an agent of the random (riyku) wrote,
an agent of the random

fic: love or death, grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish

Title: love or death, grab an end, pull hard, and make a wish
Genre: Jared/Jensen AU
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2300
Warnings: serial killer AU, with all the trappings thereof—violence, murder, gore.
Notes: written for salt_burn_porn, for cherie_morte's prompt rattling locks. Not only did she give me a great prompt, but also stepped up when I was having doubts and told me I was on the right track with it. Thanks also to wendy for hosting another round.  Title somewhat paraphrased from Wishbone by Richard Siken.

Summary:  Rookie mistake number one: the sheriff should have put the handcuffs on a notch tighter. (Or, how I spent my summer vacation, by Jensen Ackles, serial killer.)

"What do you wanna know? I'll tell you anything."

Jensen pegs his heart rate at a cool sixty beats per minute. His breathing is slow and steady. The place smells like ammonia and burnt coffee so strong that it scours Jensen's tongue, the back of his throat. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, swollen out of shape and split dead center, bites and sucks on it to get it to bleed again. A slick taste like pennies in his mouth and yes. There. That's so much better now.

The sheriff is a heart attack waiting to happen. Red face, yellow teeth, gut testing the structural integrity of the buttons on his uniform shirt. In this excuse for a zip code, a minor felony or a traffic violation makes the front page. Now he has a winning lottery ticket handcuffed and sitting in a plastic schoolhouse chair, behind a flimsy door and a single, laughably simple lock. This poor fucker is in so far over his head and isn't even smart enough to know it yet.

"Start at the beginning," the sheriff says.

Jensen sucks harder on his mouth, mixes his blood with spit and smiles his prettiest smile. The one with all the teeth. "Mommy never loved me and Daddy loved me too much. Is that the type of thing you're going for?"


Jensen is nine. His eyes are too big and too bright, his mouth is too soft and pink and there's a bump in the middle of his nose. His hair is longer than it should be and he can't cut it himself ever since his mother hid the scissors. He has freckles everywhere, even on his fingers.

There's a tree outside of school. It has a thick trunk, branches like a huge umbrella and roots that have grown to the surface in the perfect pattern for Jensen to sit in if he crosses his legs a certain way. His ankles fit and so do his knees. He can lean back on the trunk and it's like he's sitting in somebody's big, wooden lap.

Bobby Fletcher comes up to him. He's got a twin brother named Tommy and a fancy blue lunchbox and his mother cuts the crusts off of his sandwiches. "Are you a boy or a girl?" Bobby asks, and a few feet away three of his friends and his twin brother hide their laughs behind their hands.

As fast as he can, Jensen reaches between Bobby's legs, squeezes and twists. "I don't know," Jensen says, and holds on tighter as Bobby squirms and squeals, struggles to get away. "What are you?"

After that, Jensen goes to a different school. The kids are still the same, though. That never changes.


Rookie mistake number one: the sheriff should have put the handcuffs on a notch tighter. Rookie mistake number two: the guy never should have walked into the room still wearing his sidearm. Rookie mistake number three: they think that a sheriff and a deputy are enough to hold him in this backwater joint for the next hour until backup arrives.

"Have they found that kid yet? The skinny one with all those satanic jailhouse tattoos?" Jensen knows the answer, always pays very careful attention. He leans forward, repositions his arms, makes it look natural.

"What do you know about that?" The sheriff's playing it cool, but he's shit with interrogation technique. Anyone with basic cable and an inclination toward insomnia could tell him that.

"They're looking in the wrong place. Try three counties over along highway thirty-six. You know how people put up those crosses on the side of the road? There are two of them. Look in between."

The sheriff sits straighter. His fleshy neck pushes at his tight collar and any minute now the buttons on his shirt are gonna blow.

"I was going for irony, I think," Jensen continues. "The metaphor probably got lost somewhere."

"That was two years ago."

