had to write it down and read it, it was that complicated.

In the end, he was talked into sharing a banana split with Chris, figuring that was safe - and, well, it wasn't "plain" enough for Chris to try to "make more interesting." He could swear he'd only turned his back for a second, but when he turned back around, the banana split came complete with too much whipped cream, too many chocolate covered cherries, far too much chocolate sauce, almonds, chocolate chips, and way too many sprinkles.

But the way Chris grinned at him, two spoons in his hand… Steve just sighed like a man about to be hanged, grabbed a spoon, and settled at a table. He tried really hard to just dig up the plain flavours of the ice cream, but it was a useless exercise, since Chris seemed completely incapable of keeping his spoon to himself and made sure every spoonful Steve took had more than just ice cream on it.

He wouldn't admit that it was probably the best ice cream he'd had in a while - he'd stick with vanilla, thanks - but it was. And he wasn't so sure it was because of the ice cream.

It was also really fucking exhausting. He must have fallen asleep at some point during the drive because the next thing he knew, Chris was shaking him gently.

"Steve."

He opened his eyes to see Chris leaning close, eyes soft and almost liquid in the light coming from outside the truck. He had one hand rested on Steve's thigh for support.

"Hey," Chris said with a small smile. "This is your stop."

Chris pulled back as Steve straightened up, and Steve suddenly found himself missing the warmth of Chris' hand. He stretched a little and just offered Chris another small grin. It was just… it was a lot of things, but mostly, it was just that Chris was so damn sweet to him, and he was tired, that was all. Nothing more.

He reached over and squeezed Chris' shoulder as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Thanks, Chris," he said, hesitating a little as he reached for the door handle. "Y'know, not just for the drive back, but just…stuff."

Chris laughed a little and shook his head, looking across to Steve with an almost shy smile. "It ain't no trouble. I like it just as much."

Steve just grinned and nodded, opening the door.

"Hey, listen," Chris said, hand on Steve's arm. "On Sunday, some of us are gettin' together to just hang out and stuff. You should come."

Steve's smile widened as he nodded. "Okay," he said. "All right." He got out the truck and closed the door behind him, tapping the metal as Chris started it up again and rolled down the window.

"I'll pick you up Sunday, okay?"

Steve just nodded again, still grinning. "Yeah. See you Sunday."

Chris waved at him as he drove off, and, cliched as it was, Steve watched him until the taillights disappeared before he went inside.

[ Chapter 4 ]

Break Every Clock [2/?]

Sat, 12 Jul 2008 21:03:46 GMT

Title: Break Every Clock [2/?]
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: PG
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: My eternal thanks to waterofthemoon, without whom this wouldn't just have strange grammar but would also possibly be set in a parallel universe where schools are a little different *g*. Title from Anberlin. Comments feed the muses, please and thank you!

[ Chapter 1 ]

"History's totally one of those subjects where you're supposed to be late because it's all old and stuff, and Mr. Singer's totally old enough to have lived through half that stuff himself, and if you get there too early, he might get too excited and then have a heart attack." Breath. "Dude, stop!"

Steve really hated life. No, really, he did. Sometimes, Steve hated his brain even more. God, he couldn't wait until he was done with school and could find his own place without having to try and live in some godawful town no one had ever heard of. Tiny, stupid towns where everyone had known everyone else since they were born, and stories that start with, "oh, he used to run naked around my garden," weren't weird or surprising or embarrassing.

Towns where strangers weren't looked at and treated like animals in a zoo.

The run in with Chris - Kane - yesterday had just made the drive to school the next morning all the more bitter.

Stupid Carlson, Steve mentally chastised himself. Letting yourself get carried away like that. He'd almost let himself believe that today would be different; that he'd walk into school and Chris - Kane, dammit - would wave at him and acknowledge his existence in some way that wasn't the teasing and taunting he got from everyone else.

He grabbed his bag and hopped out of the car, waved goodbye, and then dropped his eyes and just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He was so focused on just getting from the parking lot to his locker and ignoring the looks and whispers that followed him that he didn't realize someone was walking right next to him, pace matching his, until a few minutes later. Steve fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and run away because, god, he didn't know if he could deal with the quips and jokes aimed at him right now.

He was so stupid to have let himself hope.

He quickened his pace.

"Hey, don't walk so fast!" A familiar voice said, boots clicking on the tiles as he hurried to catch up with Steve. "History's totally one of those subjects where you're supposed to be late because it's all old and stuff, and Mr. Singer's totally old enough to have lived through half that stuff himself, and if you get there too early, he might get too excited and then have a heart attack." Breath. "Dude, stop!"

More clicking boots, and then they were planted right in front of him, a hand on his chest. "Dude," Chris said again. "What's the hurry?"

Steve glanced behind him, sure he was going to see a crowd of jocks sneering and laughing at his reaction to Chris. But there was no one there - well, there were people getting stuff out of their lockers, a couple of curious glances sent their way, but no group of people there to make his day even worse than it was. He turned back to Chris.

"Are you okay?" Chris asked in that same friendly tone he'd used yesterday, nothing mocking or ironic or cruel. Nothing different from when they'd been alone in the orchestra room, even if there were people milling around and waiting for class.

"Yeah," Steve answered, finally looking up at Chris and offering a tentative smile in reply to the playful one on Chris' lips. Then he frowned, head tilting to the side. Was that a purpling bruise on Chris' eye? It didn't look right, like it'd been…. His fingers brushed over the area before he even realised he'd moved.

Chris flinched back, and Steve withdrew that hand quickly, only to notice that there was fine powder on his fingers - makeup. He looked back up at Chris with a frown.

"It's nothing," Chris said, laughing a little. "I got up to take a leak last night and tripped. Left a fucking drawer open right there, and fucking karma had me falling right on it." He offered a bright grin. "Hurt like a motherfucker, and Jenny, my sister, swears I screamed like a girl. Anyway, she patched me up and stuck that stuff on this morning so I wouldn't have to come to school looking like I had a fight with my underwear drawer and lost." A pause, then Chris offered him a sheepish grin. "Even if that's the truth. But shh, don't tell. It's embarrassing enough."

Steve couldn't help but laugh at that. This guy was just too dorky to be real. He grinned over at Chris. "If you're that accident prone, how'd you ever make it through football practices without ending up beat to hell?"

Chris shrugged and threw a smile over his shoulder as he started towards their history class, pace slow enough that Steve could catch up without any trouble. "A hell of a lot of luck?"

Steve laughed again, catching up with Chris easily and falling into step beside him as Chris carried on talking. And, for the first time since he'd moved here - moved anywhere, actually - he found himself disappointed when they stepped into the classroom.

The group at the back immediately raised their arms, waving at Chris, shouting his name loudly and grinning cockily. They kicked out a chair from behind the desk. One chair. One desk. One place saved.

Steve sighed, eyes dropping to his feet, hefting the backpack up a little as he turned away and made for the front of the room, pretending he hadn't been talking to Chris. Just in case the guys made fun of Chris, and then Chris would stop talking to him at all, and -

Chris was still beside him three steps later. "Don't sit too near the front. Singer will think I'm up to something," Chris said, bouncing along beside him and grabbing Steve's backpack, literally pulling him into a seat in the third row. Steve looked up to find Chris dropping into the seat beside him, shooting him a brilliant but almost shy smile as he pulled out his pencil case from his bag.

Pencil tin. Thing. Steve didn't even know what to label that. He raised an eyebrow, looking up at Chris before looking down at the Jack Daniel's label that was almost unrecognisable on the busted old tin that was once, Steve was pretty sure, a pencil case of some kind.

Chris laughed and ducked his head, fidgeting with it, swinging it open and closed and open again as if the clack-click-clack could distract him.

"Had it since third grade," he mumbled, cheeks slightly pink. Click-clack-click-clack.

The pencils and pens inside looked worse for wear. Steve was seriously tempted to hand him a new one, but from the bite marks on the stuff Chris had, he was pretty sure that whatever he gave Chris would end up in the same state by the end of class.

