The Second Man, NC-17, Jensen/Jared, 1/9

[ht_murray]

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Title: The Second Man (80,000+ words, Complete in 9 parts)
Authors: tru_faith_lost and captcrashsc
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Jensen/Jared
Summary: A rewrite of the movie Overboard. Jared's wealthy and wound too tight, and his parents seem intent on keeping him that way. Jensen's the oldest of four unruly siblings who lost their parents four years ago. Things keep slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he works to keep them together. When Jared's parents manage to ruin the last thing that Jensen has for himself, right before their son washes up on the beach with amnesia, Jensen's lifelong friend and Bear Creek town Sheriff, Christian Kane, takes it upon himself to get some payback. Jensen's sure he's not gay, and Jared's sure he's never lived at the end of Ackles Rd, but somehow their made up life together makes more sense than their actual lives apart.(They're about the same age.)
Warnings: Cheese on crackers prepared in a facility that also processes nuts. If you have chronic eyeroll syndrome, you should probably not be reading Rom Com.
Disclaimer: We don't own these people or profit from the fictional scenarios in which we place them.
A/N: The header on this story is too huge. Check x-posts for complete info.



Additional Warning for this Part: Jensen's sibs and friends sometimes call him Jenny when they're being disrespectful or trying to get under his skin. The writers of this story mean no disrespect, and it doesn't happen that often.

The Second Man


Jensen opens the drawer, eyes fixed in the mirror so he can watch all three kids racing through the house. "Don't forget to put the ferret back in it's cage, Jake!" Last time Parsons visited, the little bugger (Indiana 3 or 4, Jensen's lost count) ran out from under the couch with a toilet paper roll stuck over his head. Try explaining to a case worker that a toilet paper roll is a perfectly acceptable toy for a member of the weasel family and is no reflection on any tendency to keep toilet paper under the couch. He's just glad she didn't actually insist on looking under there, because there was probably way worse stuff than T.P. Probably still is, since they never seem to get ahead of the curve on this housekeeping thing.

His fingers hit the bottom of the drawer. The bare bottom. "Shit!" he curses, looking down, fingers tap-tapping against the thin fiberboard in disbelief.

"Jensen swore!" Joey yells. He swears the kid's got ears like a bat and exceptionally selective hearing at that. Never seems to remember to set the alarm or whether homework got done, but can list verbatim every time Jensen's cussed in the last four years and the exact context in which each word was used. There's got to be a use for that talent, but Jensen's at a loss for what it is, too busy being annoyed that he's supposed to be the example and seems always to end up giving the "as I say and not as I do," speech instead.

"No, I didn't," he lies.

"You said..."

"I said zit." He spins around the room, eyes rapid fire scanning over the general disarray. It's entirely too small, same bedroom he's lived in since he moved out of his crib and didn't have anything but a diaper bag, some bath toys, and Mega Blocks. Now he's got a lifetime of stuff crammed in here, plus all the stuff he bought for college and never got to use. Somewhere in the middle of it's that stupid fire safe chest thingie Mom and Dad kept all their birth certificates and school records in. It's the only thing he's gotten up the nerve to go rifling around in their bedroom for.

The sheets are still stripped off the bed and piled in the corner. He has no idea how he'll get the new ones on in the next fifteen minutes, but he will, even if he has to just throw a bedspread on top and tuck it in so no one can see the sheets are missing. Where the fuck did he leave all his ties?

"You did not," Joey argues.

"I did so," Jensen snips, tugging at his unbuttoned collar in annoyance. "Stage makeup's messing up my skin. Got a zit. You wanna watch me pop it?" he threatens.

Jo makes the eeeew face Jensen's expecting and runs down the hallway, hopefully to finish getting dressed and stop eavesdropping on him.

He's taken to cursing, under his breath this time, and spinning around throwing dirty laundry and clean laundry alike into a pile in the corner where it can all be stuffed conveniently into a garbage bag and moved to the garage, giving each handful a cursory glance on the off chance his neck tie will show up in one of the layers of mess as he peels them back.

He tosses a set of clean sheets on the bed. (They were under his trophy chest. Who knew?) Ducking down to pull at the corner of the mattress, he's got one hand under the dust ruffle (Spiderman, what of it?) and one on the mattress when... "Ow! Mother.. F..." He shakes his hand and glares at the teeth marks embossed in the heel of it. "Jake! I thought I told you to put Indy in his cage!"

The ferret recognizes its name and pops out of a hole in the box spring, little weasel teeth glistening.

"I can't find him!" Jake hollers, socking feet skidding past the doorway and into the bathroom. Jensen hears him crash into the clothes hamper and change direction, vowing not to get into the discussion about why we don't put talcum powder on the linoleum and throw sock skating parties for our friends on the night before the social worker's due.

"He found me," Jensen huffs, squeezing the bitten hand to make sure there's no blood. If he has to get one more tetanus shot... "Now come in here and get him.

Jake puffs out his freckled cheeks with a labored frown. "Indy," he coaxes. "Indy where are you?"

"Inside the box spring again," Jensen explains. "He better not be building a nest in there. I'm not sharing my bed with a rat."

"He's not a rat," Jake snaps. "And he's wouldn't want to sleep with you anyway. Your bed squeaks too much."

"It..." Jensen chokes. "It does... what?"

"Oh come on, Jenny," Jake goads, "You think we don't know you sneak girls in through the window? We're not kids, ya know?"

Oh shit. "You are kids," Jensen asserts. "And I don't sneak girls in through the window." Not anymore. He's still nursing the trauma of the one who snuck out. Danni hooked up with some jock at school, just like he'd known she would, and he hasn't exactly had time for more company than he was born with.

"Whatever," Jake huffs. "Friggin' goody-goody. Y'know, no one's as perfect as you pretend to be, Jensen. You could try lightening up a little."

Jake kneels by the side of the bed, sticks his hand down into the hole in the box spring, which takes way more trust than Jensen has, considering the number of teeth marks he's harboring.

"If I lightened up any more, you'd all be living in front of the television eating Pizza Rolls until you turned ninety," Jensen snipes. "How about instead of getting pissed at me every time we got a State visit and you have to actually do something around here, you just cleaned up after yourselves like, I dunno, human beings, maybe?"

Jake doesn't answer, just gives him a sidelong glare as he hauls Indy out of the mattress and into his arms... Jensen's neck tie dangling from around his neck.