"Two years and five months." Jensen cocks his head to the side and allows a small slice of what's inside to come out. "I have a very good memory."

The metal edge of the handcuff bites into his skin as Jensen uses his other hand to push it against the meat of his thumb. Tantalizingly close. He's careful to keep his face blank. He's always so careful.


Jensen is nineteen and thinks he's in love for the very first time. It could be a simulation of love. Jensen's never done it before. The kid is tall, white bread and corn fed, drives a pick-up and wears his baseball caps backward. His smile is sweet as sugar and so is his blood, and when Jensen had tried to kiss him, he really should have kissed him back.


"Is that thing on? I don't like repeating myself." Jensen points his chin toward the tape recorder in the center of the table, and the sheriff scrambles to press the switch on the side of it. "Have you read the profile on me yet? They brought in some Clarice Starling-type to do a write up. Some of it even made it into the papers."

The sheriff must be spooked. He raises two fingers in the air and one of the deputies enters the room and stands in the corner. It doesn't matter. Two is as easy as one.

"It's real textbook stuff," Jensen goes on. "Strictly inside the box thinking. It says I disassociate, that I'm incapable of feeling. But there's so much in the world to love."

"Like what?" The sheriff's eyes are wide, fixated, a kid listening to a ghost story.

Jensen thinks about the angel because he always thinks about the angel. The one who sauntered into his soul wearing ratty combat boots and a rattier smile. The one who unhooked his cross from around his neck, tucked it safe and sound into his pocket before he sank to his knees, sucked Jensen off and then put it on again after he'd swallowed. The one who believed Jensen when he'd said he could take three fingers dry, no, wait, spit a little then go for four. Please. Four.

"I love to watch the light go out. Y'know. That light." Careful application of pressure on the thumb joint. Jensen's almost there.


Jared is twenty. He's the right height, all arms and legs, has a smile bigger than his face and dimples and likes it when Jensen sinks his thumbs into them. He's not a simulation. There's morning breath and blackened toast, goodnight kisses and blowjobs in the back of the movie theater during the Sunday afternoon matinee.

The kid drags him out camping and wants to get a dog one day, always tells him that he loves all of his freckles. Especially the ones on his fingers. Jared fucks him sweetly and kisses him filthy and has a way of looking at Jensen that makes Jensen beautiful for the very first time.

Jensen is twenty-four and comes home one day to find Jared sitting at his kitchen table, a scatter of gritty polaroids in front of him from a time when Jensen was younger and less cautious than he is now. In the middle of it all is a shitty composite sketch from five years and two thousand miles ago that only does the trick if you already know what you're looking for.

"Am I safe?" Jared asks him. He's not scared.

"I don't know," Jensen replies, and he's not scared either.

"Good." In a few long steps, Jared crosses the room and corners Jensen, gets his hand into Jensen's pants and his fingers wrapped around his cock. "I always wanted to fuck a famous person."


"They haven't linked me back to the twins yet," Jensen says, and doesn't wince when his thumb finally pops out of joint. The hot flash of pain feels so good.

"Tell me about them," the sheriff says.

Pitching his voice low, Jensen says, "Sure, but only if I can whisper. Some things shouldn't be said out loud."

The sheriff inches forward. It's another rookie mistake, getting this close to something this lethal.

In the end, it's pathetically easy. The sheriff's leaning in so close that it's nothing to smash his head against the table hard enough that the particleboard cracks. Jensen throws his chair at the deputy, snaps the sheriff's sidearm free. A knife would be preferable, quieter, and nothing beats the artful, bloody arc of a good slice to the jugular, but Jensen is nothing if not adaptive. The first bullet goes wrong, hits the deputy in the shoulder. It does the trick at least, renders his arm useless, and there is something attractive about the spray of blood on the wall behind him. The second one is true, shreds the deputy's throat, cuts his strings and he crumples into the corner.

