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Carve A Home For Two In Your Heart

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Jared

 

Belly pressed flat against the damp rooftop, Jared peers through his binoculars and curses fiercely under his breath. If he manages to save Jensen—no, not if, when—when he saves Jensen, Jared's going to leash him to his bed and not let him out of his sight ever again. Ever. Again.

There is an erratic tremor running through his hands that's hard to ignore when the view through his binoculars jumps and blurs. Jared tries not to linger on the question of whether it's anger or fear that's making his palms sweat and his heartbeat skip and race, he just curses again and tightens his white-knuckled grip on his bino’s.

For someone with Jared's experience, this kind of rescue mission should be a walk in the park, but right now Jared doubts his ability to hold his gun steady, never mind aim straight. Jensen always did manage to wreck his control.

Falling back on years of training, Jared squeezes his eyes shut, blows out an unsteady breath, counts to three, opens his eyes and breathes in again, slow and controlled. He relaxes his death grip on his binoculars and forces himself to focus. Detach. Pretend that he's on a normal everyday mission.

The target’s apartment is on the third floor. Had it been the fourth and top floor it would have made Jared's rescue bid somewhat easier, but he’s made successful extractions under far trickier circumstances. Jared blatantly disregards the pertinent fact that none of those involved Jensen.

He can see four men in the apartment, all armed but handling their weapons with the casual disrespect of thugs and lazing around without even a hint of professionalism. They’ll be easily enough dealt with. Jared’s most immediate problem is that he doesn't have eyes on Jensen. Not since a minute ago when the apparent leader of the gang, suited in ill-fitting Armani, with a sinister snake tattoo winding down his neck, shoved Jensen into the bedroom, shut the door and drew the drapes, lips snarled upwards in an ugly grin.

An increasing sense of urgency is now thrumming through Jared's veins.

Time to move.

Tucking his binoculars back into their pocket, Jared jumps to his feet and cobbles together a make-shift action plan: smash his way in, grab Jensen and kill everyone who gets in his way. It’s a basic plan, admittedly.

The weather is on his side at least; a thick cover of rain clouds obliterates all but a sliver of moonlight, and an insistent drizzle is discouraging most people from venturing out. Not that this neighborhood is particularly welcoming anyway. The broken streetlights flickering more off than on are a helpful bonus, allowing Jared to stick to the shadows once he's jogged down the stairwell and out into the street, his Glock a reassuring weight in his hand, the PPK strapped to his ankle a hidden safety net.

Jared is confident in his ability to take care of this unholy mess, but he can’t help wish that he had a little back-up. Chad may be a giant pain in the ass at times, but Jared trusts him implicitly. Chad’s voice chattering in his earpiece has talked Jared out of more than one sticky situation. Unfortunately Chad, for reasons Jared doesn’t want to contemplate but presumably includes half-naked or even completely naked women, decided to jump on a plane and spend his downtime in Rio.

In actual fact, Chad is the one to blame for Jared being slap bang in the middle of this whole mess. Well, maybe not this mess in particular; he didn't have anything to do with Jensen's abduction - as far as Jared knows. He is however entirely responsible for introducing Jared to Jensen. Although in Chad's defense, he could never have guessed the effect that one simple act would have on Jared's future.

 

Two Years Previously

 

It hadn't been the worst mission ever. Primary target acquired, no serious injuries sustained to any of their team, and no innocent casualties. A satisfactory result all round. It had, however, been a long mission. Five weeks mainly spent sweating their balls off in the middle of the jungle, Jared's least favorite terrain in the world. It had been hot, humid, more often than not raining, and physically and mentally draining. Sweat spreading across every inch of his body, seeping into every crack and crevice, uncomfortable and sour. And the insects, fuck, Jared wasn't scared of bugs, but sweet Jesus, some of the freaky insects he'd come face to face with in the past few weeks looked like they'd flown straight out of an old B movie.

Now they were back on home soil, thoroughly debriefed and even more thoroughly showered, Jared was looking forward to some quality downtime. Unfortunately, Chad was having an issue with his idea of quality downtime.

"You're going to do what?"

Jared casually lengthens his stride hoping to leave Chad behind. "I'm gonna sleep, and eat, play some PS4, and catch up on The Walking Dead and Game of Thrones."

"Dude!" Chad half skips, hurrying to keep pace with Jared. "You are such a fucking loser."

"Hey." Jared scowls and hefts his bag over his shoulder, almost elbowing Chad, not entirely accidentally in the face. "Just ‘cause I don't waste my hard-earned money on hookers, blow and gambling, doesn't make me a loser."

"Blow." Chad snorts. "You do remember our regular mandatory drug testing, right?"

"Yes, Chad, I do." Jared stops dead and stares down at Chad incredulously.

"Dude, that was one time."

"You made me scale a five story building, climb in a two foot square window and pee in a cup for you, then you practically shoved me out the window when you thought you heard someone coming," Jared points out, trying not to do so through gritted teeth.

"One time, Jared. That was one time. And it's not like it's the worst thing I've ever asked you to do." Chad brushes him off and saunters towards his parking spot. Jared follows, shaking his head. Unfortunately, Chad's right.

"Anyway, we're discussing your pathetic lack of a social life not my awesome one."

"My social life is just fine, thanks," Jared protests. "Look, it's not like our line of work makes it easy to hold down a relationship, or even normal friendships. And, believe it or not, Chad, not everyone feels the need to party like a nineteen year old frat boy every night. All I want to do on my time off is relax."

"By hiding in your apartment and playing video games?" Chad asks, stopping at a retina-scorching, tangerine-orange Porsche, and running his hand over the hood lovingly.

Jared waits patiently for Chad to stop petting his car's gaudy paintwork and pop the trunk before throwing in his bag and walking around to the passenger side. "I don't hide. And there's nothing wrong with playing video games."

"Dude, your real life is basically a video game: secret missions, rescuing people, shooting bad guys." Chad opens the doors and slips in the driver's seat, barely waiting for Jared to fold himself in half and lever his long legs into the passenger seat, before he roars out of the parking garage with an ear-scraping tire squeal. "Don't you ever feel like doing something different?"

"Like what for example?" Jared asks, like an idiot.

"Like going out and getting laid," Chad says with his usual frankness.

"That’s not relaxing," Jared argues.

"Jay man, if you don't find fucking relaxing, I don't think you're doing it right."

"Not the actual fucking, Chad." Jared can't believe he’s actually having this conversation. "The going out and finding someone to fuck."

"You're kidding, right?" Chad stares at him for so long that Jared smacks the side of his head to knock his attention back to the road. "Shit, Jay, it's not like you're fugly man. You don't even have to make that much effort. You go to a club, knock back a few drinks, pick up the prettiest chick, take her out back and screw her against the cleanest wall. Or if she’s worth an all-nighter, take her to the nearest motel."

"Sounds real classy, Chad. Thanks, but no thanks." Jared shifts uneasily in his seat and not just because he's about a foot too tall to sit in it comfortably.

"Man, it's not like you've never done it for it a job before. I've seen you sweet-talk a mark out of her panties and her secrets without breaking sweat."

"Exactly, for a mission, when I don't have any choice. Newsflash, dickweed; I don't particularly enjoy that aspect of the job."

"Dude!" Chad gasps, sounding almost offended. "It's like my favorite part of the job...unless it's an ugly chick like that lawyer in Brussels.” Chad shudders dramatically. Jared rolls his eyes. "I had to lie back and think of Uncle Sam that time. Well, to be honest, I was thinking about Kate Upton. Now that’s one girl I wouldn’t mind spending some quality downtime with."

Sometimes Jared can't comprehend how he and Chad ever became friends.

"Look man," he tries to explain. "It's just, if I go and pick someone up in a club, it's like, I can't relax. I mean I don't know who they really are. I don't know they aren't some kind of plant. Someone working for another agency. Or someone—"

"Jay, you are way too paranoid. A one night stand isn't going to try and kill you."

"No?" Jared can’t resist needling him. "Are you sure about that, because I remember Berlin—"

"That was just one time." Chad jumps in. "And she was a fucking hellcat between the sheets."

"Until she tried to strangle you with her stockings."

"It was almost worth it," Chad muses, a worrying glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, well, excuse me if I'm not keen to take the risk." Jared folds his arms decisively, hiding a wince as his elbow collides with the door handle.

Chad hums thoughtfully. Not an encouraging sign.

"What about—"

"No, Chad."

"You didn't even let me—"

"No."

"Come on, Jay, just hear me out."

Jared bites his tongue, figures Chad is going to tell him his brilliant idea one way or another.

"Okay, so there's this girl, she's real classy, like seriously, I mean the kind of girl that looks more at home at the fucking opera or something, and she's hot as hell; tall and gorgeous with fucking awesome tits and long legs that she can wrap around your neck and a mouth that-"

"Chad," Jared growls.

"Anyway," Chad carries on regardless. "She's pricey. Like fourteen hundred dollars for the night plus the cost of a decent hotel room."

"How fucking much?" Jared splutters.

"Yeah but man, that's the whole night, and she's—"

"Okay, stop right there." Jared decides it's time to derail Chad's 'get Jared laid plan' once and for all. "First of all, I don't sleep with anyone who can’t consent."

Chad opens his mouth but closes it quickly when Jared glares. "Second, just because she's a classy hooker doesn't mean she won’t sell you out. In fact, she's probably more likely to if she gets the chance. Money talks for girls like that. Third, that's a lot of fucking money for something I can do with some porn and my hand, and fourth - and this is a real freakin' big one - in case you've forgotten, I'll bed girls for a mission, but I like fucking guys, Chad. Literally!"

Chad doesn't even have the good grace to look abashed. Swerving into a free parking spot a few doors away from Jared's apartment, with a speed that makes Jared’s stomach roll, he cuts the engine and turns to Jared with a lop-sided smirk, holding his finger up to make a few points of his own. "One, of course she fucking consents. Danni works for herself, she doesn't have a pimp. She keeps all the money. She sleeps with who she wants to sleep with and has no problem threatening to shoot you in the balls if you ask for something she doesn't want to do."

Jared tries not to imagine what Chad asked for that nearly ended in castration.

"Two," Chad continues. "I checked her out. She’s on the level. But y'know you're a secret agent, dude; you're a pretty good liar. You don't have to tell her what you actually do for a living. You could tell her you're a toupee salesman called Billy-Bob from Canada. She won't give a damn as long as you’re not a psycho and you've got money. And that brings us to point number three; Jay-man, you're loaded. I know you got a fucking massive inheritance when your parents bit it—sorry dude, no offense. Plus, you earn shit-loads of cash that you never fucking spend."

Jared does have a considerable nest egg, it's true. That doesn’t mean he wants to spend it all on a prostitute. Especially not a prostitute with boobs.

"And four," Chad grins, apparently reading Jared's mind. "She has a friend. In the same business. A very male and very pretty, in a blonde and twinky kind of way, friend."

"Twinky?"

Chad shrugs. "I know a twink when I see one. So what do you say, Jared, my generously-proportioned-sexually-frustrated-assloving-friend, you want me to set it up?"

"No, Chad." Jared shakes his head, contorting his limbs into a pretzel shape in order to reach the door handle and make his escape. "Absolutely, one hundred percent, without a doubt, no way."

 

Which is how the next night finds Jared standing outside the door of a stupidly expensive hotel suite, feeling entirely out of his depth. He’s been trying to channel suave, confident and professional Agent Padalecki since he set foot in the imposing hotel lobby but instead seems to be reduced to the plain old, sweaty, fumbling Jared he is when he’s not working. Jekyll and Hyde got nothing on Jared and his smooth alter-ego. He wonders how much shit Chad would give him if he chickened out. Lots probably. For ever. Maybe it's time to put in a request for a new partner anyway. One without hookers on his speed-dial.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the door opens before Jared can decide whether to knock or make a less than dignified run for the exit.

"Jake?" Asks the kid standing in the half-open doorway. "Jake Patterson? Chad's friend?"

Jared gapes like a love-struck goldfish for the stutter of a heartbeat before breaking into a grin, wide enough to cramp his cheeks, and shoving his hand out. "Jared. I'm Jared, Jared Pa... Jared. Chad's, well, yeah Chad's friend."

Okay, so that wasn't strictly the plan, but seriously, screw pseudonyms; Jared wants this guy screaming out his real name by the end of the night. He is gorgeous. Drop dead, instant-boner, gorgeous. Young and blonde with huge green eyes, lipstick-pink pouting lips, and dozens of freckles sprinkled liberally across his pretty face. Dressed in a cotton-crisp white shirt, the top two buttons popped open to reveal a triangle of pale skin, sleeves folded neatly halfway up his arms, and perfectly cut suit pants that cling in all the right places, he looks like a model rather than a rent-boy.

"Well hi there, Jared." The guy smiles, sparkling white teeth and gleaming eyes, and shakes Jared's outstretched hand. Jared stares down at the way his hand engulfs the other man's, rough calloused fingers wrapped around delicately soft skin. "I'm Jensen. You want to come in, Jared?"

The way his silky voice caresses Jared's name makes something hot and greedy squirm through Jared's belly.

"Jared?"

"Uh, sure," Jared answers belatedly, rolling his eyes at himself. This guy is a hooker. This is business, not a blind date. Jared follows Jensen into the room, dragging his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight of Jensen’s narrow waist and pert ass just long enough to turn and lock the door behind them.

When he turns back, Jensen is standing watching him, head cocked to the side, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his pants. If Jared wasn't an expert at reading body language, spotting nervous ticks, he'd think that Jensen with his easy smile and open stance was perfectly relaxed. The kid is breathing just a tad too quickly though, eyes darting towards the locked door for just a flicker of a second before snapping back to Jared. He's hiding it well but he is nervous, maybe even a little afraid as he takes in Jared’s height and bulk. And he suddenly looks young. Too young.

"How old are you?" Jared blurts out, a dozen ways of torturing Chad running through his head if he finds out that the dickweed’s set Jared up with an underage escort.

"Twenty-two," Jensen replies evenly, seemingly unsurprised at the question.

"Really?" Jared pushes. "Because you look a heck of a lot younger."

"So I've been told. I can be younger if you want." Jensen flutters his insanely long eyelashes, his smile turning coy. "How old do you want me to be, Jared? Sweet sixteen? Young and innocent, a virgin for you to—"

"No!" Jared almost yelps, taking a step backwards. "Shit no! I don't want to sleep with a kid."

Jensen relaxes just a little, smiles a touch more naturally with a bit less teeth, a hint of a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. "I'm not a kid. Honest. I'm old enough to do all the important stuff; smoke, drink and fuck."

"You smoke?"

Jensen laughs, loud and easy. If anything it makes him look even younger. "That's what you focused on right there?” He shakes his head. “Occasionally, alright? I smoke occasionally. And you're not my mom so I don't expect a lecture."

Jared can't help himself. "It's a bad habit."

"Oh, I've got lots of bad habits." Jensen licks his lips. His tongue leaving behind an obscene shimmer. "You want me to be a bad boy, Jared? Be your bad boy? Want to bend me over your knee and spank me until I promise to be good?"

Jared almost chokes on his own tongue, his heels clipping the door as he takes another step backwards. "Holy crap. Look...okay...let’s just slow down a little here."

"You know," Jensen says, prowling towards him. "You don't have to be shy. I'm all yours for the whole night. We can do anything you want."

"Anything?" Jared gulps.

"Anything." Jensen repeats, his voice little more than a whisper as he advances on Jared with all the liquid grace and deadly instinct of a puma.

Jared, unsure whether he's hunter or prey in this scenario, is torn between lecturing Jensen on the dangers of allowing strange men to do anything they want to him, and putting him on his knees and fucking his mouth until those sinful lips are ruined.

"You don't think that's a little dangerous," he settles for asking, neatly sidestepping Jensen and squeezing some breathing space between them.

Jensen's eyes narrow, and follow Jared as he moves away. When he speaks the playful lilt in his voice has flattened, replaced by something far more businesslike. "Danneel said you didn't want anything...extra."

"Extra?"

"Yeah. She did explain all this, didn't she? I mean I'll do all the usual things; spanking and role play, light bondage as long as we use my equipment. Obviously you can fuck me or I can fuck you."

"What won't you do?" Jared asks, more out of curiosity than desire to do anything freaky.

"No bareback, no strangulation—ever. No knives, no blood, no bruises on my face, and no scat."

Jared's face scrunches in revulsion.

Jensen grimaces along with him. "Yeah, that one is nasty. Look, I thought you knew all this. Knew the set up. Danni vouched for you, said that you didn't want anything weird?"

"No, no I don't." Jared rushes to assure him, glad that Jensen has definite limits. Still he can't dislodge the feeling that this is all just a bit wrong. Obviously legally it is entirely wrong, but Jared’s fine with that. Morally though it still feels a bit hinky. And yes, Jared's morals may be slightly skewed compared to other folks, but for some reason Jensen is bringing out his protective instincts something fierce. It might be those kitten-green eyes.

"You aren't being forced into this, are you?" he asks. It doesn't look like it, but Jared has seen enough people forced into terrible circumstances to know that appearances can be deceptive. Maybe this Danneel woman is a criminal mastermind, a cruel madam blackmailing or threatening kids into working for her. Into becoming sex-slaves. "If you need help—"

"Jesus Christ," Jensen curses and scowls, maybe the most honest expression Jared has seen since he walked through the door. "I don't need saving, okay! I don't need help. No-one is forcing me into this. Look man, I don't know what kind of weird ass game you're playing, but I could do without the mind-games. You paid for my services for the night. Your money is already in my account. I'm not giving it back. If you want to fuck me - great. If not – don’t let the door hit you in the ass."

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Jared holds his hands up in a show of surrender. "I'm not trying to mess you around. I just...I've never done this before...with a hooker, I mean. Obviously I've had sex before. Lots of sex. Just not with someone like you."

Jensen bristles, a blink and you'd miss it moment, hidden quickly. For someone that lives on his wits and quick thinking Jared is sure screwing this up.

"Maybe I should just go." Jared launches himself towards the door. This had been a bad idea from the start. And he doesn't want to sleep with a kid who must now think he’s either deranged or a grade-A creep. Frankly, Jensen has earned his cash just for putting up with Jared's bizarro behavior.

To his surprise Jensen reaches out, his fingers snagging the sleeve of Jared's suede jacket. "Wait. I'm sorry. I could have, should have, started off a bit slower. You kind of caught me off guard, y'know, being all tall, built and completely gorgeous. I got carried away. Why don't we sit down and have a drink, talk for a while. I think...well you seem like a good guy, Jared. A little confused maybe?"

Jared lets himself be caught by Jensen's fingers, by his smile, by the light sparkling in his eyes.

"Why don't we start over." Jensen tugs lightly at Jared's sleeve, steering him towards a plush velvet sofa tucked into the corner of the room. "You want a drink?"

"You think I'm gorgeous?" Jared blurts out, as he perches on the edge of his seat, watching the way Jensen's trousers cling to the ample curve of his ass when he bends down to raid the mini-bar.

Jensen looks back over his shoulder, smirking as Jared's eyes jump up guiltily from his ass to his face. "You've looked in a mirror, Jared; you know you're a good looking guy. Now," he says, standing up, hands full of tiny bottles. "Vodka, scotch or rum? What’s your poison?"

This, Jared knows, is his last chance to run. A polite refusal, an apology and Jared can leave with a clear conscience. Jensen is watching him, assessing, a snap of a challenge in his eyes. And really Jared should know better. Especially considering his alcohol tolerance isn't what it should be for a guy of his size.

"Vodka," Jared says, a growing sense of desire easing his reluctance. "If it's a decent brand."

"Smirnoff." Jensen grins. "Not the best but passable." Jensen turns around, setting the bottles down on the bureau. "Why don't you take off your jacket and make yourself more comfortable." He unwraps two hotel glasses from their plastic coverings and cracks the lid of one of the vodka bottles. "And if you'd store your gun in the bedside drawer I'd appreciate it. Along with any other weapons you're carrying."

Jared pauses as he shrugs off his jacket, unsure if he's more surprised by Jensen's awareness that Jared is armed, or his casual acceptance of it.

"I don't need or want to know why," Jensen says, his back still turned to Jared. "But I don't like guns and I don't want to see it. You're perfectly safe here with me."

Jared could, probably should, protest. Instead he strides across to the king-sized bed in the center of the room and slips his Glock into the bedside drawer.

When he turns around, Jensen is standing in front of him, lips curved in a smile and a glass in each hand.

An hour later the mini-bar is almost dry. Jared's limbs are loose, his nerves numbed, and his doubts firmly repressed. Sprawled beside him on the sofa, Jensen is relaxed and giggling, his shoes and socks abandoned two mini-bottles of rum ago and his bare feet tucked snug under Jared's thigh, toes wriggling to make room for themselves. And that isn't something that should make Jared's dick stir but it's half hard in his pants, twitching with every move that Jensen makes.