"And how many times have I told you, my necktie is not a leash!" Jensen almost gets bit a second time unwrapping the tie from around the ferret's head.

He’s barely got himself sorted when Aggie, their bloodhound, starts bawling in the yard, a sure sign that the social worker’s on her way up the driveway. Time for plan D.

If five or ten bags of laundry and sorted mess go out the upstairs window without ol’ Parson’s seeing ‘em, and they barely skate through another State “visit,” well, Jensen’s not too proud to accept an ill-got win. These days, it seems like the only kind he gets.

He just has to remember never to open that hall closet without donning a shield to ward off the impending landslide.

--

It's no secret Oklahoma is probably Jensen's least favorite play, but he's an actor, and he has to go with the flow. He's the lead, anyway, and he'd like to think it's because of his skills and not his bowed legs. It's hard to say, though, considering that tall dude in the front row has been focused on Jensen's belt buckle ever since he came out after the wedding scene. Jensen swears if he never has to wear another pair of chaps again, his ass will thank him.

He has to admit, though, being the last performance before the troupe starts production on the next play, (haven’t decided which, yet, but not another musical) Jensen's enjoying it way more than he usually does. The whole atmosphere's shifted. They've done this so many times they could do it in their sleep, and now, they're just having fun with it. So what if everyone's just a little off their marks and the ad libbed lines they used only to throw in as jokes during rehearsals seem to be stealing the show.

Yeah, Jensen never wants to play Curly again, but he's enjoying it right this second.

He's only joking, playing on the fact that his character's just emerged from his wedding bed, when he reaches down to mockingly zip his fly, eyebrows already set to waggle.

Of course, that's when he finds out exactly why the tall dude in the front row has been eyeing his belt buckle for the last five minutes.

There is no belt buckle. There is no belt. And the zipper he's pretending is open? Oh yeah, every cow in the barn's escaped, right along with a little bit of Jensen. This is so not that kind of show.

He bends over like he's been kicked in the gut, makes twice the show out of zipping it as he'd planned, and in the process, completely forgets that this is the part where Curly's supposed to get a bucket of confetti water thrown in his face. Oh, the confetti water hits its mark, all right, but Jensen's not on his. The dude in the front row who's been getting an eyeful of one sort suddenly gets one of a whole other variety, as does the over-dressed couple seated beside him when the bucketful of brightly colored paper squares showers over them.

Jensen pretends not to notice, plays off his ad lib, carries the scene as the audience erupts in laughter. In his humble opinion, Curly's never had such a good sendoff in his surrey with the fringe on top.

It's not until curtain call when he's poised on the front of the stage taking his bow that he realizes what a stir the bucket of confetti has caused. The middle-aged couple is standing, mouth agape as several stage hands and at least a couple of the theater patrons work frantically to pick the confetti out of their clothes, giving each other sidelong glances and shoulder shrugs as they try to decide who should attempt to reach the stuff that's gone down the woman's dress. Worse yet, the tall dude with the long, dark hair who spent half the last scene with his eyes glued to Jensen’s... Jensen... is barking orders, switching it up between flailing arms and hands on hips, indignant shakes of his head and jutting lower lip that’s probably supposed to make his chin look set but really only looks like a giant pout. All the airs and gesticulating have dislodged the hair that was slicked back over the top of his head, so pieces of it fall over his forehead, and he keeps swiping at them and huffing in disdain when they fall over his eyes in mid, ‘look at me when I’m talking to you,’ tirade.

What a gem.

Jensen shouldn’t be watching as closely as he is, but it’s kind of his thing. People watching. Face it. He lives in Bear Creek, Texas, has always lived in Bear Creek. If he wants to have any real repertoire of characters in his head, he needs to find them where he can. He knows the second he looks too closely, because because Tall, Raging Dude stalks up to the stage and points his long finger right at Jensen, forehead furrowed and eyes squinted. “You!”

“Uh, me?” Jensen mouths more than says, pointing to himself.

“Yes, you. The one with the,” a grand all encompassing arm wave, “penchant for indecent exposure. You!”

Jensen breaks away from the rest of the troupe as the applause dies down and they file out behind the curtain, steps over to the front of the stage. He contemplates crouching down, but chooses not to, since that’d put him at about spitting-on height if the guy goes off on another tirade.

“I would like to speak...” the dude pauses as if searching for the correct term. Jensen can almost read see him ticking off and dismissing half a dozen choices, probably thinks higher language is lost on lowly actor types. “... to a producer.”

“I co-produced this piece. You can speak with me.”

“Wonderful. A multi-tasker. So... industrious.” The guy mumbles, then holds out his hand. Jensen can’t really believe he’s expected to shake it until the guy introduces himself. “Jared Padalecki.” There’s an air to the way he says it, like Jensen’s supposed to know who that is. When Jensen shrugs and doesn’t take the offered hand, the dude repeats. “Padalecki. Our foundation funded this performance.”

“Oh!” Jensen immediately takes the hand and leaps down to the floor. Luckily, wearing cowboy boots, he’s only an inch shorter and doesn’t feel completely overshadowed. “Son of Jerry and Sherry Padalecki. Our, benefactors. So... so nice to meet you, Jared.”

“Of course it is. And you are?”

Jensen’s inclined to say Curly since stupid working class types like himself are probably expected not to be able to separate fiction from reality. “Jensen. Jensen Ackles, uh... Sir.” He manages not to roll his eyes. Barely.

“Do you know which one of these wannabes on your production orchestrated the stunt which has caused this fiasco? My mother is traumatized.” He waves an arm toward the still ranting woman, presumably his mother, and the gesture is so flamboyant as to resemble the flare of a bullfighter’s cape over the back of he charging bull. Jensen’s as open-minded as they come. Or he’d like to think he is. At least two of his costars on this production are gay, and one more is probably gay, and no one pulls off flaming gay like a flaming gay theater geek, but this guy’s over the top even for Jensen. This guy is costume designer flaming. Jensen can’t help but imagine a tiger-striped banana hammock underneath those thousand dollar suit pants. It’s the wrong thing to imagine, because he almost laughs instead of answering the oh-so-serious question.

“Well, that’s, complicated.”

“I want him fired.”

“What?!” Jensen has half a mind to get in Jared’s face, but Jared just tips up his chin and looks down his nose. “I can’t blame anyone for that. It was a miscue. Any number of people were involved, and...”

