All The Nobody People

[soncnica]

Title: All The Nobody People
Author: soncnica
Rating: NC-17 (because of the non-con scene)
Genre/Pairing: Jared/OMC (brief), Jensen, Jared (general)
Wordcount: cca. 6.800
Summary: In this city of power, sex and money, he was just trying to survive. In this city of steel and wood, the drug was the only way for him to stay alive. In this city of steam and coal, the green eyed man was the only one who ever saw him.
Warnings: steampunk AU, hooker!Jared, drugs, drug use!!, h/c, language, non-con Jared/OMC (super short scene), not a death fic (just in case).
Disclaimer: I seriously only own the grammar/spelling mistakes. Everything else is NOT MINE! ALL IS FICTION.
A/N: The title of the story is from David Bowie's song Five Years. I own absolutely nothing. Betaed by the lovely marlowe78. If I would have worked on this story for one more hour, I'd have gone insane. :)

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:- PART 1

He was waiting for the train.

His hands were stuffed in the huge pockets of his long black coat, the cold almost unbearable today. He was scared of frostbite, but up until now he was doing a good job of avoiding it. His feet were swimming in his boots, and it was nice and warm in there, so he wiggled his toes and wished the heat from there would spread all through his body. His fingers were playing with a loose string of wool inside his left pocket; twisting and twirling it, trying to rip it off but it held too strongly.

He was nervous.

He hid his eyes under his wet, brown bangs, but he was watching. Observing. Like a nervous tic, his eyes roamed the train station. It wasn't a big one, not like the ones downtown, it wasn't as magnificent as those, with glass and clean platforms and fresh air, but it was okay. It was okay, because it had to be.

He hunched his body forward, tucked his shoulders inwards making himself look as small as possible, which was not so much, not for a guy his height. Even if he was a skinny guy, muscles on their way to forming in his legs and arms, he was sure that he couldn't really hide that well. The coat offered a hiding place, sure, but he knew people still noticed him.

He was sure of it and if the train wouldn't come soon, he would collapse right where he stood and die.

He sniffed and ran his right hand under his nose, collecting the snot and wiping it into his coat.

The train station was packed, as they always were, no matter where in the city one was. There were people waiting on both sides of the railroad track; at this station, there was just one, while some had eight or even ten tracks. But this station had only one, made of wood and steel that had probably shone like the moon decades ago. Now it was all rusty and the wood rotten, but it still got the job done, bringing in the trains to take people uptown.

He was standing in one of the puddles of brown water that were scattered all over the concrete platform, residues of trains gone by. There was no way to avoid that really, all stations were wet, the steam turning to disgustingly smelly water. It was like standing in a huge shallow pond, where the water reeked of rust and coal. In winter, the puddles almost always froze and people were falling and breaking bones as if were a rule, while in the summers they evaporated in the hot sun which always made the stations smell of rust.

He scrounged up his nose, just remembering that.

There were a lot of people on the platform today; it was a Monday, eight in the morning, people rushing through their lives. They were brushing his shoulders with their arms, touching him with their bags, moving past without even looking at him, shoving him left and right, yelling at him to move.

He felt like an ant standing still.

He shifted, moved his weight from his left foot to his right and looked across the track, at all the people on the other side. It was all the same. People moving around like those chickens he saw once at a farm his parents took him to. Years back, when he couldn't even say the letter 'r' yet. They were running around like crazy, sticking their beaks into the ground, pushing and shoving each other to get to the food.

He closed his eyes and sighed. Memories were the worst thing. And he couldn't ...

He shuddered, opened his eyes and blinked at the blurry specks of people moving before him, and when his eyes adjusted to the dusky winter light, he saw ... a man.

Just like him, an ant standing still.

There in the enormous mass of people who didn't know how to still their legs, there was a man standing, unmoving, just like him. He was tall, standing proud in all this mix of men and women who kept brushing his unmoving body, his black long coat completely different than his, richer, warmer, not as worn out as his. He would bet his life that the guy was from downtown, he looked as if made of money. Made of power.

Their eyes met; across the rotten wood and rusty steel, across the divide of a single railroad track, their eyes met.

He couldn't move his gaze away. Couldn't stop looking at those eyes. There were black smudges moving across his line of vision, people walking and running, but every time a smudge went away, his eyes locked on the man's. It was making him feel dizzy, making him sway on his feet. He didn't dare blink, didn't dare to look away because he was scared the man would disappear. He didn't want him to disappear. The eyes were burning him, right through him, into him, digging a hole through his head, into his brain. Reading him. So intense. So fascinating. He had never, ever been looked at like that.

