Chapter Text
(See the lights, see the party, the ball gowns
See you make your way through the crowd
And say, "Hello"
Little did I know)
The bar was crowded, Saturday night that it was. Jensen loomed in a corner, arms crossed sternly as he played the role of a diligent bodyguard to one Brad Buckner, the very corrupt politician currently negotiating a deal in arms with Eugenie Lemming.
The instructions were clear. Wait for Lemming to pass on the drive. Subdue Buckner. Take the drive. Get out.
It shouldn’t be that difficult. Buckner was hardly a threat without Lemming’s cooperation and connections. And despite Jensen’s inclination towards minimal violence, he didn’t think he was going to have any trouble with roughing him up.
In the meanwhile… Jensen was bored out of his mind.
Undercover work usually was slow, the ever present danger of being caught simmering in the background. And undercover was Jensen’s specialty.
But this? Hanging out in a bar, alone and clearly radiating a do not interact vibe, while two ultra rich criminals chit-chat the night away? Jensen was dying for company.
No sooner than he’d had the thought, his eyes landed on a man leisurely making his way across the dance floor. He was surveying the bar, only pausing when he caught sight of Buckner and Lemming.
Jensen tensed, ready to do his fake job. The stranger approached, the crowd easily parting for his tall stature. He glanced at Jensen once, interest flickering across his features, before finally reaching the pair at the table. Jensen was there in the next second.
“Mr Buckner,” the man greeted smoothly. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
The politician's glance was lazy and disinterested. "Oh? And you are…?"
The man showed him an ID card. “I’m Sam Wesson, sir. I believe I had a casual interview scheduled with you, according to your assistant?” He cast a worried glance at Lemming. “Unless you’re too busy…”
Jensen relaxed. Buckner might be too busy and/or drunk to remember his scheduled appointments, but his assistant had informed Jensen of Wesson’s interview.
“Oh, yes, I do remember,” Buckner floundered. “And this is, uh, my friend, Eugenie.”
Wesson shook the hand of the co-owner of the largest drug cartel this side of the States. Then he turned to Jensen, who'd sidled close enough to be included. "And you are…?"
"Oh, this is just…" Buckner waved his hand vaguely. "Hired service. Protection."
Jensen held the man’s gaze and nodded politely. "Dean," he introduced himself. As fake names went, it was a pretty simple one.
Lemming cleared her throat. "I'm afraid the interview will have to wait. Feel free to spend time with him until then. Keep the man company. Lord knows what protection he thinks anyone needs in this slump," she scoffed derisively. "Smith, you're excused."
Jensen tried not to sigh. It would be so much easier to keep an eye on Buckner if he didn’t have to entertain a reporter as well, he groused internally, as he led Wesson over to another corner of the bar.
Still, it could be worse, Jensen thought, as he took a second to observe Wesson without the threat-tinted glasses. He was tall, taller than Jensen, and easily the most beautiful person he’d ever seen, with pullable hair that curled adorably behind his ears and exotic features- and he was returning the appreciative gaze too. As soon as Jensen’s job here was done, he’d absolutely love to take this guy back to his hotel room for the night. Being Buckner’s near constant guard did not leave a lot of free time for hookups.
"So, Dean Smith." Wesson smiled brightly at him. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
Jensen gave him an amused smirk. “I have a feeling you’re gonna ask anyway.”
Wesson nodded. “I’ll take that as a yes . So, let’s see, first… What would you like to drink and- second question- can I get you one of it?” It was accompanied by a silly waggle of his eyebrows.
Jensen hesitated before answering, “Whiskey, usually, and no, you can’t. Sorry.”
Wesson pouted. “You’ve been dismissed,” he reminded.
“Officially, I’m still on-duty, though,” Jensen corrected. “But feel free to drink if you want.”
“And leave you sober alone? Not a chance,” he scoffed.
Jensen refused to admit he found the guy oddly charming on top of hot. “Do you usually hit on the bodyguards of the people you’re supposed to be interviewing?”
Wesson seemed to think about it, gaze drifting around the bar in consideration. “Only if my interviewee blows me off.” He looked back at Jensen and leaned closer, lips brushing against his ear. “And if the bodyguard happens to be as pretty as you.”