“Fire them all, then.”

The mother finally stops bleating like a sheep and holds out her hand, the train of her dressed looped over her wrist. “Jay-RED!” she calls.

“Coming Mother.” With a final nod of his upturned beak in Jensen’s direction, Jared re-iterates. “Fire them all, or don’t expect my family to fund your next project. Good day!”

The three rich bitches disappear through the crowd, Sherri with her husband on her elbow and her son on her hand, and it turns Jensen’s stomach how the crowd parts for them like they’re royalty. They might rule the arts in this area by bestowing their tax write offs on the less fortunate struggling artists, but Jensen will be damned if he fires anyone from his troupe because some Mama’s boy said so.

“Jensen!” He spins on his boot heel to see his seventeen year old brother Jeremy peeking from behind one of the stage curtains. “I’m gonna be late! Hurry up!”

“Oh, shit!” He remembers why he hates matinee performances. The night’s just beginning by the time they end. Jeremy’s got basketball, and as if exposing himself to these people wasn’t humiliating enough, he’s gotta spend the rest of the night catering to them at the wrap party. He dashes out the side door, ripping at the sequined vest as he runs. Sometimes he really wishes he could call in sick to his life.

--

"Jer! I said, 'did you bring it'...unf." The truck lurches to a sudden stop, smashing Jensen's face into the plexiglass of the sliding rear window, a collision he might have been able to cushion with his hands if his hands weren't currently in his pants...er... his chaps. It's always so much fun changing in the back of the camper. Jensen curses when the buckle comes off, and he flings it into the corner of the truck bed, wiping a hand across his mouth to see if there's blood. There isn't, which does nothing to stop his fingers twitching with some weird combination of adrenaline and exhaustion. He can't think of a rush like wrapping a production, and the standing ovation? Totally worth all the juggling of schedules and late, late nights/mornings. Too bad this night's just getting started, and there's no time to bask. At least there's the next play already in the works to look forward to.

Despite the lack of bleeding, his mouth smarts like a son of a bitch. "God d..." He catches himself and reaches through the sliding window and stuffs Joey's cap bill down so no eyes peek out from beneath (cuz the little shit can so read lips), nodding to Jake who covers the ears, too. That's one little pitcher Jensen's not about to cuss in front of. His mother would turn over in her grave.

"Damn it, Jer! I know you're pissed about the game. But we come to all the other home games. It's not like I'm asking you to take the kids with you. I'm taking them to work with me, which is not going to get me any brownie points with Misha after the last incident. What else do you want?"

Jeremy doesn't give more than a cursory glance into the rearview mirror to meet Jensen's gaze before stomping on the gas. Jensen barely manages to keep from sliding back to the tailgate by clinging to the window.

"Don't worry about it," Jeremy glowers. Jensen's tossed to the side and realizes with a jerk that they're almost to the banquet hall.

"Shit..." Joey starts to squeak out a reprimand, despite all their precautions, and Jake cuts it off with a hand over the mouth. Pulling on his black dress pants and crouching to avoid touching anything that will leave a grey dust trail across his thigh or ass, (cuz he's so not looking forward to wearing another pair of Steve's pants where everyone knows the crud is still there, just on the inside), Jensen says, "Jer, I can't fix it if you won't talk to me. C'mon. What's wrong, dude?" He can't help it if he sounds distracted. He sorta is. Doesn't mean he doesn't care.

Jeremy mumbles something into his jacket sleeve and signals the turn into the parking lot, the tick, tick, tick of the blinker ominous above the idling engine.

"What?" It comes out sharper than Jensen intends.

"I said, 'Mom and Dad never missed any of my... OUR... games.'"

It's so the wrong time and place for this conversation, and Jensen can't bite his lip fast enough to stop his tongue from lashing. "In case you haven't noticed, DUDE, I'm NOT Mom and Dad, okay! I'm not AND anyone. It's just me, and I'm doing my best. It's not like I get any help from..." This time there might be a little blood in his mouth as he bites back the retort. The truck pulls in next to the catering van, and Jensen catches Misha peeking out the back door with a worried expression on his face that melts away when the old truck squeaks to a halt. Jensen climbs out the back, slower than he should, considering how close he's cutting things, but he needs the few extra ticks of the second hand to compose himself. He opens the rear passenger door and grabs Joey's hand, barely catching his apron, bow tie, and cummerbund as Jake tosses them to him before jumping out onto the pavement himself. Jen glances over his shoulder, half a mind to stalk inside and forget about the frigging ketchup, he'll never get through the night if he doesn't at least try to smooth things over. It's his job... one of many he feels completely inadequate for.

He crosses in front of the truck, still dragging Joey by the hand, motions for Jeremy to roll down the window, which he does without looking up from the steering wheel.

"Look, dude, I'm sorry. I'm doing the best I can, and despite what I might sometimes say, I don't want you to have to worry about anything. But we all have to give up a few things."

Jeremy nods, biting his lower lip, and Jensen reaches in, palms the back of his brother’s neck, and gives a small shake.

"Now, go out there and kick some Tiger tail, a'ight? And make sure Coach lets you bring home the tape after he's done jerking off to it."

He gets half a smile in response, and Jeremy's eyes aren't that shiny when he says, "You know we will."

"We'll make the next game. Promise."

"Sure."

Jensen's about to leave when he remembers the supplies and turns back around. "Oh, did you get..." He grabs the plastic grocery bag dangling out the window with a smirk. "Thanks, dude. Come pick up the kids at ten if your game's over. I'll have to stay late and help with closing. Misha can drop me at home."

"Got it."

Jeremy drives away, and Jensen watches with dismay as one of the taillights on the old truck flickers and goes out. If it isn't one thing, it's another. He sighs and heads inside before Misha sends out a posse.

--

There's a nerve tweaking behind Jared's left eye and he's pretty sure the sound of his mother's voice is just exacerbating the problem. She's carrying on, to anyone who will listen, about how her "vintage", "one of a kind" Dior gown is now ruined because the waitstaff is too inept to serve dinner to such an upstanding patron as herself without stepping all over her hemline. Seriously? It's a fucking old ass, ugly as hell dress that his father most likely bought just to shut her up.

There isn't nearly enough vodka left in this martini to make her even the least bit tolerable right now.