He leaned over to look at the relic of Chris' past, which was exactly what that was. Over almost every surface, there were marks and scratching, scrawled curse words and pictures, stick men and plenty of CK ♥ LG crossed out, replaced with various different initials and bad attempts to scratch them from recorded history.

Steve chuckled, about to say something when the door banged open. Mr. Singer slammed his books down on the table and glanced around the room, then frowned.

"Where's Kane?" He asked the group at the back, who pointed him to the front of the classroom where Chris was sitting, doing his best impression of innocent. Mr. Singer raised an eyebrow. "What are you planning?"

Chris rubbed at the back of his neck, ducking his head. "Uh - "

"I, uh. He came to sit with me," Steve spoke up quietly. He looked up at Mr. Singer through a few errant strands of hair. "He was just being nice, sir."

Mr. Singer's eyes softened. "All right, Steve." He glanced at Chris, trying for a glare before he pointed. "Behave." His eyes lingered on them for a few more moments before he turned back to the board and began to write up the lesson.

Chris turned and shot Steve a grin, mouthing, "Thanks," to him. Steve just shook his head because, really, he was the one who should have been doing all the thanking.

Surprisingly, the day didn't get any worse. In fact, Chris caught up with him at lunch, came to sit with him in the other two classes they shared (much to the confusion and horror of the teachers), and caught his arm just as he was leaving his last class.

"Hey," Chris said with a small smile, fingers curled around Steve's bicep. He was breathing a little harder than normal, like he'd had to run a short distance. Around them, the hall was starting to fill with people who were either heading home or out to their various practices. "You staying late again today?"

Steve shook his head. "Mom's picking me up."

Chris almost pouted. "Man. I was lookin' forward to hearin' you play again."

Steve laughed a little and shook his head again, hair falling into his eyes. "Not today. Don't you have football practice?" He asked, starting to walk again. Chris followed him.

"Yeah," Chris drawled. "I'm headed to that in a minute."

Steve rubbed the back of his head self-consciously. "You don't have to walk me to the door or anything, y'know. You don't have to prove anything if it's still about yesterday."

"You've really been through the ringer, haven't you?" Chris asked, skipping ahead a step or two so he was walking backwards, looking at Steve as he talked. "I know I don't gotta do anything. I want to, and not to prove you wrong, either."

Chris navigated the halls with an easy confidence that came only with a lot of familiarity. It almost made Steve ache with want. He wanted to be that sure of his place. He wanted to know somewhere as well as Chris knew the school.

"Hey, listen," Chris said, stopping so that Steve almost walked right into him. "We're not as bad as you seem to think here, Steve. Sure, they're still starin' and whisperin' 'cause you're the new kid. Hell, we ain't had fresh meat here since we were in fifth grade." He gave Steve a lopsided grin, and god, Steve couldn't help grinning back. "Give us a chance, yeah? Everyone'll warm up in a bit if you ain't made up your mind about all of us already."

Steve's smile turned sheepish. "Yeah, I'm sorry 'bout that. I've just…."

"Moved a lot?" Chris threw an arm over Steve's shoulders and started walking again, pulling Steve with him. "Yeah, I figured. But hey, we're smaller than most schools, but, contrary to popular belief, we don't eat new people. We're just all… not that great with strangers." He squeezed Steve's shoulder softly. "Everyone here gets along."

Steve looked over. "I never thought about it that way before."

"I told you, right? I'm usually real good at talkin' and stuff, but sometimes, with you, I don't really know what to say because I don't know what it's like to move around so much or what kind of things you like and stuff. So it's not that people hate you or anythin', we just… really don't know what to say because, y'know. You don't seem to like the stuff we like, and we think you're gonna go thinkin' we're all hicks." Chris beamed.

Steve took a few seconds to translate that into normal people talk. "Oh." He offered Chris a cheeky half-grin. "If it means anything, I think you're doing more than fine with finding stuff to talk to me about."

Chris laughed. "Most people around here've learned to tune me out when I start to babble."

Steve just nudged him. "You make a lot of sense when you remember to breathe."

"Did you just insult me?" Chris asked, gasping in mock horror before he poked Steve's side - Steve's very ticklish side. Steve let out a soft almost-giggle before wriggling away from Chris' clutches and trying to make it down the hall before Chris caught up with him or one of the teachers stepped out of the office or something.

He was still laughing hard, panting a little when he burst through the front door just as Chris caught his shoulder and pulled him in to cuff him.

"You're pretty good at this insultin' thing, aren't you, fucker?" He rubbed Steve's hair playfully before he patted him, then chuckled as he let go. "See, that's the side of you we all wanna see. Not the serious, emo kid." He tutted. "Us hicks ain't much into befriending emo kids."

Steve ducked his head and nodded, giving Chris another half grin. "Thanks, man." He looked around, then pointed over his shoulder at his mom's car. "I gotta run, but - "

"Yeah, I gotta head to practice before Coach bans me from the field. Again." Chris beamed back at him. "I'll see you tomorrow, Steve."

He waved at Steve as Steve backed towards the car and got into the passenger seat, strapping himself in. Chris was still waving as Steve's mom turned the car around.

"Hi, Mrs. C!" Chris shouted through the open window.

Steve caught a mischievous wink before Chris took off, running towards the football field.

"Who's that young man?" his mom asked, looking in the rearview mirror as they drove away from the school.

"That's Chris Kane," Steve said with a careless shrug. His mom's smile told him that the grin on his face was as telling as he thought it would be - as he'd kind of hoped it wasn't.

"Seems like a nice boy," she said, smiling. She patted his leg softly before putting her hand back on the wheel. "Looks like he's going to get you into a lot of trouble."

It was almost funny that his mother didn't sound the least bit upset about that. If you asked Steve, he'd say she sounded almost pleased.

[ Chapter 3 ]

Christian Kane's Guide To Saying "I Love You"

Sat, 28 Jun 2008 17:17:43 GMT

Title: Christian Kane's Guide To Saying "I Love You"
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: PG
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: For the absolutely awesome waterofthemoon's birthday. She wanted schmoop and lots of it - so I gave it my best shot. This is so sweet, it'll give you cavities. My thanks to the ever wonderful grayscaled and tesria for making this better than it was.

1. Bring him breakfast in bed.

1. Bring him breakfast in bed.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Christian Kane hates mornings. The earlier the morning, the more hatred comes pouring out of him in the form of so much grumpiness and grouchiness that Steve sometimes really wants to hit him with a frying pan.

And Steve…well, Steve loves Chris (almost) unconditionally.

So when Steve wakes up one morning to the sensation of soft, playful nuzzling against his cheek, and opens his eyes to find Chris watching him, affectionate and wide awake, he really can't be blamed for thinking he's overslept. Or (when he catches sight of the clock on their bedside table) that the apocalypse is coming.

When Chris produces a tray of breakfast, Steve's half tempted to say Christo just in case. And then he sort of wants to hit himself because he's obviously been watching too much Supernatural and anyway Chris' eyes are still that same gorgeous blue they are every morning.

Except they're bright and wide awake and happy. And Chris is almost bouncing.

At eight in the morning.

They're definitely all about to die.

Chris rolls his eyes and pushes the tray impatiently at Steve again, lips threatening to form a pout. Steve sits up and settles the tray carefully, picking up the fork and starting on eating his breakfast.

The world seems a little more sane when, five minutes later, he has Chris pressed up against his side, head on his shoulder, lashes tickling his neck as Chris closes his eyes. And the global crisis gets averted ten minutes after that when Chris' breathing evens out and he falls back asleep.

Steve just grins a little more fondly, wraps an arm around Chris' waist and finishes the breakfast with one hand.

2. Do the laundry.

Most of the time, they end up sending their laundry out. Between Chris flying back and forth from Nashville, filming and recording, and Steve's own hectic schedule, it's just easier that way.

Plus, they're two guys. They're not exactly stellar at the whole housework thing.

But, occasionally, their laundry stocks up or they miss days they're supposed to send it all out or they're around enough that they can try for having clean boxers to wear and not having to see the bottom of the drawer, and they decide to do their own laundry.

He tells Chris to remind him to do it before he picks up his guitar and starts writing.

