Chapter Text
It's an accepted truth that every good story, has a beginning, a middle and an end. The story spins some character development, some stunning revelations, some surprising turns in the plot, and hopefully some romance thrown in as well, preferably of the steamy kind. It all comes together neat and tidy with a satisfying "the end" and that's that, a story told in three acts and everyone's satisfied.
Unless, of course, everyone is not satisfied. Maybe questions are left unanswered or the fate of the characters still unsure; then there is always hope for a sequel. But really a sequel is just another story made from the same mold: three acts, beginning, middle and "the end". Life doesn't follow a single plotline, from point A to point B, before another one begins. It's usually an untidy heap of different plots at the same time, all jumbled up together in lines so entwined and intricate you can't tell where one begins and the other ends.
In a story you have a birds view, you can see all the threads. In life all the threads hang loose and as a character you don't always see everyone else and there are so many damn roads you can take and none of them are paved with yellow bricks.The thing is life is not an endless line of sequels, and Jared's not one of the Hardy Boys or Nancy freaking Drew. Life is one continuous long story that doesn't just come to a halt when one plotline comes to an end.
But say that life were a story, made up of continuous sequels, god only knows what book Jared would be on now, maybe...
Jared Padalecki
Book twelve-hundred and eighty-seven
The Case of the Evil Foster Parents
You're not saying this wouldn't be a good story. It probably would, but life, if lived right, has more than three acts. The plot twists, fun as they are, are not always solved and handled as neat and tidy as in a story.
So what might start out as one story (selective mute, orgasms, art thief's, orgasms, kidnapping, orgasms, insecure pretty Jensen, orgasms, past abuse, orgasms, sex, orgasms, love, orgasms, FBI, orgasms, postcard, orgasms, tropical island, orgasms, kitten, a lot of orgasms, happily ever after, so many orgasms...) sometimes turns into another. This one for example, "The Case of the Evil Foster Parents", begins (as a good sequel should) where the first story ends: on a white beach, with a happy but seriously dysfunctional couple (having lots of orgasms), and with unanswered questions waiting to be answered...
Jared Padalecki is not a murderer. You’ve killed, sure, lots of times. If you have to, you’ll kill, but you’ve never murdered someone, though you will be the first to admit that maybe the "have to" part is just a little bit... unclear. Unfortunately for you, people tend to get in the way, and that's not ok in Jared-land. So if someone gets in the way, you will get that person out of the way, in whichever way is most practical.
Killing someone is, however, not always the most practical thing, and leaving a trail of bodies behind is generally more of a nuisance than a practical solution. Sure, the person can't give a statement, but then a dead body, all by itself, is generally a big-ass statement. In Jared-land, it's never about the killing.Killing is more a means to an end: you don't enjoy it, but you don't cry yourself to sleep over it either.You don't really care one way or the other, but you're not in it for the body count. And really, it's not like it's Mother Theresa you're dropping; generally you don't kill the "in-betweeners", the people who just happen to be there.Knocking them out is often enough. The people you kill are usually the ones who would gladly put a bullet in your head or in someone else's. So, you'll kill without remorse, but you're not a murderer, and you've never planned someone's death just for the sake of killing. Well, there's a first time for everything, isn't there?
You can feel him here and your fists clench and unclench as you observe your surroundings. You expected the concrete walls to be gray but they're not: they're lavender. It explains a lot of long interior design discussion you've had with Jensen, and why he hates the color purple, or any color even remotely close to that shade, with a fiery passion.
Jensen never talks about his past, not that Jensen really talks at all. Well okay, he's making big, big progress with the whole talking thing, but he doesn't string long sentences together and he certainly doesn't talk about life-before-Jared. Honestly, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that wherever Jensen came from, it wasn't pretty.
The thing is, you, Jared, would like to say that a shitty childhood is the reason you and Jensen work, that you fit together because you understand each other, can relate. But you can't. The honest-to-god truth is that, unlike Jensen, you have no excuse for the way you are.You grew up in an average family, one mom, one dad, one brother and one sister. They had an average size house, on an average suburban street. Your parents had average jobs and made an average amount of money. You were loved, and everything was just... average. You hate average. The predictability, nine to five, suburbia and all that shit,you just hate it, for no particular reason. Which is a lie, of course, there's no such thing as "for no particular reason". Everything has a reason, everything has a beginning, and so do you. You didn't spring from the ground all made-up and ready. There's a reason you ended up the way you are.
