Genre: Jared/Jensen AU
Word count: 4,900
Notes: Written for salt_burn_porn for the prompt: leather belt.
Warnings for mental illness, violence, bloodplay, comeplay, abuse of authority, dub-con all over the place, unsympathetic characterizations and self-indulgent writing. You guys, blackrabbit42 saved my goddamn life on this one, and saved the life of this fic. It has her fingerprints all over it and if you find anything redeemable herein, you have her to thank. She sat in my corner all night last night and squirted Gatorade in my mouth and replaced my mouth guard and rubbed my shoulders and even made me a playlist. I owe her big big.
ETA: This is the director's cut y'all. An extra scene and a few changes here and there, now that I've had time for a nap.
Summary: There are a lot of different kinds of crazy and Jensen’s seen most of them. They’re always there, and they’re always gonna be there. The trick is to not let them seep in, gain ground. Then Jared comes along.
“Did you see the new one? Big son of a bitch.”
The guy straddles the picnic bench beside Jensen, too close for Jensen’s taste, digs around in his crumpled pack of cigarettes and plugs one into his mouth. His name’s Rick, Roger, or Robert, maybe Seth, something like that.
Jensen finishes his sandwich in two bites, says around the last one, “What’s his story?”
He pauses, sniffs, squints at Jensen through the smoke with obvious theatricality. “Graduated outta the juvie ward,” Robert or maybe Seth says. “From what I hear, they were counting the days until they could load him off on someone else. The kid’s got a penchant for violent outbursts. Looks like he could tear a house down with his bare hands, if he applied himself.”
“Sounds like fun,” Jensen says, and leaves him to his cigarette and his gossip.
There’s birthday cake in the rec room today, a couple of balloons floating above a woman’s chair and a paper crown on her curly head. Someone’s attempt to shoehorn normalcy into an otherwise abnormal playground, and that’s the first time Jensen sees him.
Jared’s form dwarfs the six-foot tall frame of the assistant at his elbow. Hidden underneath the robe (no belt), hospital bottoms (elastic, no drawstring), and loose fitting t-shirt, is a body most men might kill for, long lean muscle and broad shoulders, huge hands that would fit around Jensen’s neck with plenty of room to spare. He’s peeking through his bangs, eyes bright and alert in a way that makes a lie out of the clumsy shuffle of his feet (slippers, no laces). His mouth is pulled into a flat, bloodless line, but when his gaze lands on Jensen, it twitches slightly.
Jensen can’t look away, makes a split-second decision to call it professional curiosity and ignore the sudden twist in his gut, the twist that says what if, what if.
Jared dashes past the assistant and buries his hand in the cake amidst surprised sounds from the other patients who are with it enough to take notice. He mauls it, winds up with icing on the lower third of his face before anyone can move in to intercept. He licks along his palm with the flat of his tongue and sucks his middle finger into his mouth then adds another, fucks them in and out like he’s trying to prove to anyone paying attention exactly how far down he can go, and if it’s a show, then Jensen’s the target audience.
“What?” Jared says as an orderly grabs him from the back and pins one arm behind him. “It’s my birthday too.”
Jensen’s in a flat-out run toward the dispensary, pulling on a set of latex gloves as he turns the corner in time to see a nurse fly backward into the wall, nothing but a coat of paint covering the cinderblock to cushion the impact. His vision narrows, tunnels down on Jared, who’s banging against the cage that covers the dispensary window, howling like some lesser primate.
Years of training kick in and reflex takes over. Jensen gets him on the ground, gets a knee lodged into the small of Jared’s back and his wrists pinned together as Jared bucks wildly beneath him, squirms like a mess of snakes tied up in cheap hospital scrubs. Someone shoves a cable tie into Jensen’s face and he binds Jared’s hands efficiently, can’t help but notice the calm, steady pulse in Jared’s wrist.
Jensen uses his own body weight as a lever and gets Jared onto his feet. The remnants of his adrenaline spike have made his hands tremble, his throat tight, left him feeling like he’s just run a five minute mile, but Jared hasn’t even broken a sweat.