As if he was being seen. He had never been seen in his entire twenty years of existence. Never been seen.

All the noise stopped. He couldn't hear anything; no chatter, no feet splashing in the puddles, no wind, no dripping water, no whistles of other trains. There was nothing, nothing but those eyes.

And then the man tipped his brown hat in a hello, smiled and looked away.

The noise came back then; assaulting his ears like someone pushed a gramophone in him and pushed play. He breathed. Breathed in the cold air, swallowed down the spit that collected in his mouth when he had been too scared to swallow, in case that would make the man disappear. A flash of disappointment ran through him; he wanted those eyes back on him, but he quickly shook his head and looked away too, looked down, left and right, any other way but at that man, because the likes of him did not associate with the likes of him. Not if it wasn't business. Not if it wasn't work. Not if it wasn't necessary to survive.

He stuffed his hands even deeper into his pockets, made a fist and released it a few times, to get the blood flowing, hid his neck all the way into the raised collar, wiggled his toes and swallowed down the nausea he was already starting to feel creeping up from his belly.

He needed to go uptown to Chad. The guy said he could hook him up with some para and he desperately needed some. He was already six days in from his last dose and he was already starting to ... feel and remember. His brain was already screaming at him wrongwrongwrong, his heart yelling wrongwrongwrong and every nerve in his body shouting hurthurthurt. He was already starting to feel sick, his body demanding the drug like demanding water or food. But the drug was better, it was numbing, it was more powerful than water or food. It kept him alive on these streets, kept him breathing in a city that lived and breathed sex and money.

Without the drug, he would die. Be just another of those kids they haul out of the river every day. Be one of those kids they find hung under the bridges. Or be one of those kids they find in motel rooms, bloody and stripped of their lives in any way their client wishes. Be one of them, because he would feel and he didn't wanna feel. He didn't wanna remember anything, past or present.

He wants to be numb when he has to put a dick that stinks of sweat and grime in his mouth and swallow down the bitter, vile come. Wants to be numb when his clients tell him to be a good boy and bleed for them. Wants to be numb when they touch him, run their dirty, diseased, fat fingers and palms all over him. Numb when their mouths and tongues slip into his mouth and their foul breaths make him want to throw up. Wants to be numb when they open him up with their disgusting, thick spit and sour smelling come, when they push it all into him, stretch him wide with fat, cold fingers. Wants to be numb when they split him open with their hot, hard dicks that he can feel inside of him for days and make his stomach revolt on him and he has to bite his lips to stop from gagging.

Wants to be numb so that he won't scream for mercy.

:-:

There was no snow falling, which was good, meant that the train wouldn't be late. Much. They were always late, they always ran out of coal, always ran out of water, always had some problems that made the people at the station even more obnoxious, even more in a hurry to catch other trains, more in a hurry to just leave this place and go lock themselves in their apartments and forget where they live. Be it by using or be it by falling to the bottom of a bottle. He knew what people, especially those living uptown, did. They killed themselves in factories and mines and steel plants, killed themselves over minimum of money, just enough money that was enough for booze and food. They worked from sunrise to sunset; they went to work sleepy and hung-over, dragging their feet on the dirty streets.

And he knew how people downtown lived. In plush houses, with wide and huge gardens, non needed to work much, maybe a few hours per day and then they went and seek pleasure in sex and gambling, in anything money could buy.

He had seen. He had seen both sides. And selling his body ... was the only way for him to survive in this city. Thank god for para. Thank god for a drug that took his heart and brain and pain receptors, locked everything tight somewhere inside of him and let him live.

:-:

The people had pushed him towards the back of the platform, to an iron fence that was all but hidden under brown, dead bush. The iron spikes were almost eaten up by the plant that come spring would be green and lush as if winter never happened. He wanted to lean on it, rest his aching back a bit, but he was too nervous, too hyped up on almost withdrawal that he couldn't. He was scared that if he leaned on it, he would never be able to get back on his shaky feet.