That reason has a name, several names in fact, as you've so very clearly been told all through your childhood and adolescence. Told in very clear terms, in too-bright rooms, with too many tests, too many cards with inkblots, and too many "how do you feel about that, Jared?" questions that have always made you want to either laugh at their stupidity or hurl at their ignorance. In the beginning you really did try to take it seriously, wanted to try to at least pretend that your mother’s worried frown made you care, wanted to pretend that, like her and your father, you too were worried or at least saw a problem with not quite "fitting in" So you answered their questions, as best as you could, but an inkblot really just looks like an inkblot. If you use your imagination, you can, of course, see shapes and forms, and find a likeness to all manner of things, but it's really just an inkblot. You tried to tell them that but they wouldn't accept it so, in the beginning, you said it looked like clouds and shit. It seemed like a safe, average type of answer.
After a while, it just got boring. One or maybe two tests, , but they wouldn't give you a good reason for playing along and, really, you can't go to doctors and talk to shrinks forever because of "not quite fitting in" without starting to get fed-up. Really, how many times did you have to say that hurting puppies wasn't something you particular felt like doing, and that it certainly was not something you’d do for fun. Funny how they kept asking about puppies and not humans... It's probably best they hadn’t: those first few years, when you still tried to answer questions honestly, you probably would have said something to get yourself in a shitload of trouble.
Around thirteen, you got seriously fed-up. After that all inkblots looked like vaginas, which, apart from amusement at the doctors’ obvious discomfort and annoyance, became even funnier when they found you, a year later, making out with a participant in your mandatory therapy group, a very male participant. Seeing them trying to figure that one out, now that was fun!That summer you worked your ass off mowing lawns and, for your first therapy session that fall, you brought Prozac, your new golden retriever puppy.You kind of always have to have the last word.
So yeah, there's a reason that you are the way you are, and, depending on which of your past doctors you ask, it's either high functioning Asperger’s, narcissism, one or more types ofempathy disorders, several types of personality disorders, or high functioning antisocial personality disorder . So, it's a pretty mixed review. Although none of them could find a reason why, the only thing they could all agree on was that something about you was just... wrong. You think all those doctors can just go fuck themselves. That's why you hate average. Because you don't fit in the average mold, you're not a drooling idiot like everyone else, settling for anything, and loving everyone around you, then apparently you're "wrong".
You decided pretty early on that, let them call you wrong, let them diagnose you and prod you and ask you their stupid questions.Fine. Honestly, you could live through it all because you figured out, early on, that they'd never accept you if you were not like everyone else. So why even try? There was no point, so you decided to do the opposite: smile and toy with them, all the while making damn sure you'd never be anything like them, making sure that you'd become someone, something, that you'd be special.
So now you’re a thief, and a damn good one at that. You make a shitload of money, are co-owner of a private tropical island, and are built like a Greek fucking god.You do what you have to, and get what you want, anything not to be average. You have no high moral standards, no qualms about right or wrong. In fact, the Jared philosophy on morality and all that shit is very simple: if you want something, take it, and if others try to stop you, stop them instead. It's all pretty fucked up, and you know it. That's why you sometimes wish to have an excuse, like Jensen, but you don't. There's no buried childhood trauma in your closet, just a bunch of sad desperate people who couldn't accept that sharing the same DNA didn't automatically mean they deserved your love or consideration.
Looking at Jensen, you figure there are two kinds of fucked-up people: those who go through hell and still manage to emerge as good people (fucked-up, sure, but still good); and then there are those, like you, who have it all and still manage to turn sour. You’re not evil… bad, maybe, but not evil.You just don't possess that default ability to care about unknown people.You’re not evil, just a selfish, narcissistic dick who really doesn't give a shit about anyone else—well, you do care about a few people, with Jensen at the top of that very short list. In Jared-land, priorities go like this: you, Jensen, your friends and then nothing. Your family should probably have made that list, but they're so fucking average. Hell, even Jenjen has more personality then they do.So, yeah, Jenjen totally makes the list but they don't. Of course, Jenjen is one special cat, much smarter than any other cat. Or maybe it's just because Jensen loves him so much.