“So nice of you to stop by,” Jared says, and he’s not out of breath either. He leans in close and Jensen lets him, a cocky grin on his face as he slowly licks his lips before whispering, “I was just thinking about you.”
With a massive lunge that Jensen should have seen coming, Jared cracks his head against Jensen’s, hard enough that the world grays out for a startling second or two and gravity can’t seem to make up its mind. A thin trickle of blood cuts a path beside his eye, tickles some on the way down.
“You sure do bleed pretty.” Jared flicks his tongue again, curls it around his canine tooth and edges in, like he’s trying to catch Jensen's scent, thinking about how Jensen might taste.
Jensen spins him around, one hand on the back of his neck and the other grasping his restraints. He kicks at Jared’s heels to get him moving toward his room, says from behind gritted teeth, “Now you’re just flirting.”
The television’s still on in Jensen’s apartment when he gets home and the neighbor’s dog is barking, so he turns it up. The attending physician at the hospital had cleaned up the cut above his eye and given him the all clear, and a minute spent prodding it the bathroom mirror confirms that he’s had much worse.
He takes a shower, gets out and dries off and thinks he can still smell the hospital on his skin, in his hair and under his fingernails. So he takes another, the water so hot that it makes his skin color, go as pink as Jared’s sweet little mouth, as pink as Jared’s wicked little tongue.
There are a lot of different kinds of crazy and Jensen’s seen most of them. They’re always there, and they’re always gonna be there. The trick is to not let them seep in, gain ground.
His supper takes five minutes in the microwave and he doesn’t think about Jared. It takes less time than that to eat it and he doesn’t think about Jared. His bed is rumpled but his sheets are cool on his bare skin and the cracks in the ceiling still remind him of the Chinese character for luck and he doesn’t think about Jared. The neighbor must be working a double because her motherfucking dog is still barking, and as he drifts off into sleep he realizes that he left the television on again, but he’s almost where he wants to be and he’s not gonna get up now, and he promises himself that he’s not going to think about Jared.
His dreams don’t make promises. They don’t know how.
“I wanted to show you. This is for you. I did it for you. Wanted you to see.” Blood covers Jared’s forehead, and more is smeared on the bars over the window, streaks of it on the glass that remind Jensen of the Chinese character for bone, only sideways.
“See what?” Jensen says, although he knows better than to engage. He fetches Jared up, gets a hand in between Jared’s skull and unforgiving metal to block the next hit, and now he has a set of smashed knuckles and blood on the palm of his hand, a shock of red against the cream color of his glove.
“I can bleed pretty too. Not as pretty as you, but I can get close.” Jared collapses against him and hardly puts up a fight as Jensen takes the wide leather belt from around his own waist and cinches it around Jared’s, leads him along in a limping awkward walk with his fist twisted in the back of the belt to keep him steady and Jared’s chest heavy against his shoulder.
“Sure you can,” Jensen says, and it comes out less sarcastic than he thought it would, more of an unintended affirmation and an agreement, and Jared sighs, content. His second sigh turns into a low moan as they take another dragging step. Jared’s breath is warm and damp on Jensen’s temple, on the side of his neck as Jared trips along, forgetting how his feet work, swaying and bumping into Jensen with every foot of ground they gain. Jared keeps pressing his crotch against Jensen’s hip, pawing at his chest and Jensen doesn’t have to look to know that Jared’s hard, getting off on this. He can feel the slap of it on his stomach and the heat of it, but he looks down anyway. Jared’s cock is on obscene display and pushing at the thin material of his pajama bottoms, a dark spot blooming around the obvious shape of the head.
And if Jensen’s dick starts to thicken, feel hot and wet against the inside of his thigh it’s only some sort of sympathetic reaction, some base animal imperative that’s beyond his control. So is the way his heartbeat kicks up and his mouth goes dry and his fingers feel numb, like they belong to someone else.
There are some things that Jensen will only admit to himself at night, sprawled out in bed, legs spread wide with his dick in his hand, the Chinese character for luck looming over his head and the neighbor’s dog yapping away on the other side of the wall.