"You know," Jensen gazes at Jared through half-lidded eyes, a hint of a Texas drawl lazy on his tongue. "I can help you with that if you'd let me."

Jared stares dumbly at the obscene show Jensen makes of licking his lips. "I know you want me, Jared, and I swear to god almighty that money or no money, there's nothing I want more right now than to drop to my knees and suck down the monster I know you've got hiding in your pants."

It's absurd; Jared knows it is. Knows that Jensen would say that crap even if it wasn't true, that he's paid to spout that kind of ludicrous porno-dialogue. But somehow, between the liquor drifting through his bloodstream and the spit-slick swell of Jensen's bottom lip, Jared's forgotten that he cares.

"Hell, yeah," is all he needs to utter before Jensen slinks to the floor, shoves apart Jared's thighs and makes himself right at home. Jared's had plenty of blow jobs before, but none, not one—from the first thirty second fumble with his one and only girlfriend in her momma's station wagon through to the last guy he'd hooked up with—compare to this.

Jared's glad that Jensen slips a rubber onto his dick before he wraps his lips around it because otherwise, he thinks he might have shot off just as quick as he did that very first time. And really, that shit's embarrassing when you're sixteen, never mind twenty-six.

Jensen's mouth is pure heaven. The tricks he does with his tongue are probably illegal in forty states. He almost manages to swallow Jared down to the root, determinedly pushing past his gag reflex until his eyes—God, those impossibly green eyes never leave Jared's face—are watering and his cheeks are flushed. He doesn't stop until Jared tugs gently on his hair, nudging him back. The pout that Jensen gives Jared is ridiculous and adorable.

"What? Don't you like it?" Jensen's voice is rough at the edges already, and part of Jared wants to hear it broken completely, wants to let Jensen suck him down, wants to fuck his throat until tears are streaming down his face and he's struggling to breathe. But maybe another time, when he knows Jensen's limits, his turn-ons. There are other things Jared wants to do now.

"Want to fuck you," he tells Jensen, thumb brushing away the spit shining at the corner of Jensen's mouth. "Do you want that?"

And he knows that Jensen isn't going to say no. That he’s paying Jensen not to say no. But the enthusiasm on Jensen's face, the gleam in his eye, and the tell-tale bulge in his pants when he says, "fuck yes"—that doesn't look faked. Jared would like to think not anyway.

Jared lets Jensen take control. Lets him strip them both to reveal Jensen's slim frame and creamy skin, unexpected bursts of freckles rampaging across his shoulders and over his chest. Jensen's eyes widen, a hungry moan spilling from his lips when he sees Jared naked, his hands sweeping across the curve of Jared's biceps, the taut definition of his abs. He licks the sweat from the dip of Jared’s collar bone as he pushes him down on to the bed, straddling him.

"You're goddamn gorgeous," Jensen mumbles, barely audible, running his hands across Jared's chest with a look of wonder. "Feel like I should pay you."

Jared doesn't get the chance to respond, words evaporating into unintelligible groans as Jensen attacks Jared's body like a starving man, chasing the taste of skin from his throat down to his thighs. By the time he watches Jensen slick himself with lube, head thrown back and two fingers spreading his hole impatiently, Jared is barely functioning. All he can think about is the pretty boy writhing on top of him. His usual restraint, his constant vigilance and wariness, has been buried beneath an avalanche of want and need and right-the-fuck-now desire.

When Jensen sinks down on Jared's cock, it's all Jared can do to breathe. And when he moves, Jared forgets to do even that until a swivel of Jensen's ass punches a winded grunt from his lungs. His fingers dig into the bedding, blunt nails snagging into white Egyptian cotton, his head arching back into luxurious feather pillows as Jensen rides him, back bowed, lips parted and eyes fluttering shut. It's not until Jensen's fingers clumsily reach for his own dick that it occurs to Jared to participate. Knocking Jensen's fingers away, Jared wraps his hand loosely around Jensen's erection, his other hand grabbing onto Jensen's hip. Digging his heels into the mattress, he thrusts up as Jensen grinds down, stealing whimpers from both of them. Their rhythm is instant and perfect, their movements in sync like a well-practiced dance. The bed groans under the exertion. Sweat shines on Jensen's face and drips from the tip of his nose onto Jared's chin.

Jared doesn't firm his grip around Jensen's dick until he knows he can't hold back any longer, the last of his control crumbling below the encompassing heat and unforgiving rippling pressure of Jensen's body. Jensen cries out when Jared's fingers tighten around him, stripping his dick with determined strokes. They move like a flawlessly engineered machine, sinuous muscles flexing, tendons straining, fingers curling, spines bowing, climaxing within heartbeats of each other. Jensen's come spurts across Jared's fist, drips through his fingers, and pools on his belly. Jared's vision whites out with a blinding flash.

Jensen moves before Jared has time to gather his wits, eases off of Jared's trembling limbs with a natural grace that shouldn't be possible after that kind of sex. He ties off the condom on the way to the bathroom and comes back a minute later with a damp towel, cleaning Jared off with silent concentration. Jared's chest is still heaving when Jensen throws the towel onto the floor and climbs onto the bed to lie down beside him.

"Was that okay?" He sounds almost shy, and Jared can't help his amazed bark of laughter that bursts free.

"Okay? Jensen, that was the best sex I've ever had. You've ruined me for anyone else."

"Good," Jensen says.

Jared turns his head and looks down at the smug little smile Jensen is sporting and laughs again, softer this time.

"We've got the room all night, y'know," Jensen says, twisting over onto his side, fingers skimming over Jared's ribs and across his belly, slowly circling his navel before trailing a feathery line up towards his chest. "We can do it again. Or do something different. Anything you want."

Jared's dick makes a valiant effort to twitch at that thought but it's going to be some time before he's ready to go again. There is something he wants though. Something he's being dying to do since he walked through the door. "Can we...I mean, I don't know if you do...or if you ever...with a....but, can I...can I kiss you?"

Jensen answers with his lips pressed to Jared's. And it's glorious. As soft and sweet as Jared imagined.

"So," he says when Jensen breaks away. "That's a yes."

"This isn't Pretty Woman, Jared. I'll kiss all you want. Well, unless you’ve overdone the garlic." Jensen cocks his head to the side and smirks. "Honestly though, even if your breath wasn't minty fresh, I don't think I could keep myself away from your pretty lips."

He proves his point by biting down on Jared's lower lip and tugging gently before licking the sting away and sealing their lips together again.

They kiss until Jared's lips are pleasantly numb, then drift to sleep with Jensen draped across Jared's chest, his head tucked under Jared's chin. Jared can't remember feeling more relaxed in his life.

Sunlight is just starting to filter through the window blinds when Jared jerks awake with an undignified squawk, jack-knifing upright and almost choking Jensen whose lips are wrapped around his dick.

After Jared issues frantic apologies, and Jensen's coughing fit dissolves into a delightful bout of giggles, Jensen enthusiastically completes his mission without Jared trying to kill him again. Jared happily returns the favor, dropping to his knees and sucking Jensen off in the shower before fucking him over the bathroom sink, watching in delight as Jensen's cheeks flush crimson in the mirror. They finish just before room service knocks on the door with breakfast. It's a pretty damn perfect way to start the day.

Before Jared leaves, Jensen slips him a glossy white card with nothing more than a cell-phone number written on it. Jared tucks it safely into his wallet and knows without a shadow of a doubt that half of his disposable income has just found a new home.

Two hours later, when Jared wanders into the agency gym, Chad takes one look at him and howls with laughter. He doesn't say I told you so, but he is even more unbearably 'Chad' than normal—at least until Jared 'accidentally' kicks him in the balls while they're sparring on the practice mats.

Given a little distance from Jensen, Jared tries to find some perspective. And he succeeds – more or less. He did not just fall in love at first sight with a hooker, definitely not. The sex was good, but then Jensen has probably had a lot of practice. And he probably spends most nights looking like a Botticelli painting of a debauched sex nymph. And doubtless, he gazes at every client like he wants to eat them alive. And comes shouting their name. And kisses them dizzy with that sweet plum mouth.

So, perspective Jared has. Restraint, too. That's why he manages to wait a whole week before calling the number on the card. Okay, it's more like five days, but he's leaving for a mission in Istanbul the next day or he totally would have made it a full week.

It's a different hotel, a different suite. The same glorious experience. Although - not quite. It's a little more relaxed this time. Jared only needs one shot of vodka to steady his nerves. This time he kisses Jensen breathless before he even removes his jacket. And this time Jensen doesn't ask before dropping to his knees and blowing him. Just shoves Jared against the wall and takes what he wants. And this time Jared spends two hours slowly taking Jensen apart, licking and sucking every part of him until he's a whimpering mess in the middle of the bed, before throwing Jensen’s bow legs up over his shoulders and fucking him boneless.

So no, it's not the same, it's even better.

Jared doesn't see Jensen again for over a month. Continents separate them more efficiently than Jared's willpower ever could. When he sets foot back on U.S. soil, Jensen's number is the first he calls, before he even clears customs.

Five meetings in four weeks later and Jared is close to admitting he might be smitten. Fantastic sex and mind-blowing orgasms, it turns out, are addictive. Or, more precisely, Jensen is addictive.

Jared reminds himself constantly that he's paying Jensen. That every moan he drags from Jensen, every breathy please and punched-out groan for more and harder and fuck yeah, every one of them is bought and paid for. And quite possibly nothing more than an act.

But when they trade knock-knock jokes for ten minutes straight and Jensen laughs so hard that he snorts like a congested pig, or when he falls asleep and drools on Jared's shoulder, times like those it's hard to remember that Jensen isn't his boyfriend. That their relationship is based on cold hard cash.

Usually between jobs Jared quickly grows bored; antsy to get back out in the field and do what he's best at. But four and a half weeks after he returns from Istanbul when his boss briefs him on his next mission, tells him his flight is leaving the next day, Jared struggles to hide his disappointment. He's going to have to cancel his rendezvous with Jensen. There's a dozen things he needs to do before he leaves, arrangements to be made and files that need reading, but the first thing he does is call Jensen. It's not until Jensen answers that Jared thinks he maybe should have waited; it's barely eight o'clock in the morning.

"Hello? Jared?" Jensen sounds awake at least.

"Sorry Jensen, I forgot how early it was." Jared runs his fingers through his hair, feels ridiculously like a teenager calling his prom date.

"Nah, that's alright man. I've got a minute. What's up?"

"I'm going to have to cancel tomorrow night. I've got to leave on...on business. I’m flying out tomorrow."

"Aw, shit man that sucks. I was looking forward to it. No worries though. Give me a call when you get back."

"Hey Jensen, I thought you were gonna wash my back, boy?"

Jared stops breathing when he hears the voice, a playful growl, in the background. Flushes cold then sweat-soaked hot.

"Get your pretty ass in here before I decide to spank it again."

Jared's fingers tighten around his cell-phone, the plastic case creaking under the pressure. His dick still manages to twitch in interest, the image of Jensen's ass pink with handprints a tantalizing one.

"Sorry Jeff, I'm just coming." Jensen's voice is muffled, hand not quite covering the phone. "Sorry Jared, I gotta go. Have a good trip, yeah? Stay safe and call me as soon as you get back."

Jared glares at his phone as Jensen ends the call. It stares back defiantly. Of course Jensen was working. Some mornings Jared doesn't leave until almost nine. Check-out isn't until ten usually, and Jensen does like to ensure he gives his clients their money's worth. He's a professional after all.

 

Jared's trip does not go well. He's off his game; not by much, just a fraction. Unfortunately, in his line of business, fractions can be fatal. He does get the job done, secures the information they need and takes out the threat. Unfortunately, he's captured by a group of understandably pissed-off militants after he does so.

Kidnappings, torture and attempted murder are regular hazards of Jared's job, so it's not the first time he's found himself tied to a chair with a foul smelling sack thrust over his head and a thug issuing threats in broken English. It is the first time he's considered the ramifications of adding a prostitute to his short list of next of kin. The torture might be making him delusional but he’d like to think that Jensen would want to know if he didn't make it home in one piece.

Thankfully, Chad saves the day, blasting through the door with a cowboy twanged yeehaw—fake, considering that Chad hails from Buffalo and that the closest he's ever gotten to a horse is dating a girl with a My Little Pony fixation. While Jared is grateful for the timely rescue, he can't help the twinge of resignation at knowing the smug asshole is going to crow about it for months, ignoring the fact that Jared saves his ass on almost a weekly basis. Plus, because it's a Chad-planned rescue, of course he almost blows Jared up, along with half the compound, so their exit from the region is somewhat hasty.

Jared's debriefing lasts rather longer than normal; it's not unusual after a mission goes slightly off-track. Then the med staff insist on checking him over, and only some serious sweet talking convinces them to let him go, the doctor falling victim to Jared's boy next door charm and puppy dog-eyed promise to stay in bed for at least the next twenty four hours. His injuries aren't even that bad. He's had bigger concussions, and the bruises look worse than they feel. The burn on his back is only first degree, superficial really. Broken fingers usually heal without too much help, and they only had time to break two. It could have been worse.

Jensen doesn't seem to agree. He doesn't quite freak out but he loses his cool to an almost hilarious degree, yanks Jared inside the hotel room, asks him what the hell happened and then doesn't let Jared answer because he's too busy yelling for five minutes straight. He then spends the next twenty minutes carefully examining every bruise, bump, and swollen joint, hissing in sympathy when he sees Jared's back and gently kissing his knuckles through their splints.

Jensen doesn't let Jared do anything remotely strenuous that night. He carefully removes Jared's remaining clothes, leads him to the bathroom and draws him a bath. Tenderly washes every inch of him and even pats him dry before sternly directing him to the bed.

It's not long before Jared is putty in Jensen's hands, melting into the mattress as Jensen massages every tight knot from his muscles, cautiously working around his wounds. It's as relaxing as it is sensual and when Jensen encourages him to roll onto his back, Jared doesn't know whether he wants Jensen's fingers to work their magic on the rest of him or to do something about his aching hard-on. Jensen does both. Methodically kneads loose the tension from Jared's neck all the way down to his calves. Then just when Jared thinks sleep might win out over sex, Jensen's mouth sinks down over his cock, hot and sloppy and too good to resist. It's almost lazy the way he draws Jared's orgasm from him. A languid smolder that unfurls from Jared's toes, crawls like lava through his veins, ignites in a flare of heat in his guts, explodes like an electric storm, shorting every circuit in Jared's brain.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, just slides awake, half-awake really, eyes still closed, the room midnight quiet around him, Jensen's hand splayed across his chest, nose resting on Jared's cheek, lips tickling his jaw. "I know this isn't real, Jared. I know that we aren't...and shit...this is complicated but..." Jensen's whispers hitch and break, breath stuttering against Jared's skin. "But you have to be more careful. You can't...I can't...shit Jared, I don't want to lose you."

It's not Jensen declaring his undying love, but something vital in Jared's chest loosens and settles.

The next time he wakes up and opens his eyes, sunlight is peeking through the curtains and Jensen is still lying at his side, watching him, mouth set in an unhappy line. "Watching me sleep? Creepy, dude." Jared teases.

Jensen doesn't smile. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, gently running his finger across the bruise on Jared's jaw. "What happened I mean."

"I can't," Jared tells him honestly. "I mean I can't talk about my job. It's...well, it's kind of classified." And that's more than Jared should have told Jensen. He should have lied, bullshitted like he normally does. But Jensen deserves better than that.

Jensen doesn't say anything for a moment, trails his finger down Jared's chest, stopping when he reaches a boot-shaped bruise on his ribs. "Why do you do it, this kind of work? Why would you want to do something so dangerous?"

"Why do you do what you do?" Jared asks instead of answering.

Jensen's nose wrinkles up in confusion. Jared wishes everything Jensen did wasn't so ridiculously cute.

"My job isn't dangerous."

"It's not exactly safe." Jared argues, but he relents and gives Jensen the best answer he can afford. "Because it gives me focus and purpose. Because I know I make a difference. And I enjoy it. I could never work in an office. Or do the same thing day after day. I'm good at...what I do."

Jensen nods, green eyes somber.

"Why do you do this?" Jared asks again, hoping but not expecting an answer.

Jensen sighs, flops over onto his back, gazes up at the ceiling as though it might be more understanding than Jared. "Because I enjoy it?" It's more of a question than an answer. He scrubs his hands across his eyes, so rough and careless with his long lashes that Jared almost grabs his wrists to prevent unspeakable damage. "I'm not like you, Jared. I'm not super clever or super fit or super talented. I'm just...just kind of pretty."

Jensen is far more than that. Jensen is beautiful, sure, but he's also kind, smart as a whip, passionate, funny....Jared could list Jensen's attributes until his mouth ran dry. But when he tries to argue, Jensen refuses to listen. "It's true. And this? I enjoy it. I like sex. And I'm good at it. I make people happy and that’s pretty cool, right? It’s not like I'm walking the streets or anything. I choose my clients and if I don't like someone, then I won't see them twice."

But you'll still see them once—Jared wants to say—You’ll risk your safety meeting a stranger in an anonymous hotel room.

"I don't take on anyone without Danneel checking them out first. She's pretty good at spotting assholes," Jensen says, and Jared thinks about adding psychic to his list of Jensen's talents. "And I always check in with her after I’ve seen a client. She looks out for me."

"How many?" Jared asks, can't help pushing while Jensen is sharing. "How many clients do you have?"

Jensen shrugs. "Around a dozen. Some I see more often than others. Some only once a month. A couple once or twice a week. It's good money, Jared. A damn sight more than I could make serving coffee or working retail."

"But—"

"And the job has its perks." Jensen smirks, rolling back over, a sinuous twist of lean muscle and distracting cinnamon dusted skin. His hand slides under the covers, glides up Jared's leg. "Trust me, Jared. Sleeping with you is not a hardship."

Jared's dick thickens against his thigh as Jensen's fingers brush closer to his groin. "Would you—" Jared gasps as Jensen walks his fingers across his balls. "Would you ever—"

But the question slips from Jared's mind as Jensen crawls under the covers, his tongue peeking through his lips and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Nothing changes after that night. Nothing momentous. But Jared somehow feels a little more relaxed. Less highly strung and obsessive. Knowing that Jensen does care about Jared, not just his money, settles the insecure little itch that had been prickling like poison ivy at the base of his skull. He sees Jensen as much as he can, from a couple of times a week to only twice in three months, depending on his missions. While shit does hit the fan on occasion—Chad almost gets abducted by the Russian mafia, and Jared gets a little bit shot by a tiny Korean assassin—it's not because Jared isn't focused. If anything, now that Jared has something—someone—to come home to, he's more focused than ever.

And Jensen is always happy to see him when he comes home. Insists that Jared calls him as soon as possible. Even cancels appointments with other clients if he has to, just so he can see for himself that Jared has returned unscathed.

It's not love, not a relationship. But Jared's happy to take it.

 

Everything’s great until the first time that Jensen calls him.

He calls to cancel their appointment for that night. In over a year of seeing each other, it's the first time he's called Jared’s cell and the first time he's cancelled. Jared doesn't hide his disappointment. While Jensen is apologetic, he's also firm that they have to reschedule.

Jared spends more time than he'd care to admit imagining what Jensen is doing and who he's doing it with when he should be with Jared. Who’s more important than Jared? Who does Jensen care about more?

But three days later when they finally meet up, the reason Jensen cancelled is all too clear. A bruise in angry shades of purple and yellow surrounds Jensen's eye, spreading as far down as his cheekbone.

"What the hell?" Jared exclaims, reaching towards Jensen's face and wiping his thumb over the swollen curve of his cheek as though he can magically wipe away the offending marks.

Jensen flinches and steps back, ducking his head self-consciously, hand jumping up to cover the side of his face. "Sorry, I know it's not pretty. We can cancel if you want. Set up a time next week. It shouldn't look as bad by then."

"Don't be stupid." A wave of fear and guilt turns Jared's concern to anger. The guilt may be misplaced but it's real. Slams into Jared like a blow, winds him as effectively as a jab to the solar plexus.

He regrets the harsh bite of his words immediately when Jensen hunches his shoulders, chews anxiously at his lip, sharp teeth worrying fragile skin hard enough to draw blood. "I’m sorry," Jared apologizes quickly. "Shit, Jen, I’m sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I don't want to cancel. Of course I don't want to cancel. I want to kill the asshole that did this to you."

"It's fine," Jensen says, turning away and stripping his jacket off, tossing it on a chair before looking for the mini-bar. "I’m fine. It's not as bad as it looks and it won't happen again."

You're right, it won't—Jared wants to yell—because you're going to give me a name and I'm going to find the evil fucker and break every bone in his hand before I rip off his balls and then shoot him in the head.