He needed the drug. Right now, because the sweat running down his back was cold against his spine. It wasn't good. Sweating was not good. He shivered. He needed to kill this, this ... wrongness he could feel in his veins. How it was wrong what he did, how selling his body to those people, just so that they could use him in any way they wanted, fuck him and then dump him like he was a piece of meat, was wrong. How no one should do that just to survive. How a city running on nothing but sex and money and power should just never exist. But it did and it used people like him, used them, and spit them out when it was done. Spit them onto the streets, where they spent most of the day on their knees with a dick in their mouths, or on beds with their legs spread open and just taking whatever was dished out.

It was wrong. It wasn't a life. It wasn't what a life in a city should be like. Not what survival should be like.

A woman pushed him one step closer to the fence. He was too weak to argue, too weak to protest. He needed the drug. Needed it inside of him, killing these feelings, these thoughts. Memories.

He was shaking now. Hands trembling. Fingers spasming. Skin felt too tight over his bones. Muscles aching from all the abuse. His knees were trying to bend of their own accord, just giving out on him. There was sweat running down his face, cold sweat.

"Hey boy."

The thin voice startled him, but the words sent cold shivers down his spine. He clenched his fingers in fists, curled the toes in his boots, straightened up to his full height and breathed.

"You sellin'?"

The guy was standing behind him, probably leaning on the fence. Why hadn't he just leaned on the fence? The guy's mouth was close enough that the foul breath ruffled the curls at his nape. He wanted to say, fuck no, but he lost all ability to talk, because this couldn't be happening. This ... not here, not among all these people, not at a busy train station. Not now, when he wasn't feeling numb. Not now when he felt so damn much, he was drowning in it. Not now when he was capable of other things, to ensure his survival in this crazy, fucked up city.

There were hands on him then. Cold. Chubby. Not shaking at the slightest. Not like he was. They were sneaking under his coat at the sides, bunching his coat at the guy's forearms. He felt cold hit his ribs through his shirt. He shuddered.

The guy started tugging the shirt up from where he had it tucked under the waistband of his loose, thin jeans.

He couldn't move, because this wasn't happening. Not here.

He opened his eyes wide, the shock of what was happening overwhelming him. It was too much; he wasn't used to feeling touch on his skin when there wasn't para running through him, making him not give a damn.

He sucked in a breath of cold, smoke smelling air, because the stranger from before was looking at him from across the track. The stranger with green eyes. He could see them, so, so clearly now. Green eyes and where there was a soft smile before, there were just lips pressed into a thin line. Green eyes that glowed so bright.

And that was a fat hand on his lower back, fingers cold, so cold rubbing at the dip of his spine, right where his sweat had been collecting. It was cold. He felt so cold all over. The hand moved lower and lower and how come no one could see this? How come no one was seeing the guy behind him, touching him like this?

"Gonna fuck you so hard, gonna fuck you so hard, gonna, I'm gonna, mmmmhmmm..."

How come no one was hearing this, seeing this?

He knew why, he knew the answer now, when he wasn't on the drug, he knew ... because he was a whore, a hooker, a piece of meat that anyone could spread open and push in, push out and spit on. Or in. Anyone in this city of darkness, city of smoke that rose up from tall chimneys, city of back alleys where the puddles weren't from steam, but were made of come that dribbled out of uncut cocks, city of a river smelling of the sewers and a city of no future.

He needed the drug, he couldn't do this. It was wrongwrongwrong... it was wrong.

He was looking at the green eyes, how they shone, how they were looking serious, sad. How the man's lips were turning white by the way they were pressed together too strongly. He was loosing himself in them, loosing himself in the freckles on the man's nose and cheeks, loosing himself in the sheer beauty of the man.

There was a finger, slick with spit probably, rubbing at his hole, rubbing up and down and pushing in and it hurt. He wasn't numb, he could feel. He felt it pushing in through the tight ring of muscle and it was slimy and big and he could feel something catch at his rim. He wanted to puke imagining what it could be and he settled his brain by calling it a wart. Please...

He knew the guy's fingers were dirty, he could just tell by the way the guy smelled. Dirty from digging for coal all night long.

Unclean, just as he was. He whined when the man's bitten, not cut, fingernail scraped at his sensitive skin. It didn't feel good. It hurt.

And when the man pressed his finger inside of him again, the big wart barely squeezing through the tightness, and crooked it, the pressure made him gasp and open his eyes wider. He could see those green eyes become mere slits. And that made him shudder so violently, he thought he broke a bone somewhere.

The finger rubbing around his hole and then pushing in and in and in was making his stomach hurt. Was making his intestines curl inwards. He was gonna throw up, he couldn't do this. Not now when he wasn't numb.