Things like the loneliness that lives under his thin veneer of not giving a fuck. Things like three showers in a row and still feeling dirty. Things like Roger or Robert or Maybe Seth telling him that Jared is mostly good as gold during his shift, that he saves up all his piss and vinegar for when Jensen is on the clock. Things like how Jensen feels a crooked sort of pride in that, knowing Jared’s holding it all in just for him.
There are other things. Deeper and darker things that Jensen reserves for those few torturous moments before he makes himself come, for when he slows his fist’s frantic pace and squeezes himself at the base, like how he’s started doing things on purpose. He’ll slip his thigh between Jared’s legs and hold Jared’s arms more forcefully than necessary, body angled so that no one else can see. He’ll tip their balance, just enough, so that Jared’s forced to fall against him and Jensen can bury his face in Jared’s hair for a few too-short seconds and breathe in deep. He’ll fasten the leather straps that hold Jared to his bed on not-so-good days a bit tighter than he needs to, because he likes to see Jared squirm and push against them, likes the way the muscles in his chest bunch and the tendons stand up in his neck, and likes the idea that he’s leaving strap marks on Jared’s skin, little reminders. He’ll lightly brush his forearm or the back of his hand or, if he dares, his palm along the bulge of Jared’s cock and listen for the breathy sound that Jared makes every single time.
Dirty things like having a secret and finally having someone who shares it with him.
“It’s time for breakfast.”
Jared raises his head from his pillow, moves his fingers in a small salute. Looks like it was a four-point restraint night. He’s been even more combative recently, probably changes in dosage, drug resistance or the state trying to save a few bucks. He’s higher risk than normal, it says so on the red sticker plastered under his name on the door.
“If you don’t tie me down, I promise to be good,” Jared bargains as he stomps his feet to get the feeling back.
Jensen levels a look at him and keeps his mouth shut. If he opens it, he can’t be sure about what might come out.
“Okay. How about if I promise to be very, very bad?” Jared’s eyes are dark, glittering, hard as diamonds.
Almost before Jensen has placed his breakfast in his lap, Jared bats it away, the tray clattering on the floor, eggs and oatmeal everywhere.
“Weak,” Jensen says although he knows he shouldn’t, and untangles the leather cuff on the arm of the wheelchair. It puts his shoulder at Jared’s eye-level and he’s only got one arm strapped in when Jared darts forward, nuzzles into Jensen’s throat, nose poking into the underside of Jensen’s jaw. Jared nips at his skin, sharp stab of pain that makes Jensen hiss between his teeth, makes his fingers close in reflexively around Jared’s wrist and causes his head to spin, and it’s a full ten seconds before Jensen can force himself to pull away, push Jared back into the chair with a hand squarely in the center of his chest. When he does, Jared’s lips are wet, a small string of saliva dangling from his lower lip.
“I thought so,” Jared says, cocky and squinting at him and Jensen is gutted, flayed open, his heart made bare for anyone to see.
Jared’s grin is as filthy as the stuff that starts pouring out of it, all the things he wants to do to Jensen and all the things he wants Jensen to do to him. He’s squirming in his seat, hips working in small circles as Jensen fastens down his other arm and kneels to restrain his feet, clumsy fingers fumbling with the buckles and why the fuck couldn’t they be Velcro, anyway?
Jensen’s cock is so hard it hurts, an aching, insistent throb that beats in time with his heart. The starched collar of his white uniform is a noose around his neck and his pants are about to cut him in half. Just one touch. One small touch and then he’ll go to his boss and tell her he needs to be transferred.
“I’ve always wanted to see what you looked like on your knees,” Jared says, oddly matter-of-fact. He could be asking about the weather.
Something inside of Jensen slips, breaks loose. It’s okay. It’s okay. He’s pretty sure he didn’t need it and anyway, he deserves this. Ten years of taking care of the folks that people try and throw away and it’s the smallest thing. The smallest favor to ask. The tiniest little thing.
