Chapter Text
Starting a new job makes people nervous.
Starting this job shouldn't make Jared nervous, not with 3 years of Army Service behind him and two feet forward.
Most people want to make a good impression, meet friendly colleagues, and get a decent boss who doesn't ride their ass. Jared has to make the people he's charged with protecting fear him, that way they won't try to kill him. Training taught him that the first day is the most important; that's what inmates and guards have in common. That's where the similarities end.
He's reaching 25 and he's nervous that today is the day a mass riot will take the prison hostage, and he'll never see the outside world. Because despite 36 months of army regulated enlistment, he hasn't seen much action. In all honesty he hasn't killed anyone, and hasn't ever fired a bullet that successfully brought down a target.
He isn't the poster boy for Uncle Sam to use for recruitment drives along the country. He's a far stretch from Captain America. Starting a new job in a prison means he'll have a future in law enforcement, and that's the only reason he changes careers. It's also the reason he abandons law enforcement all together.
*
His first day is underwhelming. Shadowing guards and memorising schedules is all he's permitted to do, and the finite amount of training he received over prepares him in regard to menial learning.
However, the training didn't warn him about the animalistic nature of the prisoners, or the sinister glares the Correction Officers shoot their way. He sees that first-hand when Christian Kane walks him onto Ward B at the end of his tour; the Ward he'll be responsible for. They group prisoners and guards together to build a misshapen trust relationship.
Kane leads him along the dust-bricked corridor with a sneer pointed at certain inmates. Although Jared instinctively distrusts all of them, he has a fairly open mind, and he's willing to base his judgements on the men themselves rather than second-hand opinions or the institution itself.
They reach the end of the caged line up and Jared catches the eye of one of the prisoners. He's lounging on the bed, a paperback next to him and a smile lazily drawn onto his face. When they make contact his green eyes travel down the length of Jared's body like he's sizing him up.
Jared frowns and turns back to Kane, listening to him explain that the doors get stuck because they're old as shit. In future shifts he'll have to check, manually close the dysfunctional ones himself.
"When do I read their files?" He asks, once the other man has stopped his narcissistic driven hate-rant. Jared was born in Texas, has a proud military stick n poke tattoo to support that, but he hates the nasty twang of Kane's Texan accent.
"You mean you haven't yet?" Jared shakes his head, hair brushing his forehead.
"Fuckin' fish. Whenever you get a free moment head down to office. It's not an issue that you haven't done it yet, but they should've taken you down earlier," Chris pauses, "You do know where the office is right?" He asks, like Jared's a dumb fuck they caught hitchhiking and slapped a job on his back so he wouldn't have to anymore.
"Of course," Jared deadpans.
With the informal Q&A over, Chris dumps Jared to find his way back to the entrance/exit. As his back retreats, Jared catches the words "Fucking sass me boy, fucking asshole newbies," that Kane mutters to himself.
He's a nasty piece of work, Jared decides, and he wants to do everything to avoid him.
First official task of the new job involves him locking up inmates the next day. Turns out Kane was right about one thing, the cell doors aren't reliable and are old as shit.
As long as he holds his head high and doesn't flinch at the catcalls and sadistic jeers he's doing well. Slide, and shut. Another creature locked away. Repeat; slide, and shut. Bodies slink into the shadows, razor sharp teeth imprisoned in the cage.
Out of boredom, and a misplaced arrogance, Jared experimentally twirls his black billy club, tossing it up in the air and catching it. He makes an effort to ignore the leering of inmates behind white decaying bars, and tries for another throw. Asserting his dominance via baton twirling.
As soon as the stick hits the ground he's panicking. Some of the cells are still open, one of them could grab it and beat him to death, and in the event of complete anarchy they could initiate a revolution. He's well versed in physical combat, but they have the desire to escape.
He tracks the rolling weapon, hiding his panic, until it's stopped by a booted foot.
"Step away from the door inmate."
The black leather boot doesn't move an inch and he risks a look at the suspect. Green eyes. Up close Jared can see the uneven cut of his short tousled hair, watercolour dots of freckles, and the familiar twisting smile.
"Move. Get in your cell," Jared injects authority into his voice, replicating the demanding tone that all other guards seem to have mastered. He casually kicks the club in Jared's direction, but doesn't move from the arms crossed leaning position he's inhabited in the doorway.
"I don't bite," he speaks, deep and gravelled with a hint of amusement. Like Jared is the one amusing him.
"No?" Jared asks, stupidly.
The guy shakes his head slowly and smiles wider.
Jared could swear he doesn't have the same masked evil painted into his figure like the other prisoners who'd been taunting him since he stepped foot on the ward this morning, hoping he'd take the bait so they'd have a form of conflict to keep them alive.
"What's your name inmate?"
"Jensen. Ackles."