His heart was racing, his blood boiling in his veins, his eyes couldn't let go of the stranger's from across the track. He wanted to scream help me! but he knew that no one would help him. People would stop, maybe, look at him, maybe, and when they would see the tattoo on his face, they would snort and continue on their way.

There was no escape for him, except death.

He slowly pulled his hands out of the pockets and didn't break the eye contact with the green eyed man. He was mesmerized, pulled into him, even when the guy behind him was sliding in finger number two. It burnt. No matter how many times he had done this, this was new. This was being fingered without the drug. It burnt … the stretch. Burnt all over him. Inside him.

He had to wait. Be patient. Endure, survive these two fingers pulling at his rim, stroking his insides. Just ... survive. Just look at the green eyed man, relax and breathe.

And there. The fingers were pulled out with a groan from the guy behind him and a hiss from him and he spun around so fast the momentum carried the knife straight into the guy's heart.

He grabbed the guy who wanted to fuck him so, so hard - a tall, fat guy with a belly the size of a barrel, chapped lips and disgusting, red from cold, wart full hands - and slowly pulled out the knife, trying not to look at the dying guy's eyes, because he wanted to remember the green eyes, the green eyes, when they took him away for murder and hung him in due time.

The green eyes.

He dropped the guy to the ground, the sound of a puddle splashing when the guy's body hit it made him cringe, and turned around. The green eyed stranger was looking at him, his eyes shining 'what did you do?' but his body was relaxed, hands hidden in mittens, hanging loosely by his sides.

'I think I just killed someone!' he tried to say, but instead he started running down the platform, dodging people and their kids, trying not to hit anyone.

Murder.

He just killed someone.

And yet, no one was screaming. No one was screaming murder! Everyone was still, just, walking.

He covered his ears when the splitting sound of the train's whistle announced the train he had been waiting for coming to the station. Just a minute sooner, a damn minute, stupid always late train, and he would never, ever had blood on his hand. Someone else's blood. He had blood ... on his hands. Warm blood.

He ran, he couldn't stop. He needed to get to his safe place, think there, think really hard. And then, maybe in the evening he would go down to the port. Watch the steamboats come in, carrying spices, and watch them leave carrying huge loads of black coal. Watch them until darkness and then maybe ... drowning wasn't really the most painless death, but he had been through worse. And if they caught him, drowning would be the most painless of punishments.

The train was a huge, black thing, the locomotive like a haunting face coming at him, huge clouds of white steam rising from the sides, swallowing him up when he ran through them. He didn't feel the warmth, or the cold. He was lost in the white cloud of steam and it felt like he was flying, soaring through the sky, that was always covered with a thick layer of smog in the city, but here, here it felt clean. Like everything would be alright.

When the steam stopped surrounding him, he found himself stumbling through the puddles, breathing in the smell of rust on fire. He felt drunk. He had never been drunk in his life, he swore to his brother that he would never touch a bottle as long as he would live, because he had seen what it did to their father and mother, but this was probably what being drunk felt like.

He could still feel the guy's finger in his ass; feel the stretch and the burn. But he could also see green eyes saying 'hey!'

And he ran through the mass of people, fighting his way from the train station to the streets he knew so well.

He couldn't see on the other side of the track, because the train was long, long as a snake, but if he would be able to see, he would see green eyes following him.

Running.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:- PART 2

His feet were hitting the wet, nearly frozen sidewalk, the force making his teeth rattle. There was a thin layer of ice covering the asphalt, but nothing too dangerous. He had his winter boots on, he wouldn't slip and fall. He ran down the street, feet pounding, splashing puddles of water and puddles of half melted, black snow.

He needed the drug. Needed it. Needed to become numb again. He just killed someone. Murdered.

He knew the streets, knew them so well it was uncanny. But he'd lived here all his life, the city was his home even if he hated it with all his soul and heart. Hated it, because it fed him and kept him warm by making him sell his body. Sell his privacy and something that should be sacred and intimate, something that should feel good wrapped in emotions and feelings, something that should be his alone to give. To give and not to be taken.

Hated this. So much. He needed the drug. He couldn't do this anymore, feel all this, think all this. It was too much. Too much for his brain to make sense of. His stomach hurt and his head was pounding.