Instead he asks, "Was it a client?"

The answer is obvious, but Jared wants to hear it for sure anyway.

"Yeah," Jensen admits. "Now an ex-client. I'd only seen him a couple of times. He seemed alright, a bit creepy. Nothing that screamed violent asshole who uses his fists when he doesn't get want he wants."

"What did he want?"

Really, it's none of Jared's business. He fully expects Jensen to tell him that. But with just a blink of a pause Jensen admits, "to tie me up and fuck me with a plastic bag tied over my head."

"What?" Jared gapes.

Jensen shrugs, far too casually for Jared's piece of mind. "Everyone has their kinks. But I don't do that kind of breath play. Not with anyone. And definitely not with someone I don’t know. He didn't like being told no."

Yeah, Jared really wants to have a word with this fucker.

"Hey, it's a hazard of the job, right?" Jensen shakes off the seriousness of his reply with a smile that doesn't stretch anywhere near his eyes. "And trust me, I can take care of myself."

That doesn't make Jared feel any better. Not when the bruises on Jensen's face tell a different story. Jared feels sick at the thought of what might have happened, at how much worse it could have been. At the nightmarish thought of a maid finding Jensen's body, naked and bloody in some heartless hotel room. Jared's hands squeeze into fists at his sides. "Jensen, you—"

"So vodka?" Jensen asks, turning his back and squatting down in front of the mini-bar.

"Jensen," Jared tries once more.

Jensen just shakes his head, his spine poker straight and shoulders a rigid line. He's done with the conversation.

Jared sighs. "Scotch. I feel the need for scotch."

That night Jared treats Jensen like he's made of crystal. At first, he insists that all he wants to do is snuggle together under the covers and sleep. Jensen looks at Jared incredulously—blood-red lips dangerously close to forming a petulant pout—and then shoves him inelegantly on to the bed. Climbing on top of him, bow-legs spread wide over Jared's thighs, Jensen barely has to glance at Jared's traitorous dick before it's visibly thickening in his pants. Pavlov ain't got nothing on Jensen apparently.

Knowing Jensen won't take no for an answer, not without sulking, Jared flips them over carefully and takes charge. He sets the pace slow, so slow that he thinks—half hopes—Jensen might just fall asleep. Every touch is gentle and considerate, every brush of his lips as light as butterfly wings. When Jensen urges him on, protests he won't break, Jared kisses away his complaints and continues his whisper soft caresses.

He doesn't fuck Jensen, draws a deep line in the sand and refuses to budge. Especially when he discovers finger shaped bruises circling Jensen's arms and an angry fist-sized mark dark against his sternum.

Instead, he worships every inch of vulverable skin, searches for new ways to make Jensen shiver and moan. Tongues circles around his nipples to make Jensen gasp. Nips at them with his teeth, and watches in delight when Jensen's dick twitches and slaps against his belly. He licks the curve behind Jensen's knee and grins at the resultant giggle. Sucks Jensen's balls and teases his cock until it's leaking pre-come like a dripping faucet. He pulls Jensen's cheeks apart and licks at his rim until Jensen is bucking on the bed, whimpers falling like prayers from his lips. Encouraged, Jared's tongue delves deeper into the heat of Jensen's ass, mouthing at his hole until it's spit-slick and relaxed enough to slide one finger in easily. One finger quickly becomes two, and when Jared crooks them just right and laps at the stretched-pale skin where Jensen's hole is clinging to his fingers, Jensen comes, soundless and beautiful, without a hand on his dick.

It's so fucking hot that Jared barely needs to wrap his hand around his own dick before he comes too, kneeling over Jensen's shuddering body, thick ribbons of spunk branding his mark across Jensen's belly. He doesn't ever suffer as much as a twinge of guilt when he rubs his come into Jensen's skin instead of wiping it clean. Ignoring Jensen's stink-eye and yawned complaints, Jared simply tucks him under his arm, curls around him like a blanket and falls asleep.

In the morning, Jensen wakes with a disgruntled pout, glowers adorably at Jared and spends twenty minutes in the bathroom washing off the tacky mess adhered to his skin. Jared orders room service as instructed and then takes the opportunity to break into Jensen's cell phone, grateful that Jensen hadn’t changed the passcode since the last time Jared saw him type it in. Jared’s never been tempted to invade Jensen’s privacy like this up until now. Trust is important in a relationship, even, or maybe especially in a relationship like theirs. But that was before someone used Jensen as a punching bag.

Jared quickly locates all the information he needs—contacts, calendar, numbers called, calls received—and transfers everything onto his own cell phone. Thanks to his questionable skillset, it takes no more than five minutes. If Jensen almost catches him it’s only because Jared gets distracted by a photo of Jensen with a blonde-haired toddler clinging to him like a sleepy monkey, thumb in his mouth and eyes half shut. The picture is cute as hell, the smile on Jensen's face not one Jared has seen before: soft, adoring, and proud.

Jared slips the cell phone back in the inside pocket of Jensen's jacket just a minute before Jensen, white hotel towel hanging loose around his waist, wanders out of the bathroom, a billow of steam following him.

Jared is sure he doesn't look guilty. He's a spy for god's sake; he can carry out covert ops in his sleep. But Jensen is looking at him curiously, head tilted and a question behind his eyes. Jared thanks his lucky stars when a knock at the door signals the timely arrival of their breakfast.

Jared's not proud of the fact that he follows Jensen home that day. But he does it anyway. Follows him to a small apartment block that's not in the best area of town, but not the worst either. Then, satisfied that Jensen is at least safe at home, he heads into the office and sets about finding the asshole that beat him up.

It's not difficult. Not when Jared compares Jensen's calendar to the numbers on his cell. Jensen doesn't use his clients' full names, only their initials and a couple of nicknames. There's Cowboy whom he seems to see about once a week, and Bear who appears at random intervals. He finds himself listed as Jay, and which evokes a pleased smile for no obvious reason. Then there's JD who appears more frequently than anyone else, which makes Jared's jaw twitch with an ugly flash of jealousy.

The initials he's looking for are MW though. They appear only three times, all over the past month. The last time was the day before Jensen cancelled their meeting. Jared matches the initials to a phone number, and then it's easy to find a name and an address.

He waits until the sun starts to set, casting long shadows across the sidewalks, before paying Mr. Weatherly a visit. The address is a red brick townhouse, not too shabby, but then, as Jared was distinctly unsurprised to discover, the asshole is an attorney.

The police tape across the front door is a surprise. Jared stares at it nonplussed for a full minute before realizing he’s standing like a giant dumbass in full view of the entire - and very well lit - residential street.

"Shocking isn't it?" Jared actually jumps when a voice breaks into his thoughts. He spins around to see a woman, elderly and barely elbow high on Jared, with three poodles wearing matching purple coats milling around her ankles. "Not the type of thing that happens in this neighborhood."

"Did something happen to Mr. Weatherly?" Jared asks.

"You didn't hear?" the woman says, eyes lighting up in delight. "Oooh, it's terrible. Attempted suicide apparently. Although, I heard"—she looks around covertly before continuing with gruesome relish—"I heard that his girlfriend found him stark naked on his bed, unconscious with a polythene bag over his head. Apparently his privates were covered in bulldog clips and he had an eighteen inch neon pink dildo shaped like a horse cock wedged in his butthole."

Jared stares down open-mouthed at the woman, almost as shocked at hearing her say horse-cock, dildo and butthole in a sentence as he is by the news of Weatherly's bizarre attempted suicide.

"Scandalous, isn't it?" she says gleefully. "I mean I always knew there was something a bit odd about him—his eyes you know, too close together, and that smarmy smile of his. But still...a horse cock, that's not something you hear about every day is it?"

"No, no I don't suppose it is," Jared says, slightly strangled.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Is he a friend of yours, dear?"

"No, not really. More of a...a business associate of a friend. Well an associate of a friend really. He's still alive then?"

"Oh yes, he's in St. Mary's. With a police guard."

"Oh?" Jared wasn't aware that the police got involved in attempted suicides even when mammoth horse-cock shaped dildos were involved.

"Well," the woman takes a deep breath, and tugs her fractious poodles back into line. "Apparently when his girlfriend found him, she also found a kilo of blow, a bag full of stolen credit cards, and a stash of horse porn."

Jared almost chokes on his tongue. This is one wonderfully weird old lady.

"Young Mr. Weatherly is going to have some explaining to do once he recovers from the surgery to repair his anal fissure. Honestly dear, I think you should tell your friend to find a new lawyer."

"Yes, yes I'll do that." Jared nods, smiling weakly as the woman gives him a cheery wave and drags her poodles down the street.

It appears that someone got to Weatherly before Jared did. Someone with a talent for revenge and a wicked sense of humor. Jared's not sure whether to feel disappointed or satisfied. He wonders which one of Jensen's clients has the skills or the connections to pull off something like this. Wonders if he should be worried about Jensen sleeping with someone with this kind of psychotic streak.

Then again, Jared planned to slice off Weatherly's dick and ram it down his throat, so it's not like he's the poster boy for sanity.

Jared keeps tabs on Weatherly, ready to step in if it looks like he's getting off too easy. Over the course of the following year, he watches happily as Weatherly's life slowly disintegrates. Between his girlfriend dumping him, losing his job, his car, his house and eventually his liberty for ten to fifteen years, Jared figures justice has been served. Oh, and the fact that he apparently lost a nut thanks to some badly placed bulldog clips is also particularly satisfying.

Jensen never mentions Weatherly. And neither does Jared. It's not as though he can admit he knows who Weatherly is, even when the papers are full of the scandal.

And while Mr. Weatherly's life is rather publicly falling apart, Jared's just keeps on getting better.

He sees Jensen as often as possible in between assignments. Secretly enjoys just hanging out with him as much as he does the sex. Jared isn’t a fool; he knows their relationship is still business, that Jensen is not his boyfriend, that every minute spent with him is bought and paid for. He simply doesn't care. Jensen is perfect. Naked Jensen riding him cowboy style is perfect. Jensen teasing him about his poor tastes in football teams, beers, or shirts is perfect. Jensen in lace panties, on his knees with his lips stretched wide around Jared's dick is perfect. And Jensen wearing Jared's shirt, watching Days of Our Lives and eating popcorn is perfect.

And if Jared follows Jensen home occasionally, it's only to make sure he gets there safely. If he clandestinely makes a copy of Jensen’s door key it’s just a sensible precaution in case of emergencies. And if he spends hours and hours researching all the clients he found on Jensen's phone, roping Chad in to help, it’s just to ensure there's not a repeat of the Weatherly incident. It's not because Jared has issues. Jensen-related-issues. No matter what Chad says.

None of Jensen's other clients ring serious warning bells. Cowboy turns out to be Christian Kane, the hard-drinking son of an oil tycoon, engaged to a southern belle. A cheating rat maybe but a good-natured drunk by all accounts. Bear is Ty Olsen, widower of a shipping magnate with a taste for gumbo, cheap whisky and pretty boys. M is an Internet millionaire, do-gooder and philanthropist with a huge following and - some say - the ego that goes along with it.

Amongst the rest of Jensen's contacts are a couple of judges, a senator, a lawyer, and an ex-football player. Maybe none of them are angels but, as far as Jared can glean from his hours of background checks and research, none of them are sociopaths either.

The one person that sets Jared's spidey-senses tingling is JD, the guy Jensen usually sees twice a week. Jeffrey Dean. He's a restaurant owner with a squeaky clean past. Absolutely squeaky clean. Not a parking ticket or littering fine to his name. Or a college degree or bank loan. Or a living relative. Jared visits his restaurant, just to get a read on him, and comes away with a full belly and absolutely no idea if Jeffrey Dean is a laid-back, whisky voiced charmer with a spectacular steak seasoning rub, or a cold-blooded psycho in-hiding with a wicked imagination...and a lethally sharp set of kitchen knives.

Either way, Jeffrey Dean is—Jared reluctantly concedes—gorgeous. He's tall, though not as tall as Jared; dark, with more than a few strands of grey twisting through the waves of his unruly hair and short-bristled beard; and ruggedly handsome, if you go for the hot Gaelic film star type. He also smells delicious. Or maybe that’s the white chocolate and ginger cheesecake he swears he made himself and insists Jared tries. Goddamn it all to hell, the man can cook. He doesn’t look like a chef or a restaurant owner. He doesn’t sport a bulging belly or kitchen-flush complexion. And even though his suit is cut like it was tailored in Saville Row, the breadth of his shoulders and thick muscles rippling across his chest are unmistakable.

Maybe the guy just enjoys working out. Maybe not.

Jared keeps tabs on Jeffrey Dean for weeks—and he gets squat. Jeffrey Dean does nothing more morally dubious than eat veal. Apart from sleeping with an escort obviously. But stones and glasshouses and all that. Whoever Jeffrey Dean is, he's not a threat to Jensen. And if he was the one that tortured Weatherly, then he can't be all bad. Still, Jared makes it his mission to dig a little deeper. In between official missions, of course.

So Jared's happy with the status quo. Mostly. Okay, he wouldn't hate it if Jensen fell madly in love with him and gave up sleeping with other guys. But Jared is a realist. And not boyfriend material. He's out of the country for weeks or months at a time, he’s suspicious of everyone around him—rightly so more often than he likes—he knows twenty-three ways to kill a man with his bare hands and can shoot a moving target from over two hundred meters away with his Glock 17. And he’ll do it without hesitation. Has done it without hesitation. Jared is a dangerous man.

Not the kind of boy to take home to your momma.

And Jensen might smile at Jared with warmth shining in his eyes, might even cling to him like he never wants to let go while he sleeps, but that doesn't mean anything. Especially not when Jensen doesn’t know exactly what kind of a guy Jared really is. The terrible things he’s capable of doing.

No, things are just peachy the way they are.

 

But then the crap hits the fan.

 

One anonymous text—to a number that less than four people should know—and within twenty-four hours, Jared is staging the most important mission of his life. Solo.

Solo until he almost trips over a figure in the stairwell. The air is heavy and rancid, and it’s pitch black, every single stair light broken or deliberately disabled. Jared sticks close to the wall as he sprints up the stairs, in too much of a rush to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dark. It’s a stupid mistake. He doesn't see, doesn’t even hear the other guy creeping up the stairs like a shadow. The other guy hears him though, takes him down like a rookie. Slams him to the ground with dizzying speed, head cracking against concrete, gun skittering from his hand. By the time Jared can think about reacting, there’s a body pinning him down and a knife edge pressed against his throat. It’s more than a little humiliating.

Head buzzing, breath suspended, muscles tensed, Jared waits.

Warm air puffs across his cheek. Dark eyes appear inches from his own, peering through the dark.

"Jesus fucking Christ kid, I almost sliced your damn throat."

Jared rubs his hand across his neck as the knife falls away, scowls as his eyes finally focus on the familiar figure in front of him. He resists the urge to shoot the bastard right in his smirking face and snarls through gritted teeth instead.

"Jeffrey fucking Dean."

 

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Jeff

It's obvious that it's the kid's first time. Even if Danneel hadn't told him, Jeff would have spotted it the second he walked through the door. Jensen’s trying to act confident, but underneath the cock-sure smile he’s as skittish as a lame horse in a glue factory.

Danneel had made it clear Jeff was to help Jensen relax, feel comfortable, not pressure him if he changed his mind. Jeff's not paying full price this time around, although the kid doesn't know that. Really, Jeff's doing this as a favor. Because Danneel—well, she's not a lady you say no to.

Jeff's been a paying customer of hers for nearly a year. She's incredible; beautiful, curvy, legs that never end, a temperament that matches her titian red hair, and an absolute wildcat in bed. Sleeping with Danneel is like playing Russian roulette while juggling with fire. Things are sure to get out of hand at some point. But the inevitable fallout is usually worth the risk. And the scratches always heal.

So when Danneel told him about her friend, her very pretty friend, who'd run into a spot of financial difficulty and decided to follow Danneel's alternative career path, Jeff couldn't have said no if he'd wanted to. Which he didn't. Not after she showed him a picture.

"He's sweet," she'd said, walking two fingers up his arm as he looked at the photo on her cell phone. "And gorgeous. And gay. And you're bi, and a big old softy under that toppy daddy-bear front. It's perfect. You get a cut price night of fun, and Jensen's first time isn't with a creep. If he does back out at the last second you get your money back. And Jensen walks away unscathed. In any and every way."

The last sentence was underpinned with steel. Jeff agreed quickly. What did have to lose? Other than his balls if anything untoward happened to Jensen.

Jeff slips off his jacket and lays it on a chair, slides his hands into the pockets of his pants and gazes around the room with a lazy smile. "So this place got a mini-bar?"

"I guess so," the kid says, the tiny tremble in his voice more evidence of his anxiety.

Jeff doesn’t move, just watches and waits for a minute before seeking out the minibar himself. "You want vodka, scotch, rum...?" he asks, looking through the collection of bottles lined up in the small refrigerator. “What’s your poison, kid?”

"Um." Jensen rubs the back of his neck, eyes flitting around the room, focusing for a telling moment on the door. "I don't know if I should."

He's set to bolt. Jeff would lay good odds on it. And he can't say he wouldn't be disappointed; the boy's even prettier in person than he was in Danneel's photo. "I'm not trying to trick you here, Jensen. Just think a drink might help us to relax. You are old enough to drink, right?"

According to Danneel, the kid is twenty-one. He doesn't look a day over eighteen. Barely even that. Not with his slim frame. He's not gaunt, but not quite filled-out either; his muscles lean and features still big in his face, wide green eyes, model-sharp cheekbones and bee-stung lips. The scattering of freckles across his nose doesn't help either, they make him look like a boy-scout just back from wilderness camp.

"Yeah, I'm old enough." Jensen glares, chin jutting up defiantly. "I'll have a vodka." The "please," he tacks on as a guilty afterthought, like his momma might jump out of the closet and slap him upside the head if he forgets his manners. The pout doesn’t leave his sugar-pink lips.

Jeff cracks the bottle lids and pours the drinks, hides a smile. The kid might be a jittery bundle of nerves, but Jeff suspects he also has a healthy stubborn streak hiding under all the pretty. That’s good. Stubborn's a clear mile better than desperate.

Jeff holds up a glass, vodka straight, raises his eyebrow in question. The kid grabs the glass, fingers brushing Jeff's, tosses back his head and downs the drink in one go. Jeff tries not to stare at the taut line of his throat or the glisten of his lips afterwards. Sips instead from his own glass of neat scotch.

"You know we don't have to do anything here," Jeff says lightly, perching on the edge of the desk, aiming to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Not if you don't want to. Nobody's forcing you. Not Danneel, and not me. You want to walk away now, that’s fine. No hard feelings. Not saying I wouldn't be disappointed but I'll get over it."

Jensen rubs the back of his neck again, stops suddenly and shoves his hands in his pockets sheepishly. "It's not that I don't want to," he says, hesitantly. "I mean you're...well, you're...if we'd met in a bar I'd be all over you, man."

Jeff allows himself a pleased grin as Jensen's gaze roams over his body, interest sharp in his eyes. It's reassuring to know that he's Jensen's type at least. If they ever get as far as the bed, it's gonna be a hell of a lot easier to make sure the kid has a good time.

"It's just, man...I don't know what I'm doing. I mean what I'm supposed to be doing." Jensen shrugs, kicks the toe of his boot into the thick pile of the bland hotel carpet. "Holy crap, I'm fucking this up."

Jeff takes another sip from his glass then sets it down, places his hands on his thighs. Holds himself in place. It's harder than it ought to be. "You're not fucking anything up, kid. You're nervous and that's alright. We'll go at your pace."

"You're not paying to go at my pace. You're paying to fuck me." Jensen's voice is tight with frustration, aimed at himself not Jeff.

"I'm paying for your company," Jeff drawls. "And sure I'd like to see you falling apart underneath me, like to open you up real slow and fuck you boneless, but I'll settle for drinking ourselves into falling-down stupid if that's all you're up for."

Jensen's tongue flicks out, the teasing tip sweeping across his lips, and damn if Jeff's dick doesn't appreciate the sight of that. When Jensen drags his bottom lip, full and tempting, between his teeth, Jeff has to fold his hands over his groin to hide his growing hard-on.

"What - if this was normal, like with Danni - what would you do? How does this work? Normally?" The kid sounds interested, nervous - yes, but not afraid.

"It depends." Jeff takes a chance, stands up. Jensen's eyes jump to the tell-tale bulge in the front of his pants. But he doesn't bolt. Just waits. "Sometimes I spend an hour bitching about my problems and drinking before we slide into bed together. Sometimes Danni takes control, shoves me down and teases the shit out of me. Sometimes I do the same to her. Sometimes she blows me first, then I spend hours licking her pussy until she's dripping wet, and then I fuck her until she can't remember her own name. Sometimes we use toys, sometimes I spank her until she comes. Once or twice she's fucked me with her strap-on. We do whatever we want. Whatever we both want."