He almost misses Chris sneaking past the door, laundry basket in hand. When the front door doesn't slam and Chris doesn't reappear minutes later, Steve's curiosity gets the better of him.

He puts the guitar down and follows in the direction Chris has gone to find him sorting through the dirty clothing. There's a pile of dark colors on the floor, and Chris is tossing in the light bits and pieces into the washing machine, humming quietly to himself.

Steve grins, loses himself in watching Chris, feeling a little flutter in his chest at Chris doing something so mundane. It is kind of ridiculous.

Considering Chris doesn't ever do the laundry, so far so good.

Then Chris pauses, little frown appearing on his features as he considers the next item of clothing. His lower lip disappears between his teeth for a moment before Chris shrugs and tosses the unfortunate red sock into the washing machine as well, going right back to humming quietly and happily to himself.

Steve can't bring himself to interrupt. He just quietly thanks god that he doesn't mind wearing pink and goes back to composing his love song.

3. Buy jewelry you know he'll like. (No, not that kind. ~~Yet~~.)

Steve glances up when the door opens, lips tugging up into a grin.

"Hey, stranger," he says, pushing himself off the sofa to greet Chris. "How was Nashville?"

"Hot," Chris answers as he laughs, pulling Steve into his arms and kissing him soundly. Steve deepens it, fingers sliding through Chris' hair and down to run over Chris' back slowly, smiling against Chris' lips as the missed you echoes through the kiss and in every single one of Chris' touches.

When they pull away, Steve knows his grin matches the almost stupidly happy one on Chris' face. He steals another kiss. "Clean up. I'll make dinner."

"Perfect," Chris says, then pushes a box into Steve's hand before taking off towards the bedroom.

Steve looks down, puzzled. "Chris?"

"I saw it in a shop," Chris shouts back from the bedroom. "Felt stupid buying it for myself but figured if I bought it for you, I can steal it and not feel guilty."

Steve's lips tug up into a crooked grin as he opens the box, finds a turquoise necklace settled on the padding inside. He puts it on - and doesn't take it off again. He's not surprised that Chris never asks to borrow it; he knows Chris well enough to know it was meant for him all along.

4. Send him picture messages of everything while you're away.

His phone goes off for the fiftieth or so time that day. He's grinning before he even opens it.

Jason rolls his eyes. "Man, you guys make me sick," he says, laughing. "Seriously."

"Shut up," Steve answers, grin turning stupid (again, so sue him) as he spots the… he doesn't even know what it is. He turns the phone sideways, eyebrow raising as he tries to figure it out.

It vibrates again a moment later, signaling a second message. When he opens that one, the first one suddenly makes sense.

It was really freakin' weird, it says underneath. Wish you were here. Like that isn't he thirtieth time Chris has written the words.

Steve sends something sappy back before pocketing the phone again. It goes off ten minutes later and he ignores Jason's choked laughter to check the message. Another picture that takes a bit of time to understand. Apparently, it's a continuation of the ones before.

It's cute. Even if Chris' photography skills really need work.

And he really doesn't know why on earth he'd want a picture of a grocery store bathroom and the surrounding area, however weird, let alone five.

5. Take lots of pictures of him when he's not looking. Keep them close to you at all times.

Steve finds them by accident. Well, not so much accident as chance or something. Anyway, his phone dies and, since Chris didn't need to be anywhere, Steve steals his phone for the day.

He's waiting for his turn in the studio when he gets bored and decides to check out what other pictures Chris has been taking because Chris has an unhealthy obsession with his phone's camera.

And then sending them to Steve. The cat paw and look, it has socks! that came with it is still Chris' most random message yet.

God forbid he actually ever tries to take up photography professionally.

Instead of finding the kinds of pictures Chris usually sends him, though, Steve stumbles on a whole folder full of something completely different.

One that's full of pictures of him.

Him sleeping; him reading; him composing; him playing; him laughing; him cooking. It's just picture after picture after picture. Of him. Just him.

It's not his fault the song comes out way more emotional than he'd intended. And it's not his fault he almost trips over himself in his hurry to get home.

6. Write him a song. Send it to him in little snippets until you have it all worked out.

The first time he finds that Chris has left him a message on his voicemail, Steve almost has a heart attack because Chris never does that and maybe something's wrong and he's hurt and - he jabs at the button so fast he almost breaks his phone.

And then Chris' soft-rough drawl reaches his ears, singing out a few bars of a song Steve's never heard before the line goes dead. He almost melts. He blames it entirely on relief.

Then it becomes a ritual for the next few weeks. Chris calls when he knows Steve can't pick up, leaves him whispers of lyrics, carefully hummed guitar parts, combinations of the above.

It takes a few nights for Steve to realize it's all one song.

One single love song. And it's about - for - him.

He tries to figure out when Chris is going to call. Wants to hear it live, wants to sit on the other end of the line as those words slide from Chris' lips, wants to murmur his appreciation and his complete adoration for it - for Chris - over the phone. But Chris somehow manages to make sure it ends up in his voicemail every time.

When Steve starts taking his phone into the recording studio, Chris calls him at ridiculous hours of the night (morning), voice still rough with sleep, open and vulnerable in a way he isn't when he's completely awake. It's even better.

And even worse because it makes Steve ache for him even more. He takes to replaying the messages, trying to get them into the right order, tries to work out how the whole song comes together - then tries to make Chris tell him when they talk. Chris just laughs, says to wait and see, says to be patient - and Steve sort of wants to fly over and hit him.

Then he comes home to find Chris on the bed, legs curled under him, guitar in his lap. And after Chris is done playing the whole song to him, it's all he can do to kiss Chris stupid because he doesn't think he can breathe without him anymore.

7. Fly in to see him when he least expects it.

Steve loves playing for a crowd, and tonight's has been brilliant. They're lively and bouncy and they sang along to his songs as he played them, laughed at his jokes, responded amazingly to him. It was an awesome gig - and it was nights like this that made everything worth it.

Even if it is his and Chris' sort-of-anniversary (because neither were counting; no, really, they weren't) and they are still in different time zones. There was no way to be together - not that they hadn't tried - but Steve had this gig and Chris had something he just couldn't get out of.

Not that it matters, really, because they're going to have plenty more and, besides, it doesn't mean anything. This is their job and they know how this works.

And since he knows how this all works, he's not expecting to open the door to the greenroom to find a pair of cowboy boots settled on the case of his guitar.

A pair of boots that come complete with their wearer.

Chris grins up at him from the sofa, looking tired and worn down, but his eyes are bright with mischief.

"Hi," he says, grinning a little more as Steve splutters.

"What are you doing here?"

"Listening to your gig?" Chris offers innocently - and then he's just laughing as Steve all but dives for him, kissing him breathless. "Someone's happy to see me," he finally manages to breathe, fingers brushing through Steve's hair.

"Yeah," Steve says, kissing him again. "But you're still an ass."

Chris pretends to think for a moment before he shrugs and beams back at Steve. "Okay, that sounds about right." Then he just kisses Steve again and, dirty tactics or no, Steve really doesn't mind.

Because Chris is his ass - and, well, Chris' ass is all his.

8. Move him into your apartment. Apparently, you should also tell him you're doing that.

Sometimes, Steve really wonders what the point of him keeping his apartment is since he spends all his time at Chris'. Even when Chris is away. But all his stuff has someone migrated over, and it's a pain to come back to his place and then have to go back to Chris' to find clean clothes. It would make sense in some world somewhere that he migrate with his belongings and call Chris'apartment "home." But he supposes he still keeps his place because Chris hasn't asked him to move in yet and, in some world, that means he still lives in this dusty, unused apartment. At least technically.

Which is why he's having to pay the rent for a place he doesn't inhabit anymore.

"Steve!" His landlord says, looking really surprised as he rushes out of the office to greet him. "What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?" He asks.

…or not.

Steve blinks and waves the envelope he's got in his hand in front of Pete. "It's rent day?" He says uncertainly.

Pete blinks right back at him. Then looks even more confused. "…but…"

Steve offers him the envelope. Pete scratches his head. "Steve," he says slowly. "You moved out months ago. There was a van and everything. Your post gets forwarded to your new address."

