Desperate Measures ~ 1/?
May. 10th, 2009 08:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hemrage Follows ‘Desperate Times’ and A Little Less Desperate and A Desperate Man . You will probably have to read those for this to make any sense whatsoever.
Masterpost for the verse can be found here.
A/N: I’ve been meaning to post this chapter for a while but life’s been hectic. Thank you for being patient.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mini_moue, please consider this a belated birthday gift – sorry it’s late!
He held himself up against the sun-baked wall, arm braced as his head rested momentarily on the back of his hand, letting him catch his breath while he worked hard to ignore the pounding inside his head, the aches and pains that competed with each other for dominance.
He swallowed a yawn.
So damned tired.
He could sleep for a week, a month, a year even. Anything to quell the nausea and fear that had been with him since he woke, scrambling for consciousness, in a ditch which ran along a quiet stretch of road. He couldn’t think about how he’d ended up there in the state he was in, couldn’t think period.
Those first, half aware impulses, had been to seek out help, but as he’d limped along the empty road with a constant need to look over his shoulder, with his heart racing at every unexpected noise, he’d had cause to second guess himself. Realign his priorities.
He needed to find somewhere to clean up, check for injuries, and rest. He could work out where to go from there.
He pushed himself back onto his feet, trying to keep most of the weight on his right side as pain from his left ankle ricocheted along nerve endings already overloaded with stimuli.
Stability deserted him as he pushed his way through the glass door, long enough to cause him to trip over the step. He bit back a pained curse before limping heavily toward the worn and peeling reception desk.
The man there, older, grizzled, impatient, put down the magazine he’d been reading and glared at him suspiciously.
He didn’t doubt he looked a state. He could still taste the blood in his mouth, feel the lump on his forehead, and the clothes he wore were bloody, dirty and torn at the knees. It would have been a surprise if his appearance hadn’t sparked some kind of response, but a little concern, it seemed, was too much to hope for.
He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the wallet he’d found inside when he’d come to. He handed over the I.D. that was in it. He’d learned that the face pressed into the plastic was his courtesy of an abandoned building’s one remaining window. He accepted the unfamiliar name printed beneath it as his own. He filled in the registration form the manager slid across the desk and handed over a credit card which had had the strange name stamped into it.
Hardly a word was spoken, only the occasional grunt passed the manager’s lips, and that was okay. He could deal with the hostility, the eagle eyed scrutiny. He was fine, it didn’t bother him. He just needed to get into a room, get into a bathroom, and see what the damage was. Make sure that the pain he felt when he moved wasn’t an indication of a far greater injury than he suspected he had.
“Accident?” The card key was dropped onto the desk in front of him, far enough away that he had to reach for it.
He stared up at the man, no smile, no real concern. The manager was only playing at being a human being.
He nodded, “Car’s a write off.”
The manager accepted the lie and turned his back on him long before he could make it back out through the door.
It took him longer than it should have to make it to the room he’d been given. He’d been put close to the office, no doubt so the suspicious manager could keep an eye on him. For all he knew the miserable bastard had every reason to be cautious.
He slipped inside, grateful for the security a closed door awarded. The drapes were already closed and the room was dark. The unforgiving summer heat was left outside as he leant against the door, head back and eyes closed, stealing a moment to enjoy his new found sanctuary.
He stared at the bed, fatigue almost prompting him to abandon the idea of cleaning up… almost.
He kicked off the shoes that had blistered his heals, his soles, pulled off the socks that had stuck to his feet as those blisters had ruptured, and sat on the corner of the bed. He rolled up the leg of his pants to inspect his purple and swollen ankle. He didn’t think it was broken - the pain had increased dramatically as the swelling had worsened, but resting it would probably set it to rights.
He forced himself to stand, dizziness only delaying him for a moment as he made his way toward the only other door in the room.
He blinked against the harsh light as he turned it on, and leant against the sink, hands braced on either side, taking in the features of the man he apparently was.
Running the faucet, he cupped his hands and took a drink before he began to clean the grime from his face, check the gash on his forehead that had to be at least a couple of days old.
He glanced around the room and saw a selection of complimentary toiletries. Basic, cheap, but far more than he’d been expecting. The soap he could use to clean his clothes once he’d dealt with the body they covered.
Cautiously removing his jacket, his shirt, revealed a large, wide bruise which crossed the width of his chest. It wasn’t a surprise. It more than explained the pain he encountered with every breath, with every movement of his arms.