"Excuse me, sir. Would you like another drink?" Now Jared has seen, hell...slept with, a lot of pretty people before. Granted, the last guy he thought of as pretty was the polo instructor eight months ago who threatened to out him to his parents, but that's beside the point.

What was the point again? Oh yeah, this guy is just way too pretty to be waiting tables. Why the hell is he staring at me like I'm supposed to say something?

"Probably because I just asked if you'd like another drink, man." Great, now pretty waiter guy is smirking at him 'cause Jared's gaping like a fish.

"Um, dirty bloody martini, please. And do you think you could get them to put some actual vodka in it this time?"

"I'll try, but I can't promise anything there, junior. Are you even old enough to be drinking at this shindig?" Jared's not sure if it was the tone of voice or just the way the words came out of his mouth, but he suddenly recognizes pretty waiter guy as the guy from the play. Hanson... or something.

"What is this, they make you work the room dressed as a waiter expecting us to donate more money, because you're so poor you can't make it on what the foundation pays you? What's next, you gonna offer to be my escort for an even bigger chunk of change?" And holy shit, what the hell just happened to my filter? Clearly I get foot in mouth disease from my mother. Pretty waiter guy, for his part, looks duly offended.

"I'm sorry, but I don't make a habit of sleeping with men for money, especially not pretentious assholes such as yourself."

"Young man! How dare you speak to us that way. Do you have any idea who we are?"

“He does, Mother. We’ve met.” He’s about to get pretty boy in as much shit as he can manage just to wipe that smirk off his face.

“Oh. Figures. Should have known he was one of your disgraceful... consorts,” his mother snips. Then to the waiter, the fucking waiter, because her favorite game is to make him feel lower than the help, she says, “Young man, I would appreciate if you would keep your ‘boy talk’ away from the table. Jared is a terrible influence. Now, would you please bring us another bottle of wine?”

Jared doesn’t miss the way the guy waggles his eyebrows as he clears the empty breadbasket and refills the appetizer plates. “I will have that right out for you, Ma’am.”

Jared slouches in his chair and eats a stuffed mushroom with his fingers just for spite.

--

"Jensen, Table 12 is asking for more bread and another bottle of wine," Steve shouts from the doorway before dashing back out with more baskets of bread.

"Already? There's only three of them. How can they finish off a whole bottle in fifteen minutes?" Jensen reaches between Misha's umpteen pots and pans bubbling away on the grill top for the one tiny sauce pan he's got stashed between the pasta and the sauce, pulls out a clump of Ramen noodles with a hot dog tongs, and drops them onto a styrofoam plate, then does the same with a second plate. Reaching into the grocery bag on the counter, he takes out the bottle of ketchup and tries to squirt it over the noodles, grunting and biting his tongue when nothing comes out. It takes more time than he feels like he has to take off the cap and the stupid tamper evident seal.

"I think the son's got the hots for you." Misha smirks into his soup until he spies the conglomeration Jensen's setting on the card table they set up in the corner for the kids. "And what he hell are you doing to that poor unsuspecting food?"

"Making spaghetti," Jensen says with a shrug. "Lately, it's the only thing they'll eat. Spaghetti and pizza." He realizes too late he should not have mentioned the 'p' word.

"I want pizza," Jake insists, crossing his arms over his chest. Joey doesn't waste any time erecting the wall of solidarity, bottom lip jutting out. "We always have pizza on basketball night."

"I know. I know, we do, guys, but we're pressed for time with the matinee showing and the wrap party..." Yeah, he's a selfish bastard. He knows. His play, his wrap party, which he's friggin' catering at instead of partying with the foundation types to drum up more money for the next play and the next wrap party. Lord knows he loves kissing ass almost as much as taking it up the... Yeah, he's having the time of his life here. The kids don't seem impressed. "I've got..." he stops short of saying, 'I've got work to do, because when does he ever not have work to do. "Fine," he huffs, "pizza, then. Coming right up."

Grabbing the basket of bread he's supposed to be taking out to Table 12 and the tall Mama’s boy who seems incapable of looking anywhere above Jensen's belt, or anyone else’s since his mama practically slapped his knuckles in front of Jensen and the world, he slices two hard rolls in half. More ketchup for sauce, smeared over the four crusts, some shredded cheese from the bowl Misha's stirring into the onion soup, and voila. He catches a glimpse of himself in the toaster oven door as he slides the mini pizzas in. Shit. Only up to the salad portion of the night, and he already looks like Hell. The oven dings and he does the hot potato juggle all the way over to the table. "Order up!"

The kids are still not impressed, but are they ever? He honestly can't remember the last time he got more than an eye roll for his ingenuity. "Thats not what we meant," Jake protests, pushing the plate away.

"Jensen! Table 12!" Misha reminds him. And about then, if he didn’t owe Misha the time for all the hours the guy helps Jensen out at the diner, he’d tell him to stuff it and catch a cab home.

Ripping off his apron, Jensen crouches down by the card table, feels the cummerbund pinch across his stomach, and tugs at his bow tie. "I'll tell you what. You guys eat this, and whatever I make in tips tonight, we'll take to Chuck E. Cheese this weekend. All right?" He doesn't say, unless the new taillight he has to buy tomorrow eats up all the money.

Joey's game for that and immediately dives into the faux pizza. Jake takes some more convincing. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out the twenty a lady already gave him for hunting down some honey and mixing it into the soft butter for her bread. "Here's twenty bucks. You can play skeet ball for an hour with that, right?"

"Ball pit?" Joey asks, spraying bread crumbs into Jensen's cummerbund. He read, somewhere, that the cummerbund was designed for that exact purpose, but somehow, he doesn't think the guests would be impressed. He jumps up from his crouched position, brushing at his shirt front, and gets hit on the back of the head by one of the buttons on the jacket Misha tosses him.

"Sure," he agrees, "but we're gonna need more money for that. So, I have to get back to work, okay?"

They both nod and dig into their pizza/spaghetti gourmet ketchup combo meals. "I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes. Be good," he calls over his shoulder, more request than instruction.

He should know better than to expect things to go right. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me, or so they say. Jensen has no doubt he's the biggest fool that ever lived, especially where family is concerned. The sad moral of the story is, if there is a moral, he never, ever learns.