As he's talking, Jeff gradually, step by slow considered step, walks toward Jensen, stopping only when he's close enough to touch him. Close enough to discover that Jensen smells almost as good as he looks, shower fresh, maybe a hint of coconut shampoo, whatever it is that helps his sandy hair streak gold in the summer sun.

"If I'd picked you up at a bar, bought you a drink or three, told you how gorgeous I thought you were, let you drag me home, what would you want?" Jeff leans in, lets his question dance around the shell of Jensen's ear. "Hmm, Jensen? What would you want to do with me then?"

Jensen's breath hitches, he swallows hard, his words caught like confetti in his throat. Jeff takes a risk, dips his head and brushes his lips tentatively over Jensen's, only the lightest suggestion of a kiss. Jensen responds beautifully, lips parting and eyes fluttering shut. The taste of peppermint clinging to his tongue. Slowly Jeff's fingers find themselves cupping Jensen's smooth jaw, angling his face just right, licking into his mouth, then Jensen is melting against him, nerves slipping further away with every touch.

If Jeff was under the illusion that bedding Jensen would be akin to prying apart the legs of a vestal virgin he's very soon set straight.

Once Jensen decides to commit to something he evidently goes all out. He might look like an altar boy begging to be corrupted but underneath the shy, silent, lip-biting exterior, Jensen is a demanding little sex demon.

Somehow Jensen takes control of the kiss, fingers pushing against Jeff's chest, walking him backwards until his legs hit the side of the hotel bed. Their lips don't separate, not for a second, and Jeff finds himself on his back with Jensen straddling his hips, their dicks a burning line, rubbing together through their pants.

The only time Jensen's shyness reappears is when he finally strips naked, clothes thrown on the floor with reckless haste. Jeff stills, stares, mouth open, at the expanse of soft creamy skin on offer above him. Lithe muscle, delicate freckles, the prettiest dick nestled among a neatly trimmed thatch of dirty blonde hair. Jeff doesn't know how he got so fucking lucky. It's like the boy was created just for him.

Under Jeff's silent scrutiny, a sweet rose blush spreads down Jensen's neck, fans out across his chest. His hands flutter nervously, unsure where to settle. Jeff groans, the need to see his own skin, tanned and dark with hair, next to Jensen's pale flesh suddenly overwhelming.

Jeff flips them over, careful not to roll them off the edge of the bed. Kicks off his clothes without care or finesse. Focuses entirely on Jensen, on taking in those wide green eyes staring up at him.

Chest to chest, skin to skin, Jeff feels big and clumsy, a barbarian consuming an innocent; his body corded with thick muscles, the story of his life evident in too many faded scars, and the ugly mess of an old bullet-wound, a star-burst of white scar tissue gouged into his chest, stretching up almost as far as his shoulder.

He half expects Jensen to recoil, slink away from Jeff like a scared kitten. Instead, Jensen surges up, the palm of one hand covering the web of gnarled skin, the fingers of the other arching around the back of Jeff's neck hauling him down into a feral wreck of a kiss.

Jeff forgets he's paying Jensen. Is sure Jensen forgets too. They consume each other wholly, kisses turn into the drag of teeth, exploring fingers turn demanding. Jensen shoves Jeff onto his back, crawls between his legs with a hastily found condom and blows him, messy and overeager, almost choking, gagging when Jeff's dick hits the back of his throat, eyes watering and nose streaming. It's filthy and sloppy and fucking perfect. Jeff almost comes before he can shove Jensen off, clamping his fingers around the base of his dick until he regains his control.

In retaliation, Jeff takes Jensen apart wickedly slowly. Fingers him open with cruel patience until Jensen is writhing on the bed, legs spread wide, toes digging into the mattress, fingers clawing at the sheets, at Jeff's hair, the pillows. He's coated with sweat, so beautifully responsive to every touch, every twist of Jeff's fingers. Almost sobbing, insensate and begging by the time Jeff finally sinks in to the clenching heat of his body. Legs wrapping around Jeff's waist, spine bowing, face flushed cherry red from the tips of his ears to the soft dip of his throat.

Jeff fucks hard and fast, too wound up to drag the moment out, not with Jensen whimpering underneath him. They come together, Jeff unable to hold off when Jensen's ass clamps around him, eyes clenching shut, a soundless scream from his stretched lips. Jeff's heart is thudding so hard, pounding in his ears as his body tenses, muscles drawn tight, that he thinks he might die. He can't find it in himself to care as his hips stutter and back arches, spending his release into the condom.

The bed is ruined, sheets crumpled and stained, more pillows on the floor than hanging onto the mattress. Still Jensen and Jeff fall asleep, Jensen wrapped around Jeff like a lover. Jeff pets his hair and mumbles praise into his skin as they lose consciousness.

It should be awkward as hell in the morning. But Jeff orders room service before Jensen wakes, showers as Jensen drinks coffee, feeds him crumbling croissants and juicy segments of orange before pushing him back and blowing him in the wreckage of the bed.

Even as Jensen, dewy eyed and relaxed, is thanking him with open-mouthed kisses before Jeff leaves, Jeff knows he's screwed. If he had any sense at all, he'd leave it at that. One incredible night. Go back to Danneel, or any other willing young body. Never see the kid again.

Sense doesn't come into it. Jeff texts Danneel before his feet even hit the sidewalk outside the hotel. Jensen is fucking perfect and if he's setting up business, then Jeff is going to be his number one customer.

It takes two weeks for Danneel to text him back. Two long weeks in which Jeff does not obsess over green eyes and bow shaped lips. Does not spend days brooding alone in his office, or empty nights alone in his bed worrying about what too young, too pretty Jensen might be doing. Who Jensen might be doing.

If Jeff didn't know himself better, he'd be worried that he was going insane. Truth is, he's never been entirely sane. Not for the past fifteen years anyway.

Danneel's message when it eventually appears is short and to the point: a hotel, a room number and a time. And, of course, a fee and bank account number. Jeff calls his restaurant manager, asks him to switch his night off using a tone that doesn't give the man much option but to agree quickly, and then he pays the money without blinking. His restaurant might not turn a huge profit, but Jeff's not worried about his funds running low. He's got more money squirrelled away offshore than Amazon.

He arrives at the hotel early, walks around the block twice to kill some time before heading up to the room. He tries to act cool, but there's something about Jensen that makes Jeff feel like a horny teenager again. He's not sure that he likes it.

Jensen is adorably shy when he opens the door, freckles already hidden below a hot pink flush. "Jeff, hi." He barely meets Jeff's eye.

"Hey, Jensen. You okay?" Jeff asks, hoping that Jensen isn't having second thoughts.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," Jensen says, pushing the door back and stepping to the side. "Sorry man, come in. Look, I just wanted to say that I was sorry."

Jeff's stomach drops. He watches silently as Jensen closes the door, turns around and leans against it, arms folded across his chest. "About the last time." Jensen finally looks Jeff in the face. "I was a nutcase. I mean, I could barely speak I was so nervous, and...shit, this is really fucking awkward. Look, I know I was all over the place, and you, well you were amazing. You calmed me down and fucked me boneless, then didn't complain when I clung to you all night. You even fed me breakfast. It's just...you shouldn't have done all that. Shouldn’t have had to. So, I guess, thank you."

"Jensen, sweetheart." Jeff shakes his head, not even trying to hide a smirk. "Are you thanking me for screwing you senseless and cuddling with you all night? Seriously?"

Jensen scrubs his hand across his face, which does nothing to calm the scarlet blaze scorched across his cheeks. "I guess so."

"You know I wanted to do all that, right?" Jeff asks, closing the distance between them. "Last time was perfect. You were perfect."

"You think so?" Jensen asks, but there's a twinkle in his eyes this time, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I sure do, sweetheart," Jeff says, voice dropping to a seductive rumble, hands rising to bracket Jensen's head, caging him against the door. "Perfect."

Jensen's eyes grow dark and hungry, shimmering green consumed by black. His mouth tilts upwards in an invitation that Jeff doesn't come close to resisting.

This time is just as perfect. Jensen falls apart even more beautifully under Jeff's hands, opens up eagerly, begs just as sweetly. Arches back into every thrust, willingly gives everything Jeff asks for and more. Comes crying Jeff's name, clawing possessive scratches across the width of his back. Sleeps curled around Jeff, cheek resting above his heart, a hand splayed across the scar on the opposite side of his chest, like he can heal the years-old hurt.

This time Jensen wakes Jeff with a blow job—a drawn out, languid, tease of blow-job that builds into a breath-stealing, sweaty, leg-trembling explosion of an orgasm that puts every other blow job Jeff's ever had to shame. Including Danneel's.

Jeff arranges their next time before he leaves, and the pattern is pretty much set. At first, Jeff limits himself to one night with Jensen a week, but as the weeks pass, it’s not enough. And soon, more often than not, Jensen’s doing his best to fit Jeff into his schedule twice a week, maybe even an odd afternoon thrown in too.

Jeff never asks Jensen about his other clients. Actively avoids thinking about them, in fact. Jeff's slept with hookers before. Shit, he's spent years exclusively fucking prostitutes or casual hook-ups. He didn't care about any of them. He might have liked them, some of them at least, but he didn't give a shit about their lives or their problems. About the reasons they slept with whoever paid enough or had the most charming smile in the room. Or the fattest dick. Or the biggest gun. Jeff just got his rocks off and left. See ya around sometime, sugar—but he rarely did.

In fact, the longest sexual relationship he's had since he was twenty years old was with Danneel. And that was convenience more than anything. He's getting too old and picky to bother with finding one night stands, and Danneel was the prettiest, most spirited, and talented escort in town. Until Jensen.

Jensen, though, Jensen is different. At first, Jeff thinks it's just that he's young and inhumanly gorgeous. That he beams, white teeth and crinkles at the corner of his eyes, every time Jeff walks in the room, and touches him like he can't bear not to. That he infects Jeff with a boyish enthusiasm he hasn't felt in years. It's refreshing. And exciting. And scary as hell.

Jeff tells himself that he doesn't care about Jensen. That he's only using the boy. That their relationship is purely about bank transfers and sex. Not a single pesky emotion involved.

It takes three months and Jensen in tears for Jeff to admit, even to himself, that he's wrong.

Jeff's heart, which has long been boarded up and concreted over, splinters apart at the sight of green eyes spilling over with tears.

"What's wrong?" Jeff asks, almost scared to hear the answer in case it's something he can't fix, can't fight, can't shoot, can't fucking kill.

"Nothing. M'fine. Sorry, I'll be right out." Jensen wipes his arm across his face, soaks up tears and probably some snot on the sleeve of his Henley before he looks up into the bathroom mirror and meets Jeff's reflected worry.

"It's not nothing. Did I do something? Say something?" Jeff wracks his brains. He only walked into the hotel room ten minutes ago; if he has put his foot in his mouth, he doesn't know how.

Jensen shakes his head, sniffs, and attempts a watery smile. "It's not you." He draws in an unsteady breath, leans back down over the sink and splashes cold water on his face, drying it with a pristine white towel. "I’m sorry Jeff. I’ve had a real shitty day. I should have called and rescheduled. We still can if you want. I just thought, well honestly, I just wanted to see you. I know that's selfish, sorry."

If Jensen was anyone else, Jeff would be out of there in a second. Jesus, if Jensen was anyone else, Jeff would be pissed. Jensen is Jensen, though. And Jeff might be besotted.

"C'mere sweetheart." Jeff opens his arms, draws him in. "Tell me what happened."

Jensen hiccups against Jeff's chest. "No, it's fine. Honest. You don't want to hear about my crap."

Hands full of Jensen, Jeff leads them out of the bathroom and across to the bed, manages to get them both lying down, his arms curled around Jensen, holding him close.

"Oh god, this is so fucking stupid." Jensen sniffs. "I'm sorry Jeff. I'm never like this, I swear."

"I know you're not. Now why don't you tell me what's going on, sweetheart, you're worrying me." Jeff combs his fingers through the silky strands of Jensen's hair, tries to keep the tension he’s feeling from bleeding into his muscles or his voice. “Are you okay?”

"I'm fine. It's...it's my sister."

And that’s, well, that’s unexpected. Jensen doesn't talk about his family. But then, Jeff doesn’t ask.

"She's...shit, it's a long story, Jeff. You don't have to—"

"Spill, kid," Jeff says, tugging gently at the hair growing long enough to start to curl at Jensen's nape.

"It’s her douchebag of an ex-boyfriend," Jensen admits, and then the whole story spills out. The little sister who got knocked up by the boyfriend who promptly did a disappearing act. The bible-belt hell-and-brimstone parents that threw her out. The baby nephew that Jensen spends half his earnings supporting.

"She didn't ask me for anything." Jensen stresses more than once. "Molly's smart, seriously fucking honor-roll student smart. And she's strong y'know. Picked herself right back up after mom and dad freaked out. Never asked them for a single damn penny. She found a college that helps out single-parents, got accepted, got scholarships and childcare sorted out. But well, shit’s just expensive y'know? And I don't want the little dude to go without, or her to have to work all hours and never see her own kid. I don't mind helping out. I want to. I told her that. And everything was fine. She was happy. The little rugrat was happy. I was happy. Until that dickhead came sniffing back around."

"What exactly does he want?" Jeff asks.

Jensen makes a choked noise at the back of his throat. "He wants Jack. He's saying that she's an unfit mother. Nineteen years old, with no parental support and no job. Says that Jack will be better off with him and his parents. I mean, what the fuck, right? The bastard didn't give a shit about the baby when he knocked her up; told her if she didn't get rid of it, he'd take off. And that's exactly what he did. But now, now the asshole's parents have found out and apparently decided that they want to be full-time doting grandparents or something, I don't even fucking know."

"It'll never happen, Jensen." Jeff soothes. He knows the court system is screwed up, but there's no way a judge would take the baby away from Jensen's sister. Not under those circumstances.

"Yeah, that's what I said. But. He visited her this afternoon. Told her he knew. About me. About how I earn money to help them out. I don't know how he found out. It's not like I fucking advertise. But between her brother being a whore, and his daddy being a judge, he thinks Molly should just hand Jack over now."

Well hell, that doesn't sound quite so cut and dry.

"Oh," Jensen adds, thoroughly wound up now, pissed rather than upset. "And if she won't play ball, him and his meathead football-player buddies are gonna pay me a little visit. Mess me up enough that no-ones gonna want to look at me, never mind fuck my fag ass. That's a direct quote by the way."

Jeff had been doing a good job of remaining reasonably calm up until that point.

"It's all screwed up. Because of me. I was trying to help. Trying to do the right thing. And now she's gonna lose Jack. Because of me. I'm such a goddamn idiot." Jensen wriggles, tries to elbow his way out of Jeff's arms and sit up. Jeff doesn't loosen his grip; if anything, he hugs Jensen tighter against him.

"Hey, now. Don't talk like that. She's not going to lose her baby. And you're not an idiot."

"Jeff." Jensen's voice is trembling dangerously. "I don't know what to do."

Jeff does. He just doesn't want to explain what or why to Jensen.

"Jensen," he says, catching the kid under the chin with two fingers and tilting his face towards him. "Will you let me help?"

Jensen blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it again.

"I won't make promises." That's a blatant lie. It might be silent but Jeff's definitely promised himself that he's sorting this out. "But I think I can help."

"How?" Jensen asks. "I mean, you don't have to. Maybe you shouldn't get involved in this shitfest."

"Sweetheart, I already am involved. Look, just give me a few days. Let me talk to some people, see what I can do."

Jeff's rather pleased at how innocuous that sounded.

"You'd do that?" Jensen asks, sounding gut-wrenchingly small. Young.

"I'd be happy to do that." Jeff assures Jensen with a kiss to the tip of his nose. "Try not to worry, okay? If I can't sort it out, then we'll find someone who can."

 

Jeff needs no help sorting out a problem like Bryan Oswald. He's a bully, plain and simple. A yellow-bellied, rotten to the core, cowardly, bully. Jeff could deal with him and his idiot friends with one hand tied behind his back and a blindfold on.

It doesn't take long. Less than twenty-four hours after Jeff leaves Jensen, sleepy-eyed and pillow-haired, at the hotel, Jeff knows everything he needs to know about Jensen's sister’s - Molly's - ex-boyfriend. And his family. And friends.

Jeff breaks into the house during the night. Young Bryan Oswald still lives with his parents. No shock there. Jeff doesn't even wake their sleeping mutts, yappy little terriers called Doris and Rock—Jeff despairs sometimes, really—as he stalks through the sprawling white-picket fence house.

The bedroom's vibrating with the sound of the blackmailing scumbag's snores when Jeff creeps through the door, turns the key in the lock, and shoves a chair under the door-knob for a little added security.

By the time he wakes Bryan up, the guy's mouth is taped shut, his meaty hands are cuffed to the bed, and his legs are spread-eagled and tied to the footboard. Jeff's also arranged his knives along the side of the bed. A gleaming and lethal display.

It's over before Jeff's barely had a chance to start. He's almost disappointed at how quickly the moron caves. A few growled threats, the sight of a knife tracing a scratch-sharp line across his jugular, trailing down his chest, circling his pounding heart, the feel of a blade, steel-cold and razor thin, pressing into the base of his dick, and the kid literally wets himself.

The ammonia stench of piss fills the air and Jeff grins in satisfaction...and relief that he managed to get his hand out of the way in time. His teeth and glinting eyes are the only things poor old Bryan can see through the black mask. Jeff grins harder. Slips the knife down the inside of the shaking man's thighs, slides it up to the underside of his wrinkled-up balls, angles just right, presses a little, just enough to draw a fat bead of blood. Bryan bucks and squeals like a stuck pig behind the tape-gag, tears dribbling down his ruddy cheeks. Jeff laughs, low and crazy. Plays the part of deranged sociopath to perfection.

He's had plenty of practice.

Jeff’s life ambition was never to become a psychopath for hire. An anonymous assassin with a deadly reputation. An expert in the art of persuasion. Jeffrey Dean Morgan actually wanted to be a chef. Was in his second year of training at culinary school. He possessed the best knife skills his teachers had ever seen, had a delicate touch with pastry and a way with chocolate that was almost magical.

He was destined for great things. Everyone said so. He'd not had the easiest of childhoods, but from a rough start he'd hauled himself up and at twenty years old, with the woman he loved by his side, talent that couldn't be taught, and a charm that smoothed jealous edges with ease, JD Morgan was a young man who had it all.

Until the night his world exploded in a blood-red storm of bullets. He and his girlfriend innocent bystanders caught in a deafening hail of gunfire. One poorly planned hit on a mafia consigliere and JD's life crumbled to ashes around him. The taste of copper and gunpowder and tears coating his teeth, crawling up his nose, down his throat. Bangs echoing in his ears like fireworks on the Fourth of July. A gurgled last breath, a scarlet-slicked palm falling from his cheek as blue eyes turned to lifeless grey and JD Morgan died right along with the only woman he was ever destined to love.

Now, other people may have suffered similar world-shattering experiences and somehow managed to claw their lives back together, move-on, heal. Jeff would agree that's certainly the healthier way to react. But Jeff, well, there was a dark, snarling, twisted, animal trapped inside of Jeff, and that animal wanted revenge. And with his mastery of knives, along with patience, single-minded determination, and grief-stricken bloodlust, he took it.

He hunted with caution, learning as he went. Stalking, slicing and carving. Leaving behind bodies that would never be viewed in an open casket. When he was done, seven men were dead. All of them hurtling towards the fires of Hell for their sins.

And JD Morgan had gained a reputation. Even if no-one knew exactly who he was, where he'd come from. He never worked for any of the families. Turned down generous offers and dealt with threats with brutal efficiency. He wanted nothing to do with the mafia, any of them. He may have slaughtered half of one family, but that didn't mean he thought favorably of any of the others. They soon learnt he was better left alone.

He freelanced. Took jobs that he wanted. That paid enough. That he could justify. The people he killed were evil. Or criminals. Not one of them didn't deserve to die. He didn't kill innocents. No collateral damage. He killed with precision. Like a shadow, slipping in through the cracks under the door, disappearing in the depth of the night. If you wanted information extracted or threats sent or messages delivered—Jeff was your man. He was a specialist. An expensive one.

And then he stopped.

Jeff woke up one day, looked at what he'd become and decided he'd done enough. After almost twelve years venting his rage and carving a bloody path through his grief, he was through. So he disappeared. Slipped away in the dark one last time.

He started fresh, in a new state, a new city. A new incarnation.

He wasn't a qualified chef, but he had enough pocket change to buy a small restaurant and the sense to hire the people that would make it a success.