"Ackles. Get in your cage," Jared lets the word slip by accident. He isn't wrong, their cells are two by four rooms with little breathing space.
Jensen doesn't say anything, simply steps back like Jared asked, but the look on his face throws Jared off. He looks comfortable behind bars, relaxing in the small space he's been granted. It's not like the pacing he's seen, or the awkward stretching and angered punching others inflict on the walls.
He makes a mental note to check the inmate files when he clocks off, to check whether the inmate, Ackles, is extremely guilty or employing an act.
"Three down, Impala."
Jared's eyebrows knit together, "What?"
Jensen nods at the unfinished crossword sticking out of his front pocket.
"Three down. Chevrolet's best selling automobile in 1965, six letters. Impala."
Jared unfolds the thin paper and checks the blank section, undeniably impressed that he got an answer from the obscure clue.
"I do the same one every morning," Ackles helpfully supplies this information.
Jared becomes aware that he's been talking to an inmate for too long, talking to an inmate in the first place, and he nods curtly at Ackles. He forces himself not to look back as he walks down the hall, billy club back in his hand. If he had, he'd have seen the crooked smile still on Jensen's face.
He's not here to make friends with criminals.
*
Jared meets Chad Michael Murray on his third day. He's squinty, blonde cropped hair, and a silver chain hidden beneath his brown shirt.
"Fuckin' sasquatch. They're gonna be shit scared of you in no time," is his way of saying hello, and Jared finds something endearing in his asshole persona.
"Ya think?" He asks, fighting the urge to readjust his uniform and stand to attention.
"Hell yeah. Padalecki is it? Kindred spirit, I can't pronounce half the names of the guys in here," Jared doesn't think that kind of ignorance is something to be proud of, but Chad has a refreshing self assured confidence that isn't fuelled by a need to wave his dick around. He's a simple-to-understand asshole, the type to brag about one night stands but not to show himself as the Alpha, to make people recoil as he goes laughing into graphic detail. At least, that's what he finds out after a few days of working alongside the guy.
They're transporting inmates to work duty, five guards staring at the line up of prisoners as they leave their cells.
Jared's starting to understand how repetitive life is on the inside. The daily routine in the most basic form consists of:
Breakfast - 45 minutes, lock up
Lunch - 45 minutes, lock up
Dinner - 45 minutes, lock up for bed
With mandatory yard time and work hours slotted in depending on the inmates duties. All the inmates he's in charge of in Ward B are assigned kitchen jobs, which makes transportation easier.
Murray unlocks the cell doors individually, counting as he goes. Jensen is the last to emerge from his barred cage, orange uniform tight across his shoulders and neck cracking as he tilts it to the side.How long has he been in here?
Jared inexplicably sees him as an outsider, even though he's clearly used to life on the inside.
Chad yells, "You know the drill," and they're moving, one foot in front of the other in a pounding rhythm sending Jared back to his army days. So far he thinks he's doing well at exuding a pseudo-confidence, the 6'5" height advantage definitely helps sell the image of authority. The worst thing to happen now, would be them figuring out his sexual orientation. Texas is homophobic enough, but Texan prisons?
There's a reason the incarceration rate is so high in the lone star state, and it's not synonymous with forgiveness no matter how many Christians pile into Churches every Sunday.
When they arrive at the kitchens, large deadbolt unlocked by Chad's sterling key, the men automatically go to their individual working stations like acutely trained dogs. There are sections locked within the room, such as storage, knives, the ovens and stoves. The smell of disinfectant and poorly made oatmeal fills his sinuses.
Unlike the rest of the prison, the kitchens are spacious, with wiped-down surfaces to prepare food. The singular constant is the barred windows, and Jared notices them built into each outside wall. If he ever got claustrophobic, he would here, prisoner or not.
"Third day right?" Chad asks, continuously scanning the room. Jared nods, then realises Chad isn't looking, and murmurs "Yeah."
"They'll stop calling you fish pretty soon."
Jared knows about prison nicknames. He's spent many mornings hungover watching the history channel, shark week, documentaries. Like when your skull is screaming at you it's the best time to learn something.
"Some - Miguel and his crew- have started calling you Moose. Pretty clever, for them."
"They've got some weird animal fetish." Jared smirks.
Initially it was strange to stand on the side lines and watch the men at work. If the job description was stripped down to an ugly jagged skeleton it would read 'intense non-sexual voyeurism', because at the core that's what it is. It's only when the complexities of human nature and the psychology of power are added that it becomes a mind fuck of control and obey.
Jared's eyes drift to Jensen. He's standing sideways to Jared, peeling potatoes and tossing them into a large plan with a look of empty compliance. Repetitive madness. Chinese water torture.
"Do I need to look out for Miguel?"
