Chapter Text
~ ACT I ~
PROLOGUE
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“Three months probation and four months in a state-sanctioned rehabilitation program. Do you accept?”
Jared Padalecki grits his teeth. His bones shake, standing behind the defence desk in Courtroom B of the D.C. Pre-trial Services Agency on Indiana Avenue. Doesn’t want people to see him vibrate like this. Rocks unsteady on his feet when his expensive defence attorney elbows him in the rib cage.
Jab. Thud. Bruise.
Jared hates lawyers.
“Yes, I accept,” he mutters, rolling his eyes at the Honourable Constance Brillman. Paints on a shit-eating grin.
“Good.” The judge leans forward, peering down at him over her glasses. “And my personal advice, Mr. Padalecki, is that you take this seriously. You won’t be a minor for much longer and federal prison is a far cry from the juvenile detention centres you’ve grown accustomed to.” She raps her gavel. “Dismissed.”
He’s led by a legal team in expensive suits out of the courtroom and down the hallway into a conference room. His attorney sits nearby to fill out some fancy paperwork — something about where they’re shipping Jared off to… He’s already got a reputation in Washington, D.C.
“Big mistake to fidget so much in there. Judge Brillman noticed.”
Jared hates judges.
“Wasn’t on purpose,” he mutters. “It’s boring, sitting there while people decide your future.”
The attorney doesn’t even look up as he pen-scratches on paper. “No one’s deciding your future but you, Jared.”
Jared rolls his eyes. He wants to make a snarky comeback, but his brain won’t work. All he can focus on is the itchy creep through his veins — his head’s all fogged up. He squirms in his chair.
An hour till it gets bad. Fuck.
His lawyer has started on some gibberish about how he’s headed to an alternative treatment centre this time, but the screams of panic in his head overwhelm him.
Jared jumps up, jostling the table and making his lawyer’s pen bleed all over the constitution. “Gotta make a phone call.”
“I can’t allow you to —“
“One fucking phone call. Dad said so.”
The lawyer sighs but throws his hands up, leaving Jared free to burst forth from the conference room, down the hall, and into the adjoining office. There's sweat at his temples, he can feel it itching. Leans on the reception desk and puts on a pretty-boy smile for the woman behind the computer.
“Sweetheart, I need your phone for two minutes. It’s an urgent call to Prosecutor Gerald Padalecki.”
She casts a sidelong glance at the eighteen-year-old beauty queen who just called her 'sweetheart.' Purses her lips and hums, unamused. “Dial 9 to get out.”
He winks and turns the phone towards him. His fingers fly across the keypad, muscle memory of the sequence well-exercised. Turns his back to the desk and cradles the receiver at his ear, trying and failing to look innocent.
Briiing, briiing.
Come on, come on. Pick up.
There’s a security guard at the elevator, talking into his radio. He’s looking straight at Jared.
Shit.
The receiver clicks. Relief, as the voice on the line asks, “Who’s this?”
“Spoony. It’s Jared. Look, I need something. Now.”
A pause. “Bro, where you callin’ from?”
Jared sighs, clicking his jaw. Lowers his voice, “The courthouse.” Longer pause. “Hello?”
“Bitch, you did not just ask me to deal you at the motherfuckin’ courthouse.”
The security guard starts making his way across the foyer. Jared’s temples throb. “Come on, man. I'm jonesing, bad. They’re sending me to fucking rehab.”
Silence. “Where at?”
Jared sighs. Twists his torso as the security guard approaches. “Out of state.”
A laugh from the other line. "Nah, bro, you're on your own."
CLICK. It goes dead.
“Spoony. Spoon — ”
Nothing but dial tone. Jared slams the phone down as the security guard grips his elbow. God damn it.
“Come on. Back to your lawyer. Let’s go.”
He’s steered back down the hall from whence he came. A thousand thoughts run through his brain, the most omnipresent one is elbowing the guard in the face and making a break for the fire exit.
One hour till the migraine kicks in.
Sensing fight or fight, the guard tightens his grip. “Are we gonna have a problem, kid?”
His lawyer's approaching from the other direction. There's no where to go. He’s trapped.
Little do they know — Jared has a knack for weaseling his way out of things.
With a burst of adrenaline, he kicks back at the guard, connects with his shin. As he yelps in pain, Jared manages to escape his clutches and barrel down the hallway as fast as his feet can go. Bowls straight through his lawyer like a six-foot-four wrecking ball and sprints towards the exit.
Almost there. Almost there.
One miscalculation. He should’ve known the security guard is a professional. That he’s bigger and stronger and faster. Highly trained for runners like him.
The crack he hears is the sound of his chin hitting the floor. The guard takes him down in one brutal tackle, knocking the wind from his lungs and pinning him to the ground. He passes out from the pain, but not before he feels the slice of two plastic zip-ties tighten around his wrists.
Jared hates security guards.