But as the unfortunate Bryan Oswald discovers, Jeffrey Dean is still not a man to mess with.

 

Jeff's not sure of the exact chain of events. How Oswald scrambles out of the predicament he'd caught himself in, but the next time Jeff sees Jensen, the kid climbs him like he's a tree, wraps his legs around Jeff's hips and kisses him breathless.

"I don't know what you did, but thank you." Jensen gasps when he draws back for breath. "Thank you. Thank you."

Jeff walks, with only a little difficulty, to the huge bed in the center of the room. Jensen still clinging to him, tugging at the collar of his shirt, licking at his neck, nosing against his stubble, whispering in his ear.

"What do you want, Jeff? Anything, I'll do anything for you. God, please, tell me. Tell me what you want."

Jeff lays him down among the piles of velvet pillows, holds his head steady and kisses him quiet. "You don't have to do anything," he says when Jensen calms. "I didn't do it for that. You don't owe me anything."

"I owe you everything," Jensen contradicts, eyes solemn. "Everything. You, Jeff, you have no idea. You didn't have to...I mean no-one’s ever done anything for me like that. No-one’s ever...I...Jeff...I..."

Jeff presses his lips to Jensen's again, not sure he's ready to hear what Jensen wants to say. His heart is leaping in his chest, almost jumping into his throat. He's anxious in a way he hasn't been since he was twenty years old.

"I want you," Jeff manages to say around the panic fluttering in his throat. "All I want is you."

Jensen stares up into Jeff's eyes for a long moment. The room around them, bathed in the luxurious golden glow of late afternoon, holds its breath. Time stands still, uncertain and expectant. The bedside clock flickers anxiously.

Jeff feels as though the kid is delving into his mind, those intense green eyes peering right into the twisted depth of his soul, looking for something Jeff doesn't think exists any longer.

But then, Jensen smiles. The room takes a breath, expands around them, snaps elastic sharp back again, the clock flashes in relief and the noise of a door slamming nearby chases the last embers of the spell into the ether.

Whatever Jensen was looking for, he found. "You have me. Whenever, however you want. You just have to ask and I'll be here, waiting for you."

Jeff flounders. He has no words, no easy reply. No idea what Jensen is offering. How much he is willing to give away.

He doesn't try to understand. To seek answers he's afraid of. Instead he makes love to Jensen right there. Dispels the unasked questions, the silent conversations, with sex so intense it knocks them both out until the next morning.

Things change after that. Just a little. Jeff still transfers money into Jensen's bank account. Jensen still accepts it. But somehow it's different. And better. And terrifying.

Jeff won't admit it, not aloud, not yet, but he thinks maybe, maybe he's...well, maybe he isn't as broken as he thought he was.

It's strange what a difference Jensen makes to the rest of Jeff's life. Without even touching it. The ugliness that clung to his soul like viscous black tar, that tarnished everything he touched, that kept him separated from the world, it doesn’t disappear overnight but it does start to fade. To weaken. To dissolve away until Jeff forgets it’s there.

Somehow Jeff finds himself smiling more often, for real. Even laughing. The charming act he adopts at the restaurant becomes less of an act. He relaxes. Irritations become less noticeable. Easier to ignore. When he prowls around the restaurant kitchen, the chefs stop panicking, and the servers stop shaking. The number of shattered dishes and sliced fingers drops dramatically. Jeff didn't realize what a monster his employees thought he was, until he started acting more human.

When his staff find him at the crack of dawn one morning singing under his breath, shirt sleeves folded up, and elbow deep in flour and butter, any lingering fear seems to dissipate completely. And, once they taste his dark chocolate and pear pie, that fear is replaced with murmurs of appreciation and respect. Jeff finds he likes it. He likes it even more when it's Jensen humming wantonly around a mouthful of Jeff's chocolate creations. The indulgent moans that fall from his lips when he tastes Jeff's white chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting are downright pornographic.

One day, Jeff wakes up and discovers that he's happy. Content. It's something of a revelation. The only downside to his newfound happiness is how much it relies on a kid who sleeps with other men for a living. Something that Jeff starts to dislike. He offers once, maybe twice—okay, fine, every other week—to pay Jensen enough so he doesn't have to sleep with other guys. It's not what Jeff wants to offer, not really; he wants to offer Jensen, a home, a life, his heart. But money is easy...and less dangerous.

Jensen says no. Laughs sometimes, a little sadly, but never changes his mind. I need my independence, he says. I want to earn my own money. Warm kisses banish any arguments, silence any persuasions or sulks. Jeff perseveres. Brings baked goods and a new offer every week. Jensen accepts all things chocolate related and says no to everything else. It's not perfect, but Jeff's learned that perfect never lasts. So maybe it's for the best.

 

Of course, just when it's all going good, everything changes. Jeff can't figure out why at first. Only knows that the world has tilted on its axis yet again. Jensen is still wonderful. Adoring and perfect. Cheeky and irreverent. More beautiful every day.

But there's something...something Jeff can't pin down. Until the day Jensen shows up with a hickey sucked into a pale stretch of skin over his hip and Jeff hears the name Jared for the first time, accompanied by a rosy blush.

Jensen sees other clients, despite Jeff's best efforts. But none of them leave possessive marks. Certainly none of them make Jensen's cheeks heat at the mention of their names.

"You like him." Jeff shoves his hands in his pockets, hides from sight his fingers curling into jealous fists, tries to keep his voice even.

"I like you," Jensen says, and he's not lying. "But yeah, Jared’s sweet. He...he reminds me a lot of you actually."

Jeff's not sure what to make of that, so he does the only thing he can; strips Jensen down and makes sure the boy can't even remember his own name, never mind Jared's.

And maybe he's rougher than normal. Maybe he nips when he would usually soothe, maybe he digs his thumbs a little deeper into pliant flesh. Maybe when Jensen's perched on hands and knees, spine curved in a deep arch, ass pushed high in the air, need juddering through his bones, maybe Jeff spanks his ass harder than he'd have dared before. Maybe he doesn't stop after half-a-dozen swats like he usually would. Maybe he keeps on going until Jensen's butt is on fire, skin burnished red and hot to touch, bruises blossoming beneath blazing handprints. Maybe he spends less time, less patience opening up his tight little hole, fucks in harder, tangles his fingers in Jensen's hair tighter, pulls his head back until his body bows, muscles straining. Maybe he doesn't let Jensen come until the boy begs prettily, words desperate and gasped and unintelligible. But he's not sorry. Not remotely.

Not even when Jensen glares at him half-heartedly the next morning, cursing as he twists around to look at the lingering bruises on his ass. They'll fade within a day or two, but the sight of them sends a sweet pulse of satisfaction through Jeff's veins.

"Are you happy now?" Jensen asks, eyebrow arched, half amusement, half righteous indignation.

Jeff lays back on the bed, arms folded behind his head and ankles crossed. Doesn't answer, just grins and winks.

"You're an asshole. A jealous asshole," Jensen grumbles.

Jeff would feel guilty if Jensen's dick wasn't growing hard between his legs as his fingers press into the darkest of the bruises.

"Why don't you come here, sweetheart," he suggests, voice dark with intent. "And I'll make it up to you. Kiss it all better."

Later, when he’s bundled up in Jeff’s arms, sweat soaked and content, absent-mindedly tracing the outline of the scar on Jeff's chest, Jensen says quietly, "You don't have to be jealous, y'know. You’re…you’re special, Jeff, to me."

And Jeff should be happy with that. Is actually more than happy with that. But he can't completely bury the jealousy. He does his best to hide it. He's shared Jensen with other men from the start, this shouldn't be any different. It's not like he's made Jensen any promises. Or hinted at how he feels. Not out loud with actual words anyway.

To Jeff's relief, nothing really changes. Jensen asks him once or twice to flip their nights around, doesn't say it has anything to do with Jared but Jeff suspects it.

It's not until the Weatherly incident that Jeff finds anything out about the guy. He hasn't gone digging before then. It had been tempting, but sneaking around behind Jensen's back doesn't sit right. Not when the kid is obviously happy.

But then, yeah, Weatherly. After that disastrous fuck-up, Jeff turns hunter. He was too late with Weatherly. Too late finding out to do anything about it. Something that Weatherly should be grateful for; Jeff wouldn't have destroyed his life, he would have ripped him apart. Piece by small bloody piece.

Jeff isn't willing to take that risk again. He watches Jensen like a hawk for weeks. Quietly checks out all of his clients. There's less than a dozen in all. Unsurprisingly, they're all loaded. And Jensen appears to have them all wrapped around his little finger. That's not surprising either. They're not all squeaky clean. But then again, how many politicians and lawyers or businessmen are. Not many of the rich ones for sure. None of them strike Jeff as being dangerous though. Not violent. Not towards Jensen.

Olsen looks as though he could kill a man with one of his meaty paws, but by all accounts is as harmless as a teddy bear. And Collins, who's richer than the queen of England, is definitely not playing with a full deck, but he's harmlessly eccentric rather than an evil megalomaniac.

The infamous Jared is mysterious and elusive. Jeff, loitering in the shadows, trails him one morning as he leaves the hotel after a night spent with Jensen. Or, to be specific, Jeff trails Jared as Jared trails a clueless Jensen back to his apartment. It's all rather farcical.

Afterwards, Jared meanders a round-about route through the city, back-tracking on himself twice before he disappears through the side door of a non-descript office building. He doesn't come back out. Not that Jeff sees. Jeff considers following but has a feeling in his gut, and a prickling sensation at the back of his neck that the building isn't as innocent or unprotected as it looks. And Jeff has long since learnt not to ignore his gut instinct.

A few days later, Jeff gets an unexpected and close-up look at Jared. The kid appears in his restaurant. All six and a half jolly-green-giant feet of him. Jeff can't believe his eyes when he spies him sitting there, back to the wall, sparkling water in his glass, ripping into a T-bone steak with enthusiasm.

It's not a coincidence. Not that Jeff believes in them. Jared's checking out Jensen's clients too. It's hard not to laugh at the irony of the situation.

Jeff recalls something Jensen once said: about Jared reminding him of Jeff. Well yeah, Jeff suspects that's because they are very much alike. Maybe not in all aspects, maybe not on the same side of the law, but at heart, where it counts, they are cut from the same cloth.

It might be risky or just plain stupid, but Jeff can't resist the opportunity to grab a closer look. He waits until the kid has finished his entree, almost on the verge of licking clean his plate, then brings him dessert. One of his own recipes. Sinfully sweet and irresistible.

Jared's obviously younger than Jeff by at least half a dozen years, older than Jensen by around the same. And hell, he's a good looking guy. Long legs sprawled in front of him, strong calloused hands, and muscles hiding under his shirt that aren't just for show. Jeff can't make out the color of his eyes in the dim lighting at the rear of the restaurant, but the sharp intelligence sparkling in them is unmissable. Kid could use a haircut though.

Jeff lays the charm on thick and Jared soaks it up. Retaliates with a drawl that's dirty denim and dusty boot-rugged, calls Jeff 'Sir' with just a hint of sly teasing. Meets Jeff's dimpled grin with one of his own, twice as bright. Jeff can see why Jensen likes him.

He's not sure if Jared knows that Jeff knows who he is. It's a complicated game. And the kid is hard to read, outwardly laid back, playing at easy-going, a friendly poker face that barely hides wickedly sharp intelligence. Jeff keeps the conversation light, plays the convivial host. Shakes hands when Jared leaves without turning it into a contest. Watches him pay cash, leave a generous tip and saunter out of the restaurant. Tries not to notice the way his pants cling to his thighs, and hug his tight ass.

Strangely, afterwards, when Jeff thinks it over, he feels a little better, calmer. Jared might be a bit of an enigma, and Lord knows Jeff doesn't want to dwell on the thought of him fucking Jensen—although, those boys together would be a pretty sight now that Jeff does think about it—but the kid is not a threat. Not towards Jensen at least. What he is, is another hard line of defense.

Where the fuck that line of defense is when Jensen is abducted is a goddamn mystery. But then it's not like Jeff is there either. He doesn't know anything about it until he receives a text. Number withheld.

 

***

 

"Jesus fucking Christ kid, I almost sliced your damn throat."

Jeff leans back on his heels, exhales in a rush, lifts the pressure of the knife away from Jared's throat.

"Jeffrey fucking Dean." The kid hisses, glares venomously through darkness, his hand jumping up to his throat. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Jeff forgives the kid his surly attitude, on account of nearly killing him. "The same things as you, I imagine." He says, standing up and holding his hand out to help Jared to his feet.

With a glare, Jared knocks his hand out of the way, snatches his gun up from where it skittered down the steps and clambers to his feet unaided, rubbing at the back of his head with the hand that isn't holding a gun.

"Looks like you took quite a knock there, kiddo. Why don't you head home and let me deal with this." Jeff glances back over his shoulder and up the stairway, anxious to get moving.

"Why don't you fuck off, old man?" Jared snaps back. "And let someone who knows what the hell they're doing deal with this."

Jeff raises his eyebrow, not that Jared can probably see; kid’s night vision is pathetic. "Old man? Well this old man nearly decapitated you, boy, so maybe you should watch your tone."

Jared mutters something guttural under his breath that Jeff can't quite decipher.

Choosing to ignore it, he says impatiently, "Look kid, I appreciate that you want to help Jensen, but I promise the best way to do that is to stay out of the way and let me deal with this."

"I don't think so," Jared says, pushing past Jeff to head up the stairs. "What the fuck are you going to do? Take on half a dozen guys with one knife?"

Jeff quickens his step to catch up with Jared. It's not that he's slow, it's just that the kid's insanely long legs eat up the stairs. "I've taken on worse odds. What are you gonna do, cowboy? Blow them away in a hail of bullets. You don't think that might tip off the big bad boss-man that you're here? Jensen'll be dead before you reach him."

They stop on the third floor landing and glare at each other. "I've got a silencer." Jared directs the gun towards Jeff pointedly.

"Is it a magic one?" Jeff asks. "Cause all that'll do is make sure you don't deafen anyone in your little firefight. It won't render you invisible."

Jared snarls, bounces on his heels, but thankfully lowers the gun towards the ground. "I know twenty-three ways to kill a man without a gun."

"Good for you, bucko," Jeff says, shuffling around to stand with his shoulders against the wall beside the door, hand poised on the handle. "Did you earn a boy-scout badge for each one?" he asks, before turning the handle, opening the door a fraction, and peering through the gap. There's one guy standing in the hallway, leaning against the door of the apartment Jensen is in, cigarette half-smoked dangling limp from the corner of his mouth, paying more attention to his cellphone that his surroundings. A tell-tale pistol-shaped bulge in his pants.

"One guy," he tells Jared, voice dropped to a murmur. "Armed but stupid."

Jared nods silently, pushes the door open slowly, slinks by before Jeff can stop him. Stalks along the hallway, crouched low and close to the wall. Takes down the guy before he even notices he's not alone. Without a shot being fired or a noise made. Jared turns to look back at Jeff with 'I told you so' written all over his face.

Jeff rolls his eyes and joins him, gently closing the stairwell door behind him. "Did you forget all twenty-three ways, junior?" he whispers, watching as Jared disarms the unconscious man before rolling him out of the way. "Or could you not get it up? Performance anxiety?"

"I don't need to kill every asshole I meet," Jared hisses. "Even if I sometimes want to." And the gun's back aiming in Jeff's direction.

Jeff, unconcerned, pushes the barrel away from his nose with a finger. "Well, aren't you adorable. Why don't you wait here and read sleeping beauty a bedtime story while I deal with the big boys."

"You got a strategy, grandad, or are you just gonna ask them to come out here and form an orderly line?" Jared asks, immediately executing his own plan of kicking down the door. Jeff had thought of doing the same, but with one slightly dodgy knee, he had been considering a slightly less jarring entry strategy.

Jeff follows right on Jared's heels into the apartment, steps smoothly past him and slices open two jugulars, before Jared gets off a shot. Jeff knocks the gun out of another goon's hand, thrusts his blade into the guy's chest, twists, and moves on without breaking step. The air bristles with movement close behind him, but before Jeff can look around, a muted gunshot and thud drops the threat. He reaches the bedroom door just before Jared, about thirty seconds after they bust into the apartment.

"What's wrong with you old man, you out of breath?" Jared asks, stepping up beside him when Jeff stops dead, seconds after rushing through the door.

Jensen, stripped down to just a ripped and blood-stained t-shirt and boxers, stares at them from across the room. Fresh blood drips from his lips, runs in an ugly line down his chin, and one cheek is swollen, all those sweet caramel freckles buried underneath a mottled mess of black and blue.

A guy, ugly tattoo twisting around his neck and dick hanging out of his pants, has his forearm locked around Jensen's throat. He stares at them, eyes squinting, teeth bared, rams his gun firmly in between Jensen's ribs.

"Nah, just waiting for you to catch up, boyscout," Jeff says, casually wiping the blade of his knife across the thigh of his trousers.

"I'll kill him if you come any closer," the guy snarls.

"Shit, dude, I think I got guts on my boots. Man, that’s just gross," Jared says, flicking a glance down at his feet as he steps farther into the room. "You couldn't have made less of a mess on the way in?"

"I was trying to avoid your bullets, cowboy. And you're paying for my dry cleaning by the way. Do you know how hard it is to get brain splatter out of merino wool?" Jeff tosses back, keeping his eyes trained on the Beretta pressing into Jensen's side.

"Are you two deaf or just really fucking stupid?” The guy holding Jensen looks between the two of them, eyes wild and gun hand twitching.

"Who the fuck wears dry-clean only clothes to a bloodbath?" Jared huffs, rolls his shoulder and aims his gun with a rock-steady hand.

"Well if we're critiquing outfits, sweetheart, I’ve got to say that beanie looks ridiculous. But then I guess you do need something to hide your flowing locks.”

"What the ever-loving—" Tattooed guy splutters, his face starting to turn tomato red, the arm around Jensen's throat jerking back roughly. Jensen stumbles, lets out a strangled grunt. "Stay back you dumb-ass motherfuckers, I'm not joking. I'm gonna blast a hole in his motherfucking guts."

"You jealous of my hair, grandad?" Jared grins, sharp, and not at Jeff. "Worried that maybe you're starting to go a little thin on top?"

"Nah, I've got a thick head of hair, junior. It goes with my manly beard." Jeff edges forward, arms relaxed at his side, fingers curled securely around the handle of his knife. "I guess you're not old enough to worry about shaving yet, are you boy? You even got your first pube? You got the shot?"

"Well that depends on whether I'm aiming for his limp dick or his brains." Jared smirks.

Like an idiot, at the mention of his dick, the guy twitches, looks down, just for a millisecond, his fingers relaxing on the trigger of his gun, a reflex action that gives Jared the only chance he needs.

One bullet, straight through the asshole's forehead. It's over almost too quick. A long dragged-out painful death would have been better. Much more satisfying. But at least it’s over.

And Jensen is alive.

And about to fall over.

Jeff darts forward, catches him before he hits the floor, loops his arm around Jensen’s back, takes his weight before his knees collapse.

"You alright, sweetheart?" Jeff asks as Jared quickly steps around the other side of Jensen to help.

Jensen shakes his head. Jeff can feel the tremors running through his body.

"Come on," Jared says. "Let's get out of here."

"Hold on just a second. Jensen?" Jeff looks around the room, a sense of urgency growing with the need to get the hell out of there. "Do they have your cell, your wallet? Anything that can ID you?"

Jensen shakes his head, eyes glazed.

"Are you sure, kiddo? This is important." Jeff cups Jensen's jaw, tries to persuade his eyes to focus.

Jensen blinks, slow, heavy lidded. Licks his lips, winces.

"Jensen?" Jeff pushes.

"No," It's soft, hesitant but sure. "No. They had my cellphone, but...but smashed it up after...after..."

"No wallet?" Jeff pushes when Jensen trails off. "No ID?"

Jensen shakes his head again, drooping in front of Jeff's eyes. He needs out of this apartment.

Between them they usher Jensen out of the bedroom, past the carnage in the other room, the blood-spattered walls, the bodies littering the floor, and out of the apartment. Jared stops to drag the still unconscious look-out back into the apartment before doing his best to wedge the door shut. There's no point in advertising what just went down. The cops will doubtless find out sooner or later.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" Jared asks Jensen as they almost trip over each other, squeezing side by side out of the door of the apartment building.

Jensen silently shakes his head again. Jeff shares a worried look with Jared over the top of his head. Regrets not stopping to find the rest of the kid's clothes, or at least his shoes.

"Where do you want to go, sweetheart?" Jeff asks, steering them all in the direction of the Audi he parked just down the street and around the corner. "You want to go home or maybe back to mine?"