Jensen strips his gloves off and lets his hand fall to the top of Jared’s foot, intimate, skin on skin for the very first time. He traces the intricate network of veins on his instep, soaks in the feel of cool flesh on his palm, then slowly, carefully, runs his bare hand under the cuff of Jared’s pants, Jared’s fine hair catching on his calluses. He kneads at his calf, drops his head to Jared’s knee and rolls it back and forth, rides out Jared’s fitful, jerky movements. This close, the smell of Jared is everywhere, all-encompassing, the clean tang of cheap soap buried under flop sweat, the deep, salty smell of his cock that grows stronger once he bucks up, ass clearing the chair as he shoots into his pants, eyes wide and staring at Jensen like Jensen’s just performed some sorta unlikely miracle. Walked on water. Opened the doors to this godforsaken place and set him free.
Spunk soaks into Jared’s pajama bottoms in a strange pattern that Jensen can almost place. One small taste. Just one small taste, that’s all he asks, and tomorrow he’ll go to his boss and tell her he’s done. Through with all of it.
The thing about crossing lines over and over is that it gets simpler every time. The consequences lessen, the steps grow smaller and less daunting. Mountains into molehills.
The first time he sucks Jared off, he promises he’ll quit his job. The second time he does it, he swears he’ll go to church for the first time since Easter Sunday four years ago and confess his sins, every rotten last one of them. And then he’ll call his mother.
The third time he sucks Jared’s dick, he’s worn his own leather belt rather than the standard issue white canvas, and uses it to bind Jared’s chest to the mattress in an intricate series of boy scout knots. Jared twists and turns, grips the restraints until the tips of his fingers go white. Jared’s good at this, well-schooled in the art of institutionalized fucking around, knows when to stay quiet and knows when Jensen’s good and warmed up and ready to take him even further down his throat.
Jared bites on his lips, chews them open while Jensen’s too occupied swallowing his cock to notice, comes with blood on his teeth and on his lips then begs Jensen for a kiss.
After, when Jensen’s pushed a mouthful of come past Jared’s lips with his tongue and Jared’s repaid the favor in blood, he whispers into Jensen’s ear. “I’m in you now. Want you in me.”
Jensen’s legs threaten to give out and he barely makes it to the staff locker room, pounding need in his cock that makes his vision blur and his hands shake. His belt is wrapped around his wrist and he unfurls it, holds the leather stained with Jared’s sweat between his teeth and jerks himself rough and hard, comes in seconds. It takes two showers to wash the spunk from his hand, but he can still taste Jared in his mouth, and that’s what matters.
This is what torture really looks like. Jensen had thought he’d had a clue before. He’s never been so wrong.
He’s spread out on Jared’s bed, sinking into the dip in the mattress like it might swallow him whole any moment. Across the room, the wheelchair is vacant, the straps dangle loose and forlorn like Jensen’s not the only thing in this box that needs to touch Jared’s skin. His throat is more narrow than a straw, his chest is about to cave in, white spots dart across his vision and there’s no discernable pattern to their movement. He needs to find a pattern. He can’t move until there’s a pattern.
The unimportant, logical center of his mind has seen enough fight or flight reactions to know what they look like, but those spots need to be brighter if he’s to have a fighting chance, so he shoves Jared’s pillow over his face, crosses his arms over it and holds as tightly as he can.
Jared hasn’t gone away. He can’t. They have an agreement. A secret and a promise, and besides, Jared’s in him now, maybe on a molecular level if Jensen takes the time to do the science, and he’d know if something happened. He’d know. His ribs would collapse and his lungs would fill with blood and his heart would call it quits and none of that has happened yet.
The spots are brighter, gathering, and a few of them start to move in a blocky backward pattern that reminds Jensen of the Chinese character for brother--younger not older--and now he can move again.
The nurse barely looks up from her clipboard when Jensen almost plows into her in the hallway outside of Jared’s door.
“Can you tell me where Jared has been taken?” How normal he sounds in his own ears. How calm and disinterested. Somebody give this man an academy award.
“Who?” she asks, turning back to her clipboard.
“Room 324. I’m supposed to get him fed. Clean him up.” He doesn’t tell her that he’s brought him a treat, oatmeal cookies with sweet cream filling because Jared has a sweet tooth and they’re his favorite and Jensen can’t wait to find someplace to hide, find a few spare minutes so he can lick the taste of them out of his mouth.