He stripped off the rest of his clothes, dropping them into the bath, before turning to once again study his reflection. He ran his fingers across the smooth, tender skin of his chest and dropped them down to his navel.
He frowned.
Finger shaped bruises curled round his hips. At least it was hands his imagination created for him when he looked at them. Large, calloused, cruel hands. Those, alongside the mottled rings braceleting his wrists that he’d been ignoring all day, raised questions he didn’t really want to investigate further.
Forcing his gaze away, it was the scar it was drawn to next. A thin line that run down from his navel towards his cock. A pale raised track that was transected by another which curved along his pubis from hip bone to hip bone.
It had long since healed but it shouldn’t have been so noticeable.
“What the fuck?”
His fingers pressed into the skin round his cock. Smooth, stubble free skin ran under his fingertips. He leaned in close to the mirror, felt for stubble that should’ve been more than just visible on his face since he knew that, at least for today, it hadn’t seen a razor.
Nothing.
The pain in his head was getting worse.
He looked at his arms, under them, down at his legs. There was no fucking hair. None at all.
A strangely youthful man stared at him with confused and haunted, green eyes. A dark halo of hair framed a pale and freckled face. It made the bleached lengths beyond the roots appear even whiter. Lengths that were long enough to kiss his naked shoulders and flop into his eyes whenever his head moved. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man in the mirror ignored his inquiry. He wouldn’t get any answers talking to himself, especially when he didn’t even know who himself was. The name on the I.D.– Ross Johnson – meant nothing to him, and the life he must’ve lived before this little detour into the unknown was a complete mystery.
One he was determined to solve.
His stomach growled and flipped. He’d not eaten all day, but the nausea that came in waves had long since convinced him that food could wait until there was more of a chance it would stay inside his body. He thought he remembered nausea as one of the many symptoms he was exhibiting of a concussion, but it could just as easily be down to something else. Fuck, he looked like someone had given him a beating. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he’d taken more than a couple of blows to the gut.
That line of thinking wouldn’t get him anywhere, though, and he cast it aside.
He showered, hands carefully skimming across tender flesh, and then set to work on the clothes.
He caught his reflection one last time before he left the bathroom. The stranger who returned his gaze still wasn’t giving him any answers.
As he crawled into bed he considered the wisdom of seeking out sleep while suffering from a concussion, but unconsciousness was too tempting to ignore.
Sleep came easily.
Unfortunately, so did the nightmares.
“Anything?”
Sam waited by the door of the truck and let the anxious man come to him. Waited to deliver the news he knew Jared didn’t want to hear.
“Well?” Jared was out of breath, the sound of Sam’s arrival enough to make him abandon what he’d been doing inside and come straight out.
Sam nodded. “Jack took him back across the border. He’s been on U.S. soil since the day after he went missing.”
Jared’s hand went through his hair as he stared wildly in all directions, looking for something Sam knew he wouldn’t find. “We’ve wasted so much time. You said he would’ve stayed this side of the border.”
“What I said was he’d have been a fucking idiot to go back to America. Especially with the price tag Jensen’s got on his head.”
“So, what now?”
“Now I go and bring him back.” Sam looked past Jared to Donna who was standing on the porch holding Sarah. The woman looked defeated and Sam didn’t doubt her recent bereavement was only compounded by the uncertainty over Jensen’s whereabouts.
“Not without me you don’t.”
“Jared, you’ve responsibilities here.” He motioned towards the house.
Jared snarled, didn’t turn to the person he knew was looking and listening behind him. “Don’t lay that on me. They’re as much yours as mine.”
Sam lowered his voice, “You sure Donna’s up to looking after those kids since…”
Jared matched his volume, not wanting the woman who’d recently begun to confide in him, to hear. “She’s up to it. Fuck. I think she needs it. The only time she’s not had them with her was at the funeral.”
Sam knew there was no point in arguing. If he refused to take Jared with him Jared would go off on his own and probably get himself captured or killed. It was a wonder Jared had stayed put for the last couple of weeks as it was. “Okay, I’ll give you an hour to sort yourself out Jay. Then we’re out of here.”
“Believe me, I won’t need that long.”
Next
A/N: So here we have it, the beginning of what my plans tell me is going to be another long story (Though, hopefully, not as long as the original). I've tinkered with it a little over the last couple of months and it isn't completely what I thought it would be when I envisioned a sequel to 'Desperate Times'.
I'm not sure what kind of posting schedule I'm looking at, but I'll most definitely try to post regularly.
