A/N: I blame insanity. Really, I do. I own nothing, not even the plot bunny that gnawed on me, not really. It found me while I was reading "Pack Law" by fedaykin_here (LJ), so I guess I can blame her for this story. The title is taken from the song "This Life" by Curtis Stigers & The Forest Rangers, which is the theme song for the show Sons of Anarchy.
This Life
"Who are you?"
"There is no term for who and what I am," Jensen replied easily, leaning back in his chair.
The cop before him, a man who'd past his prime by about fifteen years, slammed his hands down on the table before Jensen in anger. "Don't give me that bullshit! I know damn well you are affiliated what that gang."
Folding his hands behind his head, Jensen arched an eyebrow. "Club," he said simply.
"What was that?"
"Club. They are a club. Filled with motorcycle enthusiasts. Not a gang," he said.
"I don't care if they are the countries leaders, I want them out of my city. And in jail," the cop snarled, thin lips pulling back from his coffee stained teeth. His black hair was trimmed close to his skull, almost military short.
Jensen shrugged, smiling at him. "Sucks to be you then. Because I know nothin'. Just a simple vet."
The cops eyes narrowed, "Vet my ass," he grumbled as he stood back up. A tap on the door called him outside of the interrogation room.
Jensen smiled to himself, rocking his chair back onto two legs as he waited. It wasn't his first time sitting in this room, and he doubted that it would be his last. Such was the life of being involved with the local MC. But it was worth it. To him anyways. And he'd never betray them; they were more his family that his own flesh and blood had ever been.
He studied his reflection in the mirror that separated himself from the local cops, rocking his chair back and forth gently. The light green scrub top he wore would definitely need to be changed before the barbecue tonight. There was some blood staining over his side from an operation earlier. He'd probably be able to keep the jeans on, they weren't covered in anything – yet. His green eyes were looking a bit red though. Glasses it would be. Damn police station's air conditioner was dry and fucking up his contacts. He rolled his head toward the door when it was opened.
"You are free to go," the cop who had been interrogating him said grudgingly.
Letting his chair dropped back to the floor with a loud iclack!/i, Jensen smiled. "Thanks so much for the hospitality, it's been a blast!" he smarted off as he slid past the cop and into the hallway. Nodding to the others in the main office area, he strode past them and out the glass doors, happy to be out in the damp coastal air that blew in along the river.
Unsurprisingly, a motorcycle waited for him in the parking lot. More than likely Danneel, his vet tech, had called the club when he'd been picked up at the office. He really didn't pay her enough for putting up with all this bullshit.
A stalky man leaned on the bike, his booted ankles crossed in front of him. His faded jeans were ripped at the bottom, making room for the bulky leather boots. Another hole was in the knee, showing a scarred and recently skinned knee to anyone who glanced in that direction. His cut was zipped up, plastered against his muscled chest. Other than some jewelry, he wore no other clothing – not even a shirt. Just his skin and the tattoos that covered his arms and one on the side of his neck, half hidden by long brown hair. He uncrossed his arms when Jensen got close.
"Whatcha do?" the man drawled, voice low and thick with a Southern accent.
Jensen narrowed his eyes at the words, bristling. "I'll have you know, Chris, that I did nothing. They're still sniffing around that dead Skin."
Pushing off the bike, Chris grabbed his helmet off the handlebars. "That was months ago. They really need to leave it alone," he grumbled and offered the spare to Jensen.
"You know damn well they won't. They hate ya'll. Especially Sheriff Collins."
"Well too damn bad," Chris replied. He jabbed his thumb at one of the patches on the front of his cut that said "Sergeant at Arms". "This here gives me the authority to kick his pansy ass to next Tuesday." He then jabbed at the on below it, "Men of Mayhem". "And this one says I am more than willing do to my duty for the club and kill his pansy ass."