--

Most of the night's a blur, both figuratively and literally. Jensen's way beyond tired, so it should come as no surprise everything seems to be fraying and coming apart at the edges. By the third time he stops by the kitchen to check on the kids and drop his gratuities on the table, Jake's already finished eating and itching to spend the money, begging for sodas from the vending machine in the lobby. "Jenny..." "Jennyyyyyy." Ugh, they know he hates that. Only kid brothers and sisters could ever get away with calling him that, and they do it when he’s too spent to argue.

He's barely got time for a curt, "No," which should be all the explanation he needs after what happened the last time the kids got sugared up on Big Red and Mountain Dew. Just say, there's a good reason neck ties aren't leashes and ceiling fans aren't ferret go rounds, and that's why A) he can't remember how many Indys there have been, and B) the kids do not get soda. (For what it's worth, that was still a less traumatic experience than the time Jake's "pet" raccoon that he lured into the house with dog food and Jensen's shaving mirror, ate the head off his pet turtle in the middle of the night and left the corpse on Jake’s pillow for the "tooth fairy" to find and dispose of before the poor kid woke up.) At least the ferret didn't die. Not that coming free of his neck tie harness and sailing out an open door was much fun for the little guy. Jensen really doesn't blame him for never coming back. (Smarter than the average ferret, that one. Fly. Be free.)

So, "No," it is. "No sodas. No candy bars. No Starburst, and for the love of God, no bubble gum." Then, he's back in the trenches, dodging wandering eyes and groping fingertips, while visions of beheaded turtles dance in his head.

By the sixth trip into the back, the main course has been served, and Jensen's considering giving the kids each a piece of Misha's strawberry cheesecake in reward for being so quiet. That is, until he realizes they're quiet because they're not there anymore.

Of course.

"Steve!" Jensen grabs the other waiter by the ridiculous ponytail Misha makes him wear because he refuses to cut his hair (it makes him look like he should be a pumpkin coach driver in some porned up rendition of Cinderella. Not that Jensen's ever seen one of those.)

"HEY!"

"Yeah, bippity boppity boo," Jensen huffs, "Have you seen the kids?"

"Kids? I dunno. Let me think on that, jerk wad," Steve grunts, wiping at the spot of wine that splashed on his coat due to the abrupt stop. "Vertically challenged humanoids, about so and so high?" he asks, hand at four foot and three and a half. "Copious amounts of red, viscous substance that could have been blood on their faces and hands?"

"Dude!" Jensen reaches for the ponytail a second time.

Steve caves, shielding his hair with an arm and ducking away. "Last I saw, they were counting up that pile of money they left on the table, talking about playing bank robbery. The taller suspect scooped up the money, handed a bottle of ketchup to the... accomplice, and said, "Cover me."

"And?"

"And that's the last I saw. I'm not your babysitter, man. I have work to do. Speaking of which, guess who's asking for seconds?"

Jensen sags and rolls his eyes. "Table 12?"

“That wife must really have the hots for you, Jen," Steve smirks, bumping their elbows together.

"I wish." Jensen checks the pantry and the freezer with no sign of Jake or Joey.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means someone at that table has the hots for me, but it isn't the wife." He makes a shushing gesture, putting a finger to his lips, and points to the under-counter cooler where they keep the cold cuts for easy access.

"And that surprises you," Steve asks, filling his tray with dessert plates. "Shit, if I hadn't known your forever, my gaydar would be going off within fifty feet of you."

"That's not gaydar. It's wishful thinking, pervo." Jensen dives for the cooler door and swings it open, a giant A-HA pressing up against his soft palate, but there's no one there either.

He's too caught up in the search by then to argue the point further. It's nothing they haven't tossed around a hundred times before, anyway. They really have known each other forever it seems. Questioning each other's sexuality and desire to hit just about anything that moves is pretty par for the course. Besides, Jensen does get hit on by a lot of guys. He figures it's the price he pays for being in the performing arts clubs instead of after school sports. Yeah, he was a band geek. What of it? That can't possibly be the only reason guys fall hopelessly in lust with him everywhere he goes. He's half convinced it's some kind of superpower. He just hasn't figured out how to use it to his advantage yet.

He's turned over every box of gold napkin rings and stack of carefully folded linens without finding so much as a red hand print when Steve reminds him, "Jensen. Table 12. I swear, if that woman says 'You Whoooo, young man' one more time, and then asks me where you are, I might accidentally spill something on myself and have to take a break."

Jensen goes from, oh, shit, this is starting to suck to, fucking Hell, what am I gonna do instantly, complete with heart palpitations and shortness of breath. He does what he always does in these situations. Laughs it off. "You wouldn't."

Steve doesn't respond in kind.

"Dude, we've got two hundred, pampered jet-setters out there with an open bar and deep enough pockets to keep a designated driver on pay roll. You wouldn't leave us short-handed."

"What? Like you're doing by hiding out in the kitchen half the night?"

"I'm not... Never mind. I'm going." Turning to the empty and now ransacked kitchen, he raises his voice. "Did you hear that? I'm going back to work. Your brother's coming to pick you up in half an hour. Whatever trouble you're into you'd better be out of by then." He straightens his jacket and heads back out, already able to pick out the demanding voice of his bane. He feels more like a Chippendale's dancer than a waiter. He'll be so glad when this night is over.

--

Jared knows the night’s going from slightly turbulent to swirling clockwise in all its whitewater glory toward the hole at the bottom of the commode when his parents veto his request to get them another waiter. Well, veto is really giving them too much credit. That would imply they actually consider his decision. They don’t even give him the dignity of waiting until the potential replacement-- a scruffy, slightly built blond dude with a ponytail-- can say no for himself. No, there’d be too much dignity for him in that. Wouldn’t fit into their parenting style at all. They wait until Jared’s doing his best alpha male impersonation, leaning back in his highback chair, one arm draped over the back and the other brandishing and gesturing with his polished silver fork, and then swat him with a rolled up newspaper.

“Jared, son, I don’t think the waitstaff gets paid enough for you to make sexual advances toward every one that walks by the table,” his daddy says.

“I-” he closes his mouth abruptly, sets down his fork and straightens in his chair. Doing his best to salvage what little elusive pride he has, he smooths his palm down his tie, tugs at the crinkles in his suit jacket as he chooses his rebuttal carefully. “I was merely... inquiring as to whether we might have a different waiter assigned to our table, being that the other is... crude and... disrespectful.”