He groaned and made a sharp left turn, smashing his upper body into a dumpster that he didn't see in time. He yelled and groaned, sidestepping it and walked forward on his wobbly feet, pressing his arm tight around his stomach, willing the pain to go away. He was nearly there. Just a few more steps.

He opened a green, heavy, iron door and stumbled inside. The air that hit him smelled of rotten vegetables and piss, but he still breathed in deep, because otherwise he would pass out. He gripped a rusty, thin iron railing and slid down the stairs, his right side pressed to the railing.

Each step was torture, his ass was burning, he felt stretched, wide and gaping and for a split second he thought of the need to be filled. But just for a split second, because then he was lowering himself to the cold, wet ground with his back pressed to a gray concrete wall. There was mold everywhere; spreading all over the walls and floor, covering them in gray-black spots.

It was his life; hiding in moldy places, that reeked of coal and rust. Hot, humid, wet from steam. His life that got even worse with murder.

He killed a man. When they would find him ... he was as good as dead, anyway. So he would just rest for a bit here and then go down to the river. Just rest for a bit.

He pulled his legs toward his chest and leaned his forearms on his knees.

"Fuck." he whispered and leaned his head on his arms. He closed his eyes, the darkness feeling so good for his throbbing head.

The garage house smelled of fumes and oil, but the corner he was in was his favorite, because the exit was near, and he was hidden behind a pillar. And the best part was that this was the lowest level, and no one dared come to park here. People were scared of the likes of him. Him and drunks and addicts. Murderers and other homeless people. Other people that the city abused and killed when it had enough of them. They all 'lived' in places like these, dark, warm places that provided shelter when they were too hurt, too bloody to face the daylight.

He breathed in the smell of coal and rust, oil and mold. He breathed in his life, because he was a dead man already.

"Hey."

The word was softly whispered, but it still startled him, made him twitch and flinch and he opened his eyes and raised his head.

Green eyes. Green eyes standing at the foot of the stairs, the man's hand gripping the railing.

He was caught. He was dead now. They would probably hang him, after doing other things to him, but later they would hang him, then throw him into the river, by the port, where a steam boat would slice his body in two.

He stared at the green eyes, shining in the crappy lightning the garage offered.

And then he started to cry. Just ... cry. Sobbing, messy crying with snot and spit running down his face, all the hurt and the feelings, all the thoughts and the wrongness of everything, the unfairness of his life, everything bubbling out to the surface through his eyes and he couldn't stop. Crying. Sobbing so badly he was almost convulsing when trying to gasp for breath.

It hurt. Hurt so much.

"Hey." the man said again.

Through his water full eyes he saw the green eyed man come closer and crouch before his feet.

He couldn't stop crying, and he couldn't stop looking into the man's eyes. So green. So many freckles.

He sucked in some air and whispered: "Please."

"Hey, its okay, 'm not gonna hurt you. 'm not from the police or anything."

He cried. Couldn't stop. Couldn't stop shaking.

He sucked in a breath and whispered: "P-pease, take ... take me away from here."

Away from here, away from the city, away from this life, away, away, away... somewhere where there were no feelings, no pain, no sorrow, somewhere were people were good, maybe even happy.

"I'm sorry, kid, I- I can't."

And there was true sorry and regret, true compassion shining in those eyes, showing in those features. He could see it, even through his tears. He nodded and hid his face into his arms again and ... cried. Keened, because of course the man couldn't help him, of course not. There was no one who could.

"Please..."

He cried out and sucked in as much snot as he could, but the rest of it was flowing down his mouth and chin. He tried to wipe it off on his sleeve, but the fabric was already so wet, all he did was smear everything around even more.

"What's your name, kid?"

The man asked softly, while taking off his hat and pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and holding it out for him.

"Jared." he sniffed and wiped his whole face in the handkerchief.

"'Jensen."

Green eyes. Jensen.

They were quiet for a while then, Jensen just crouching there in front of his feet, looking at him, directly at him. He felt so small being watched like this, he wanted to shrink into the size of a mouse and scatter away from those eyes. He tried to do his best and wipe away every trace of tears, but Jensen had already seen him, heard him, talked to him, and even offered him his handkerchief. With the man's initials carefully woven into the white cotton. J.A. in red letters.

A car on the level above them made a noise that made them both jump and look up at the ceiling. Jared knew no one would even come down here, ever, but sometimes the noises made him scared that someone would. He pushed himself closer into the wall behind him, his only way of escape right now. Jensen was so close to him, he could feel the man's coat brush his calves.