Jensen patted the older mans arm gently, over the snarling wolf tattoo on his bicep. "I know. But it ain't like they are going to be able to do anything more that question me. Soon enough he'll have to let it go. Or loose his position in the force when he can't explain why precious tax dollars are going to picking up an innocent Veterinarian from his place of work.:
"Innocent my ass," Christian groused as he swung a leg over the bike. "Trouble follows you like a bad smell."
"Does not," Jensen replied, sliding onto the bitch seat behind Chris. "My life was perfectly normal until ya'll waltzed into it."
"You mean Jared."
"Mmhm."
"You were in the first grade."
"Doesn't mean that my life was normal for those few short years."
Chris didn't reply, just kicked the 2003 Harley Davidson© Fatboy Chopper to life. The engine beneath the black tank roared and shook, sending vibrations throughout the entire bike. He ran one hand gently over the image of running wolves beneath a howling wolf head that was painted on the tank before grabbing the ape hangers. "Ready?" he called over the engine.
Jensen didn't bother to try and reply, knowing how hard it was to be heard over the bike. His answer was in his actions. He grabbed onto Christian's hips, and steadied himself.
His answer was read loud and clear as the throttle opened up and the bike pulled out of the parking slot, leaving behind a line of burned rubber. Jensen kept his head held to the side so Christian's long hair wouldn't whack him in the face, a lesson he'd learned the hard way the first time he rode with the older man.
The ride was short, only about ten minutes, since the rural town that they lived it wasn't all that large. Chris pulled the bike up alongside Jensen's black '67 Chevy Impala and shut the motor off.
Placing a hand on the other man's shoulder, Jensen used it to steady himself as he swung off the bike. "Thanks for the lift," he said as he unbuckled the helmet and handed it over to the biker.
"No problem. See you at the barbecue?"
"Of course," Jensen smiled. "Wouldn't miss Sam's cooking for the world. Plus, I'm pretty sure she and Jared would skin me if I even thought of skipping out on a family get together."
"Right you are on that one, son," Chris laughed, strapping the spare helmet to the bitch seat. He tapped his fingers to his own helmet, nodding at Jensen before he started his bike up once more and backed away.
Jensen waved back and headed into the office building.
Bikes and cars were lined up and down the street by the time Jensen turned onto it. He'd swung by the house after work to change into a clean shirt – a worn, but clean, shirt he bought years ago at a Def Leppard concert – and exchange his contacts for his simple, wire-framed glasses. He nudged his giant boat of a car in between Steve's big truck and a group of bikes that looked like they belonged to Mayhem Murray, Rosey, and Welling.
Music and the dull roar of voices greeted his ears as he got out of the car, tugging a smile from his lips. Definitely a usual family gathering and if they weren't who they were, he was pretty sure that the neighbors would've had them all called in for disturbing the peace ages ago.
Jensen pushed through the wood gate at the side of the house and into the crowded backyard, contentment settling over him. Children ran around the back yard, playing their games under the ever watchful eyes of all the adults. A series of picnic tables had been lined up end to end across the yard. Several of the women were setting it with paper plates, utensils and other things needed for the meal. The rest of the women were gossiping together or with their men. Men who were, for the most part had a beer in hand, and some where already half way to drunk, though knew better than to go any farther than that until the meal was over. He made his way over to one of the older women settling out plates. She was dressed in jeans, knee high black leather boots and a red strapless shirt with a black see-through lacy number over it.
He leaned over, kissing her cheek gently. "Hey Sam," he greeted.
She smiled, turning to face him. "Glad you could make it," she said warmly, gathering him close in a hug.
"Wouldn't miss one of your barbecue's," he replied when the hug ended. "If you are here, who's manning the grill?"
"My idiot son," she replied affectionately.
Jensen laughed, head tilting back slightly. "You left Jared alone with fire? Are you mad, woman?"
"Maybe," she replied with a smile before swatting at him. "Why don't you go play chaperone, hm?"