“Oh, but I like... Jansen,” his mother adds. She swirls the wine in her glass, opposite arm cupping her elbow against her chest, as she tilts her chin up, gaze fluttering into the depths of her vino from beneath her miles-long, glued-on eyelashes. “He seems like a lovely young man. One can hardly blame him for getting cross with you, Jared. You do have that effect on people.”

“His name’s--” Jared falters, because he can’t remember what the dude’s name is, but he’s sure it’s not Jansen. “H-Hanson,” he mumbles into his palm. “And you said he...” Jared’s aware his voice has climbed into ‘whine’ register even before his father interrupts him.

“Your mother’s right,” Daddy agrees. “That petulant noise you’re making right now is a prime example of why we can never keep good help,” dropping his napkin over his plate with finality, “except that valet of yours. Between his salary and your grocery bill, you’ll be lucky if there’s anything left in your trust fund by the time you gain control of it.”

Of course, his parents-- the Unified Front. Unified against Jared, anyway. He’s pretty sure they’d have hen-pecked each other into early graves if they hadn’t been ‘blessed’ with a child. Part of his personal canon is that he’s a mail order baby, because no way these two ever managed to put tab A in slot B. It’s worse now that he’s old enough to take over his fortune. Part of him knows that’s their plan, to keep him from ever coming into his own. The rest of him knows it’s working and he’s as much to blame as they are.

The ponytail waiter excuses himself when another patron beckons, and Jared’s torn between sliding under the table or looking for the restroom when their first waiter returns. Hanson? Jansen? No, “Jensen!” He accidentally says it aloud, causing the waiter to turn an expectant gaze on him, gesturing with his eyebrows to the wine bottle in the hand at the end of his linen-draped arm. Jared waves him off, covering his glass. He really needs to get a better leash on his tongue, but the relief at clearing the brain fart is too much to contain. Jensen, of course --the guy who spent part of the last act of his own play with his dick in a costarring role and then had the audacity to call Jared a pretentious asshole in front of his parents. Jensen. What the fuck kind of name is that, anyway?

His mother welcomes Jensen like the prodigal son. “There you are, darling,” she says, manicured fingers splayed over Jensen’s forearm, her bright red acrylic nails stark against the white of his shirt. “We were worried that our son had run you off.”

“Oh no, ma’am,” Jensen replies with a charming smile. “It would take more than... an indecent proposal... to chase me away. I’m a professional.”

“Professional what?” Jared spits, trying and failing not to slouch in his chair. He keeps one elbow on the table, knuckle to his temple while he shovels in the next bit of steak without first cutting it into a manageable size, then pushes it into the side of his cheek so he can keep talking. “So far we’ve seen you act, produce, and wait tables. It’s always been my understanding,” and he casts a glance at his father when he continues, “that a true professional does one thing really well, and leaves the rest to the less proficient.”

His father doesn’t acknowledge Jared quoting him with so much as a nod. Instead, he takes a drink of his wine and sets the glass down carefully. “By that token, Jared here should be the poster child for... poster children. As many times as he’s,” and he pauses here to actually make air quotes, his fingers so stick straight like the rest of him that he barely even manages that, “ ‘run away’ only to come crawling back a few days later, he should be able to write a novel on how not to grow up utilizing every advantage this fine country has to offer.” When Jensen just stares at him dumbly, Jared’s father chuckles half-heartedly. “Sorry. Bit of an inside joke, that.” Then, he clears his throat, leans back in his chair, palms on his kneecaps. “But seriously, in my experience,” he says, “those that can, do. I admire a man with ambition. It’s nice to see someone so young who isn’t resting on his laurels and letting his parents foot the bill.” He doesn’t actually have to kick Jared’s shins under the table in order for Jared to feel it. And he doesn’t feel it in his shins.

Jensen clears his throat and says, “Thank you, sir. And can I just say thank you, as well, for your patronage. Your contributions to the foundation make it possible for us to do these shows the way they deserve to be done.”

“To be sure,” Daddy nods. “There’s little advancement to be made from... half-assing it.” The enunciation of the last phrase makes it blatantly apparent that he’s trying to speak the ‘lingo of the young people.’ “Any word on what sort of project our money will be funding next?”

“We’re fielding ideas at the moment,” Jensen replies. “Anything in particular you’d like to see?”

“Musical reviews are really big right now.” Jared can’t help but jump in. He’s got a whole collection of music from before his time, and he’s been itching to see some of them performed live. He can almost see the dancers, the costumes, the sequins and lights... “I always thought someone should write a show around the music of...”

SPLAT!

Jared’s cut off by the sudden appearance of red blossoming on the front of his father’s tuxedo shirt. A second later, splat, splat, and sploosh, the entire front of the shirt and the coat are dripping ketchup, and his mother’s shrieking and backing away from the table. Too late, though. From the doorway of the cloakroom, two kids emerge brandishing squeeze bottles of Heinz. Before Jared’s mother can get up from her chair, the hem of her dress catches underneath it and tears, the rip only the beginning of the end for her couture evening gown, as a moment later, it matches her husband’s tux. Red floral is not really in this season.

The room erupts in chaos, people shouting and scrambling for the exits while the kids shout, “This is a hold-up!” And their waiter’s bright red without the cover of condiment as he lunges for the culprits, grabs them by the scruffs of their t-shirt collars, and drags them away.

Jensen comes back a few minutes later as the guests are re-seating themselves and tries to apologize.

“You mean,” Daddy says, “that those two hooligans belong to you?”

“Yes, yes sir, and...”

“I take back everything I said about your professionalism, young man. It’s obvious you are neglecting at least some of your responsibilities at home. I, for one, am not going to fund another one of your productions. The cost of replacing our clothes and the wasted trip out here for this disaster more than offset any benefit we gained by supporting you.” He doesn’t say ‘tax write-off’ but Jared knows that’s the only benefit they ever really cared about.

“But...” Jensen looks completely deflated, hands shaking and face a bright red film over pasty white. Jared knows the feeling. His parents have that affect on people.

“I’m so sorry, sir.” This from a man Jared didn’t even see until now, dark-haired with blue eyes, who butts in between Jensen and Jared’s father, brandishing seltzer water and a clean cloth. “Excuse me. I’m Misha Collins, your chef for this evening. Jensen here works for me. I’m terribly sorry. I’ve been extremely lenient by allowing him to bring the minor children along. It won’t happen again.” He’s obviously flustered, working out the worst of the ketchup stains as best he can.