He was too close in his personal space, too close. His breath hitched. No, no, not now when he could feel, he didn't want ... Jensen ... to take sex from him right now. Oh god. No.

He shivered and gripped his knees tighter, knuckles turning white. He looked at the man through his wet hair that had fallen into his eyes.

He twitched when Jensen moved his hand towards his face, his index finger clean, with cut nails ... rich, Jensen was from downtown, he was one of them ... and then stopped in mid air, inches from his cheek. Inches from the tattoo; a twisted thick black line going from his right temple, down the side of his cheek, to curl over his throat and stop at his nape. But Jensen's finger was going to a thin line separate from the main one and under his right eye.

A mark of a whore. A mark of his body being on sale to anyone with enough money. Or even not. Didn't matter, money or no money, when people saw the tattoo, they knew they could take him.

He flinched when Jensen curled his finger into a fist and pulled his hand away.

"'m not gonna ... I don't want ... sex, okay?"

He didn't believe that. Everyone wanted sex, everyone. Men and women, hell sometimes even people younger than him, kids really. Everyone.

He was confused.

"Why not?" he rasped, his throat burning from crying. He was still sniffling, his eyes feeling swollen.

Jensen sighed.

"Listen, can I touch your wrist?"

That wasn't an answer to his question and it just made him even more confused, but before he could ask what and why, Jensen's fingers, warm, strong, clean, were already pulling at his wrist, curling around it, and he could feel a slight pressure at his pulse point. He had never, never been touched like this. This lightly, carefully, like he might break. Jensen pulled his right arm from the hug around his knees and held it in the air.

"You're in withdrawal, huh?" Jensen asked and there was nothing in his voice. No accusation, no pity, nothing. Nothing but concern. That what it was. Concern. For him. For a hooker.

He nodded and wiped his eyes in his left sleeve, pushing the fingers of that hand even deeper in to his knee.

"How long since your last hit?"

He shrugged. What did it matter? He was in withdrawal, his heart beating so fast, his head was spinning. His stomach ached and his spine hurt. His muscles were twitching if he tried to move and his thoughts were spinning out of control. All these feelings crashing against each other inside of him. All this wrongness... and he killed someone. So, what did it matter how long?

"Jared, how long?"

There was thick spit in his mouth that made a little bubble on his lips when he said: "Six days..."

He felt Jensen's fingers squeeze his wrist and the motion made his hand jump. The man's fingers must have hit a nerve, because he couldn't make his hand fall down. It just hung there in the air, the tips of his fingers touching Jensen's warm thigh.

"Okay, okay, uhhh, I can give you some para, just to take the edge off."

There was just one thing he could say to that and it was: "Yeah, please."

Because he wanted it, needed it. And then maybe when the police would catch him, and took him to the prisons, he would be so out of it, so numb, he wouldn't care about the things they would do to him. There would be para running through him then and that would be good. And if they would be quick, maybe he wouldn't even feel the rope cutting off his air.

"Okay, alright." Jensen whispered and released his wrist.

He wiped his face on his sleeve, the handkerchief Jensen gave him already soaking wet and good only for trash.

"I only have a little, it'll last you a week maybe less, okay? So you should go to your ... uh, dealer, uh, so, yeah, so that he'll hook you up with more, because you know you can't walk around without it."

Of course he knew that. And this had never happened before, he was always so careful about being on the drug; he sometimes took a hit even before it was necessary, but this time ... he couldn't. He couldn't drag his ass from the house he was squatting in to go to Chad. He couldn't do it, because he was too hurt, too weak, too shaky. He only just got on his feet yesterday, walked around a bit and decided that today was the day that he felt good enough to try to get to Chad.

Obviously, he was wrong.

"Just ... just give me what you have," his voice cracked, "please."

Jensen let out a long breath, and the hot air hit his face. It smelled sweet. Like candy. He hadn't smelled something that sweet in a very long time.

"Okay, come on, pull up your sleeves."

He did as Jensen asked, shaking his left arm out of his coat's sleeve and then rolling up his shirt, the fabric bunching up above his elbow, putting pressure there, making his veins pop out.

He watched Jensen pull a vial of purple liquid out of his pocket, along with a syringe. There was something fascinating in watching the purple drug being sucked into a glass tube, through something as thin as the needle. The drug sparkled in the low light of the garage, and his mouth watered at the sight. He needed it so badly, he could already taste it in his mouth, feel it in his veins.

