Chapter Text
By the time Jensen reached the yard later that afternoon, the rumors had spread like wildfire. Too many eyes followed him, too many mouths running.
“You got a new pet, Ackles?” someone jeered from the weights area.
“Sharing secrets with the nurse now?” another sneered. “What’s he giving you—pills, candy, a back rub?”
Jensen ignored it at first. He’d learned that silence could cut deeper than threats. But when one of the bigger inmates—Mark Pellegrino, a lifer with nothing to lose—stepped right into his path, the air shifted.
“You think you’re untouchable,” Mark growled. “But everyone’s got a weakness. Guess yours is the pretty boy in scrubs.”
The yard erupted with laughter.
Jensen’s jaw flexed. “Walk away, Mark.”
Mark didn’t. He shoved Jensen hard, and that was it.
The fight exploded fast—fists cracking, bodies slamming into concrete. Jensen moved like a storm, all precision and fury, but Mark had backup. Two more jumped in, and soon blood was spilling, the yard a roar of chaos. Guards swarmed, batons raised, whistles screaming, but not before Jensen took a blade across his ribs.
An hour later, Jared’s office door burst open. Two guards dragged Jensen in, blood soaking through his shirt, his mouth twisted in a grimace.
“Patch him up, kid,” one snapped. “And hurry. He nearly killed three of ‘em, but he’s leaking bad.”
They dropped him into the chair and left, slamming the door behind them.
Jared’s breath caught. “God, Jensen—”
“Don’t.” Jensen’s voice was rough, pained, but steady. “Don’t look at me like that. Just do your job.”
Jared moved quickly, grabbing gloves and supplies, tearing open gauze. His hands shook as he peeled Jensen’s shirt back and saw the gash along his ribs.
“This needs stitches,” Jared muttered. “You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper.”
Jensen let out a humorless laugh, wincing when Jared pressed a cloth against the wound. “Lucky isn’t what I’d call it.”
As Jared cleaned and closed the wound, he felt Jensen’s eyes on him—sharp, unblinking, even through the pain.
“You hear what they said?” Jensen asked, voice low.
Jared hesitated. “Yeah. About me.”
Jensen’s hand shot out, gripping Jared’s wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to anchor him. “Don’t let it get to you. They’re vultures. They’ll pick at anything. But you—” His voice hitched as Jared pushed the needle through his skin, though he didn’t flinch. “You don’t belong in their mouths.”
Jared swallowed, throat tight, stitching as carefully as he could. “And you? You nearly got yourself killed.”
“Yeah,” Jensen murmured, finally letting go of his wrist. “But I won’t let them use you against me. They try again, I’ll make sure it’s their last mistake.”
When Jared tied off the last stitch and taped the dressing in place, his chest ached with a confusing mix of fear, anger, and something he didn’t want to name yet.
“You’re insane,” he whispered.
Jensen smirked faintly, though his face was pale. “Maybe. But I’m still here. Thanks to you.”
And for the second time that day, Jared realized Jensen had chosen to trust him—with his blood, his body, and maybe even his secret weakness.
The next morning, Jared felt the shift the moment he stepped onto the block.
The stares were sharper now, following him from the catwalks, from the tables, from the weight benches. Not the usual curiosity he’d gotten as the new kid in scrubs—but something heavier, darker. A predator’s patience.
“Morning, doc,” someone called from a cell, voice oily. “How’s your boyfriend’s ribs?”
Laughter rippled down the tier. Jared kept walking, clipboard tight in his grip, eyes fixed ahead. Don’t engage. Don’t give them anything.
But it didn’t stop. At pill call, a tattooed inmate leaned in too close, breath sour on Jared’s cheek. “Maybe you slip me something sweet, huh? Like you do for Ackles.”
Another whistled. “Bet he screams your name when you stick him with a needle.”
Jared’s hand trembled as he doled out the meds, but his voice stayed flat, professional. “Next.”
They didn’t want meds. They wanted to see him crack.
By lunch, the whispers had spread into full-on theater. A group at the far table mimed stitches with plastic knives, chanting, “Nurse boy, nurse boy,” until a guard barked at them to cut it out. Even then, Jared caught the smirks—the promise it wasn’t over.
When he ducked into the staff corridor for a breath, his heart slammed against his ribs. He could feel it building, the way a storm pressed down before breaking. They were circling him, testing him, looking for the weakness Jensen had spilled blood over.
And when Jared returned to the infirmary later, a folded piece of paper was waiting on his desk. No name. Just a crude sketch in black ink: a stick figure with a needle in its chest, Xs for eyes.
His stomach dropped.
The guards would call it a joke. The warden would tell him to toughen up. But Jared knew better—this was how it started. The intimidation. The warnings.
And somewhere in the back of the block, he knew Jensen would hear about it.
Which meant the storm was only going to get worse.