“Oh. Him,” she says as she lets a page fall with a small flick. “Self-harm. Ronnie tried to subdue him and the kid broke the guy’s wrist. Snapped it like it was nothing. He’s in isolation.”
Jensen works to school his expression, the sudden swell of relief propped up with pride, but it doesn’t matter. She’s turning back to her paperwork and Jensen’s already heading down the corridor, trying not to run.
“Quite a predicament,” Jared says when Jensen slips through the door. He attempts to shrug or lift his elbows, but whoever tied him into the straightjacket didn’t leave him much in the way of wiggle room. The thing is too small across his shoulders, cinched too tightly. Jensen’s skin heats. He could do anything he wants to Jared right now. Anything at all.
Jared’s anxious, in constant, restless movement and it’s made one leg of his pajama pants ride up to his knee. There’s something undignified about that, so Jensen goes to pull it down for him, and it’s then that he sees the dark red splatters on the collar of the jacket, the long claw marks that stretch along the side of Jared’s throat, angry welts covered with dried blood.
“Who did that to you?” Some fiercely protective thing inside of Jensen rolls to its feet and starts to snarl, bang against its cage.
“I did,” Jared says, and spreads his knees wide, begins rolling his hips in obscene figure-eights. “You and me alone in a padded cell. There’s a joke in there somewhere.”
“It was on purpose,” Jensen says and it isn’t a question. “Calculated.”
“Of course. I might be crazy, but that doesn’t make me stupid,” Jared says. “Getting to break that fucker’s wrist...well...that was just lucky. The cherry.” He grins, a smile too big for his face. “Or maybe you’re the cherry.”
His cock is seeping wetly through his pants and all this squirming is making him sweat. A thin layer of it collects in the hollow of his throat and Jensen drops to his knees and flattens his tongue against it, licks at it with wide, lapping swipes. Jensen blindly seeks out the first strap on the jacket, fingers practiced and smart on the buckle, but Jared pushes him away with his shoulder and lunges forward to snap his jaw a centimeter away from Jensen’s face, teeth colliding with a sharp little click.
Jensen rests on his haunches, hands clasped passively in his lap as Jared snaps at him again. He doesn’t jump. There’s no reason to be frightened.
“Not so fast,” Jared says. “Haven’t you heard? I can’t be trusted.”
The kid’s playing a game, and nothing says that Jensen has to buy into it. He can walk away. Maybe he should and he rises to do exactly that, one hand on the door knob when Jared says, “Shrink number seven just left. It’ll be three hours until he comes back.”
“Yeah. The little guy with glasses. Mouth breather. Hairy knuckles. But I don’t wanna talk about him. I wanna talk about you.” He struggles to his knees and falls forward, ass in the air as he mashes his face against the padded floor. The next thing he says comes out muffled. “I wanna talk about how you’re gonna get me to shut up.”
This line is the easiest by far, the easiest by lightyears, and Jensen doesn’t even realize he’s crossed it before he’s kneeling behind Jared and has Jared’s pants down around his thighs, rutting up against him and watching his skin go from pink to a deep, delicious red from the scuff of Jensen’s coarse uniform.
The line is gone, out of sight as Jensen shoves roughly at his pants, frees his cock to slap against Jared’s heated skin and leave slick little trails of precome. There are patterns in those too, and maybe he’ll figure them out later. He doesn’t have time right now and besides they’re not all that important. What’s important is the sound of Jared’s watery gasp when Jensen slips his cock along the crack of his ass, the way he presses his face to the floor and arches his back and tries to crawl closer to Jensen. What’s important is the bowed shape of his shoulders and how the straps strain tightly across his back, so snug that Jensen can barely shove his fingers underneath the jacket to get at more skin.
Jensen spreads his palms wide on Jared’s ass and squeezes as he rides Jared’s crack, the head of his cock catching on Jared’s rim and the friction is almost too much, too dry. He spits on Jared’s hole, rubs it around with his cock and feels Jared bear down.
“It needs to hurt,” Jared tells him, a pleading tone in his voice. “It’s not real if it’s too easy. Please. Please.”