Daddy bats him away. “Take your hands off of me!” Misha does. “And heed my advice.”

“Your advice?”

“If you know what’s best for you and your business, then this young man will no longer be in your employ when my lawyer calls you on Monday morning.”

“Wait a minute!” Jensen protests, but Misha takes him by the shoulders and turns him around.

“Jared!” his father bellows.

“Yes, uh, Daddy,” Jared waffles.

“Your mother and I are leaving. I want you to find that check we wrote and tear it up.”

“Uh...”

His father frowns at him with obvious disdain. “Grow a backbone, boy. If you ever expect to gain control of your trust fund, you’ll learn to accept the responsibilities that go along with managing it. One of those is pulling out of bad investments.”

“Right.” Wow. Harsh. A few minutes ago, Jared was all for seeing Jensen eat some crow, but... the guy’s got kids for Christ’s sake. He casts an apologetic look over his shoulder as Jensen’s escorted out of the dining hall, but Jensen can’t see it. Fuck, why should Jared even care if he sees it? Does Jared honestly think he can psychically communicate to the guy that he’s only following orders and doesn’t really want to ruin the dude’s production? And, if he could, that would actually matter, how? Right. It wouldn’t. What does matter is getting into his father’s good graces. He’s got a trust fund to collect, after all. “Yes, Daddy.”

What? He’s only ‘utilizing every advantage this fine country has to offer.’ It’s practically his patriotic duty to make sure he gets control of his own money. Then, who knows, he might actually be able to do something with his life... feed the starving children, save the whales, stop global warming, or, you know, support the arts of backwoods Texas hick towns and their starving artist families... that, and get drunk enough to ignore his parents’s phone calls.

Even as he says it, he makes a mental note to make sure Jeffrey’s got the mini bar stocked before he comes by to pick up Jared. It’s gonna take more than a little wine to put this night behind him.

--

When the truck idles up to the back entrance, Jensen opens the door for Jake and Joey, pushes the seat forward, and motions them in like the warden on a prison bus. He doesn't look up when he slides into the passenger seat and slams the door.

"I thought you had to stay til the end to help close," Jeremy says.

Jensen has nothing against opera, and it's no surprise this crowd parties out to arias in the key of impossibly high, but the soprano floating out across the parking lot from inside just sounds like a fat lady singing to him.

"It's the end," he says, dropping his apron and cummerbund to the floor like it's the last costume he'll ever wear. "Let's go home."

--

Jared slides into the backseat of his limo, still choking on the exhaust of the rickety truck that roared out a few seconds ago. The door’s barely shut before the car lurches forward, and he smacks his head on the plexiglass divider between himself and the driver when they screech to a halt again to wait for traffic at the end of the parking lot. “Ow!” Rapping on the glass, he catches Jeffrey’s eye in the rearview mirror and signals to lower the glass. Jeffrey then rolls his eyes but does as he’s told.

“What crawled up your ass?” Jared huffs.

“You cost me fifty bucks, that’s what,” Jeffrey retorts. “I had a good pickup game going with the other drivers, had ‘em all convinced I fell off the truck yesterday and was just about to turn the tables on their asses when,” he jabs a finger at the phone recharging on dash, “JEFF-REY! Jeff-REY! What? You couldn’t hang around and let the locals schmooze you for another hour?”

“Something came up,” Jared says, “And a good thing it did. You’re my valet. You’re not to be seen carousing with those... drivers.”

“But I am a driver.”

“You only drive for me.”

“I have to, because you’re probably the only 22-year-old in the country who doesn’t have a license. Tomorrow, I’ll be your caddy, your personal assistant, chef, butler, and bartender. Oh, and condom dispenser. I’m a man of many hats.”

Slouching back in the seat, Jared says without conviction, “You’re welcome. Wouldn’t want you to go through life with no sense of purpose.” He catches Jeffrey's all too familiar searching gaze sizing him up in the mirror, tries to look away, but Jeffrey's the one person he's ever been able to look in the eye with any type of conviction.

“Well, fuck,” Jeffrey mumbles, eyes back on the road.

"What?" Jared sulks.

The mini bar built into the console in front of Jared automatically pops open, “Let’s not leave out my duties as head shrinker.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Jared asks, already reaching for a bottle. After a moment’s consideration, he leaves the glasses where they are and just unscrews the top, taking a good long swallow before settling the liquor between his legs.

“Means I’ve heard that tone in your voice too many times to not know something’s up. So, spill it.”

Jared notices the turn signal come on as they near the exit back to the hotel he’s staying at with his parents. “Stay on the highway. I’m not ready to go back yet.”

“Well, the night is young.

“That it is.” After swirling the liquor around in the bottle for a few seconds, Jared worms out of his suit coat and tosses it on the floor. The ruffled tuxedo shirt follows next, leaving him in just his wife beater and pants. He’s got a stash of jeans in the console if he wants to make a night of it. “Don’t suppose there’s a club around here?”

Jeffrey shakes his head. “Not this far out of Austin, just local bars, and I wouldn’t advise walking into one of those if you’re looking to pick up a little action. Never know what kind of tolerance they have for, uh...”

“Point taken,” Jared sighs. “Wasn’t looking to get laid, anyway. Just wanted to get a little drunk, and I hate doing it alone.”

“That’s what you’ve got me for.”

“No offense, man, but you have my parents on speed dial.”

“But the paychecks come from your trust fund.”

“Still, you’re the designated driver.”

“Point taken.” He gestures toward the exit sign as they pass the last street light before they hit hill country.

Jared shakes his head, tipping the bottle up to his mouth and wiping his chin with his sleeve, “Keep going.”

“If you’re looking to run away from home again...”

“Who fucking said anything about running away?”

“No one, but I know you, Jared.”

“Oh, you know me.” Jared kicks off his stupid white loafers and flings them over the seat so they bounce off the windshield. “What do you know about me, Jeffrey?”

“I know you don’t like to wander off the beaten path, for one, and you get a little agoraphobic if there isn’t so much as a high rise within shouting distance, AND,” he flings Jared’s shoe back over the divider, “that taking off your clothes is your own personal metaphor for shrugging off your droll, pointless existence... upon which you will expound once you’ve had another couple hits off that bottle.”

“Fuck you.”