Oh, and yes, I'm still working on that third one shot and Jensen's finally starting to cooperate! So expect that soon.
Masterpost for the verse can be found here.
A/N: I’ve been meaning to post this chapter for a while but life’s been hectic. Thank you for being patient.
mini_moue, please consider this a belated birthday gift – sorry it’s late!He held himself up against the sun-baked wall, arm braced as his head rested momentarily on the back of his hand, letting him catch his breath while he worked hard to ignore the pounding inside his head, the aches and pains that competed with each other for dominance.
He swallowed a yawn.
So damned tired.
He could sleep for a week, a month, a year even. Anything to quell the nausea and fear that had been with him since he woke, scrambling for consciousness, in a ditch which ran along a quiet stretch of road. He couldn’t think about how he’d ended up there in the state he was in, couldn’t think period.
Those first, half aware impulses, had been to seek out help, but as he’d limped along the empty road with a constant need to look over his shoulder, with his heart racing at every unexpected noise, he’d had cause to second guess himself. Realign his priorities.
He needed to find somewhere to clean up, check for injuries, and rest. He could work out where to go from there.
He pushed himself back onto his feet, trying to keep most of the weight on his right side as pain from his left ankle ricocheted along nerve endings already overloaded with stimuli.
Stability deserted him as he pushed his way through the glass door, long enough to cause him to trip over the step. He bit back a pained curse before limping heavily toward the worn and peeling reception desk.
The man there, older, grizzled, impatient, put down the magazine he’d been reading and glared at him suspiciously.
He didn’t doubt he looked a state. He could still taste the blood in his mouth, feel the lump on his forehead, and the clothes he wore were bloody, dirty and torn at the knees. It would have been a surprise if his appearance hadn’t sparked some kind of response, but a little concern, it seemed, was too much to hope for.
He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the wallet he’d found inside when he’d come to. He handed over the I.D. that was in it. He’d learned that the face pressed into the plastic was his courtesy of an abandoned building’s one remaining window. He accepted the unfamiliar name printed beneath it as his own. He filled in the registration form the manager slid across the desk and handed over a credit card which had had the strange name stamped into it.
Hardly a word was spoken, only the occasional grunt passed the manager’s lips, and that was okay. He could deal with the hostility, the eagle eyed scrutiny. He was fine, it didn’t bother him. He just needed to get into a room, get into a bathroom, and see what the damage was. Make sure that the pain he felt when he moved wasn’t an indication of a far greater injury than he suspected he had.
“Accident?” The card key was dropped onto the desk in front of him, far enough away that he had to reach for it.
He stared up at the man, no smile, no real concern. The manager was only playing at being a human being.
He nodded, “Car’s a write off.”
The manager accepted the lie and turned his back on him long before he could make it back out through the door.
It took him longer than it should have to make it to the room he’d been given. He’d been put close to the office, no doubt so the suspicious manager could keep an eye on him. For all he knew the miserable bastard had every reason to be cautious.
He slipped inside, grateful for the security a closed door awarded. The drapes were already closed and the room was dark. The unforgiving summer heat was left outside as he leant against the door, head back and eyes closed, stealing a moment to enjoy his new found sanctuary.
He stared at the bed, fatigue almost prompting him to abandon the idea of cleaning up… almost.
He kicked off the shoes that had blistered his heals, his soles, pulled off the socks that had stuck to his feet as those blisters had ruptured, and sat on the corner of the bed. He rolled up the leg of his pants to inspect his purple and swollen ankle. He didn’t think it was broken - the pain had increased dramatically as the swelling had worsened, but resting it would probably set it to rights.
He forced himself to stand, dizziness only delaying him for a moment as he made his way toward the only other door in the room.
He blinked against the harsh light as he turned it on, and leant against the sink, hands braced on either side, taking in the features of the man he apparently was.
Running the faucet, he cupped his hands and took a drink before he began to clean the grime from his face, check the gash on his forehead that had to be at least a couple of days old.
He glanced around the room and saw a selection of complimentary toiletries. Basic, cheap, but far more than he’d been expecting. The soap he could use to clean his clothes once he’d dealt with the body they covered.
Cautiously removing his jacket, his shirt, revealed a large, wide bruise which crossed the width of his chest. It wasn’t a surprise. It more than explained the pain he encountered with every breath, with every movement of his arms.
He stripped off the rest of his clothes, dropping them into the bath, before turning to once again study his reflection. He ran his fingers across the smooth, tender skin of his chest and dropped them down to his navel.
