You know that time J2 got jumped but they beat the shit out of the dudes? Could I request an xreader (platonic) where they are there when it happens and get hurt? Like when it comes to fight or freeze they FREEZE
â°â†Fight... Flight... FREEZE
Jensen Ackles x reader (platonic)
Jared Padalecki x reader (platonic)
Summary: You, Jensen and Jared were just trying to get a few drinks after set. Unfortunately, the peaceful night became a story all of you will remember and tell others.
Warnings: violence/physical assault/bar fight/injury/panic/anxiety symptoms
The music from the downstairs bar was a dull thump through the floorboards as you settled into the booth across from Jared and Jensen. The upstairs section of the bar was quieter, more relaxedâexactly what the three of you needed after the week you'd had on set.
"I'm just saying," Jared was arguing, gesturing with his beer, "if we have to do that cemetery scene one more time, I'm going to actually become a ghost."
Jensen snorted. "That was your own fault. You kept stepping on theâ"
"It was a cemetery. Of course it was uneven."
You grinned, taking a sip of your drink and letting their familiar banter wash over you. It had been a brutal week of shooting. You'd been pulling fourteen-hour days in the props department, and today had involved a particularly complicated fight sequence that required endless takes and adjustments. By the time they'd wrapped, your feet were screaming and your brain felt like mush.
This had become something of a traditionâafter particularly harsh shoots, Jared and Jensen would invite you out to decompress. Sometimes it was food, sometimes drinks, always good company. You'd been hesitant at first, not wanting to intrude on their friendship, but they'd made it clear you were wanted. Welcomed.
"You both did great today, by the way," you said, meaning it. "That fight choreography was insane. I don't know how many times Bob made you run that sequence."
"Seventeen," Jared said immediately. "I counted."
"Only because you kept messing up the turn," Jensen teased.
"I did not! The timing was off on theâ"
"You messed up the turn."
You laughed, settling back in the booth. The upstairs bar was pleasantly uncrowded for a Friday nightâjust a few other groups scattered around, the bartender chatting with regulars at the bar, the warm lighting making everything feel cozy and safe. Through the windows, you could see the Vancouver night settling in, street lights flickering on.
"So I was thinking," Jared continued, apparently ready to move past the turn controversy, "we should probably start planning something for when we wrap this season. Like a trip orâ"
His words were cut off by a sudden commotion from the stairwell. Raised voices, aggressive and slurred with alcohol. You all glanced over as a group of menâseven or eight of themâcame spilling up from the downstairs bar. They were clearly drunk, stumbling slightly, voices loud and hostile.
"There you are!" one of them shouted, pointing directly at your table. He was stocky with a shaved head, his face flushed red with anger and alcohol. "Thought you could hide up here?"
Jensen's hand moved to the table, body language immediately shifting to alert. "I think you've got the wrongâ"
"Don't give me that shit!" The man was advancing now, his friends spreading out behind him like a pack. "You invite us to meet up, then ditch us downstairs? Think that's funny?"
"Seriously, man, we don't know what you're talking about." Jared was already sliding out of the booth, hands up in a placating gesture, putting himself between you and the approaching group. "We just came up here for some quiet drinks. We haven't been downstairs all night."
You felt your heart start to pound. This couldn't be happening. Not here, not in what should have been a safe, relaxing evening.
"We've been waiting for an hour!" another one of them snarled, younger than the leader, with wild eyes that suggested more than just alcohol in his system. "You texted us to meet at The Cobalt!"
"We didn't text anyone," Jensen said, his voice firm but still trying for calm and reasonable. He'd stood up too, and you noticed how he'd positioned himself slightly in front of you as well. "Look, whoever you're supposed to meet, it's not us. We don't even know you."
The bartender had noticed the commotion now, was reaching for the phone. But the drunk guys were past the point of listening to reason. They'd convinced themselves that Jared and Jensen were whoever had stood them up, and alcohol had turned disappointment into aggression.