Jensen makes most things special.
This thing with Jensen, though, that's one of the things you aren’t sure about. Obviously it's good for you, but in general, from that elusive moral perspective, you don't know if what you’ve done is right or wrong. Technically, you took Jensen against his will... but, on the other hand, Jensen changed his mind about the "against his will" part, after a while.Anyway, it's not like you took him from someone, or something. And you did let him go!Jensen's here of his own free will. And anyway, his life is better now. You’ve made Jensen happier, well actually you’ve made Jensen happy, and now you can start working on making him happier. But again, technically you stole him. Stole him even though there was no way of knowing how it would end and even though everyone else said that you shouldn't. Honestly though, you'd all been doing recon on that museum for months. That night in the museum was certainly not the first night you saw Jensen.
No, the first time you saw Jensen was in a photograph Chad had stolen from the museum employee database.
Who ’ s that?” You can hear your own voice turning rough as the shy green eyes look up at you from the photograph.They are piercing.
“ Jensen Ackles - he works in maintenance.” You can see, around the table, three sets of eyes looking at you from below disapproving brows.
“ Jesus.” You can't help yourself. Pretty, pretty, pretty, you love pretty.
“ Jared.” It's Chris’ voice, soft and calm but with a slight undertone of steel.
“ What?” You try to sound unaffected, uncaring, you know you're failing miserably.
“ Nothing, as long as you remember why we ’ re doing this.”
“ Hey, who came up with this plan in the first place? I know what we ’ re doing. ” You know perfectly well. You're gonna steal a bunch of really valuable paintings, make a shitload of money, and then retire comfortably.
“ Good, keep it that way.” You kind of want to punch him, in fact you want to punch all of them for even implying that you'd risk anything. After all, you're only looking...
“ Hey, give that back. Chris, I ’ m warning you.” ... and looking never hurt anyone.
“ Not a chance. I ’ m confiscating this picture until the job's finished.” Bastard!
“ So now I can ’ t even look? ”
“ No! God! I knew I shouldn't ’ t have shown you this one.”
“ What ’ s that supposed to mean?”
“ It means that everyone, especially me, knows that you ’ ve got it bad for the pretty, and this one here is just as pretty as it gets.” Yeah he is— pretty, pretty, pretty, come to daddy, here pretty, pretty, pretty.
“ Ok, I ’ m man enough to admit my weaknesses; doesn't ’ t mean I was gonna do anything stupid. You know I wouldn't risk a job just for the pretty.”You wouldn't. You just want to look a bit more.
“ I know. Just reminding you.” You really don't need reminding; you know what you're doing. Damn Chris and his domestic bliss anyway.
“ Unless...” Would it really be that unthinkable? Maybe ...
“ No, Jared. We ’ re not stealing him.”
“ You ’ re no fun.” ... damn him to hell!
Honestly you almost turn into a stalker—well okay, so you turn into stalker of the year. It isn't very hard for you, seeing as Jensen goes from his apartment, to work, from work to the café where he buys his breakfast, to the park, and then back home. Every day, except on days off, when he goes from the apartment to the park and then back to the apartment, some days stopping for groceries. It should be boring. With two months in, you should be getting tired of seeing the same thing day in and day out, but your obsession just keeps growing. And the worst part, or the best, is that Jensen doesn't know. He doesn't see how people look at him, doesn't see men and women sitting close or trying to talk to him. He doesn't see them at all, just hurries along in his own world. So naturally he doesn't see you either, you don't even have to try and be discreet, you can walk beside him on the street, stand behind him in line so close you can see tiny tendrils of sweat running down his neck, lower and lower, until it disappears beneath the collar of his shirt, sit down next to him on the bus to and from work.
You have a feeling that, one day, Jensen is going to go through old photos from that particular time, and you're willing to bet a lot of money that you can probably be spotted in quite a few of them. Once, you even sit down next to him so close you can feel the warmth of his body seeping through the fabric of his clothes. But still, despite your obsession, and Jensen's uniqueness, the whole stealing-people thing really wasn't planned. It wasn't!
It was just luck.