“Okay. Yeah. It’s real.” Jensen’s head is somewhere near the ceiling and his heart is right there with it. He buries his fist in Jared’s hair and twists his head so he can see his profile, needs to witness the expression on his face as Jensen slides his cock in, forces past the tight ring of Jared’s rim and slams home. Jared’s mouth opens, becomes slack and the one eye that Jensen can see goes wide, pretty as a picture. A small whimper is forced from Jared’s throat and that’s even prettier.
It’s still too dry and too tight, but the slap of his hips against Jared’s ass makes up for it. Jensen keeps his cock buried deep and hauls Jared up by his jacket until Jared’s back is flush against his chest. He sinks his teeth into the flesh of Jared’s neck and sucks hard, leaves his own mark among the scratches, invisible unless you know to look for it. Another little secret.
The angle is awkward and Jensen has to do most of the work but he’s fine with that, he’s used to that, likes this version of Jared, all pliant and desperate in his arms, can’t get enough of the groans he punches out of him with every sharp stab of his cock. He reaches between Jared’s legs and tugs at his balls, jerks him from base to tip only a few times before Jared shoots, and he can’t get enough of that either.
It’s even better the second time, after he’s filled Jared up and stretched him out and gets to fuck him sloppy, and Jensen makes him come on his cock and the pressure of his hands wrapped around Jared's throat.
Later, Jensen feeds Jared the crumbled remains of the oatmeal cookies, let’s him lick the sweet cream from his fingertips.
And he says he can’t be trusted.
Jared’s strapped to the wheelchair again. This time it’s to keep him upright. His mouth is slack and he’s staring at Jensen, only staring isn’t quite right, it’s more like looking through Jensen and that’s not quite right either. Jensen’s boy isn’t like this. He isn’t like this at all.
Jensen skids his fingers across the back of his neck and they come up damp. Jared feels hot to the touch, skin burning up under his thin shirt and sweat plastering his bangs to his face. His chin is slick with drool and there’s a dark wet patch on the crotch of his pants, and it’s a sin, a goddamn mortal sin that someone has let this happen to him.
Jared’s head lolls back, lands in an unnatural angle that reminds Jensen of broken bones, and his mouth opens wider in a grotesque parody of a grin. When he speaks, it comes out slurred and soft. So soft that Jensen needs to bend down low to hear it.
“My head floats up, and the only thing that attaches it is a string.”
Jensen smoothes Jared’s hair away from his forehead, scuffs his fingers across Jared’s scalp. “Let’s clean you up.” He starts to wheel Jared toward the showers, eyes fixed on his upside down face.
A small line creases the space between Jared’s eyebrows. He’s very strong. He’s trying so hard. “My sister tried to cut the string, but she had an accident with the scissors.”
Slow anger simmers beneath Jensen’s skin. He feels another slip, a monumental fucking slip. “Of course she did.”
Jared’s dead weight, lanky limbs and difficult angles, even for Jensen, but Jensen manages to get him stripped and under a lukewarm shower. Jensen whispers in his ear, rubs small circles on his stomach until Jared can get his knees locked in place and support his own weight.
Jensen’s clothes are soaked and soapy. His pants gather uncomfortably at his crotch and his shirt is plastered to his back, but the soap makes him smell like Jared, and Jared’s ass feels really good as it rubs against his cock, and Jared’s dick feels really good as it fills in Jensen’s palm, grows hard and hot and delicately curved. Jared curls his hands against the tiles and presses his forehead to the wall. Water falls down the graceful slope of his neck. Jensen catches some of it on his tongue, grows concerned at the increasing shake in Jared’s broad shoulders. He lifts Jared’s face up with two fingers under his chin, and Jared’s laughing, big silent gasps that shudder from his body and into Jensen’s.
“Did I ever tell you about the string?”
Jensen smiles, soft and indulgent. It’s one of those days. “Yeah, you have.”
“Did I tell you how sometimes it gets really thin?” He sounds young. A kid in a sandbox, whispering secrets.
“But when I’m with you, the string gets thicker.” Jared turns to him, and Jensen sees trust and devotion in their purest form, like he’s never seen it before. He sees love, too, more than he knows what to do with.
Everyone should be so lucky.
Thanks for reading.