“Can’t. I’m wearing my driver hat.”

Oh, that is just it. Fucking smug bastard. Jared lunges forward, hangs half over the divider, and takes a good look out the windshield down the highway in front of them. “There! Pull off at that picnic area.”

He relishes the furrow of Jeffrey’s brow, the momentary look of disbelief. “That’s right. You heard me. Pull over.”

The car skids on the gravel going into the picnic area, and Jared sloshes some of his booze onto the crotch of his pants, but he’s too far gone to pay it more mind than to scrub at the spot with one of his hastily removed socks.

“Fine,” Jeffrey grunts, “We’re here. Now what?”

“You know me so well?” Jared taunts, “Why don’t you tell me? What would I do out here?”

“You wouldn’t stop here.”

“Ah, but we just did. Now, tell me, I wouldn’t stop here, but would I get out here?”

“It’s dark out there. There aren’t any lights.”

“So, you’re saying I wouldn’t?” With a smirk, Jared lurches to the door, plays a frustrating game of whack-a-mole that involves the door handle and the friggin’ automatic door locks, never timing it right so that the door actually opens, then howls in frustration until Jeffrey overrides the lock from his control. Jared’s still mid-howl when he pulls on the handle and falls out onto the ground. His bottle ends up trapped beneath his chest. He rolls off and takes another swill before lunging to his feet, one sock off and one sock on. “Well, it seems that you are wrong. It appears that I would get out here.”

“I stand corrected,” Jeffrey concedes, his voice low and soothing through the open window. “You’ve proven your point... Sir. Now why don’t you get back in the car. If you really want to go to a club, it’s only another half hour into Austin...”

“Don’t pa--” Jared staggers backward, waving his bottle in the air, not having much luck gaining his balance on the gravel beneath his feet. “Don’t patronize me. I wouldn’t have gotten out here if I didn’t want to be here.”

“And just what is it that you plan to do out here?”

Jared spins around, spies one of those wooden marker signs that claims this is a scenic lookout area. Gesturing toward the sign fast enough to slosh more liquor out of the bottle, he says, “I’m going to lookout at the scenic,” washing machine arms, “area.”

“It’s dark. There’s nothing to see.”

“Well, then, I’ll just have to sit here until it’s light again.”

“Jar--Sir, I am not going to sit out here all night just to watch you pass out on the picnic table waiting for the sun to come up.”

“Then don’t.”

“Fine, then get back in the car.”

“No.”

“Jared.”

“Go. I’m relieving you of... your duties.”

“I don’t want you to...”

“I said, go! I’m your boss, remember? M-my, MY trust fund, remember? So, when I tell you to go, you fucking go!” With that, Jared hauls off and kicks in the passenger door, with his bare foot. And mother fuck does that hurt! Determined not to let on that he’s in excruciating pain and fairly certain that he’s about to fall on his ass in the gravel, he punctuates the order by slamming his bottle down on the roof. “Leave!”

Jeffrey does, rolling up the automatic window, his furious glare and pursed lips the last things Jared sees before it’s just his own reflection on the tinted glass, dust, and gravel.

Then, he falls on his ass.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, hissing through his teeth as pain shoots up his leg and wishing he hadn’t wasted the last of his anesthetic, but it’s long enough for him to determine that, yes, his foot is fucking broken, and no, he didn’t think to grab his phone out of his jacket when he took it off. So, he’s pretty well fucked all around.

“Well played, dumbass.” His parents are never going to let him live this down. But he’s used to that. Jeffrey’s never gonna let him live this down, and for all the shit they give each other, Jeff’s the closest thing Jared’s got to a friend. In fact, he can pretty much guarantee that car’s going to be pulling back in here within the hour. And Jared will be here, pouting, maybe sniffling a little, no choice except to go back to it all, since he’s not running anywhere on a broken foot.

God, this is the most impotent attempt at gaining independence ever staged in the history of ever. All this drama and pain, and all he’ll have to show for it is a pair of ruined dress slacks and a cast. He grabs a handful of gravel, chucks it across the clearing in earnest, and looks up when a few stones bounce off the scenic view sign.

Scenic view.

Well, anything’s better than the view at three feet above ground level on the side of the road, and he probably shouldn’t be sitting on the side of the road in the dark, anyway. He tilts his head back. It’s a clear night, more stars out than he ever remembers seeing, and the moon’s bright enough for the signpost to cast a shadow. Maybe a scenic view is just what he needs, a picture postcard to paste in the scrapbook on the back of his mind to remind him of this dismal failure the next time he gets the itch to wonder if there might be more out there for him than just a buttload of money he never even asked for and all the ‘responsibility’ that comes with it.

It takes a while to lever himself up off the ground, hindered by the throbbing in his broken foot and the spinning of the world, in general. He finally manages to stand, but the world refuses to acknowledge that he’s upright and continues to tilt on its axis around him. “Oh, shit.”

He’ll probably never know why he doesn’t just throw up where he stands. At this point, it’s all outdoors as far as he can see, but there must be a small, very small, piddling little sliver of his dignity left that causes him to clap a hand over his mouth and hop for the bushes on the other side of the signpost.

It’s not until he’s leaning into the brush and heaving up his filet mignon and the one hundred proof marinade he just poured over it that he realizes why they call this the Texas hill country. “I’m the king of the world!” he thinks, wiping his mouth with the hem of his wife beater. The moonlight above him reflects off an unnamed body of water below... a long, long way below. That’s when he realizes, he’s not only slightly agoraphobic (he swears the grass is teeming with creatures of the night spreading like a carpet of shadow toward him) but he’s also afraid of heights. And drunk. And dizzy.

As the ground beneath him swells up and gives him the ol’ heave ho, he laughs, because he just happens to know that the dude from Titanic who had the audacity to proclaim himself to be the king of the world was named Jack. And the Jack that Jared automatically cross-references in his topsy-turvy brain is the one who went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Everyone knows what happened to that Jack.

It’s really no surprise that Fate has the same twist in store Jared. His arms pinwheel for only a split second as he tips over the edge. Jared knows futile when he feels it. At least he won’t have to face Jeffrey when the car comes back to pick him up.

He almost laughs right before the breath is knocked out of him. He doesn’t catch it again before even the moonlight goes out.

--

Part Two (Link will not be unlocked until December 29th. Thank you and sorry for the confusion.)