"Bullshit!" the leader spat. "You match the description. Two tall guys, upstairs at The Cobalt. That's what the text said."
"There are probably a dozen pairs of tall guys in Vancouver on a Friday night," Jared tried, but his voice was getting tighter. You could see him assessing the situation, counting the odds, his body coiling with tension.
You should move. Should get up, get out of the booth, get ready to run or help or do something. But your body had other ideas.
The first punch came fastâthe leader swinging at Jensen, who barely ducked in time. And then everything exploded into chaos.
Your body made the decision before your brain could catch up. While Jared and Jensen moved with surprising efficiencyâall that boxing training for the show paying off in the worst possible wayâyou just... stopped.
Your hands were frozen on the table, your legs locked in place in the booth. You couldn't even make yourself slide out, couldn't make yourself run or hide or help. The world seemed to slow down and speed up simultaneously. You watched as Jensen blocked a punch and countered with one of his own. Watched as Jared grabbed one of the attackers and shoved him back into his friends. The sounds were too loudâgrunting, shouting, the impact of fists on flesh, glass breaking as someone stumbled into a nearby table.
It was nothing like the choreographed fights you helped set up on set. Those were precise, controlled, safe. This was raw and violent and terrifying.
People were screaming. The bartender was yelling that he'd called the police. Other patrons were scrambling away from the violence, giving the fight a wide berth. And you just sat there, frozen in the booth like a statue.
"Get out of here!" Jensen shouted in your direction, his voice sharp with urgency even as he blocked another punch. "Go!"
But you couldn't. Your brain was screaming at your body to move, but there was a complete disconnect. You could see everything happening, could process it intellectually, but you couldn't make yourself do anything about it. The booth that had felt cozy minutes ago now felt like a trap, but you couldn't even make yourself slide out of it.
This is your fault. Move. Help them. Do something.
Two of the attackers had broken away from the main scuffle, moving toward you. Maybe they thought you were an easier target. Maybe they were just drunk and angry and looking for anyone to hit.
"Hey!" Jared's voice cut through the noise, sharp with warning. He'd seen them moving toward you.
You saw them coming. Watched them advance. And still couldn't move. Couldn't even raise your arms to protect yourself. Your body had completely betrayed you.
The first one reached you, grabbing your shoulder and yanking you forward out of the booth. The sudden motion broke through your paralysis just enough for you to stumble, but not enough to actually coordinate movement. You went down hard, crashing into the floor between the booth and the next table. Pain exploded through your shoulder where you'd been grabbed, then your palms as they scraped against the sticky bar floor.
"Get away from them!" Jared's voice was louder than you'd ever heard it, filled with a fury that never made it into his usual gentle demeanor. Through blurred vision, you saw him physically throw one of the guys away from him and turn toward you with single-minded determination.
But the second attacker had followed you down. You tried to curl up, to protect yourself, but your movements were sluggish, uncoordinated. You felt a kick connect with your ribs, heard yourself make a sound that might have been a cry or a gasp.
Then Jared was there, grabbing your attacker by the back of his shirt and hauling him away with enough force that the guy crashed into a chair. "Touch them again and I will end you," Jared snarled, and there was something in his voice that made even a drunk, aggressive asshole think twice.
Jensen was still dealing with three guys at once, his movements precise and controlled despite the chaos. You could hear the impact of his punches, see the way he was systematically breaking down their numbers. The boxing training was evident in every moveâhe wasn't just flailing, he was fighting smart.
But there were too many of them.
"Stay down," Jared's voice said above you, gentler now but still tight with adrenaline and fury. "Just stay down."
Like you could do anything else. Shame burned through you, hot and acidic. Your friends were fighting for their lives, and you were useless. Completely useless. You'd just made yourself a target, a distraction, a liability.
You heard more scuffling, more impacts. Someoneâone of the attackersâcrashed into the booth you'd been sitting in moments ago. Glass shattered. Someone was cursing viciously.
And then sirens. Blessed, beautiful sirens getting closer.