Steve gapes. "What?"

"Yeah, your friend brought the papers, signed and everything." He shrugs, offering Steve a sheepish grin. "I mean, we've got someone else renting now. You haven't been here in months. We didn't realize something was wrong…."

Chris.

Steve lets out a laugh. "Nah. Nothing's wrong." Just that his partner is an absolute idiot who fails at communicating. "Thanks, Pete. I'll see you around."

Chris just looks up at him innocently when he finally gets home. "Well, you do live here," is all he says.

Steve doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. "You're supposed to ask about that kind of thing, Kane."

"You signed the papers!" Chris argues. And, well, Steve remembers signing something. He's pretty sure Chris didn't tell him what they were for though. "You're all moved in and everything."

Then Chris laughs, finally realizing why Steve's just now asking him. The bastard. "Oh God, you didn't know, did you?"

Steve huffs out a breath. "You're supposed to ask about this kind of thing," he repeats, poking Chris' chest softly.

Chris catches his wrist. "I'm sorry, darling," he says, pulling Steve closer, kissing his neck. "Let me make it up to you." He's smiling though. The cheeky fucker knows as well as Steve does that there's nothing to make up for, that Steve isn't going to complain about being moved into Chris' place.

Not that it means Steve won't make him work for it but he's pretty sure Chris doesn't mind that at all.

9. Buy him jewelry. (Yes, that kind.) Ask him to marry you.

Steve loves co-writing with Chris. He absolutely adores it. There's very little in the world he enjoys more than sitting around their living room, taking it in turns to write the lyrics, the melody, the harmony. It comes so naturally to them, and Steve can't even explain the feeling he gets when he looks up to catch Chris' eyes before they both go back to work.

They fit. That's all, really. They just fit. As cheesy as it sounds, they complete each other. Chris adds things he misses to his music, and he adds to Chris' - and that's how they work.

He finishes the little bit of harmony he's been working on, looks up and offers Chris a grin, reaching for the notepad Chris wordlessly hands him. Then he notices the way Chris' hands are shaking a little and he's biting at his lower lip, hardly able to sit still.

"You okay?" He asks, and Chris just nods quickly, gesturing to the notepad.

"I added a few things," he says. "I don't know if it's any good."

There's something else but Steve can't put his finger on it. "Let's see," he says with a small, reassuring grin, and turns back to putting the lyrics to the music, working slowly down the page.

And then freezes.

His breath catches, his eyes widen - and his heart starts beating about three times faster.

Because there, at the bottom of the page, is marry me in Chris' almost illegible scrawl.

When Steve finally manages to tear his eyes away from the words on the page, he looks up to find Chris watching him nervously, a small velvet box open in his hand. The ring glints softly in the dim light of the room.

An actual honest-to-god ring.

Chris' fidgeting is what snaps him out of the amazed trance he'd somehow slipped in to, almost convinced that this is all a dream. But it's not. Chris stays sitting there with a ring in his hand. Marry me stays - spelled out in blue ink - shakily written on the paper in front of him.

And Chris is starting to shift uncomfortably.

"You don't like it?" Chris finally says, voice low, trembling. He starts to withdraw his hand, moves to shut the ring box.

"No," Steve manages to get out. Fuck, his throat's all closed up and he swears he can hardly breathe. "It's not - I - I love it. Fuck, Chris," he says, laughing. "Give a guy a second, okay?"

Chris grins hopefully up at him and offers that box again.

"Yeah," he finally breathes, sliding closer to Chris and offering his hand instead. "Yes."

He's not sure if his heart beats or if he breathes the whole time Chris slides the ring onto his finger. And then it's there, a gold band on his finger, like it belongs - and Steve isn't quite sure how he went so long without it.

It's perfect.

The song turns out perfect.

Everything is absolutely perfect.

Just the way it should be.

10. Marry him.

You're gonna have to ask (nicely please)

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 17:19:58 GMT

Title: You're gonna have to ask (nicely please)
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson/OFC (You)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: Every fandom needs a gratuitous "you" fic so this is my offering. *g* My thanks to tesria for the beta and waterofthemoon for the cheerleading and final polish. You girls are angels. Title for Melissa Ferrick.

One minute, Chris is kissing you hard, hand supporting your lower back as you arch up against him; the next, you're pressed back against a warm, hard body, and they're kissing over your shoulder, talking in a language only they understand.

You're not quite sure how you got here. One minute, Chris is kissing you hard, hand supporting your lower back as you arch up against him; the next, you're pressed back against a warm, hard body, and they're kissing over your shoulder, talking in a language only they understand.

And then Steve's saying, "Okay? Do you want to? Can we?" And you're thinking - or saying, you're not entirely sure - "Yes, fuck, yes." Because holy fuck.

You're not sure where the clothes went. You're not even sure how they went. The next part is just a haze of pleasure: guitar-callused fingers run over your skin, pushing the shirt off your shoulders, sliding the jeans off your legs. Lips follow hands, murmurs of, "Fuck, you're pretty," alternating between Steve's lazy accent and Chris' southern drawl.

Sometime during that, all your clothes came off. And so did theirs, because you're sprawled between Steve's legs, pressed back against his bare chest, his hands sliding slowly over your stomach as Chris nips at your inner thigh. A slow sweep of Chris' lashes, then he's looking up at you, eyes sliding just to the side - to Steve - a moment later. Then he smirks, slow and predatory, and all you can think is fuck because you feel a shudder go through you just at that look. Steve's lips brush over your neck.

"You want him to?" Steve asks, voice low, thumb flicking over a nipple. You moan in answer because you're not sure how you're supposed to be thinking when they're doing that. "Fuck, Chris has quite the mouth…." As if to reiterate Steve's point, Chris nips at your skin; your eyes flutter, hips arching, silently begging. Steve grins against you, mouth trailing up to whisper right in your ear. "He could raise the dead with that mouth - guy, girl, it don't make a difference. He's always so damn hungry for it. And the things he can do with his tongue…." Steve's tongue flicks against your ear, and Chris is so damn close now, teasing with each breath he takes. "You want that? Want him to tongue-fuck you deep? Eat you out and open you wide before we fuck you. You're gonna come harder than you have in your life, feel it right to your toes - and then we'll get you there over and over again. You want that?"

"Yes," you breathe, panting as your hips arch up closer to Chris' mouth. You want, and you feel like you're going to burn up if you don't get what Steve's promising you soon. "Fuck, yes, please. Please, I want that."

Chris drops his eyes slowly, dropping his head a moment later. Steve's hand - the one that's not teasing you half to death with soft flicks against your nipples - slides into Chris' hair and pushes him closer. Pleasure shoots through you like an electric shock at the first touch of Chris' tongue to your clit, making you cry out, bucking into that touch, trying to get more. Steve chuckles softly against your ear. "That's it."

Chris is a fucking tease. He tongues you slowly, just licks over skin, tongue not quite sliding in, getting closer and deeper with each curl, taking care to brush your clit every single time until you're sure he's going to drive you crazy. His hands are holding your hips down, keeping you pinned, not letting you move, stopping you from finding any more relief. You fist your hands in the sheets, trying to hold back the sounds until you just can't anymore.

"Please, fuck, please, Chris. Oh, god, fuck, don't tease," you babble, shaking all over, twisting in Steve's hold. You moan long and hard when finally - finally - Chris' tongue slides all the way in, and he's tongue-fucking your cunt in earnest.

You're going to die. You're pretty damn sure you're going to die because there's no way anyone can feel this kind of pleasure and not explode from it. Steve wasn't kidding; Chris is good, and if that's not enough stimulation on its own, Steve's whispering the dirtiest things you've ever heard in that low-rough voice in your ear, syllables slipping from his lips as smoothly as any song he's ever sung. And then Steve's pressing down against your clit as Chris does this thing with his tongue, and your world whites out, hot pleasure tearing right through you.

When you finally come back to yourself, it's to Chris on his knees in front of you, leaning over to get closer to Steve. You turn your head to watch as Steve licks at Chris' mouth, tongue sliding over his lips before slipping between the seams, and then they're kissing, deep and thorough. You can see by the way Chris' muscles are almost slack that Steve's doing most of the kissing, and Chris is open, letting him in, letting him deeper. You're not sure if it should be so hot to watch someone licking all traces of you from someone else, but fuck if it's not burning. You make a soft, helpless sound.