Currently the inmate is unpacking cardboard boxes full of tin cans carefully slotted together to save transport space. Faded tattoos are etched into his naturally tanned skin, marring it like a burn victim. He's considerably shorter than Jared, and he thinks he'd probably be able to take him in a fight.
Ruthlessness outweighs justice. Evil defeats good.
"You need to look out for all these sons a bitches. That's your first mistake-- thinking some are less dangerous than others."
Jensen is lifting another bag of potatoes up to the counter, his arms flex, muscles appearing. He splits the bag with a blunt knife and repeats the peeling process.
"Maybe."
*
Jensen is on his bed, starch white sheets neatly tucked into the corners with a crisp finish. When Jared walks past, in charge of lock up again, he surges up from his reclining position and sits on the scratchy woollen blanket, mouth curling up in the edges.
"What'd you get for five across?"
"Smith & Wesson. Thought you'd have got that one," Jared says, eyeing him coldly. Chad's words are at the forefront of his mind. Jensen is no less dangerous than the others and his oddly placed interest in Jared should stop.
Jensen's head tilts like a puzzled cat.
"What makes you say that?"
"Oh, right," Jared scoffs, "You've never fired a gun before. You're innocent."
Jensen's demeanour evolves, he becomes closed off and his words are cutting. "This isn't Shawshank Padalecki. We aren't all victims of the system. But I sure as shit ain't a murderer."
For any other inmate he would tell them to shut the fuck up, bark the words and move on to the next. But he can't find the words, so he leaves the conversation unfinished.
At the end of his shift his boots echo on the empty corridor floor leading to the office. He slides open the metal filing cabinet and pulls out all records for Ward B, dropping them onto the cheap round coffee table and opening the first.
Most inmates are sectioned for drugs, assaults, breaking and entering. There are one or two sexual assaults but no massacres or gang rape cases. They go straight to death row in Texas, and Jared refuses to feel anything close to sympathy for them. Unless it's a mistrial and they are innocent.
Miguel's folder stands out. It's thicker than the others, yellowing paper and stacks of white pages. Shots, case information, good behaviour, bad behaviour. He's been in for 12 years, 28 remaining. A life sentence.
Drug trafficking through Columbia, Mexico, across the border to Texas. His case pegs him as one of the top guys in the operation, it's likely he was involved in several minor assaults, but no conclusive evidence. At one point there was a murder inquisition but nothing turned up.
Jared sighs, rubs the shadow of stubble on his cheek.
Close to finishing, he'd worked Z-A and there was only one file left to read. It's close to midnight and the fluorescent ceiling bar light flickers before settling again. His hand drags the last file to the forefront of the table and flips it around.
Ackles, Jensen.
If it's anything that's caused harm to another person he has a reason to hate him.
He should anyway.
Name: Jensen Ross Ackles
DOB: March 1, 1978
POB: Dallas, TX
Height: 6' 1"
Weight: 175lb
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Green
Sentence: 7 years. Grand theft auto with multiple credit card fraud.
Arrested in Austin, TX. Stole a jet black four-seater 1967 Chevrolet Impala, used a fraudulent card to buy a 10 pack of condoms and a bottle of Jack, and was arrested outside the gas station. Apparently the car had belonged to Jep Robertson, Duck Dynasty alumni and reputable homophobe.
Well fuck.
Jared thinks he's pretty open minded. Really, he shouldn't have entered the law enforcement field because he's so open minded. And compassionate. In fact, he shoplifted as a teenager. What this means is he generally thinks theft is okay. Sometimes. If it's for a noble cause like Robin Hood.
Stealing a car from a homophobic asshole? It's strangely acceptable in Jared's mind. Impala.
Ackles other criminal history included 2 minor car thefts -- meaning they weren't celebrities cars, Jared scoffs -- along with several cases of credit card fraud that span over five years. Currently he's 2 years through his 7 year sentence and his first credit card cause was when he was 20. That makes him 27. Huh.
Jared thumbs the page over to extra information. Christian upbringing but registered Atheist. Two siblings, one brother, one sister (exactly like Jared) but his sister died when he was 17. Joined the North Texas Chapter of the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence when he was 18.
There's a bang like the harsh closing of a door down the hall and footsteps right up to the door. It opens and Chad's blonde head peeks through, tiredly looking at Jared.
"You nearly done? I gotta lock up."
Jared looks guiltily back down at the folder in front of him that he'd been so invested in. There's another paragraph with additional family history, along with a lengthy trial, and several pages full of his disciplinary history and good behaviour reports.
One look at Chad and he's closing it, stacking the multitude of paperwork and slotting it back into place. His back cracks uncomfortably due to the position he'd been sat in but he ignores it.
"Done," He announces, and they walk down to the break room together, both finished for the day.
When he leaves the Texas Penitentiary he's overcome with the desire to apologise. For insulting Ackles earlier, for his sisters death, and for the Time.
It's a dangerous thought.