The effect was immediate. The attackers, drunk and aggressive as they were, weren't stupid enough to stick around for the police. They scattered like cockroaches, stumbling toward the stairs, shouting confused accusations and threats as they fled.
"Yeah, you better run!" Jensen called after them, his voice rough and breathless.
Then there were hands on your shouldersâgentle this time, familiar.
"Hey, hey, you okay?" Jared's face swam into view above you, concern etched into every feature. There was blood trickling from his nose, and his knuckles were already swelling and discolored. "Talk to me. Are you hurt?"
"I couldn'tâ" Your voice came out shaky, humiliatingly weak. Your ribs were screaming where you'd been kicked, and your shoulder felt like it was on fire. "I couldn't move."
"It's okay." Jensen was there too, kneeling beside you despite the way he was cradling his right hand against his chest. There was a cut above his eyebrow, already swelling, and his bottom lip was split. "You're okay. We've got you."
"I just froze," you whispered, shame burning in your chest hotter than the pain. Tears were threatening, hot and unwelcome behind your eyes. "I didn't help. I just sat there. I made it worse. You had to protect me instead ofâ"
"Stop." Jensen's voice was firm but not unkind. He helped you sit up slowly, both of them supporting you, checking you over with the careful attention usually reserved for stunt safety checks. "You think we're judging you for a normal human reaction to getting jumped by eight drunk assholes?"
"You didn't freeze." The words came out bitter, self-recriminating. "You both fought. You protected me. And I justâI was a liability. I distracted you. Jared, you could have been hurt worse because you had to come get me."
The bartender appeared, phone still in hand. "Police are almost here. Ambulance too. Are you guys okay? I'm so sorry, those guys came up from downstairs, I didn't realize they were looking for troubleâ"
"It's not your fault," Jared said, though his eyes never left you. "They thought we were someone else. Wrong place, wrong time."
"Wrong tall guys," Jensen added, attempting levity despite the situation.
You tried to stand, but your ribs protested sharply. Jensen's hand immediately steadied you.
"Easy. Just breathe. Where does it hurt?"
"Ribs. Shoulder. Hands." Everything, really. But worse than the physical pain was the crushing weight of shame and guilt. "I should have helped. Should have done something."
"You survived," Jared said quietly, his hand gentle on your uninjured shoulder. "That's what matters."
But it didn't feel like enough. They'd been fighting off eight guys, and you'd just made it harder for them.
The police arrived within minutes, followed closely by paramedics. The bar erupted into a flurry of activityâstatements being taken, the bartender pulling up security footage, witnesses offering their accounts. The paramedics tried to separate the three of you to check injuries, but Jensen refused.
"I'm staying with them," he said firmly, nodding toward you. "They got kicked, might have broken ribs."
"Sir, you need treatment tooâ"
"After I know they're okay."
The paramedicâa woman named Sarah with kind eyes and efficient handsâseemed to recognize a losing battle. She focused on you first, gently probing your ribs and shoulder while asking questions about pain levels and range of motion.
Every touch hurt, but the physical pain was manageable compared to the emotional anguish of watching Jared with another paramedic, seeing the way they were examining his hand with concern. Jensen hovering nearby, his own injuries being tended to by a third paramedic who'd given up on separating you all.
"Ribs don't feel broken," Sarah said after a thorough examination, "but you're going to have some spectacular bruising. The shoulder's going to be bad tooâdeep tissue bruising from the grab. Your palms need cleaning and dressing. We should take you in for X-rays to be sure about the ribs."
You nodded numbly, only half-listening. You were watching Jared, watching the paramedic manipulate his hand, seeing him wince despite his best efforts to hide it.
"That hand's definitely broken," you heard the paramedic tell him. "Needs X-rays and proper setting."
Your stomach dropped. Broken. Because he'd been fighting off attackers who'd gotten to you because you'd frozen like a useless lump.
"Stop that," Jensen said quietly beside you.
"I can literally see you blaming yourself. Stop." His green eyes met yours, intense even with the developing black eye and the butterfly bandages the paramedic was applying to his eyebrow. "This isn't on you."