Steve ends the kiss lazily, and both sets of eyes turn on you. "Welcome back," Chris says with a grin. His hand brushes through your hair and over your cheek softly.

You let out a laugh. "Cheeky fucker," you say, grin widening when you feel Steve chuckling against your back.

"Yeah, he really is."

Chris just laughs a little, shaking his head. He looks at you, slow and assessing, before he's smirking again. You shiver because you know what he's about to say before he even says it. It hasn't been that long since you last saw that look on Chris' face.

"Ready for round two?" He drawls. At your moan, he slides his hand over your shoulder and fists it in Steve's hair, pulling him into a kiss, leaving enough space for you to see the way his teeth catches on Steve's lower lip, the way his tongue flicks out and curls around Steve's when Steve chases the kiss. You feel Steve's moan against your back, feel the way he arches up, wanting more.

Chris' hand on your stomach pushes you back against Steve, and it takes a second for you to realise that Chris is using your body to pin Steve back against the headboard, not letting him move closer. Steve's hand stutters for a second as you rub back against him, and then he growls, one hand lifting from your body to fist in Chris' hair and pull him forwards into a hard, demanding kiss - nothing like Chris' teasing earlier. Chris moans, and you find yourself echoing it before Chris all but melts against you, hips bucking slightly against your thigh. You can't even imagine what Steve's doing to Chris to get that reaction from a kiss

When they part, Chris is panting slightly, making a soft sound against Steve's lips. Steve's hand loosens in his hair, apparently satisfied from some conversation you're not privy to, and Chris slides his lips over your jaw to kiss you again. You're not surprised that he tastes like Steve, but the first flick of his tongue makes you moan anyway.

You break that kiss and groan deep in your throat when you feel two slick fingers brushing over your ass, teasingly rubbing against the hole for a second before one slides in slowly, deep and intimate. Your head drops back against Steve's shoulder as your hips buck up and then push down. Chris moves to kiss you again, and a pair of fingers - Chris', you guess, from the not-quite calluses on his fingers -slides over your clit and inside you just as Steve slides in a second finger.

You whine deep in your throat, torn between moving forwards onto Chris' fingers and pushing back against Steve's. You end up just rolling your hips, rocking them back and forth as the boys both start to work deeper inside you. You could swear their hands are everywhere at once: playing with your breasts, rubbing your nipples until they're so hard it's almost painful before flicking at them softly; running over your stomach, down the insides of your thighs, over your ass. You don't even know which hand belongs to who anymore, but that doesn't matter at all; you're pretty damn sure they're one and the same anyway, and it feels so damn good that you never want it to stop.

Then Steve's fingers curl and scissor, drawing a long, loud moan from you as your body shudders. You groan again when he repeats the gesture, and you feel almost liquid, know you'd slide down into a puddle if you weren't pressed so tightly between them. Chris chuckles quietly and then rubs at your clit, and it's almost too much. Your hands have moved somehow, and you find yourself clawing a little at Chris' shoulders, feet slipping on the sheets as you try to find purchase, which you swear only makes them work you harder.

"Don't hold back now, honey," Chris says, voice rough and low. He licks at your lips, biting down lightly, and you can't kiss back because you're too busy trying to breathe. "You're so damn wet," he continues even as you mewl helplessly. "It's gonna feel so damn good to slide into you. Gonna fuck you so hard and so good, you ain't never gonna forget what it feels like." Your hips buck up into his hands because you needed that to happen yesterday.

"Fuck, please," you stutter out. The rest of your words are cut off by a hard groan as Steve slides in another finger, and, fuck, you've never been stretched that wide.

"We're gonna fuck you so hard, so good. Stretchin' you and workin' you enough so you can take both of us. Feel us both deep. Fuck, bet you look even better when you're stretched around us like that."

"Oh, god, yeah…fuck, yes," you moan, legs spreading a little more, hands pulling at his shoulders to try to get him closer.

"Yeah?" Steve says, lips right by your ear. You lean back, rolling your hips into his hand.

"Fuck, yes." You can feel his smile against your skin.

The fingers slide out of you - all of them - and you whine at the loss, but you don't have much time to miss the slick-curl of those digits before you're pushed and pulled forwards as Chris leans back on the bed, You're held there, legs already shaking a little as you watch Steve slides a rubber over Chris' cock. He strokes him, long and slow and teasing, and you watch a shudder go right through Chris' body as he moans. "Fuck, Steve…."

Steve grins against your neck before he moves you, nudges you forwards and positions you over Chris, then lets you sink back slowly. You moan, hands going to Chris' shoulders to support yourself as you feel yourself stretching around him, and you hear him muffle a soft curse.

"Fuck," he says, hips held down by Steve's hand. "Fuck, so fucking hot. So damn wet and…yeah, you feel so fucking good." You roll your hips, and Chris groans again, hands going to your hips and stilling you. "Wait," he says. He's looking over your shoulder, pupils impossibly wide, lower lip between his teeth. You can guess what's happening, and just the thought makes you moan quietly.

Another pair of hands settle on your hips before your legs are nudged further apart and - holy shit - you feel the blunt head of Steve's cock nudging your entrance. Then you're being stretched, filled, and - oh fucking god - you've never felt anything like it. Your head drops to Chris' shoulder, lips parting, panting quietly as you try to stay relaxed.

"Easy," you hear vaguely. Hands run over your spine, brushing over your sides, your stomach, and go back to playing with your breasts. Lips touch your neck as another pair slides over your jaw - and then there are fingers on your clit, rubbing enough to have you shaking between them, hips rocking in reaction, and you all moan.

"That's it," one of them says. You've lost the ability to figure out which is which, but it really doesn't matter at this point. Any movement, any sound sends a spark through you, and it feels really fucking good.

And even fucking better when they finally find a rhythm.

"Fuck, Steve," Chris says, panting against your ear. "Can feel you… fuck, that's - this is - oh, fuck."

"Yeah," Steve pants. You find out why Chris' words have dissolved into soft sounds when Steve's fingers rub against your clit again, then slide lower, stroking over Chris' dick inside you. You whimper and spread your legs more because that feels good - that feels really unbelievably good - and, even as you're getting the damn fuck of your life, you want more.

"Fuck," Chris drawls, long and drawn out. His hands have moved to clutching at Steve's back as Steve fucks you and leans over to catch Chris' mouth.

"Feel good, baby?" Steve asks and Chris moans in reply. The next thrust is harder, deeper, presses right into you as Steve slides in another finger. You've never been stretched so damn far, especially not when you're being fucked nine ways to Sunday, but nothing's ever felt like this.

"Want," Chris moans, hips bucking. "Need you closer. Wanna feel you more."

"Can you take that?" Steve says in your ear. You've got a pretty good idea of what he means by the way his fingers flutter inside you, drawing twin groans from you and Chris, and you're really fucking pleased that he doesn't sound half as well kept together as he's trying to make himself out to be. "Take us both at once."

"Yes," you pant as you nod furiously. Fuck, yes, you want that. "Do it."

He slides out of you, disappears for a few moments, long enough that you're mewling at the loss. Chris starts to rock a little more, needing - wanting - more friction, and then Steve's back, pressed up against you.

"C'mon," you stutter out. "Do it. Please."

And he does. He pushes you forwards a little, shifting the angle Chris is fucking you at, and then Chris stills as he thrusts in beside him. You're pretty sure no one knows who's moaning anymore, and you feel like you're going to melt or burn or something because shit.

And when they start moving, your whole world narrows down to them fucking you harder and deeper, to their moans and curses in your ear as they start to fall apart, rhythms stuttering and matching, hands gripping and clawing, teeth and tongue and lips all over - everywhere and all at once, and it's all good, so fucking good, you don't even care what's going on anymore except that it doesn't stop. Every part of you is hotwired for pleasure and it doesn't matter how they move, how they touch you, what they say; everything shoots right through you and takes you that much higher that much faster until all you're doing is shaking and moaning between them, eyes squeezed shut, fingers fisted in the sheets as you moan to try to relieve some of that building pleasure.