Jensen’s apartment should be safe. Jeff checked it out after he received the warning text and, other than a coffee-stained mug in the sink, presumably Jensen’s, the place was spotless. The fact that Jensen was snatched from the street and not his apartment is also slightly reassuring. Jeff sure doesn’t plan on leaving Jensen alone and defenseless in his apartment until he figures out for sure what the hell Jensen’s caught up in. But he also doesn’t want Jensen to feel like he’s being dragged from one kidnapping straight into another. Albeit with friendlier kidnappers.

Jeff stops beside the car, fumbles in his pocket for the key fob, and presses the button to open the doors. But before he can slide Jensen in the passenger seat, Jensen shoves him backwards. Jared, too.

Trembling and chest heaving, Jensen leans his weight against the side of the car, wraps his arms around his torso, and scowls. "What the fuck was that?"

Jeff and Jared stare at him with equally bemused expressions.

"That was us rescuing you," Jared says, reaching out to wipe a smear of blood from Jensen's face.

Jensen slaps his hand away with surprisingly quick reactions, his eyes storm-green now rather than glassy. Which Jeff supposes is an improvement.

"Yeah, I get that. Thanks!" The thanks is said with less gratitude and more bite than Jeff would have expected. "I mean what the fuck was that? Who does that? Who knows how to do that? Who are you?"

"I'm just a—"

"I swear to god Jeff, if you say chef right now I will cut off your balls with your own fucking knife," Jensen says, his voice climbing sharply in pitch and volume.

"I can't discuss—" Jared starts to say.

Jensen cuts him off with a look that could shame the devil. "The same goes for you if the word classified comes out of your mouth. Tell. Me."

"Come on, sweetheart, we can talk about it later when you're not exhausted and freezing to death." Jeff cajoles, glancing down at skin pebbled on Jensen's bare legs and feet, at the way he's shaking, the unyielding support of the car the only thing keeping him from tumbling to the ground.

"No." Jensen's teeth literally start to chatter. "I want t-t-to know what the fuck is g-going on. Talk. Now."

Jeff doesn't want to. But they need to get out of there. And short of bundling Jensen up and throwing him bodily in to the car against his will, there's not much else they can do.

"Jeff's a hitman." Jared, with a complete lack of scruples, throws Jeff straight under the bus. Dick.

"The hell I am," Jeff's quick to protest, trying to glare at Jared while keeping one eye on Jensen.

"What would you call it then, Jeffrey Dean Morgan?" Jared asks. "A problem solver? An enforcer?"

"Retired," Jeff snaps, taken aback at the mention of his name. His real name. "I'm a retired...uh...I'm retired. Mr. Padalecki here is a secret agent." Jeff tosses straight back. Two can play that game. "For a very secret, very black-ops government agency."

"Hey!" Jared has the gall to look offended when Jeff retaliates. "That's not...I'm not…how the hell do you know that?"

Jeff shrugs. "The same way you know about me maybe?"

"So," Jensen interrupts their bickering. "What? You, you both lie and k-kill people for a living."

"No!" Both men protest at the same time.

"I own a restaurant, Jensen," Jeff says, desperation bleeding into his voice. "I swear that's it. That's all I do. When I was younger, I...yeah...I did some things I'm not proud of. But now the restaurant is it. It's all I do."

"And I'm, I guess I'm a spy," Jared admits. "But it's not like you think. I don't just go around shooting people. I'm not James Bond. It's mostly paperwork honestly."

"Fuck." Jensen scrubs his arm across his face, smearing more blood—not all of it his—across his cheek. The kid's as pale as a ghost underneath, a gust of wind away from hitting the deck. Jeff tenses, poised to jump forward and catch him. At his side, he can feel Jared do the same.

"Fuck," Jensen repeats.

Jeff can understand his consternation. They may be telling the truth, more or less, but that doesn't change the fact that Jared and Jeff just killed a roomful of men without a second’s hesitation. Barely breaking sweat. That’s not exactly normal.

"Jensen," Jared says. "Look, I know this must be a lot to take in, but—"

"A lot to take in!" Jensen parrots back, eyes snap up, blazing. "A lot to take in! I was kidnapped by a gang of crazy morons, b-beaten up, asked a fuckton of stupid questions that I didn't know the answers to, nearly fucking raped, then...then the two men I love turn up acting like they're inside a goddamn action movie, making stupid fucking quips and k-killing everything that moves. And you, you think it might be a lot to take in?"

Jeff stares at Jensen. Turns to look at Jared. Both of them turn back, stare at Jensen.

"What!" Jensen snaps.

"The men you love?" Jeff asks.

"Both of us?" Jared adds.

"Fuck it all." Jensen huffs.

 

 

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Jensen

 

Making it home without throwing up, passing out or having a melt-down of spectacular proportions feels like a major achievement to Jensen. He also resists the temptation to punch Jeff and Jared in their annoying faces; that's probably a good thing too.

They drive back in Jeff's Audi. All three of them. Neither man willing to let Jensen or each other out of their sight. Jensen, perfectly aware that he’s acting like an ungrateful prissy bitch, demands to go home. His own home. And despite numerous vigorous objections, that's where Jeff ends up taking him. Although Jensen, because he’s being an ungrateful prissy bitch, has a tiny problem with that too.

"How do you know where I live?" Jensen asks sharply as they pull up just outside his apartment building. Jeff hadn't asked for one single direction.

"I..ah," It’s almost funny how stricken Jeff suddenly looks. "I followed you home one day. I was worried after-- anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"You followed me home? That's…that’s..." Jensen stutters.

"Jared did too." Jeff throws at him, sounding for anything like a huffy six year old. If Jensen wasn't so exhausted or pissed, he'd remind Jeff that it isn't nice to tell tales.

"Hey," Jared complains from behind him. "I never...how do you even know that?"

Jensen sighs, wonders what the chances are he'll be able to just grab a shower and go to bed. He's tired, goddamn it. And disgusting. And sore. And embarrassed. And possibly suffering from shock.

No-one moves in the stationary car until Jensen works up the energy to unfasten his seat belt and open the door, then there's a flurry of activity and two sets of hands trying to help him.

Sheer bloody-minded stubbornness makes Jensen slap them both away. And he can feel the disgruntled pouts as Jared and Jeff trail him to the door of his apartment building. Which is of course where he discovers he doesn't have his keys. Because - kidnap victim. He doesn't even have his damn pants. And it's cold and damp and his toes and fingers have gone numb again. Frankly, he's had just about all he can take.

Jensen presses the buzzer for apartment number six. That's Steve. He's pretty cool, when he's not wasted. Well, he's cool when he's wasted too, mellow to the point of horizontal and he's always generous with his weed. He's just not what you'd call reliable. Stoned or sober, though, he's likely to be at home. Sure enough he buzzes Jensen into the building, probably thinks he's buzzing in the pizza guy if he is high. Whatever, at least it's a little less frigid inside.

It's just as well Jensen only lives one floor up otherwise he really doesn't think he'd make it. As it is, it’s only pig-headedness that spurs him on. And Jared and Jeff hovering like a couple of new mothers behind him. When Jensen reaches his door he stops and looks at it for a moment hoping it's somehow going to magically open. Then he reluctantly turns around to Jared and Jeff and gestures towards it. "No pants," he says, succinctly. "No keys. I presume one of you has the skills to-" Jensen mimes unlocking the door, lifting his eyebrow in question.

There's some coughing and awkward shuffling. Jeff looks as though he’s about to root something out of one of his many jacket pockets, but it’s Jared who steps forward first. "I've got a key," he admits rather shame-facedly.

"Why- How? You know what, never mind. I don't want to know." Jensen doesn't have enough energy left in him to yell, just stands back and lets Jared open the door. Then he leans against the wall, crosses his arms over his chest and waits like an obedient puppy until his two self-appointed bodyguards finally agree his apartment is safe enough for him to enter. Paranoid assholes. Jensen shoves past them with a grunt and heads straight towards his bathroom.

"Jensen, do you want—" The bathroom door slamming shut effectively cuts off the question.

Jensen's pretty sure that Jared and Jeff can find their own way around his little apartment. Hell, who's he kidding, they probably have it mapped out to the last air vent and bugs planted in the lightbulbs.

Jensen avoids looking in the bathroom mirror. Knows he won't see anything pretty. His face feels like he ran into a brick wall. He eases off his t-shirt, gingerly peeling the cotton away from where it's glued to dried blood. He throws it in the direction of his wastebasket along with his boxers—that amount of blood and sweat won’t be coming out in the wash—and switches on his shower, waiting until steam starts to fill the room before stepping underneath the spray of water.

Everything hurts. His fingers and toes burn as the blood rushes back to them. The cut on his lips stings like hell. His bruises, too many to count, throb under the pressure of the water. Every damn inch of him aches. Jensen gingerly rests his forehead against the tiles, closes his eyes, wonders how the hell he ended up in this mess.

 

***

 

"There is one way you could earn decent cash, sweetie."

Jensen lifts his head up from the table, peers forlornly at Danneel. "I'm not selling a kidney."

Danneel rolls her eyes and kicks him in the shin with the pointed toe of her boot. Laughs when Jensen's knee jerks up in response and thumps against the underside of the table. "Stop being such a drama queen."

Jensen scowls and drops his forehead back down onto his folded arms. He's allowed to be a drama queen. His life sucks.

He's just turned twenty-one years old, his life is going nowhere and he’s broke. This was not the plan. He was supposed to be in college. He was supposed to be trying to fit a little studying in between all the wild parties. Instead his mom and dad cut him off after a year, donated the remains of his college fund to their wacko church to make up for producing a deviant son, and told him not to come home.

Not that Jensen ever planned on going home, but he'd hoped to make it through college before breaking the gay thing to his parents. He hadn't counted on them being such ardent Facebook stalkers, or getting tagged in a photo dressed in panties, high heels, and not much else. Oh yeah, while snogging Superman, whose tights really didn't hide as much as they should have. Boy, that was a good night.

Anyway, it shouldn't have been the end of the world. All he had to do was score some kind of scholarship, find a job and work his way through school. Except it hadn't quite worked out like that. No scholarship, a crappy job and so long school, hello poverty.

Right now he can barely afford the rent on his shit-hole of a room. And if it wasn't for Danneel, he'd be living on water and ramen. She is an angel. A red headed, kickass guardian angel.

Danneel adopted Jensen about five minutes after he stepped off the bus from Texas. She’d been head of the campus LGBT group, as well as a member of the gun-club, the athletics team, the debate club and a bizarre mixture of varied political groups. The girl was a whirlwind. Still is. After he’d dropped out of college, she'd been the one to find him a place to live, which although a shit-hole is cheap and has three solid locks. And she'd helped him find a job, even if it was only stocking shelves. And now she buys him coffee, sandwiches and cookies and tries to stop him moping.

"Seriously, Jen, you can't go on like this."

"I know," Jensen mumbles into his arms. "Do you actually think they'd buy my kidney? You only need one anyway, right? What about a lung? A bit of a lung?"

"You're not selling any organs, Jensen." Danneel swipes at the top of his head. Jensen cranes his neck up and glares.

"I have to do something. I need to help Molly."

"I've met Molly," Danneel says dryly. "She can look after herself. Probably better than you."

"It's not just herself she has to look after now though, is it?" Jensen says pointedly, picturing the significant bump Molly was sporting last week when she visited.

"I know, babe." Danneel sighs, ruffles his hair like he's a kid. "But you can’t even support yourself right now."

"So, tell me your grand money-making plan then," Jensen says. "If it's not selling body parts what is it?"

Danneel twists a strand of long hair around her finger, looks around nervously. Jensen has never seen her look nervous. He sits up a little straighter, curious.

"You could do what I’ve been doing. Just to help pay my way through college and grad school. I never mentioned it before because...well, you can be a little judgmental. Oh, don't look at me like that; when I got arrested at that rally you almost had an aneurysm."

"You punched a cop."

"He groped my boob!”

"And then you broke his nose! I still don’t know how you got away with that.” Jensen shakes his head but can’t hide a small smile. Danneel is such a badass.

“Because he deserved it.” Danneel tosses her hair over her shoulder with a haughty flourish. “And I might have a couple of connections, which kind of leads to my point. This job-" she hesitates again and Jensen lifts an eyebrow in question. As far as he knows, Danneel has a trust-fund and a rich, if invisible boyfriend, or maybe girlfriend. She's not exactly chatty about her love life.

"I'm an escort," Danneel says with her normal candor. She isn't a girl who believes in sugar coating shit. "I sleep with guys for money. And women too. Regular clients. High class. And all on my terms." Jensen's jaw drops so far and fast his chin almost hits the table. She can't be serious. That’s just wrong. And illegal. And creepy. And illegal. And not an option. Jensen could never—

"And I make over six grand a week."

 

Four weeks, twenty-three sleepless nights, five hangovers, and around a dozen second thoughts later, Jensen meets Jeffrey Dean.

It should be terrifying. His first time whoring himself out. And it is at first. He's so nervous he thinks he might actually puke. Anxiety twitching through his bones, he climbs up onto the toilet in the hotel bathroom, balances precariously and smokes an illicit cigarette, puffing smoke clouds out of the tiny window and praying he doesn’t set off the fire alarms. He regrets it as soon as he realizes the taste of tobacco is mercilessly clinging to his teeth. Panic building in his chest, he rinses his mouth out with tap water and frantically chews through half a packet of gum. With one eye on his watch he paces the swanky hotel room, biting at his lip. He almost doesn't answer the firm knock on the hotel room door when it comes, struggles to turn the handle when he does because his hands are slippery with sweat.

Then Jeff strolls in. Tall, dark and handsome. Okay, he's not much taller than Jensen, but he's broad shouldered and carries an easy air of confidence that suggests he's the tallest man for miles around. His beard, more sexy scruff than Grizzly Adams, is flecked with silver and his hair is dark and messy, curling around his ears. And when he smiles, holy shit, Jensen's knees almost fold like he's in some kind of Jane Austin novel. If Jensen had ever pictured his dream man, then Jeff would come damn close.

He’s charming too. Smoke and honey drawl charming. And kind. And sweet. Teases Jensen into bed cautiously, gently, lets him set the pace. But of course Jensen makes a total ass of himself, gets totally carried away. Forgets what he's doing. Forgets he's being paid. Forgets he's there for Jeff to use.

Jeff, bless him, doesn't complain, and he definitely gets off as hard as Jensen, but he probably didn't bargain on being pinned to the bed for the night by a hooker clinging to him like a touch-starved octopus.

Afterwards, when Jeff leaves, when the glow of amazing sex wears off, when Jensen makes it back to his crappy box of a room, he crawls under his duvet, flushed with shame, and tries not to cry. Not to drown in embarrassment. He's sure he's let himself down. Let Danneel down. Failed dismally at one more thing.

But then Jeff, gorgeous charming Jeff, wants to see him again. And again. Wants to pay good money to spend time with Jensen. Have sex with Jensen. Filthy hot, brain-melting, sex. It’s nothing short of miraculous.

It’s surprising how easily and willingly Jensen slides into a life of prostitution. That’s not what Danneel calls it, but that, pure and simple, is what it is. Jensen sells his time and his body. He’s not sure how screwed in the head it makes him that he enjoys it. Sure as hell enjoys the money, but also enjoys the attention and sex too. It’s certainly more enjoyable than stacking boxes of cereal or smiling politely at rude bitches that treat him like an imbecile.

Danneel easily finds him clients. He doesn't know how she does it, but she finds guys looking for a pretty face and a good time who don't balk at paying over a grand a night for the privilege. And possibly more importantly, the discretion. They're good guys, mainly. Good looking, clean, sane. Not too freaky in bed. Nothing that Jensen can't handle.

None of them are Jeff though. They’re not rude or unkind, but none of them make him feel the way that Jeff does. Like Jensen’s something special. More than just a good time or stress relief.

Sure, Kane is a riot, gets drunk with Jensen before fucking his throat raw, but he doesn’t make Jensen’s heartbeat run riot. And Ty carries himself with the same confidence as Jeff and is all kinds of toppy and demanding like him too, but he can’t make Jensen laugh the same way or forget that the sex isn’t more than a transaction.

Judge Sheppard can fuck Jensen’s orgasm from him without touching his dick, and have him in stitches with his dry wit, but he doesn’t cuddle and rarely stays longer than it takes to shower afterwards.

And Senator Omundson hits every one of Jensen’s kinks; he exudes power and authority in a way that makes Jensen’s cock want to sit up and beg and always leaves Jensen with a freshly spanked ass, an over-generous tip and a fond kiss, but he still doesn’t send tingles down his spine like Jeff does.

And Misha, Misha is completely wackadoodle, and cute and fun and incredibly kind. He might even eventually become someone that Jensen could call a friend, but he’s not—well, he’s just not Jeff.

Not one of his other clients is as wonderful as Jeff. As sexy and gorgeous and protective. Not one of them hits every single one of his buttons. Jensen doesn’t trust anyone else the way he trusts Jeff. Doesn’t love anyone the way he loves Jeff.

Until Jared comes along and steals his breath and what was left of his sanity. Jared, with his incredible body, and his wild hair, his never-ending legs and long fingers. And his dimpled smile. It's the only smile that makes Jensen's stomach somersault the same way that Jeff's always does.

And once he gets over his initial awkwardness, Jared turns out be fantastic in the sack. An amazing kisser, a generous lover, and an enthusiastic cuddler. A genuinely good guy. And Jesus Christ on cracker, Jensen’s life gets complicated. Falling in love with one of his clients was a problem, falling in love with two is a disaster.

But actually it's not. Jensen sees Jared and Jeff whenever they want. Enjoys himself equally with both of them. And Jensen figures, as long as he keeps his mouth shut, keeps his feeling locked up tight then maybe he can have it all.

And for a while he does. Sure there are a few ups and downs. A creepy client or two. A pervasive sense of loneliness that sometimes catches him unaware. But all in all, Jensen has it good—a job that pays well, a new apartment that's slightly bigger than a shoebox, a healthy savings accounts, a gorgeous little nephew and a happy sister, and two men he adores. Okay, it's not exactly conventional, but his life is pretty awesome. So it's bound to blow up in his face sooner or later. He just didn't think that being kidnapped was going to be the catalyst for the implosion.

And for the record, being kidnapped sucks. Big time.

They grab him on the way home after meeting Senator Omundson. The sun's shining, it's a beautiful morning and the hotel is only a few blocks from his apartment, so instead of taking a cab, Jensen decides to walk. They grab him right off the street, broad daylight, four guys built like wrestlers, bam, they shove him into the back of a van without a chance to even shout for help.

Jensen has no idea what they want. But he knows he isn't going to give it to them. At first they try to break into his iPhone. They throw the first punch to his gut because he won't tell them the password. The next when he gives them the wrong password. The worst beating comes when he breaks the news that their tenth and final attempt not only locked the phone but wiped all the data from it too. Considering the information that Jensen keeps on that phone, he'd have been a fool not to layer up its security.

Once they realize the phone is a bust, his captors start firing questions at him. About Misha Collins and Ty Olsen. About Judge Sheppard and Senator Omundson. And about Danneel. It's not clear if they're looking for specific information, blackmail material or if they’re just fishing, but Jensen won't even admit that he recognizes any of their names. And that really pisses them off.

When the ugly dude with the snake tattoo winding down his neck drags Jensen into the bedroom to the sneering laughter of the others, Jensen knows he's in trouble. He doesn't plan on going quietly, but having not eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and with blurry vision in one eye because of a lost contact lens, the fight turns out to be unfairly one-sided. Especially when the fucker pulls out his gun, points it right in Jensen's face and tells him to get down on his knees.

The asshole gets as far as taking his dick out of his pants when they hear a commotion from the other side of the door. He just has time to grab Jensen by the throat and haul him to his feet when Batman and Robin burst into the room, minus the capes but with the banter and deadly skills.

And holy-black-turtlenecks is Jensen glad to see them.

Afterwards, it takes a while for the reality of the situation to sink in. For unease to edge into his relief. Jensen knows he's in shock. He's exhausted, body and mind. Spattered in blood, not all of it his own. Ready to drop. It's difficult to concentrate. Time fading in and out. But he sees the blood. So much blood everywhere he looks. Squelching between his toes as Jared and Jeff help him past the bodies strewn through the squalid apartment.

Jensen's no fool. He knows Jared and Jeff aren't angels. The evidence is clear. The frequency of Jared’s trips out of town, the injuries he has sometimes when he comes back. The terrifying map of scars on Jeff's body. Jared keeping his gun within easy reach despite Jensen's disapproval. The sharpness that lurks behind Jeff's eyes. The pain. It’s obvious both men are more than distant friends with danger.

There's a difference though, a yawning gulf, between suspecting and seeing the evidence laid out around you in bloody slashes and bullet wounds. Walking a path through the carnage Jared and Jeff have wreaked gives Jensen a certain clarity. One that he isn't sure he wants.