"Fighting off assholes who attacked us," Jensen interrupted. "Not because of you. Because of them."
The police officers approached, asking for statements. You tried to explain what happened, but your memory felt fuzzy, disconnected. Jared took over, his natural charm working even through the pain and adrenaline. He explained about the case of mistaken identity, how the guys had come up from downstairs convinced that he and Jensen were people who'd stood them up.
"We've had reports about a group downstairs causing problems," one officer said, reviewing his notes. "Sounds like they were texting with someone about meeting up, and when that fell through, they decided you two matched the description well enough."
"Lucky us," Jensen muttered.
"Can you describe them?" the officer asked.
You tried, but your description was frustratingly vague. The leader with the shaved head, the younger one with wild eyes, mostly white guys of average height and build. You'd been so focused on your own paralysis that you hadn't really observed them clearly.
Jared and Jensen filled in more details, though neither seemed particularly invested in pressing charges. They just wanted it over.
The paramedics strongly recommended hospital visits for all three of you. Jared's hand needed X-rays. Your ribs needed confirmation that they weren't fractured. Jensen's various cuts and bruises needed proper cleaning and assessment.
The trip to the emergency room was surreal. The three of you ended up in connected exam rooms, close enough to call out to each other but separated by curtains. You could hear Jared being taken away for X-rays, his good-natured griping about the hospital gown making you smile despite everything.
Jensen refused to go to his own exam room until you were settled.
"Mr. Ackles, you really need to let us clean those cuts," the nurse said with exasperation.
"Five minutes," he negotiated. "Just let me make sure they're settled."
He sat on the edge of your exam bed, looking exhausted and battered but still stubbornly present. The adrenaline was wearing off now, leaving both of you shaky and drained.
"How are you really doing?" he asked quietly.
"Physically? Sore. Everything else?" You shook your head. "I keep replaying it. Keep thinking about all the things I should have done differently."
"Yeah, I figured." He was quiet for a moment, then: "You know what I did the first time I ever got in a real fight?"
You looked at him, surprised by the question.
"I was seventeen, back in Texas. Got jumped outside a movie theater by some guys who decided they didn't like the way I looked at them or something equally stupid." He grimaced at the memory, then winced as the expression pulled at his split lip. "My buddy Marcus was with me, and he started throwing hands immediately. And me? I just stood there. Couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything. Just froze up completely."
"Marcus pulled me out of it, got us both out of there. And then I spent the next week beating myself up about it, feeling like the world's biggest coward." His eyes met yours. "Until my dad sat me down and explained that freeze is just as valid a response as fight or flight. It's not a character flaw. It's biology."
"But you didn't freeze tonight."
"Because I've been in situations since then. Because I've had months of boxing training for this show. Because I knew you and Jared were there and that kicked my protective instincts into gear." He paused. "But that first time? I was exactly where you are now. Feeling useless and scared and ashamed."
"It doesn't help that I made it worse," you said quietly. "You had to split your focus. Jared had to leave the main fight to protect me. If I'd just been able to move, to help or even just get out of the wayâ"
"Then what? You think two of us could've taken eight drunk guys without breaking a sweat?" Jensen shook his head. "We got lucky. Our training helped, yeah, but mostly we got lucky that they were sloppy and drunk and the cops showed up fast. This could have gone a lot worse for all of us, and that's on those assholes, not on you."
You wanted to believe him. Wanted to let go of the guilt sitting like a stone in your chest.
"Mr. Ackles," the nurse appeared again, more insistent this time. "Now, please."
"Okay, okay." He stood up carefully. "I'll be right next door if you need anything. And I mean anythingâyou call out, I'm coming over, stitches or no stitches."
True to his word, throughout the examination and X-rays (which confirmed no broken ribs, just severe bruising), you could hear Jensen's voice from the next room, alternating between charming the medical staff and calling out to check on you.
"You doing okay in there?"
"Yeah," you called back. "You?"