"Please," you finally say, choked and needy and, fuck, you've never sounded like that before, but you don't care. "Please. Gotta…fuck, c'mon, please." Because you've got to get off, and you have to do it before you burn, spontaneously combust right here.

"Yeah," Steve pants in your ear as someone starts rubbing at your clit, hard and fast, thrusts never slowing. "C'mon. Come for us now, beautiful."

Your whole world explodes in a haze of pleasure moments before you hear twin groans from around you, and they're coming too, hard and fast - and you're fucking floating, body still tingling everywhere. You can't remember how to move. Hell, you can barely remember how to breathe.

When you open your eyes, you're cradled between them still - back to Steve's chest, curled up against Chris. They're kissing above you, slow and lazy. It's nothing about sex and all about everything else, and it's so intimate that, after everything you've seen and done, you have to close your eyes. You can't move yet, so you stay like that, not quite listening to the murmurs between them, the soft chuckles and the quiet yeah and even softer darling and baby.

"That was fun," you finally say, glancing up with a small grin. You sit up a little and stretch, fingers running through your hair.

They're looking at you, surprise clear on their faces, before they laugh, too. You steal a couple more kisses because you can, then find your clothes and get dressed, feeling their eyes on you the whole time. You're probably bruised to hell, and you're definitely going to be feeling it for a few days, but damn if it doesn't feel good.

When they offer to walk you to the door, you laugh and wave them back to the bed. "Go back to snuggling," you say with a smug grin. "I can see myself out." You ignore Chris' cursing because it quietens in a moment, and you know it's because Steve's pulled him back down and is probably kissing him into submission again. Not that it's hard for Steve to get Chris to do exactly what he wants him to.

Your grin probably looks a little stupid, but you figure you can be forgiven for that. You've had one hell of a night.

Break Every Clock [1/?]

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 16:53:46 GMT

Title: Break Every Clock [1/?]
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Christian Kane/Steve Carlson
Rating: PG
Feedback: All feedback, including constructive criticism, is welcomed.
Disclaimer: This is FICTION. None of it's real.
A/N: I'm posting a WIP - yes, it's shocking, I know! My eternal thanks to waterofthemoon, without whom this wouldn't just have some strange grammar but would also possibly be set in a parallel universe where schools are a little different *g*. Title from Anberlin. Comments feed the muses, please and thank you!

What was so great about football, anyway? Steve hated this place already, and he'd only been here a few weeks.

What was so great about football, anyway? Steve hated this place already, and he'd only been here a few weeks.

His fingers trailed over the keys of the piano, eyes following the music as he played. It wasn't so bad, he supposed. After school, he could have the piano in the orchestra room all to himself without the noise, which always threatened to drown him out and pull his attention away from the complicated pieces.

It was better this way anyway because the others never understood the music. He could never really get into it or feel it when drums were banging and country was blasting from speakers somewhere. The Moonlight Sonata didn't exactly sound the same when someone was playing I Hope You Dance (loudly, might he add) outside the room. The stuff they called music here didn't quite work for him - at least, not what he'd heard of it. Not that he'd heard more than what was on the radio; he wasn't exactly a social butterfly.

But that wasn't his fault, either. It wasn't like he hadn't tried, but there were only so many times you could get confused by football and have people call you a pussy before you just gave up trying. What did it matter, anyway? Mom and Dad would move again soon, even though they'd promised they wouldn't, not until he'd graduated. But they always said that, and they always ended up moving.

He worked up to the Presto agitato, completely focused on the music, letting his agitation help his playing rather than hinder it. He'd perfected his playing of the sonata months back, when they'd been packing up their last house to move here. He loved music - loved the piano - because the notes didn't change. There was order in the chaos, and every piece of music had a plan, every instrument in an orchestra had a place. Fuck if Steve ever had that clarity in his own life.

He finished, almost slamming his fingers down on the keys as the last chords rang out, and then jumped when he heard the sound of clapping behind him. He'd been so out of it that he hadn't even heard the door open. He spun around to face the intruder, eyes narrowing into a glare. Everyone - and that meant everyone - should have been gone or in class by now.

"See, I'd heard them sayin' the new kid could play," the boy said with a small grin. Steve vaguely recognised him and tried to put a name to the face. He'd met so many people in the last few weeks that everyone was just mashed up together. It wasn't like anyone talked to him except the people in the orchestra anyway, so he hadn't had to remember their names. "They never said how well."

"What are you doing here?" Steve blurted out stupidly. No one was ever around this time of day. It was the only time he played like he did. The rest of the time, he played the shit he was told to or stuff he'd heard from the others. He didn't want to stand out any more than he already did.

The boy smirked a little and then shrugged. Steve might have imagined the colour staining his cheeks. "I got thrown out of practice for fighting. Coach told me to get lost before I caused any more trouble. So."

"Yeah, but why are you here?" Steve asked again, raising an eyebrow. Now he remembered who the kid was. Christian fucking Kane. Football jock and asshole extraordinaire, or so he'd heard, anyway. Considering he couldn't even talk to normal people about football, he hadn't been super eager to talk to the players themselves.

"Well, I was just walkin' past, really," Kane said with a small shrug. "Then I heard the music, and, fucking monkey balls, I ain't never heard anyone in this place play the Moonlight Sonata. At least, not competently."

Steve stared.

Kane laughed a little. "Don't look so surprised, Carlson. I ain't an idiot."

"That's debatable," Steve quipped before he could stop himself. He winced internally. Way to start a conversation with one of the most popular guys in the school, Steve.

Instead of storming off to spread the news that new boy was a fucking moron or spray it on lockers or something, Kane just laughed. "Oh, I think I like you," he said with a grin, hopping up onto one of the tables in the room and swinging his legs.

Steve probably should have been a little more pissed off at the fact that here was someone - a football jock, no less - who was interrupting his only real practice time, but all he felt was relief. God, it was all kinds of pathetic. Come the next day, Kane would probably just go back to ignoring him again. Or maybe, even worse, he and his friends would start making fun of Steve and how pathetic he was.

Steve cringed, eyes dropping back to the piano keys, then to the sheet music in front of him.

"Oh! I'm so rude," Kane said a moment later. "I'm -"

"I know who you are," Steve said with a shrug. "Everyone does."

Kane laughed quietly. "Yeah, I guess. Like everyone knows you. Still, it's nice to have a proper introduction, right?" A hand appeared in Steve's line of vision. Steve stared at it before he looked up at Kane's face, surprised.

"What?" Kane said, looking from Steve to his hand, blinking a little. Then he withdrew the hand, frowning as he looked at it. "I got something on it?" He didn't, but he wiped it on his jeans anyway as if it made a difference. A few moments later, satisfied, he extended it to Steve again and beamed.

Steve took it, slightly dazed and more than a little confused by the enthusiasm Kane had with shaking his hand. What a complete and utter dork.

"Christian Kane," Kane offered. "Call me Chris if you like."

"Uh. Steve. Steve Carlson." He ran a hand through his hair awkwardly.

Chris smirked. "So does that shorten to 'uh' or Steve?" Steve gaped at him. This guy was not for real.

Chris rubbed at the back of his neck, ducking his head with an embarrassed smile. "Okay, that was stupid. Sorry. I just ain't too good at this making conversation thing. Well, actually, I can get by just fine, but I don't really know what to start talkin' to you about because you don't come from 'round these parts, and they say you don't like it here much, and, by the way, you're seriously awesome at the piano, you know that?"

Steve blinked again because…what?

"You wanna try that again?" Steve asked slowly. "This time with breathing involved?" First of all, he was still adjusting to the accent down here, and Chris' drawl wasn't exactly light. And second, Steve was pretty certain that if that sentence had been written out, there wouldn't be any spaces between the words. He wasn't entirely sure how he was supposed to understand it.

Chris laughed. "Never mind. I said you're awesome at the piano."

"And the part before that?"