"Come on, gimme your arm."

His arm shook when he offered it to Jensen, bony elbow resting on his bony knee, the thin, soft skin on the inside of his elbow nicely stretched and the right vein standing out almost obscenely, waiting to be filled.

He never really paid attention before, because he was still heavily under the influence of the drug whenever he got another dose, but there was a big, black and blue bruise there. A bruise with a lot of tiny holes; needle marks. So many of them. So many years.

"Uh, you sure you want it there? You're bruised really bad."

He ... didn't really know. But he knew that he needed the drug, needed it to take away his thoughts and pain and make him go back out there. To survive.

"I don't know, just ... yeah, I just, I need it. Please, I can't..."

"Hey, okay, it's okay. Your other arm's probably the same, so we'll just ... okay."

He blinked when Jensen grabbed hold of his forearm and pulled it even closer to him, making everything even more tout and he bit his lip when the bruise stretched. He never even noticed that. He didn't want to notice that even right now. He just wanted to feel numb again. Detached.

When Jensen pressed the tip of the needle to his skin he hissed through his tightly clenched teeth. He looked at Jensen, at the green eyes concentrated on him, looking right at him, again, just like at the train station. He wondered who Jensen was. Why was he doing this to him? For him? Why did he have the drug with him? Why didn't he want sex from him? Why did his touch feel so safe and soft? Why were those eyes so penetrating? Why?

And then the grip on his forearm became unbelievably strong, fingers pushing into his skin and he flinched, hissed and tried to pull his arm away, but then he felt the needle slide in, under his skin, straight to where it needed to be and it hurt. He wanted to pull his arm away, but Jensen's hold was too strong.

He looked back at Jensen, couldn't look at the needle piercing the bruise anymore, and saw the deep concentration on the man's face. Why was he doing this? Why did he follow him? Why was he helping him? Why? Just why?

And then the drug was in him, hot and smooth. He could taste it like fresh air in the back of his throat. He smacked his lips, as if he was eating it up, and Jensen chuckled while pulling out the needle and putting it back in his pocket.

He was already starting to feel the drug wrap itself around him, around every part of him and he started swaying, listing to his side. He felt and saw Jensen rub the inside of his elbow, just smoothing everything out with a delicate touch and whispering: "You won't feel anything soon. I promise, kiddo."

Then there was a hand on his shoulder, helping him lay down to the floor.

And when he was lying on his side, his hip deep in a puddle of water, he squeezed his eyes shut, a tear slipping down his cheek again, because ... he didn't want this. He didn't want to become numb; he wanted answers from the man. Wanted to ask why? Why? But his tongue was already feeling heavy, his body relaxing into the ground, his brain shutting down, all the emotions, all the fear, all the questions and memories, all the dreams slowly fading away.

"Whhh..."

He muttered the word. The need to know why, why, why was Jensen doing this? To him? A hooker, a marked man? Why?

He saw Jensen smirk.

"'cause you needed help, kid."

His eyes rolled to the back of his head, the cold from the ground seeping into him, making him shiver and shake. Or maybe that was the drug. Or maybe Jensen's answer. Or maybe it was his whole life, because help? The likes of him didn't get help. Not in this twisted city. Not in this twisted world, they didn't. No help for them, unless it was in the form of restraining hands all over one's body when the tattoo was put on their faces. And that was all.

He opened his eyes and then closed them, because they felt swollen and heavy, but he tried again, just to see Jensen. Just to see those eyes. Eyes that weren't lying. It really was help.

"Don't be scared. 'm not ... 'm not gonna ... 'm not like everyone else, just ... just trust me. Let the drug work and then ... then we'll see, okay?"

He was gasping for breath, wheezing, his chest feeling tight, but it was the best feeling ever and he gladly surrendered to it. He fisted the shirt near his heart, because there was a sharp pain shooting at his heart and gasped when Jensen's fingers pried his away from the fabric and intertwined them with his.

"Okay, kid?"

He was feeling the drug work, but he wanted to feel this for as long as possible. Compassion, kindness, understanding, warmth, safety, Jensen's warm hand in his. Because soon, when the drug would block his feelings and pain receptors, he would ask Jensen if he wants to fuck him.

At least he knew Jensen would want to say no.

The End

A/N: 'Para' means 'steam' in Slovene.