"Living the dream. Getting stitched up like Frankenstein's monster."
Despite everything, you smiled.
By the time you were all released, it was nearly four in the morning. Jared emerged from radiology with a proper cast on his right hand, looking exhausted but alert. Jensen had fresh stitches above his eyebrow and strict instructions about concussion watch. You had wrapped ribs, a heavily bandaged shoulder, and a prescription for pain medication that you knew you'd need.
"My place is closest," Jared said as you all stood in the hospital parking lot, none of you quite ready to separate. "You guys should crash there. I don't think any of us should be alone right now."
It was a sentiment you desperately shared. The thought of going back to your empty apartment, of being alone with the replay of the night's events, made anxiety spike in your chest.
"Yeah," Jensen agreed immediately. "Good call."
The taxi ride to Jared's apartment was quiet, all three of you too exhausted for conversation. You ended up in the middle of the back seat, Jensen on one side and Jared on the other, their presence both comforting and a reminder of your failure to protect them.
Jared's apartment was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the sterile hospital and the violent bar. He immediately started fussing with teaâ"It's what my mom does after something stressful"âwhile Jensen raided the kitchen for food.
"Stress eating is a valid coping mechanism," Jensen declared, emerging with chips, cookies, and what looked like leftover Chinese food.
You settled carefully on Jared's couch, your ribs protesting every movement. The exhaustion was bone-deep, but you knew sleep wouldn't come easily. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw those men advancing, felt the paralysis taking hold, heard the sounds of the fight.
"Can't sleep?" Jared asked softly, appearing with mugs of chamomile tea. He was moving stiffly, trying to do everything one-handed, and the sight of that cast made guilt twist in your stomach.
"Yeah, me neither." He settled into the armchair, wincing as he adjusted his position. "Adrenaline's still too high."
Jensen claimed the other end of the couch, close enough that his presence was grounding. He'd grabbed a bag of frozen peas for his eye, looking ridiculous and somehow making it work.
"So," he said after a moment of loaded silence, "we gonna talk about it, or we gonna pretend to watch TV until we all pass out?"
"Both?" you suggested weakly.
Jared found some mindless late-night comedy, but none of you were really watching. The silence between bits was heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"I keep thinking about what could have happened," you finally said, the words spilling out. "What if there had been more of them? What if you'd been hurt worse? What if Jared's handâ" Your voice cracked. "What if it doesn't heal right? What if this affects your career?"
"Whoa, slow down," Jared interrupted gently. "My hand's going to heal. Bones do that. The doctor said it was a clean break, should be fine in six weeks."
"Six weeks that you can't work properly. Six weeks that they'll have to work around you in filming. All because you were protecting my useless ass." The tears you'd been holding back started to fall. "I just sat there in that booth. I watched them coming and I couldn't even make myself slide out. I just... froze."
"That wasn't a choice," Jensen said firmly. "You know that, right? That wasn't you deciding to be useless. That was a trauma response that you had zero control over."
"I've taken self-defense classes," you argued, shame making your voice sharp. "I know how to throw a punch, how to break a hold, how to handle myself. But when it actually mattered, my body just shut down. I couldn't access any of that training."
"Because training in a gym with safety mats and controlled scenarios is completely different from being attacked by eight drunk guys in a bar," Jared pointed out. "Your nervous system didn't see a training exercise. It saw a legitimate threat and made a decision about how to keep you alive."
"By making me a target? By forcing you both to split your attention?" You shook your head. "That's not survival. That's liability."
"Okay, first of all," Jensen set down his bag of peas and turned to face you fully, "you are not a liability. Second, we didn't get hurt because of you. We got hurt because some drunk idiots decided to attack us. That's on them, period."
"But Jared had to leave the main fightâ"
"And I'd do it again in a heartbeat," Jared interrupted. "You're my friend. Someone was hurting you. Of course I went after them. That's not your fault. That's me making a choice about who matters to me."
The conviction in his voice made something in your chest crack. The tears came harder now, messy and cathartic.