Chris just grinned a little at him and shrugged again. "It doesn't matter." He tipped his head to the side and just studied Steve, who fidgeted under the scrutiny. He hated being stared at. It made him feel all kinds of awkward.

"What?"

"People usually just smile and nod when I talk, you know that?" Chris said with another shrug. "Or laugh. Even when it's not funny. I always wonder if they're listenin' to a word that comes out when it's not football-related."

"Are you surprised?" Steve said, not able to stop himself from grinning back at Chris. "You talk faster than a tape player on fast forward."

Chris laughed, turning his face away a little. Steve frowned and tipped his head to keep Chris' face in sight. It took a few moments for Steve to realise that Chris hadn't been joking.

"It won't be so bad once I get used to the accent down here," he commented, going for nonchalant, acting like he hadn't noticed Chris' hesitance. "But it's not like I get a lot of practice outside the classroom."

"That's because you're always avoidin' everyone," Chris said, turning back to look at Steve with a friendly smile. "Y'know, we're not so bad."

"You aren't," Steve corrected before he could catch himself again. Why was he giving Chris so much ammo for tomorrow? There was no way Chris would notice him however much he spilled his heart here. And the more Steve told him, the more likely he was to get ignored in the morning. After all, that's how it worked in every school he'd been to.

That was one thing that never changed, no matter where he ended up.

"So hang out with me more," Chris offered, as if it really was that easy. "You know, you're in my Spanish class. Also history. Oh, and health."

Surprised again, Steve frowned a little, head tipping sideways as he tried to figure Chris out. "Really?"

"Yeah," Chris answered with an easy smile. "Though I'm not surprised you don't notice. I kinda think you make an effort to block people like me out. Head's down all the time. So, tomorrow -"

"Listen, no offense, Kane, but… tomorrow, you're gonna go back to your friends, sitting at their table, laughing and joking - probably about me - and ignoring my existence. Today, lucky me, you got kicked off the field and can't do your favourite thing, so you come and talk to me because I'm here." Steve took a breath, glancing back at the piano. "It's really nice and all, but we're not friends."

Chris was quiet for a long time before he let out a sigh. "I was kinda hoping we could be," he said. When Steve turned back to look at him, Chris was studying him curiously. Steve fought the urge to squirm. "That's how it is, huh? No wonder the social scene ain't really your thing."

Steve sighed. "Just. I know how this works. The weird new kid doesn't get to be best friends with the popular crowd."

Chris laughed a little. "Now you watch way too much TV," he teased with a bright smile, even though his eyes weren't as blue as they had been minutes ago. Steve almost regretted that. "We ain't all like that. Well, I ain't like that."

"I don't want to be your charity case, Chris," Steve said through clenched teeth. He hated the way this shit worked and hated the fact that he'd actually gone and let himself get drawn in by Chris in so short a time. It had been so comfortable, so easy, to just sit there and talk to him.

Chris laughed a little. "Good thing for you, I only really do charity when it comes to animals," he said with a small shrug, waiting for Steve to look at him again before his lips curled up a little more. "So I'll see you tomorrow, man." Steve's disbelief must have shown on his face because Chris added, "I told you, I'm think I'm startin' to like you."

Steve just dropped his eyes back to the music sheet on the piano again, waiting until the door clicked to let out a slow breath. He knew better than to believe Chris, he really did. But he couldn't help it.

He didn't know what it was about the boy, but he wanted to believe Chris so damn badly.

"Yeah," he said to himself quietly. "That's the problem. And the worst part is that I'm starting to really like you, too."

[ Chapter 2 ]

Somewhere In Between

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 16:29:25 GMT

Title: Somewhere In Between
Author: dea_liberty
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: "If unicorns are real? I'm going to feed you to one." Four hours later, locked in his own nightmare, the irony of Dean's throwaway statement didn't escape him.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: Written for oriundus, who bought me at Sweet Charity about an age ago - and was not only incredibly generous but also very patient. My thanks for grayscaled for the awesome beta.

"Great," Dean said, starting up the Impala. "Then let's stop talking fucking unicorns and try to actually figure something plausible out."

It's dark. He feels it there, in the corner of his mind, claws digging in deep as it clutches his consciousness. It's just a shadow - no, not even that, it's just a patch of black emptiness. He can't make it out; its shape keeps changing, shifting, sliding from one thing into another too fast for him to pin it down.

He just knows it's there, steadily invading his mind even as he tries to hold on tight. It's draining him bit by bit, tiring him out with flashes of images and sounds - and it keeps his mind working. It gnaws on his frustration, basks in his desperation, and just keeps growing, tempting him to just give in.

It'll make it good, it tells him. It won't even hurt.

It shows him how it could be by flickering images of a house, a kitchen, Dean cooking dinner, relaxed and smiling, a few dogs running around - and infuses it all with a wave of warm happiness.

And every time he even considers the option, that thing creeps a little deeper into his mind, takes a little more of him for itself.

~

"What do you mean the police?" The woman's voice rose a little in alarm. "My daughter's… Do you think she was attacked? What kind of…what can put people into a coma without there being anything wrong? Is that even possible?"

"Mrs. Ashton," Sam said calmly, putting one hand lightly on her arm, waiting until she was looking at him before continuing. "We don't know for sure. But because of the unusual circumstances of your daughter's accident, we have to investigate every possibility. We don't want to rule anything out until we've looked into it."

"So, if you could please tell us everything you can remember about the past week or so?" Dean led her to sit down on one of the sets of plastic chairs close by, picking one that meant she could still see into her daughter's room. "Have you seen anything strange in the neighborhood? Has your daughter - Amy? - talked about anything unusual?"

She swallowed and settled into the chair, arms wrapped around herself as she looked at her six year old daughter, almost buried under the white hospital sheets. "Nothing unusual at all. We go to the park almost every day…." Sam flipped open the notebook and started writing.

"That's weird, isn't it?" He said to Dean as they made their way out towards the Impala. He flipped through the pages of the book.

"What?"

"All of them mentioned something about unicorns." Sam didn't even miss a step when Dean fell behind. He ignored the incredulous stare that he was sure was trying to burn its way through the back of his head. "Being a princess and riding a unicorn, owning a unicorn…."

"They're six years old," Dean almost shouted before he caught up to Sam. "Every six- year-old dreams of unicorns. You wanted to be a unicorn when you were six, Sam, and you never ended up in a coma. Unicorns aren't real, remember?"

"I'm just saying," Sam huffed, pushing Dean's shoulder as he brushed past to get to the other side of the car. "That it's a link between all the stories. Not to mention the park they were at and…a couple of other things. But they all specifically mentioned - "

"Unicorns, yeah, I know." Dean slid into the car and was nice enough to wait for Sam to settle before continuing, "but it's a really stupid link. Unicorns aren't real. They don't frolic in forests, have picnics and parties or get propelled around the place by their ass-produced rainbows. They also don't save princesses or make friends with children because, oh wait, they aren't real."

Sam sunk lower into his seat, crossing his arms. "Yes, Dean, I got that message when I was seven."

"Great," Dean said, starting up the Impala. "Then let's stop talking fucking unicorns and try to actually figure something plausible out."

~

He almost lets go once.

There's some shift - he can't place it, can't describe it, but it's a change that he just feels - and then there's Dean, shaking him awake.

C'mon, Sammy, Dean says. Chow time.

I had the weirdest dream, Sam says, stretching, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and climbing out. Something about darkness. Nightmares. Dreams of dreams. He shakes his head, lips curling into a small smile. It's a stupid thing to dream about - even stupider to say it out loud, and Dean's going to call him out on it any minute now.

Dean doesn't laugh. Instead, he gets this peculiar look on his face, lips parting - and mouthing words, looking almost pained. Like he can't say them.

He can't say the words.

Everything contorts - and then that thing is pulling at him again, creeping in closer, trying to mold into his mind.

He's not fooled again.

At least, he tries not to be fooled again. It's so hard. It gets harder every time he slips.

~

They couldn't come up with anything more plausible. At least, not in the three days it took for another six-year-old to fall into a coma.

"You go check out the park. Again. I'm going to go talk to the family," Dean said as soon as he'd seen the papers. "You'd just ask them about unicorns."