A shot to the base of the skull is more humane than the sheriff deserves after the son of a bitch took him away from Jared for so long, but he's conked out, a shade shy of three hundred pounds of dead weight about to be even more dead, and Jensen doesn't want to waste the effort of turning him over.

"Twins are so convenient. I've always liked a two-fer," Jensen says to the corpse, then takes the time to pull hard on his thumb, makes a wish and snap it back in place. He finds the key ring on the deputy's belt and drops the handcuffs into the guy's lap.

There's a car waiting outside. Some non-descript thing, four doors and a forgettable beige color. Jensen's boy is so smart.

Jared leans against the passenger door, arms folded over his chest and his legs crossed at his ankles, standing there like heaven with an extra double shot of sin. He tugs Jensen in and kisses him, shoves his tongue into Jensen's mouth like it doesn't belong anywhere else, bites down on Jensen's lip and laps at it.

"Took you long enough," Jared says, and now they both have bloody smiles. "They fucked up your mouth." He takes Jensen's hand, lightly pokes at the bruised flesh and kisses his palm. "And you fucked up your hand."

"Still got one good one," Jensen counters, and skims it along Jared's waistband, finds skin-warmed gunmetal and that's when his heartbeat ratchets up, begins to pound. A hundred. One-thirty. Jensen takes the gun, quirks his eyebrow, then drops it, forgotten, as Jared spins them around and pushes him up against the side of the car.

There's a buzz in Jensen's veins, a beat like electricity in his blood. Jared's hands know their way around Jensen's body, get up under his shirt and shove at his pants. And Jensen, whose life is built around a series of airlocks that keep his baser tendencies in check, groans and trembles with every quirk of Jared's fingers. With each small brush of Jared's teeth.

"Don't go away again," Jared says, "Do what you have to but don't—" He cuts off, one hand on Jensen's hip and the other teasing at his rim, shallow little pushes and Jensen's on the verge of making any sorta promise if it means he'll slide those fingers in deeper, replace them with his dick. Jensen won't though. He's way too fucked up over Jared to lie to him. There might be a monster living under his skin, but it's not that kind.

Jared's belt buckle knocks against Jensen's ass when he unhooks it and Jensen almost shoots from that alone, from the anticipation of it. Jared's dick is hot and thick and Jared rides the crack of Jensen's ass for a few stuttering thrusts.

"How many?" Jared asks a second before he slams home. It's brutal and painful and Jensen needs it the same way he sometimes needs to slice a knife through living flesh until it's not living anymore. Needs Jared's dick so deep in his ass and his hands around his throat cutting off just enough of his air to make him feel vital again, keep him steady.

"Two," Jensen says and grits his teeth. His hands skid across the roof of the car and his cock is pressed up against metal, cool like the blade of his favorite knife and Jared's hot against his back, buried completely, all the way up to his balls and still trying to push in further, relentless and needy.

"Blade?" Jared shoves two fingers into Jensen's mouth and Jensen takes him by the wrist, makes Jared give him four instead, licks at them then steers them toward his cock. Thrusts hard and steady into Jared's hand, and wishes there was more light way the hell out here. He loves the sight of his cock fucking through Jared's fist, making it stringy and sloppy with spunk. No disassociation there. None at all.

"Gun," Jensen answers, once he has breath to form the word.

Jared's laughter is rough and dark. "Sucks for you," he says, ends it on a gasp and jabs his hips forcefully against Jensen's ass, shudders clutches at Jensen's chest, his hips, anything he can get his hands on. He pulls out, makes a noise like he doesn't want to, yanks Jensen's pants up to his hips before screwing around with his own. The angel is such a gentleman.

"What were you gonna do with that gun anyhow?" Jensen asks.

Jared shrugs, tilts his head down to hide his smile. Fresh blood infuses his cheeks, makes them glow red. "Whatever it took get you back."

Jensen pulls him in and kisses his forehead. "You're so fucking romantic."


Thanks for reading!

Tags: fic: j2, rated: nc-17
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