So yeah, shock and panic, the onset of pneumonia, blurry vision, exhaustion, Jensen's going to blame them all on his little outburst. Because really, the whole situation was bad enough before he spilled his guts. Fucking idiot.

 

***

 

Jensen's never felt more naked in his life than when he walks out of the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist, head spinning from the heat of the longest shower in history and skin scrubbed so clean it’s almost red raw. Considering Jared and Jeff have both been balls deep inside him, that is just plain weird. Thankfully, neither of them are hanging around the hallway so Jensen makes it to his bedroom without any fussing over the layers of bruises covering his body.

He changes into the oldest, softest sweatpants he owns and a t-shirt that's been laundered so many times it’s stretched and worn thin, gapes at his neck and settles gently over his injuries. He also disposes of his remaining contact lens, and, past caring about what Jared and Jeff might or might not think, rakes out his old black-rimmed glasses, smudging them more than cleaning them with the bottom edge of his t-shirt.

As much as he wants to crawl into bed, bury himself under his comforter and sleep for the rest of the month, Jensen figures he needs to do something about Jared and Jeff. If nothing else he wants to check that they haven't killed each other. It takes a while though to force himself to move. To force himself to stop thinking, stop running the events of the past twenty-four hours through his head on a continuous loop. To stop trying to reconcile the sweet and kind Jared and Jeff he loves, with the calm and collected guys who killed a roomful of men with all the emotion of a terminator.

When he does finally venture out of his bedroom, Jensen’s surprised to find his sitting room empty. No sign of Jared or Jeff. There is a lamp looking a little the worse for wear, its glass-shade missing, presumably shattered. His coffee-table is tilted at a strange angle; further investigation reveals that two of the legs are snapped off, and it's now balancing precariously on a makeshift tower of books.

There's also a big gaping space on the wall where his television normally hangs. And a dent in the plaster. He's definitely lost his deposit. And is that a blood stain on the rug?

A snort from the kitchen draws Jensen's attention, and he warily heads in that direction.

"Jensen!" Jeff is the first one to spot him. "Shit kid, you look like hell. Come and sit down."

Jensen stares at him.

Jeff has a bust lip which he definitely didn't have earlier, and Jared, slouched beside him, long limbs struggling to contain themselves at Jensen's tiny dining table, has tissues shoved up his nostrils and the beginning of a black eye. They’re both dressed in nothing more than their boxers, Jensen’s washing machine rumbling in the background hinting at where the rest of their clothes are. There’s a graze across Jared’s neck that looks like beard burn and a clutch of bite marks purpling Jeff’s pecs.

Jensen can also see matching sets of swollen knuckles around matching glasses of tequila. Jensen's tequila. Jensen opens his mouth, and closes it. He doesn't know quite where to start. Eventually he decides to start with the most innocuous point first.

"You're drinking my tequila."

"You're wearing glasses," Jared proudly points out, stuffed nose ruining his usual Texan drawl considerably. "Hot damn, they're cute, darlin’."

"Are you drunk?" asks Jensen incredulously. Okay, he didn't take the shortest shower ever, and maybe he lingered in the bedroom longer than he thought. But seriously, they trashed his sitting room, beat each other up and got drunk in what...an hour, two hours tops. And is that a goddamn hickey on Jared’s hipbone? Yeah he’s not dealing with that right now.

"The kid’s never drunk tequila before." Jeff laughs, knocking shoulders with Jared. "Can you believe it? A good ole Texan boy like him? I thought I'd introduce him to your friend Jose."

"After you punched him in the face and trashed my sitting room? Where is my television by the way?" Jensen stands with his hands planted on his hips, ignores the kitchen chair that Jeff kicks away from the table for him. He doesn't want to sit. He wants to kill the pair of them. He wants to know what the hell they’ve been up to while Jensen’s been trying to get his head together.

"Oops." Jared giggles - giggles. "We kinda broke it. It was, like, an accident. Well, Jeff punched me and then I shoved him into the wall. Which your television was attached to.”

Jensen sighs. He can't take Jared seriously with tissue dangling from his nostrils and that goofy smile on his face.

"How much did he drink?" Jensen asks Jeff. Jeff points to the nearly empty bottle sitting on the table. "Half a bottle? Kid definitely needs to work on his tequila tolerance."

"Tequila tolerance," Jared sing-songs with another giggle.

Jensen sighs again. Decides to sit down after all because this is just a bit too much after the past couple of days. "You didn't think to pour me a glass?" he grumbles.

"Sweetheart," Jeff says, "you need a decent meal, an icepack or three, a handful of Tylenol, and twelve hours sleep, not hard liquor."

"I need a goddamn cigarette," Jensen huffs, eying the drawer he keeps an emergency packet hidden away in and debating whether he has the energy to deal with the complaints if he fetches them.

"No." Jared's forehead wrinkles and his eyebrows scrunch together in a petulant line. He pokes his finger in the air, vaguely in Jensen's direction. "No smoking! Bad, bad Jensen."

Jensen suppresses the urge to grind his teeth. "What the hell did you do to him?"

"He’s not normally like this then?" Jeff smirks. "I guess tequila isn't his drink. He is kind of adorable when he's hammered though, right? He's not trying to kill me for one thing. That's an improvement."

"Look," Jensen says. "I get that this is all a big joke to you two. A boys-own adventure. Rescue the hooker from the bad guys, drink, fight, fuck?"

“No.” Jared shakes his head. “No, there was no fucking. There was fighting, then there was kissing and then—" Jared's eyes suddenly light up, "— Jeff has some really cool scars, did he tell you about the one he got—”

"Jensen, sweetheart—" Jeff interrupts.

"No. No, don't sweetheart me," Jensen snaps. "I don't know what the fuck’s going on, okay? I don't know why anyone would want to kidnap me. I don't know who those assholes were. I don't know how they even knew who I was. I don't know how you and super spy there found me. And I really don’t know what the hell is going on here right now! None of this makes a lick of sense."

"Jensen." Jeff reaches his hand across the table.

Jensen scoots his chair backwards, the chair leg screeching across his floor tiles. "Don't, Jeff. Just don't."

Jared tries next, gorilla-long arms stretching out towards Jensen, patting clumsily at his arm. "Don't be mad, Jensen. We don't want you to be mad. We just want you to be safe. And happy. Right, Jeff? We want him to be happy."

"Yeah, Jared." Jeff smiles at Jensen. "We want him to be happy."

"And naked too," Jared adds. "I like it when he's naked. Can you be naked Jensen?"

Jeff groans, slaps his hand across his eyes.

"Not naked?" Jared's mouth twists into a pout.

"Jensen," Jeff says, quickly moving on. "Jared and I, we were talking."

"Talking?" Jensen repeats skeptically, looking at the pair of them. At the staggering amount of tanned skin on display in his kitchen. It's a little overwhelming. And probably unhygienic.

"Well," Jeff says, self-consciously rubbing at the bite marks on his chest, "after the fighting, and the…the…look, we figured a few things out. The thing is we care about you. Both of us and I know that's—"

Jensen's already shaking his head in disbelief.

"I do," Jeff says firmly. "And the kid does too. Even I can see that."

Jared nods along.

"We want to take care of you, Jensen. Both of us. Together. This...the past couple of days...it almost broke me, broke us. If anything happened to you, shit, I don't even want to think about it."

"So," Jensen says, leaning back out of Jared's reach when the arm petting grows irritating. "You talked it over and decided what?"

Jeff shifts uncomfortably. "We didn't decide anything. We just thought...look, we don’t know how safe it is here, kid. We don't know who those guys were. What they wanted. For all we know there might be more of them. We think you should move out, temporarily at least. You can stay with me for now. My place is biggest and it’s secure. You'll be safe there. And it would give you a chance to figure out what you want to do."

"What I want to do?"

"You can't do this anymore," Jared says, spinning his finger around as though Jensen is supposed to understand what he means. "It's too dangerous."

"Do what?"

"Sleep with men. Other men. For money. It's dangerous."

Jensen narrows his eyes. "Dangerous? Seriously?”

"And things are different now," Jeff adds. "You love us. You admitted that you—"

"Shit Jeff, I don't even know either of you," Jensen barks. "Not really. I didn't know Jared's last name. I didn't know your real name. I don't know anything real about either of you. I sure as hell didn't know the pair of you were following me around like a couple of goddamn stalkers."

"But you said that you loved us." Jared points his finger, waggles it at Jensen.

Jensen slaps the flat of his hand down on the table top, welcoming the sharp sting that cuts into his anger. "That doesn't mean you have the right to make decisions for me."

"We're not trying to." Jeff placates in soothing honey-tones. "But you can't seriously want to go back to the way things were. Not now. You don't have to sleep with other guys. We don't want you to."

"Maybe I want to. I like my job, Jeff. I like my clients. I enjoy being there when they want me. I enjoy the sex. And I sure as hell enjoy the money."

"We have money," Jared says, oblivious to the warning look that Jeff’s shooting him. "We'll give you money."

"What? Turn me into your own little kept boy? No thanks." Jensen scoffs.

Jeff scratches at his beard and sighs. "Shit kid no, no. This is getting out of hand. Just calm down and let us explain. Listen—"

"No!" Jensen pushes up from the chair, grabbing the table to steady himself when the room spins around him. "No! You listen. I'm grateful for you saving my ass. For giving a damn. But I'm not gonna sit here and let you tell me what I can and cannot do."

"That’s not what we're doing," Jeff says, words clipped with frustration "We're trying to do what's best. For you."

"Well, you know what? I'm the only one that gets to decide what that is. Not you. Not even both of you double-teaming me. And right now what's best for me is not listening to this bullshit."

“Where are you going, Jensen? Jensen?” Jeff shouts after him as Jensen makes a wobbly exit.

"Bed," he shouts back. "I'm going to bed. On my own. Feel free to leave. Or fuck each other. Whatever!"

Thankfully, they don't follow him, but Jensen doesn't hear the tell-tale sounds of them leaving either. He slumps on his bed, bone-deep exhausted and sore. And really fucking confused. He does love the pair of dumbass bastards. Despite himself. Even after everything. Even knowing how dangerous they are. How much they've kept hidden. None of that changes the way he feels. But fuck if he's going to sit there and let them tell him what to do. It’s not like they love him back. They care or so they say. And sure, they wouldn’t have gone to all the effort of rescuing him if they didn’t. But then Jensen cares about Steve’s three-legged housecat, feeds it and pets it if Steve’s otherwise indisposed. Doesn’t mean shit at the end of the day. ‘I care about you’ doesn’t mean ‘I’m in love with you’. Not in any language.

An hour after Jensen storms into his bedroom, he makes a decision. Throws some clothes, fresh contacts and his wallet into his bag. Changes into jeans and a warm hoody, shoves on his jacket and boots. Sneaks past the sitting room where Jared is passed out on the floor and Jeff is dozing on the sofa. Slips out of the apartment without a sound.

He stops by Steve's first. Tells him he's heading off for a while and asks to borrow his phone. Calls his sister and a cab before taking off with a mooched bottle of water, a packet of cigarettes and a joint that he hides at the bottom of his bag.

When he turns up at his sister's door, she takes one look at him, drags him inside and pushes him straight into her bed, ignoring every one of his protests. Jensen wakes up fifteen hours later with his nephew, Jack, perched at his side, running a chunky green toy car around the bruises on his chest and making soft little zooming noises. His sister stands at the foot of the bed, holding a steaming mug of coffee and a bacon sandwich. Jensen almost cries in gratitude. He does cry a little when Jack solemnly presses his sticky lips across every one of Jensen’s bruises in order to kiss his poor owies better.

He cries again later, when Jack is safely tucked up in bed and Jensen's finally explaining everything to Molly. She doesn't interrupt, doesn’t judge or lecture. Just hands him fresh tissues and more painkillers and snuggles carefully into his side, mindful of the patchwork of bruises spread across his ribs. “So these guys,” she asks, once Jensen is talked out.

“Jared and Jeff,” Jensen mumbles dolefully.

“Jared and Jeff. They sound, well, I’m not going to lie, Jensen; they sound like dangerous men to know.”

Jensen shrugs because he can’t argue with that. He even fudged some of the details to make them sound slightly less psychotic than the scene at the apartment might suggest. And possibly more legally upstanding too.

“But,” his sister adds, “I’m really goddamn grateful they were looking out for you.”

“I know.” Jensen squeezes her against him for a second. “Me too. “

“And I have to say, from everything you’ve told me about them, it sounds very much like they both love you.”

Jensen grunts gloomily in reply. “You don’t think they love you?” she pushes.

“I’m an escort, Molls. Men like Jeff and Jared don’t fall in love with escorts. Hell, men like them probably don’t fall in love at all.”

Molly wrinkles her nose up. “I doubt that’s true. And you’re not just an escort, Jensen. You’re drop dead gorgeous, incredibly sweet and the very best person I know. I think any man would be mad not to fall in love with you. No matter who they are.”

Jensen smiles wanly, tucks Molly a little more securely under his arm, rests his head on top of hers. “Yeah, but you’re my little sister. You’re biased.”

“Yeah, but I’m also pretty smart.”

“True,” Jensen admits.

“And I know how blind you can be.”

“Hey,” Jensen complains, wriggling his fingers under her tee-shirt and attacking the tickly spot between her ribs. “Is that a dig at the guy wearing glasses? Low blow, sis, low blow.”

Molly laughs, then almost breaks his fingers when she grabs them and yanks his hand away. “I’m just saying, big brother, Jared and Jeff went to an awful lot of trouble to save your pretty ass. And it sounds like they went to a lot of effort to settle their differences for you too. And for a couple of guys who are – I don’t know, spies or black ops or whatever they are – I think that’s a pretty big deal.”

“Molly,” Jensen warns.

“Okay, okay,” Molly says, backing off at Jensen’s tone. “Just think about it, okay. Maybe give them the benefit of the doubt. From what you’ve said, I don’t think those two would have taken the time and effort to work things out if they didn’t care about you. A lot.”

Jensen hums thoughtfully but decides it’s safer not to consider that she might be right.

 

The following day, while Molly is at college and Jack at his usual college daycare despite his pouty-lipped insistence that he stay with Uncle Jensen, Danneel appears at the door. Jensen isn't entirely surprised. He's just glad it's her and not Jeff or Jared.

"They're worried about you," she says when he asks about them. She traces a scarlet nail along the edge of the dark bruise covering his cheek.

"I'm fine. Did they tell you what happened?”

“Yes, they did,” Danneel says, walking around the living room, looking at photos and Jack’s messy drawings with unguarded curiosity. “I knew there was something wrong when you didn’t call me. I’m just glad that Jared and Jeff found you so quickly.”

So’s Jensen. Even if he doesn’t know quite how they managed it.

"The men that did this to you," Danneel asks. "You’ve no idea who they were or what they wanted?”

Jensen slouches back against the wall he’s standing beside. He has thought about it a lot. There are so many things about the whole kidnapping and rescue that don’t add up. He still feels as though there’s a piece of the jigsaw puzzle missing, a vital one.

"I’ve not got a clue, Danni. Blackmail material? Phone numbers? Whatever they were after, they didn't get it."

“Well you’re safe now, that’s the main thing,” Danneel says with conviction, dragging Jensen into a tight hug that she seems unwilling to end. She keeps a firm hold of his hands when she finally lets him go. "What now? Do you know? Obviously you’ll need some time to recover but what then? Have you decided?"

No, Jensen has not. And he tells her as much. She takes it in her stride. Doesn't press him one way or another. Instead she delves into her purse and hands him a shiny new IPhone. Every contact he'd lost along with his old cell already programmed into it. Not the photos he'd lost though. Pictures of Jack he hadn't gotten around to saving.

"I've had a few calls," Danneel says. "Misha, Kane. Judge Sheppard. They were worried when they couldn't reach you."

"Shit," Jensen says. He never even thought about his missed appointments. "I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

"You don't need to be sorry," Danneel chides him. "They were worried, not angry. A lot of people care about you, Jensen."

"Yeah." Jensen nods, turning the cellphone over in his hands. "I guess so."

When Danneel leaves, she kisses his cheek and taps the tip of his nose. "Just because Jared and Jeff kept a few details from you, doesn't mean they don’t care. Nothing’s changed; they’re still the same guys you thought they were. The same guys I know you fell in love with."

Jensen looks down at his feet. He doesn't want to talk about it.

"I’ve never fallen in love with a client, Jensen, never. It’s just sex. You and Jeff and Jared, that’s not just about sex. It never was. Not for you. Or them."

Jensen’s lip stings under the sharp bite of his teeth. He can’t look at Danneel. Doesn’t want to let her see the tears gathering behind his eyes.

“You might have something really special here, Jen. Don’t throw it away.” Those are Danneel's final words to him as she flicks her hair behind her shoulders and strides away, the clack of her stiletto heels echoing all the way down the hallway.

 

Two weeks later, Jensen is still camping out in his sister's tiny apartment. Most of his bruises are gone, the rest are slowly fading away, along with his panicked dreams of sinister black vans, knives, bullets, blood, and death.

He hasn’t called anyone. Not Jared, or Jeff, or even Danneel. He reads to Jack until he knows his nephew’s favorite books by heart. The words of The Very Hungry Caterpillar are ingrained indelibly into his brain. They draw pictures together, Jensen obeying every command for more, and bigger, and redder. Jensen takes Jack to the park and plays ball for hours. He sleeps on Molly's sofa and more often than not wakes up with Jack curled into his chest, baby-fine wisps of hair tickling his lips.

If he wasn’t so pathetically miserable, Jensen would love every minute of it.

Two weeks is his limit though. His limit for brooding and moping. So he gets back on the horse. So to speak. Calls his clients. Books appointments. Just not with either Jeff or Jared.

The appointments don't go all that well. Jensen's heart just isn't in it. Which isn't usually a problem. But his dick seems to be in agreement. And his clients are rather more concerned than Jensen anticipated.

Misha ends up massaging aloe into the remnants of Jensen’s bruises, feeds him grapes and suggests meditation techniques to help him regain his chi.

Ty drags him into a bear hug and says sadly, "Darlin’, if you're in love, you're in love. Ain't nothing you can do 'cept be thankful for it."

Kane takes one look at him and breaks out a bottle of Patron.

It's depressing is what it is.

Jensen tries again, one last time, with as little luck. Senator Omundson has somehow found out about his kidnapping and spends an hour straight apologizing. “It probably didn’t have anything to do with you,” Jensen repeats for the fifth time.

“It happened right after you left me at the hotel, Jen,” Tim says. “Of course it had something to do with me.”

“How did you even find out about it?” Jensen asks.

The senator takes a sip of brandy, peers at Jensen over the rim of his glass, and hums noncommittally.

Jensen huffs, throws his head backwards into the pillow and glares at the ceiling. Tim watches silently from the chair he’s sitting in. The prickly bastard won’t even join him on the bed. It doesn’t look like Jensen’s in for a fun night. At least this time it’s not his fault.

“You want me to suck—“ Jensen’s in the middle of asking when there’s a sharp rap at the door. Jensen whips his head around and stares at it. They haven’t ordered room service. Housekeeping shouldn’t be bothering them at this time of day. No-one should even know they’re here.

Panic hits hard, rushes over him, cold like an ocean wave, cutting off his oxygen, freezing his muscles. The memories of being bundled into that van crash into him. He feels the impact of leather against his ribs, the blood splatter against his face. The confusion. The immobilizing fear.

The senator stands up, sets his glass down on the desk, grabs his coat from the back of the chair. His face a picture of calm.

“Senator.” Jensen stumbles to his feet. “What’s going on? “

Tim opens the door without so much as looking through the peephole first, glancing back at Jensen with concern on his face. Jensen’s pulse races, blood pumping through his veins, pounding behind his eyes.

“Senator,” A familiar voice says. “Thank you for your help.”

“I hope everything works out,” Tim says, sparing Jensen one last encouraging smile before he walks out.

Jeff steps into the room. Jared right behind, shutting the door.

“What,” Jensen says, knees trembling, “are you doing here?”

“We’re here to apologize,” Jared says, holding his hands out in front of him, carefully keeping his distance.

“And to talk.” Adds Jeff.

“We fucked up,” Jared says. “After you were kidnapped.”

“Adrenaline, relief and liquor weren’t a great mix,” Jeff admits.

“Especially the liquor,” Jared says, with a wry smile. “We got carried away.”

“Badly carried away.” Jeff nods. “We’re sorry.”

“And we want to make it up to you,” Jared says.

“But we were telling the truth,” Jeff says. “We do want to make you happy.”

“And we think we can,” says Jared earnestly. “But we know we went about it the wrong way. And we also broke your television,” he adds with one dimple daring to show.