Sam opened his mouth, getting as far as "Bu - " before he was interrupted. Again.

"Seriously, Sam?" He rolled his eyes; he knew where this was going. They'd had this same argument at least three times a day. It was getting really tiring being reminded that he'd once wanted to be a unicorn. Or a princess with a unicorn - or anything else Dean could think of that was likely to embarrass him. "If unicorns are real? I'm going to feed you to one."

When the black shape slipped past him and into the bushes, Sam didn't think twice about those words - and didn't hesitate before following.

Four hours later, locked in his own nightmare, the irony of Dean's throwaway statement didn't escape him.

~

"Sammy." He turns his mental back to that voice - it's not Dean, it hasn't been Dean all those other times too - and tries to block it out. He tugs a little futilely at another memory, tries to hold on to what's real, to not let it slip away with everything else in his mind.

They've never lived in Oklahoma. They've never had a house with a porch swing. Dean's never given him a puppy for Christmas.

The smoky gun-powder-and-leather smell is what's real. The low rumble of the Impala under them. The countless motel rooms, the bad diner food, the princess wands and Barbie dolls. Those are the things that are real.

Were real.

He didn't even know anymore.

"Sammy." He ignores it. It's not real. It's as made up, as created from his own memories and wishes and want to coax him into believing, into giving in as the rest of it - as mom and dad, as Dean's arms wrapped around him in a king-sized bed where the linens smell of fresh laundry.

"Sammy, please." He thinks of shutting it out, of blocking his ears and closing his eyes - and Dean's voice stops.

It's even lonelier without it - and Sam's heart twists up with need and home and Dean.

The thing tugs at his mind - sends a wave of comfort and home and Sammy past him - and creeps closer, deeper when he wants it almost enough to give in.

~

Dean was right; it wasn't a unicorn. Sam knew that the moment he managed to get a good look at it, but he could also see why the kids would talk like it was. It was unicorn-shaped, that was certain: the horse body, the single horn - it looked like it'd just walked out of a fairytale story book. Except for the color.

And color was the wrong word for it. It was the complete opposite of the shining, glowing white that was supposed to characterize unicorns. Instead, it was darker than black - seemed to suck in the shadows around it, bleed gray into the brightness of anything near it.

He crept a little closer, trying to get a better look to actually figure out what the fuck it was. Creepy black unicorn look-a-likes didn't fit anything he'd ever read about or heard about; there had to be something there that would tell him what they were dealing with.

He stepped carefully around the tree that was between it and him. When he looked up again to make sure it was still where he'd last seen it, it was looking directly at him. Staring at him.

Its eyes were deeper, darker than anything he'd ever seen.

He couldn't move. Couldn't look away. Not even when it came closer, head cocked to the side, studying him intently. He stayed frozen in place even when its horn touched him - tentative, almost curious - and then everything changed.

Its eyes went red - then it melted with an indescribable sound that was almost triumphant - and then it was gone. Sam looked around, had one more moment to wonder what the hell was going on before - pain.

It shot through his mind, harder and sharper than the migraines that came with the visions, like something had sunk its claws, its teeth - itself - into him and oh God. In the back of his mind, he realized his knees had buckled and that he was sliding slowly to the ground but there was nothing he could do.

It was there. That thing was there. Inside his head, in his mind.

And then that was all he could feel.

Not the ground under him, not the grass between his fingertips, not the sun on his face, not his phone vibrating in his pocket - not Dean's frantic shaking when his brother finally found him.

Just that thing and all the mind games it had to play.

~

"Sammy." It's back again - that insistent whisper that sounds so real that it hurts. God, he wishes it was really Dean, wishes there was some way that he could wake up from this mess.

The darkness in his mind seems to shift, roll in together like it does sometimes when that thing tries to trick him, tries to convince him to let go, to give in - but something's different this time, something doesn't feel quite so wrong.

And Sam realises it's because that darkness is trying to stay still, trying not to part into that dreamscape. The field stretched for miles, shimmering and fluttering around the edges. An old barn. An oak tree.

Almost-grass under his feet. The air, still as death, non-existent.

This doesn't even feel real.

"Sammy!" He tenses, shuts his eyes, tries to block it out. "Damn it, Sammy. Listen to me."

It's not real. The thing's just getting really good. It's not Dean. It's not real. It's not worth giving in for.

"For fuck's sake, Sasquatch, turn the fuck around! You think wading in here to get to your sorry ass is easy?" He can't help it; he turns - and Dean's standing there, eyes wide, slowly coming more and more into focus as Sam's attention shifts to him completely, as he stops ignoring him.

"Dean?" He doesn't want to hope. It feeds on his weaknesses - but something's different about all this. It takes him a few more moments to realize that Dean's not perfect; there are shadows under his eyes showing the days he's gone without sleep, stress pulling at the corner of his lips, and his eyes are dull-edged. Tired.

Tired and worried.

"Sammy," Dean breathes. He takes a step closer - and then it's there, between them, back to its mockery of a unicorn, its shape distorted by anger and rage and raw need to possess. Dean swears, has to back up a step even as his eyes find Sam's.

"Sam. You gotta do something, man."

The dreamscape's shifting again, twisting and contorting around them as the thing snarls and twists, shifts shapes so fast it's almost indefinable. Dean's backing further and further away, starting to slip and slide around the edges too.

"Dean, no! Don't leave me here," he says - because this is real. Dean's real and Dean's here and he doesn't want to be alone again. "Dean, please."

"Fuck," Dean swears again, grits his teeth and looks through the thing and right at Sam. "Help me, Sam. You've got to do something."

For a second, everything flashes around them, darkness threatening to consume everything as Sam panics.

"Sam!" Dean's shout grounds him, makes him stop and think and breathe. "C'mon, geekboy, do something; we're in your freakish head so a little help would be nice."

Weapon, Sam thinks after a moment - and nothing happens. All he can see is Dean's wide-desperate-determined eyes. All that flashes through his mind is an image of Dean pinned to the wall, bleeding, life draining out of him and -

Dean screams.

Weapon, Sam thinks more desperately, focuses a little more, ignores all the other things that try to creep into his mind. Just squeezes his eyes shut and thinks.

And remembers. When they were little, he'd cling onto Dean's feet until he promised he'd tell Sam a story - usually about unicorns and princes who saved damsels in distress from dragons and monsters, armor shining, swords sharp and deadly.

For a second, the picture flashes in front of him with startling clarity - and then the darkness is a dragon and it's Dean standing there, armor, sword and all. There's a moment where everything freezes with confusion - and then Dean snaps out of it, plunges the sword deep and holds on steady as the shadow-dragon screeches and thrashes.

And then vanishes.

Everything stops for a heartbeat - before it all explodes.

~

"Unicorns, huh?"

"Shut up."

He only got a second of silence before, "Knight in shining armour? Really, Sam?"

"Shut up." God, he could guess what was coming next.

"…if I'm the knight," Dean said - and Sam dove for the other bed, tackling Dean around the middle and trying to get a hand over Dean's mouth. "Hey, princess!" Dean shouted, pushing and kicking at Sam like they were kids all over again. "That's no way to thank your savior, dude." Dean grunted as Sam's knee came in contact with his stomach - before he flipped them and pinned Sam down. "I swear you got your fairytales wrong," he said with a roll of his eyes. "I never told you anything that didn't have a kiss at the end of it."

"You're a jerk," Sam complained, struggling in Dean's grip - mostly because it was required of him.

"Yeah, yeah, bitch," Dean answered, hand moving to stroke gently through Sam's hair. The touch said everything Dean wouldn't, told the story of Dean's last few days. Sam shifted, freeing a hand from Dean's grip - then clung a little, giving Dean the answers he was looking for. Dean smirked, soft around the edges, ruffling Sam's hair, before he leaned down. "Shut up and give me my hard-earned reward."

Sam let out a suffering sigh. "Being rescued is such hard work," he complained before stopping Dean's smart-ass retort with his lips. He let that convey the thanks, the fuck, I missed you and the I love you so he didn't have to say the words.

Because Dean really really didn't need any more ammo to hit him with.