He frowned.
Finger shaped bruises curled round his hips. At least it was hands his imagination created for him when he looked at them. Large, calloused, cruel hands. Those, alongside the mottled rings braceleting his wrists that he’d been ignoring all day, raised questions he didn’t really want to investigate further.
Forcing his gaze away, it was the scar it was drawn to next. A thin line that run down from his navel towards his cock. A pale raised track that was transected by another which curved along his pubis from hip bone to hip bone.
It had long since healed but it shouldn’t have been so noticeable.
“What the fuck?”
His fingers pressed into the skin round his cock. Smooth, stubble free skin ran under his fingertips. He leaned in close to the mirror, felt for stubble that should’ve been more than just visible on his face since he knew that, at least for today, it hadn’t seen a razor.
Nothing.
The pain in his head was getting worse.
He looked at his arms, under them, down at his legs. There was no fucking hair. None at all.
A strangely youthful man stared at him with confused and haunted, green eyes. A dark halo of hair framed a pale and freckled face. It made the bleached lengths beyond the roots appear even whiter. Lengths that were long enough to kiss his naked shoulders and flop into his eyes whenever his head moved. “Who the fuck are you?”
The man in the mirror ignored his inquiry. He wouldn’t get any answers talking to himself, especially when he didn’t even know who himself was. The name on the I.D.– Ross Johnson – meant nothing to him, and the life he must’ve lived before this little detour into the unknown was a complete mystery.
One he was determined to solve.
His stomach growled and flipped. He’d not eaten all day, but the nausea that came in waves had long since convinced him that food could wait until there was more of a chance it would stay inside his body. He thought he remembered nausea as one of the many symptoms he was exhibiting of a concussion, but it could just as easily be down to something else. Fuck, he looked like someone had given him a beating. It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he’d taken more than a couple of blows to the gut.
That line of thinking wouldn’t get him anywhere, though, and he cast it aside.
He showered, hands carefully skimming across tender flesh, and then set to work on the clothes.
He caught his reflection one last time before he left the bathroom. The stranger who returned his gaze still wasn’t giving him any answers.
As he crawled into bed he considered the wisdom of seeking out sleep while suffering from a concussion, but unconsciousness was too tempting to ignore.
Sleep came easily.
Unfortunately, so did the nightmares.
“Anything?”
Sam waited by the door of the truck and let the anxious man come to him. Waited to deliver the news he knew Jared didn’t want to hear.
“Well?” Jared was out of breath, the sound of Sam’s arrival enough to make him abandon what he’d been doing inside and come straight out.
Sam nodded. “Jack took him back across the border. He’s been on U.S. soil since the day after he went missing.”
Jared’s hand went through his hair as he stared wildly in all directions, looking for something Sam knew he wouldn’t find. “We’ve wasted so much time. You said he would’ve stayed this side of the border.”
“What I said was he’d have been a fucking idiot to go back to America. Especially with the price tag Jensen’s got on his head.”
“So, what now?”
“Now I go and bring him back.” Sam looked past Jared to Donna who was standing on the porch holding Sarah. The woman looked defeated and Sam didn’t doubt her recent bereavement was only compounded by the uncertainty over Jensen’s whereabouts.
“Not without me you don’t.”
“Jared, you’ve responsibilities here.” He motioned towards the house.
Jared snarled, didn’t turn to the person he knew was looking and listening behind him. “Don’t lay that on me. They’re as much yours as mine.”
Sam lowered his voice, “You sure Donna’s up to looking after those kids since…”
Jared matched his volume, not wanting the woman who’d recently begun to confide in him, to hear. “She’s up to it. Fuck. I think she needs it. The only time she’s not had them with her was at the funeral.”
Sam knew there was no point in arguing. If he refused to take Jared with him Jared would go off on his own and probably get himself captured or killed. It was a wonder Jared had stayed put for the last couple of weeks as it was. “Okay, I’ll give you an hour to sort yourself out Jay. Then we’re out of here.”
“Believe me, I won’t need that long.”
Next
A/N: So here we have it, the beginning of what my plans tell me is going to be another long story (Though, hopefully, not as long as the original). I've tinkered with it a little over the last couple of months and it isn't completely what I thought it would be when I envisioned a sequel to 'Desperate Times'.
I'm not sure what kind of posting schedule I'm looking at, but I'll most definitely try to post regularly.
Oh, and yes, I'm still working on that third one shot and Jensen's finally starting to cooperate! So expect that soon.