"Yes, ma'am," Jensen replied, ducking his head to kiss her cheek once again before he left. He wove his way through the people gathered, greeting them as he went.
At the side of the house a large Brickman© grill was set up on a stone slab. Behind it stood a giant of a man. At six and a half feet tall, he was intimidating without the large muscles and tattoos that he sported. Jeans and boots – like all the other men – adorned his body. Along with a torso hugging black tee-shirt, that left little to nothing to the imagination. Over that was his leather cut, showing off how broad his shoulders really were. Like Christian's, the front was adorned with patches. From the clubs name – Werewolves – to Men of Mayhem. But instead of Sergeant at Arms, his proclaimed that he was the President. Without looking, Jensen already knew what the patches on the back where. Arching over the mans shoulders was the world "Werewolves" in a stylization that belonged to them alone. Below that was a gruesome image of a snarling wolf, blood staining it's teeth and curled muzzle. To finish it off was two more things, a square patch, just to the lower left of the wolf, that read "MC" and below that, finishing the arch of the top word, "California". Arching underneath one arm another patch read "West Sacramento". Long hair curled around the collar of the cut, damp from sweat caused by the heat coming off the grill. Stormy blue-green fox titled eyes lifted and caught Jensen's as he broke out of the throng of people. The man's wide mouth broke into a bright grin – drawing Jensen in -, dimples creasing his cheeks.
Jensen moved to the man's side, leaning up for a kiss when he was in reach. To which he received. Deep and strong enough to leave his toes curling in his shoes.
"Hey beautiful," Jared smiled as he gazed down at Jensen.
"Hey right back," Jensen replied, leaning comfortably into his side. Jared looped a long arm over Jensen's shoulders, holding him close.
"Danneel called me earlier," Jared said after a bit, flipping one of the steaks on the grill before him. "Collins give you too much trouble?"
Jensen sighed, shaking his head. "I actually didn't have to deal with him. He sent one of his flunky's in to do his dirty work. They gave up soon enough. They had nothing on me, or you guys. Just the usual bullshit."
"They'll give up soon. They ain't going to find anything."
"I know," Jensen replied, resting his head on Jared shoulder. "Collins just hates you."
Jared laughed at that, setting his utensils aside. He turned to face Jensen, sliding his hands down the older mans sides until he was able to cup his ass, pulling him in close. "Hm, I wonder why that is?" he smirked, dipping his head down to kiss and bite at the side of Jensen's neck, dragging a moan from the smaller man.
Jensen tipped his head back and to the side, making room for Jared. "Maybe because you made away with the guy he had his eye on," he suggested.
The biker before him pulled back, eyes dark as he licked his lips. "Damn right I did," he said possessively as he leaned in to kiss Jensen hungrily.
Because the thing is, Sheriff Misha Collins never had a chance at dating Jensen Ackles when they were high school. Since that day in first grade when he ran into the younger Jared Padalecki, he'd been taken. At that age, he didn't know how things would turn out, just that he'd wanted to be around the younger boy. And here he was. The only Veterinarian in their rural town on the outskirts of the state capital and dating the President of the local One Percenter Motorcycle Club. He'd been right, earlier that day, there is no term for who and what he is, for homosexual relationships were rare in their world. But given Jared's size, his family history in the club, and who he was, no one argued. So, Jensen wasn't a Mama or a Sweetbutt or even and Old Lady. He was Jared's. And that was enough for him.
A/N:
Christian's bike is here: databikes imgs/a/b/b/a/x/ harley_davidson_fat_boy_2003_3_lgw . jpg
And for more pictures: databikes infophoto/harley_davidson/ fat_boy-2003 . html
I was very happy about this find. I knew what I wanted him to ride, had the image in my head, but I was hoping to find the right year with googles help, because I wasn't too sure what year his model was. Only took me three tries to get it. And what makes me very very happy is that this bike even has the right handle bars! Love those ape hangers! Just needs a repainting and BAMB it's his bike.