"I hate that I couldn't help you," you sobbed. "You're my friends. You were in danger. And I just... I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything. I just made it worse."
"You know what I saw?" Jared asked softly. "I saw someone who was terrified but didn't run away. Even frozen, even scared, you stayed. And when they grabbed you, when you went down, you were still there. You didn't abandon us."
"I literally couldn't move to abandon you."
"But when those guys first showed up, before the freeze took hold, you could have run," Jensen pointed out. "You could have bolted for the bathroom or the stairs or anywhere else. But you didn't. You stayed close to us."
You hadn't thought about it that way. In the moment before the first punch was thrown, there had been that split second where flight was still an option. But you'd stayed.
"That doesn't make up for freezing during the actual fight," you argued, but with less conviction.
"Doesn't need to," Jared said. "You're not on trial here. There's nothing to make up for. You experienced a traumatic event, and your body responded the way it was wired to respond. End of story."
"Except it's not the end, because you both got hurt protecting me."
Jensen sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Okay, new rule. Every time you blame yourself for something that was clearly the fault of eight drunk assholes, you have to eat one of these chips."
He held up the bag with mock seriousness.
"That's a stupid rule," you said through your tears.
"Then stop blaming yourself and I won't have to enforce it."
Despite everything, you felt a weak laugh bubble up. Only Jensen would try to address trauma with junk food.
"Look," Jared said, his voice gentle, "I know you're going to keep replaying this. I know the shame is going to be persistent. But I need you to try to hear this: freezing is a normal trauma response. It kept humans alive for thousands of years. Sometimes playing dead is the right call. Sometimes staying still means the predator loses interest. Your body didn't betray youâit tried to save you."
"Even if it picked the wrong response?" you asked quietly.
"There is no wrong response in survival," Jensen said. "There's just whatever gets you through. And you got through. We all did."
You cried until you had no tears left, until you were just hiccupping and exhausted, slumped against the couch cushions while Jared and Jensen maintained their steady, grounding presence. They didn't try to stop you or tell you everything was fine. They just let you feel it, let you process it, held space for your fear and shame without judgment.
When you finally pulled back, wiping your face with your uninjured hand, you felt wrung out but somehow lighter.
"Sorry," you croaked. "That wasâ"
"Needed," Jared finished. "That was needed. Don't apologize."
"You want more tea?" Jensen asked. "Or maybe some of this lo mein? It's only slightly questionable."
Despite everything, you laughed. "Lo mein sounds good."
The rest of the early morning passed in quiet conversation and bad TV. They told you stories about their own moments of fear and failure. Jensen elaborated on his first fight story, admitting he'd had nightmares about it for months. Jared talked about a panic attack he'd had before a major stunt, how he'd nearly backed out until his stunt coordinator had talked him through it.
"Point is," Jensen said around a mouthful of cold Chinese food, "we're all human. We all have moments where our brains or bodies don't do what we want them to. Doesn't make us failures. Just makes us people."
"People who are currently eating questionable lo mein at four in the morning," Jared added.
"The best kind of people," Jensen confirmed.
As the sky outside started to lighten with the approach of dawn, you felt sleep finally tugging at you. Your ribs ached, your shoulder throbbed, and you knew the emotional aftermath would be something you'd be dealing with for a long time. But surrounded by your friends, their steady presence a reminder that you weren't alone, the weight of shame had eased from crushing to merely heavy.
"Get some sleep," Jared said, his own eyes drooping. "We'll deal with everything else later."
"Production's going to freak out," you mumbled, already half-asleep.
"Let them," Jensen said dismissively. "We'll handle it. Right now, just rest."
You didn't remember falling asleep, but when you woke up several hours later, you were covered with a soft blanket. Jared was crashed in the armchair, his casted hand resting on a pillow. Jensen was sprawled on the other end of the couch, the bag of peas long since thawed and abandoned on the coffee table.
Your ribs protested when you shifted, and you could feel every bruise from the night before. But you were alive. You were safe. And your friends didn't think any less of you for freezing.
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