Jensen swallowed, taken aback by the sudden rush of heat racing down his spine at the light touch, though his eyes stayed trained on his boss. “Pretty? Really, Sammy ?” He was trying to come off as disgruntled, but sounded flustered instead.
Wesson- Sam chuckled slightly. “Hot? Handsome? Take your pick, baby.”
Jensen was not going to be so easily outdone. He turned his head slightly, lips moving against the corner of Sam’s mouth. “You’re terrible at subtlety, Wesson.”
Sam smiled sweetly. “You have no idea,” he murmured in agreement. With another quick glance around, this time seeming more like he was checking for people watching, he curled his larger hand around the back of Jensen’s neck. Jensen tore his eyes away from his targets and let himself be maneuvered into a kiss with zero hesitation.
He responded immediately, fingers sliding into Sam’s hair and pulling, lips parting in welcome. Sam gasped slightly at the quick tug and Jensen smirked into the kiss. Of course, retaliation came in the form of blunt nails digging into his thighs and Jensen couldn’t stop a light hum from escaping, the sound lost in the bustle of the crowd around them.
When they broke apart, Jensen had the sense to peek at the table he was supposed to be watching- Lemming was making her way out of the bar and Buckner was sitting alone. Perfect timing.
“Don’t suppose we can take this somewhere else?” He asked in a whisper, gaze flicking back to Sam. “I should be free in a few minutes.”
Sam opened his eyes, blue eyes almost black with lust. “Yeah, me too.” He took a deep breath, shuddering when Jensen traced a finger up the inseam of his jeans. He looked around again. “I need to make a phone call, let my boss know the interview’s been postponed.” He gave a quick smile. “Wait for me.”
Jensen leaned back in his seat with a grin. “Not going anywhere without you,” he drawled with a wink.
Sam laughed a little, before getting up. Jensen felt a flash of smugness when he subtly adjusted his jeans. Sam walked out the exit. As soon as he was out of sight, Jensen burst into motion, winding his way through the dance crowd. Buckner was focused on his drink. He had no warning for the way Jensen was suddenly pressed against his back, the unmistakable muzzle of a gun pushing against his lower back.
“Move and I’ll let you bleed out on the floor,” he threatened in a low voice.
Buckner remained still, breath coming a little faster. “Who are you?” He asked quietly.
“Does it matter?” Jensen leaned a little to the side. To the onlooker, he was just someone trying to move around another patron to get the bartender’s attention. “I want the drive.”
“What drive?” There was a pause, then he laughed. “Singer’s business details? Eugenie isn’t an idiot, Smith. Or whoever you are. She’s not gonna hand it over before I pay up.”
Jensen cursed under his breath. “Does Lemming have it on her then?”
“You gonna let me go if I tell you?” Buckner challenged. But there was a thin veneer of fear under the bravado: he had no clue where the drive was.
Jensen slapped a hand over Buckner’s mouth and pulled the trigger- three quick shots at zero distance. The man spasmed sharply, cries muffled against Jensen’s palm. The gunshots were drowned out in the sounds of the club. Jensen let go, stepping back into the crowd without looking. Buckner would die of blood loss if not from actual injury and it would take a few minutes before anyone noticed something wrong with the body slumped motionless over the bartop.
Lemming had gone out the exit. Chances were she still had the drive. Hopefully. Picking up his pace, he went that way. The back exit led into a narrow alley, unlit except by the cloudy sky.
He could make out two figures standing in the middle and one was definitely Lemming, facing the end of the alley, and the other was…
Jensen cursed. Sam Wesson was not a reporter. A reporter wouldn’t be pointing a gun at someone.
He stepped out, his own weapon drawn and aimed. “Drop the gun, Wesson,” he called loudly.
Sam- Wesson and Lemming turned together. Jensen focused on Wesson’s gun: Taurus P99. Not a common choice for law enforcement, so that was a good sign that he and Jensen weren’t on the same side here.
That didn’t stop Wesson from trying. “Dean,” he said soothingly. “You’ve got this wrong.”