“So we want to start afresh,” Jeff explains. “We’ve been seeing a lot of each other over the past few weeks, Jared and I.”

“Not to plot behind your back or anything,” Jared quickly clarifies. “Just to talk. Get to know each other better.”

“We all want the same thing,” Jeff says. “Jared and I both want you. You want both of us.”

Jensen opens his mouth to comment, but closes it again and sighs when confronted by two pairs of pleading eyes.

Jeff drags his fingers through his hair, rubs the back of his neck, nerves showing for the first time. “I know this might seem a bit weird. A little out of the ordinary.”

“But then again, the three of us aren’t exactly ordinary men, are we?” Jared jumps in with a self-deprecating smile. “Jeff and I, we both have trust issues, and baggage. A lot of baggage. And obviously we’re far from being ideal boyfriend material.”

“But between us, we think we can make a relationship work. Give you everything you deserve,” Jared says.

“Win back your trust.” Adds Jeff.

“We know we can make you happy, make this work,” Jared says. “But only if you want to.”

“If you’ll let us try,” Jeff finishes.

Jensen doesn’t have a clue what to say. That was quite a double act. He almost feels dizzy. In fact, he does feel dizzy. And a little sick. He needs a second to catch his breath.

He sinks back down on the bed, and tries to sort through his emotions. To bottle up his initial panic. Filter through the avalanche of information that Jeff and Jared just spewed out like they’d been rehearsing it for a week.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Jeff takes a cautious step toward him.

“You’re kinda pale, darlin’,” Jared adds.

“Yeah, I...you gave me a start,” Jensen admits. “I’m fine though. I just need a minute to process.”

Jeff and Jared share a look between them, part guilt, part concern. “Sorry,” Jared says. “We didn’t mean to ambush you. We just didn’t want you running off before we had a chance to explain.”

Jeff nods, absentmindedly lays his hand on Jared’s shoulder and squeezes. Jared leans into the touch and smiles at Jeff, soft and fond.

Jensen stares, wonders if he’s stepped into some strange parallel universe. He drags in a tremulous breath, exhales unsteadily, and tries to make sense of what he's heard. “Okay,” he says, after a minute, “okay, you said you wanted to try. Try what, precisely?”

“Dating.” Jeff smiles, brown eyes shining. “To start off with.”

“Dating?” Jensen repeats, doubting his own ears.

“Yes.” Jared beams, dimples out full force. “We want to woo you.”

“Woo?” Jensen quirks an eyebrow. “Both of you? Together?”

Jared and Jeff nod and grin simultaneously. The sheer power of all those dimples is almost blinding.

Jensen is, well, he’s still a little confused to be honest. And a heck of a lot surprised. But his heart is suddenly beating out a jaunty polka inside his chest, and there’s a strange buzz zipping around his brain that he hasn’t felt in weeks. It might possibly be a flitting spark of hope.

Jeff and Jared are staring at him, eyes wide and expectant. Jesus Christ, Jensen’s missed these guys. More than he ever expected and far more than he would ever willingly admit. Seeing them standing together, side by side, both wanting him, both in accord, it’s not something Jensen could ever have dreamt.

But this whole threesome dating idea is crazy, right?

Jensen gazes up at the two men, his tongue caught between his lips as he thinks. He knows it's cruel making them wait, can see a drop of sweat drip anxiously down the hollow of Jared's throat. But it's not an inconsequential decision. Or one to be taken lightly. The question is, does the insanely slim chance that this proposal could work outweigh the much more likely probability of someone getting hurt. Of Jensen's heart getting ripped apart and trodden into dust. It's a gamble that Jensen would be idiotic to take.

A decision reached, Jensen stands up and grabs his bag and jacket from the floor. “So, you want to woo me, huh? I guess I’m okay with that. But, I hope you’ve got some good ideas, boys; I’m not easily won over.”

Jensen leaves Jeff and Jared staring after him as he walks out the door, failing to hide the sappy grin on his face and the spring in his step. He might be a love-sick fool, but if there’s a chance, even a miniscule sliver of a chance, that this insane idea could work, then Jensen's going to grab it with both hands. Jared and Jeff are worth the risk.

 

True to their word, there is wooing. And dating.

Jeff treats them all to more than one meal at his restaurant. They sit at the best table, the staff fawn over them, the food is delicious and the wine is expensive. And Jeff is relaxed, proud and utterly in his element. It’s impossible for Jensen not to fall a little more in love with him, especially when Jeff confesses the steak rub is his own secret recipe. Shallow maybe, but it’s the best steak Jensen’s ever tasted, and he’s from Texas.

There’s a night at the movies. Admittedly, the new James Bond movie wasn’t the wisest movie pick, not when Jared mumbles all the way through it, picking holes in the plot, tutting at the technical details, and complaining that Bond doesn’t seem to do much in the way of paperwork or reconnaissance. Jensen can feel Jared’s face turning purple when Bond destroys yet another car. Thankfully, Jeff figures out the best way to soothe Jared’s professional integrity and shut him up is with copious amounts of salted popcorn, leaving Jensen free to ogle Daniel Craig in peace.

There are hikes in the hills, with Jensen lagging way behind Jeff and Jared and pretending that he’s not completely out of breath. The resulting fifteen minute lecture from Jared about the ill-effects of smoking is not entirely undeserved. Jeff soothes all ruffled feathers by quickly magicking up a camp-fire and producing the ingredients for s’mores from his backpack like some kind of chocolate conjuring genie.

There’s a visit to a petting farm with Jensen’s nephew Jack. It’s a little awkward at first; Jack’s shy, and Jared and Jeff are imposing sights to full grown men, never mind three year old boys. But Jeff wins him over with cookies and Jack quickly figures out that Jared is really an overgrown kid, a perfect mix of a real-life, walking, talking, teddy bear and jungle gym. Jensen and Jeff are forgotten as Jared and Jack feed the goats and attempt to milk a cow together. Jensen barely stops himself from melting into a puddle of soppy emotions at the sight of Jared and Jack sitting in the dirt, giggling as rabbits nibble carrots from their fingers.

“God, that kid’s adorable,” Jeff comments from Jensen’s side, the pair of them leaning over the fence, arms pressed together as they watch Jack shriek and climb up Jared’s back when a rabbit gets a little too friendly. Jensen’s not sure if Jeff’s talking about Jared or Jack but either way he’s not wrong.

There are barbecues in Jeff’s backyard that Molly and Jack are both invited to. As well as Jared’s odd friend Chad, who Molly takes a strange and worrying liking to. Jeff almost has to restrain Jensen when he hears Chad asking Molly if she’s ever had a ride in a Porsche. Jared just rolls his eyes over the head of Jack who’s napping against his chest and tells Chad if he doesn’t behave, he’ll let Jensen borrow his PPK. Despite Jensen’s aversion to guns, he finds that a strangely sweet offer.

There are picnics with wine and chocolate torte. And muffins. And pie. Jeff seems determined to win Jensen over with desserts. Jensen’s not complaining. Neither is Jared. Turns out the guy has a sweet tooth and appetite that even three desserts and a plate of homemade truffles can’t subdue.

There’s even talking. Grown-up talking. About everything. Not always in great detail. But no subject is out of bounds. Jared really isn’t allowed to talk about his work, but he explains enough that Jensen understands what he does. As much as he wants to understand, quite honestly. And he tells Jensen and Jeff about his family, his parent’s deaths, his troubled teens, his fight to find the right path.

It takes the most part of a bottle of Jim, but Jeff even talks about his life before. About his fiancée. About some of the things he’d done when grief and revenge almost drove him out of his mind. Jensen isn’t sure he approves, but Jeff doesn’t need his approval, isn’t looking for it. Just understanding, and that Jensen can give him.

There is no sex. Like Jensen said, he’s not easily won. And he’s still wary. Not ready to believe that he can be lucky enough to have everything that he wants. That Jeff and Jared are on the same page. That they really want the same things as Jensen. That they come close to feeling the same way.

Eventually there is cuddling. Manly squished together on the couch cuddling. And then there’s kissing. So much kissing that Jensen’s left breathless and tingling from his lips to the tips of his toes.

There’s also no sex for Jensen with anyone else. It’s entirely his own decision. No input requested or received from interested parties. He still meets up with a couple of his former clients. Kane drags him to the dive bars his girlfriend hates, gets him drunk on bourbon and tequila and makes him sing, although he insists it was all Jensen’s idea when they’re caffeinating their hangovers the next morning. And Misha takes him to a homeless shelter where they do whatever needs done, which it turns out is mainly cleaning dishes. It’s an interesting experience though. Rewarding. Jensen knows he has more in common with some of the patrons than he’d like to admit. It gives him pause for thought.

Misha being Misha, afterwards sweeps Jensen away to an exclusive spa where they spend the weekend having expensive treatments and eating nothing but raw food. Jensen spends a lot of time on the toilet. And misses Jeff and his cooking immeasurably.

Jensen eventually moves back into his own apartment. Trusting Jeff and Jared without question when they tell him it’s safe to do so. Before he moves in, they change all his locks, install a brand new television, replace his lamp, dry clean his rug, and repair his coffee table properly. There’s an unopened bottle of Jose sitting on his kitchen table which Jared swears not to go near. And Jensen's perfectly adequate bed has been usurped by a giant of a bed that takes up most of his bedroom. Jensen refrains from commenting on the fact they did all of it without asking Jensen’s permission and just takes it for what it is. An apology.

It’s amazing how easily they fall into a relationship.

Jared still disappears for days at a time, once for over two weeks. But when he comes back, it feels like their triad is complete rather than anyone is the third wheel. It’s not a normal relationship by any standards. But then again, maybe not everyone is cut out for normal.

It’s after one of Jared’s absences that Jensen finally cracks. He’s twenty-four years old goddamn it, with a healthy sex drive and two gorgeous men who adore him. There’s a time and place for courting and he’s passed it. Way way passed it.

His seduction technique is not subtle. It involves nudity. And three clear blood tests. That’s pretty much it. It works like a charm. Turns out Jeff and Jared were close to breaking too.

Jensen had worried that sex would be awkward. That someone would feel left out, ignored. But it’s nothing like that.

In his own home, on his ridiculously big bed, with men he actually cares about, loves, Jensen has the best sex of his life.

Already naked, Jensen makes himself comfortable in the middle of his virgin pure bed, pillows plumped up innocently behind him. He lies back, bow legs spread wide naturally, fingers curled loose around his half-hard dick, and watches the pre-game show. Jeff shoves Jared against the wall, both men grunting at the impact, before Jeff devours Jared's mouth, harsh and demanding. It’s the hottest thing Jensen has ever seen. In fact, watching Jeff and Jared strip each other naked, explore each other’s bodies, trace over old scars and kiss paths across toned muscle is the best foreplay Jensen has ever had. The thickness of their bodies, the strength they possess, there’s no holding back, no gentleness. It’s unrestrained and brutal and mesmerizing.

When they make it on to the bed, dicks hard and eyes dark with want, they crawl either side of Jensen, bracketing him between them. Jeff cups Jensen's jaw and kisses him first with all of the gentleness he didn’t show Jared. The scruff of his beard rasping against Jensen's chin a counterpoint to the tender press of his lips, the kitten soft press of his tongue into Jensen's willing mouth.

When Jared grows impatient and pushes Jeff out of the way with a frustrated moan, Jeff happily cedes control of Jensen's kiss-swollen lips. Instead, he mouths a path over Jensen’s jaw, down the swooping curve of his throat, across the sensitive ridge of his collar bone. It's disorientating, so much touch. Thrills Jensen's senses, lights up his nerve-endings. Jeff works his way lower still, kissing a light path down Jensen's belly, his fingers plucking playfully at Jensen's nipples. Jensen gasps into Jared's mouth, clasps his shoulder holding him close, the fingers of his other hand twisting through Jeff's hair.

Hands and mouths explore whatever piece of skin they can reach. Tongues licking across freckles, and moles, dark curling trails of hair, and scars. Biting jagged tracks over vulnerable flesh and taut muscle.

Jensen, lying spread-eagled on his back in the middle of the bed, knows it’s Jeff that starts opening him up, only because Jared’s fingers are pushing into his mouth and tweaking his nipples. His teeth scraping a rough brand into the crook of Jensen’s neck.

Jeff goes slow. Jensen appreciates it after weeks of having nothing more than his own finger in his ass. He must use half a bottle of lube, the oil squelching when Jeff’s fingers twist into him, dripping down his taint, clinging to his balls. Jensen’s cock slaps against his belly, hard and dribbling strings of pre-come that Jeff licks away with a satisfied hum.

With a slap to his hip, Jeff encourages Jensen onto his hands and knees, ass in the air, head in Jared’s lap. Jeff pushes Jensen’s knees further apart, dribbles more lube down the crack of his ass, digs his fingers, harsh and bruising, into the cheeks of Jensen’s ass, spreads them apart, spits wet and dirty, straight onto Jensen’s hole. Jensen whines. Jeff's casual dominance making his stomach clench and balls draw tight.

“Fuck,” Jared groans. “So fuckin’ filthy. Do it again.”

“Hold him open,” Jeff demands, fingers falling away from their possessive grasp, slapping once sharply across Jensen’s thigh instead.

Jared kneels up in front of Jensen, nudges Jensen’s head down towards his dick, thick and heavy against his thigh, leans over Jensen and smacks his hands down against the cheeks of Jensen’s ass. Delves his fingers into pliable flesh, firm enough to make Jensen gasp, then yanks his cheeks apart, bares his hole without mercy.

“Look at that pretty hole. Just begging to be filled, isn’t it boy?” Jeff growls, then spits again and again. Wipes his thumb across it, pushes his saliva into Jensen’s hole.

Jensen sucks Jared’s balls into his mouth to disguise his whimper.

To stop himself from begging.

Jeff’s thumb pushes in Jensen's hole, until his hand is flat against Jensen’s ass. It’s good but not nearly enough. And when Jeff replaces it with two thick fingers, screws them in, fucks them deep and intently, Jensen rocks back, wanting more.

“Your fingers ain’t enough, Jeff.” Jensen’s cock jerks at the dirty drawl dripping from Jared’s tongue. “What that slutty hole needs is a good dickin’. Needs to be fucked deep and hard, don’t it boy?”

Jensen should make a crack about Jared’s Texas showing; instead, he opens his mouth and swallows Jared’s cock down until it’s all he can do to breathe.

“Holy shit,” Jared gasps.

“Fuck.” Jeff slams his fingers into Jensen’s hole one last time, grazes his sweet spot perfectly. Jensen hums around Jared’s cock and lets the pleasure wash over him.

It’s the first time that Jensen has ever been fucked without a condom, and it’s different. He’s grateful for the lube and time Jeff spent opening him up. It’s incredible, but it’s utterly consuming. Hot and sticky and breath-taking. Reluctantly, Jensen has to take a break from sucking Jared’s dick, buries his head into the crease of Jared’s thigh instead. Jared pets his hair, traces circles through the sweat clinging to the nape of his neck, coos soothing nonsense as Jeff pushes in, slow but unrelenting. “That’s it darlin’, that’s it. Relax. Let him in. Fuck, look at you taking it so good. Your pretty pink hole taking Jeff’s big dick.”

Jeff doesn’t move, doesn’t even twitch until Jensen heaves a breath, relaxes his shoulders, releases the tension ratcheting through his spine. He doesn’t move until Jensen manages to speak. To beg. “Please, god, please move. Fuck me, please.”

Then Jeff doesn’t hold back, hands spanning Jensen’s waist, he draws out and slams back in, steals Jensen’s pleas in the best way possible. Almost the best way possible. Because that turns out be Jared gripping his jaw and shoving his gorgeous dick back in Jensen’s mouth, fucking his throat at the same time, at the same steady rhythm that Jeff pounds his ass. It shouldn’t be as hot as it is. It shouldn’t make Jensen almost come without even a hand on his dick like a fucking teenage virgin. But hell, Jensen knew he was pretty screwed up.

Pinned in place, Jensen writhes and whimpers. Rocks his hips back, squeezes his ass around Jeff’s dick until the man curses, his nails breaking through Jensen’s skin. Jensen flicks his tongue along the underside of Jared’s cock, lets spit pool in his mouth and drip down his chin.

“Fuck.” Jared bucks his hips forward, buries Jensen’s nose in his pubes, his balls squashed against Jensen’s chin, almost choking Jensen completely.

Jeff comes a second later, with a roar and finger-shaped bruises etched into Jensen’s waist. Jared doesn’t give him or Jensen a second to recover, to catch their breath. Just drags Jensen’s mouth off his cock, kisses his spit-soaked, fucked-raw lips, flips him onto his back, scoops Jensen’s legs up in the air and over his shoulders and shoves right in Jensen’s gaping hole, his dick sliding through Jeff’s come; the creamy trails dripping down the inside of Jensen’s thighs, trickling down his balls.

Jensen almost comes at the thought of how hot it is, how fucking dirty, and that’s before Jared scoops up Jeff’s spunk with his fingers and feeds it through Jensen’s lips. Jeff groans from beside them on the bed, skims his hand across Jensen’s chest, pinches his nipples, twists and pulls, sparking pain and pleasure, does it again, until Jensen bucks and gasps and cries and Jared curses.

Jared doesn’t last long, but neither does Jensen. All it takes is Jared pounding into him at the right angle, stuttering his hips one last time as his orgasm hits him, Jeff twisting his nipple and ghosting his hand towards Jensen’s dick, and Jensen comes with a high-pitched yell that he might be embarrassed about if he hadn’t just been fucked senseless.

Best. Sex. Ever.

And Jensen gets to have it as often as he likes. Life is fucking amazing.

“Fuck, I love you,” Jared says breathlessly when he rolls off of Jensen, collapsing into a boneless heap beside him.

“Me too,” Jeff says at the other side of Jensen, trailing his finger through the mess of come leaking down Jensen’s thighs.

“You do?” Jensen asks, almost unwilling to believe it despite everything.

“Of course we do,” Jeff says, eyes darting up to meet Jensen’s. “How can you not know that?”

“Because he’s an idiot.” Jared yawns, smacks his hand down on Jensen’s belly making him squawk indignantly. “An oblivious idiot. But it’s not like the two of us are any brighter.”

“True.” Jeff grins, dark eyes shining and dimples chiseled deep into his cheeks. “But we figured it out in the end, didn’t we?”

Jared hums his agreement.

“Well, I love you two too,” Jensen confesses happily. It’s amazing how good it feels to finally admit that out loud. How wonderful it feels to know for sure that Jared and Jeff feel the same way. To truly believe that they’ve carved enough room in their hearts to make space for him. For each other, too.

“Well, thank god for that.” Jared sighs dramatically. Jeff reaches across Jensen and pokes him ruthlessly in the ribs.

Jensen grins, wriggling and squirming until he finds a way to lie comfortably that avoids the worst of the wet patch. Although maybe not. Because really, he is one giant wet patch. “Now who’s going to fetch me a wash cloth and a beer?”

“Get it yourself, kiddo,” Jeff says, doing his best to push the come back up into Jensen’s hole. “I’m busy.”

“And I’m beat,” Jared says. “I’m gonna need a nap before round two.”

“Now who’s the old man,” snorts Jeff.

“Hey.” Jensen pouts. “What happened to woo-ing?”

“You, sweetheart,” Jeff says, pressing a bristly kiss to the contented curve of Jensen’s tummy. “Have been well and truly, and thoroughly woo-ed.”

“We’re woo-ed out,” Jared giggles.

Jensen rolls his eyes and wonders what he did to land up with these complete and utter dorks. And thanks his lucky stars for whatever it was.

It’s not a fairytale. And it’s not Pretty Woman, thank god; but Jensen thinks he’s done okay. They’re not quite there yet. But with a little luck and a lot of give and take, they'll eventually move in together. Do the domestic thing. Settle down and have as normal a life as an ex-hooker, ex-hitman, and spy can have.

 

***

 

“So,” Danneel says, hands resting on her hips, twisting her ankle and screwing her stiletto heel into the man’s crotch. “Who were you working for?”

“I told you,” The man whimpers, wrists yanking at the cuffs chaining him to the bed, looking up at Danneel standing over him. “I don’t know. I was just the look-out. Just a hired hand.”

“So, you don’t know who you were working for, and you don’t know why they wanted Jensen. Do you know anything?” Danneel sighs, looks at her nails, bored with how terribly useless this lowlife scum is. It was barely worth her time tracking him down.

“No!” The man squeals. “I keep telling you, lady. I don’t know nothin’.”

Danneel smiles sweetly, presses her foot down until she draws a high-pitched scream from the worm below her. “Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we? Now don’t move, sweetie, I’ll be right back. I just need to grab my toys. Oh, and don’t worry, I'm a professional. And I promise you really don’t need both balls.”

 

 

FINIS

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