Jensen barely reacted. “Drop. The gun. Now.” Internally, he wondered who Wesson was. A rogue hitman? Part of Carver’s gang? Whatever he was, Jensen needed him out of the picture.
Wesson, seemingly calculating his chances, nodded grimly, crouching slowly and placing his gun on the ground.
Jensen turned to Lemming, though his weapon stayed trained on Wesson. “Where’s the pendrive?” He demanded. “I know you haven’t given it to Buckner yet. Where is it?”
Lemming answered easily, “It's with this tall one."
Jensen didn’t have time to think. Wesson had lunged into a quick roll, moving in under the gun and stabbing Jensen’s leg with a knife.
Jensen buckled, letting out a yelp of pain at the sharp stinging ache in his knee, grabbing Wesson’s shoulders and trying to push him off. He fell, Wesson on top of him. The gun in his hand went off once before Wesson managed to wrestle it away, knees digging into Jensen’s sides as he punched him once quickly. Pain bloomed across his face as Wesson scrambled to his feet, picking his own gun up.
Teeth grit, he glared down at Jensen. “Is Buckner dead?”
Jensen pursed his lips, but didn’t answer, staring back in defiance at the gun even as he clutched his bleeding leg. Lemming was nowhere to be seen either, obviously having run when the tussle started.
Wesson cursed under his breath. The sound of sirens could be heard. Either Buckner’s body had been noticed or Lemming had called them in as a distraction. He crouched, arm moving back swiftly, and his regretful features were the last thing Jensen saw before a resounding blow to his head made everything go black.
Jensen woke up in his hotel room, eyes itchy from dry contacts, the curtains drawn and a warm blanket drawn up to his chin. When it took him a few seconds to register the bandage above his knee and the dull ache of a black eye, he realized the fog in his mind was because of mild pain meds. Disgruntled, he stumbled to his feet, set about making himself human, while wondering who had picked him up from the alley and patched him up. The question was answered when the door opened and Chris walked in.
“Yo, Ackles! Get your ass in gear, you got a meeting with Zach.”
Jensen groaned, stumbling over to the bed. “Can’t I call in sick?” He asked. “I have a busted leg.”
“It’s barely a flesh wound and it’ll heal in about two weeks,” Kane scoffed. “And Zach is… Well, you know how he gets.”
“That smarmy I’m not mad, just disappointed look? Yeah.” Jensen sighed and took the laptop, bracing himself. A few clicks later, he was staring into the stiffly smiling face of his balding boss.
“Jensen, Jensen, Jensen.” Zachariah clicked his tongue in reprimand. “It was a very simple task: get the pendrive with the manifests.”
“There was a third party, sir,” Jensen said levelly. “He was after the pendrive too and I’m pretty sure he has it right now.”
“Is that so? What about Lemming?”
“Lemming escaped while I was preoccupied with my competition.”
Zachariah nodded slowly. “Give me a description,” he ordered. “I’ll have Day do a search through the camera feed at the club.”
Jensen closed his eyes. “Late twenties. Dark, almost shoulder-length hair.” Impossibly soft. “Tall- around 6’5”.” Legs for miles . “Over 200 pounds.” Wide-as-fuck shoulders. “Slightly exotic features.” Glass-cut cheekbones. “No accent.” And a damn good kisser. “Has at least basic training in some form of martial arts. And handy with a knife.” Yes, officer, that’s the man of my future wet dreams.
“Very well.”
Jensen opened his eyes to see Zachariah pinning him with a hearty smile and dead eyes. “Sir?”
“You’ve got a week to try and catch up with Lemming and get a copy of everything that was on the pendrive. Sources say she’s near Austin.”
“I can’t work in Austin, sir, my family lives there.”
Zachariah’s smile grew. “Near Austin, I said. I hope to hear from you soon, Jensen.”
The call ended and Jensen resisted the urge to smash the laptop.
Chris was smirking at him. “You got a little drool on your chin.”
“Shut up,” Jensen sniped.
“Hey, I’m not judging.” His grin was downright devious. “I mean, who isn’t attracted to someone who can probably kill you in a hundred different ways?”
Jensen fell back on his pillows to muffle the laughter. “Burn in hell, Kane.”