The Second Man, NC-17, Jensen/Jared, 3/9
Dec. 30th, 2009 03:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ht_murray<<--Back to Part Two
A/N: Lyrics used in this section are from "A Song For Jen" by New Leaf, and used without permission.
--Part Three--
A/N2: I feel like this is the weakest part of the whole story. Don't ask me why. So, to make up for unloading it on y'all, I'm unlocking Part Four, too. I'm warning ya, though, Part Four ends on kind of a cliffie.
After half an hour of fruitless searching (Bathroom must be upstairs. Who the hell puts a bathroom upstairs?) with Jensen’s morning road tar/coffee kicking Jared’s kidneys, bladder, and everything else into high gear, Jared decides that hopping on one leg is faster than using the crutches. Between the scattered shoes, laundry, empty pizza boxes, and what looks like kibble, (God, he hopes there’s nothing worse than kibble underneath) there’s barely enough exposed floor for a simple footpath, let alone a foot and two crutches.
Ten minutes after that, he’s managed to hop up the stairs, twice (damned golf ball). His heart’s pounding in his chest, not because he’s in poor shape, but because he’s barely managing to suppress an image of himself developing one really big hypertrophic ass cheek from doing one-legged hops and a stain on the front of his pants that isn’t coffee. He honestly doesn’t think he can take anymore of this emotional torture. At this point, he’s looking for an open window or even a potted plant. What’s worse is, twice he’s heard door locks snap shut just as he was reaching for the knob. Way to make a guy feel welcome.
Finally, he just stands in the middle of the hall, (standing being a relative term since he’s high on caffeine and trying every known contortion to pinch off his bladder short of grabbing himself and putting a kink in the hose) throws his arms in the air and says, “Uh... bathroom?”
Another door latch clicks, and Jared’s trying to decide whether it’s worthwhile to just beat his head against the wall until he knocks himself unconscious. Though, if he’s being practical, there are so many holes in the dry wall already, it’s probably not even strong enough to make a useful tranq. A door opens to his left and the kid from last night (Jeremy?) pokes his head out, bleary-eyed and squinting. “End of the hall on the left.”
“End of the hall on the left,” Jared huffs, already hopping. “What kind of sadistic bastard designed this house?” Between panting breaths, “Probably buys and sells kidneys out of his garage.” He hits the door frame, his hand not quite as quick on the draw as the rest of his body. When the door does open, he stops abruptly, shaking his head. Not a bathroom. Unless bathrooms are now cleverly disguising fixtures as bedroom furniture -- really nice bedroom furniture -- four poster bed, looks hand carved, with a handmade quilt folded neatly across the foot, a matching dresser and vanity, and what looks like a sewing cabinet, one of the antique ones with the hand wheel, all framed by windows that cover most of the wall and sheer curtains draping all the way to the floor. Definitely not the bathroom.
“Your other left,” Jeremy says from directly behind him, close enough to make Jared feel like he’s being escorted off the premises.
“Right... Other left,” Jared mumbles, a little taken aback to find something actually pleasant in all this chaos, a ghost of something real in the middle of this nightmare world. Anyway, business at hand. He hears the bedroom door shut, slow, almost like it doesn’t want to, the tumblers in the latch clicking separately instead of as a single unit.
He’d apologize for whatever infraction he’s obviously committed, but he’s got the bathroom door open. It must be some kind of Pavlovian response, or just perfect timing, but it never fails. Whether he’s been holding it for five seconds or five hours, the second a toilet is in sight, he loses muscle tone everywhere in the vicinity of his navel and below. From doorknob to toilet in two seconds flat, and he doesn’t even pause to wonder why the yellowed stains on the bottom of the toilet look pretty much the same as the ones around the faucets in the sink and the tub. He doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.
He’s got his head tipped back, eyes closed in relief before he has the clarity of mind to wonder why the bathroom door was closed to begin with. Seems like they’d leave it open so it would be easier to find in the middle of the night. What are they trying to keep out?
Or.
In?
As fast as he got himself out, he might break the sound barrier tucking it back in (‘cause let’s face it, that thing’s gotta crack like a bull whip.) And yet, he’s not fast enough. He gets the waistband over his hips and the drawstring pulled tight just in time to see the cabinet door under the sink snap shut and a tail disappear under the pants cuff on his casted leg.
If everyone in the house isn’t already awake, he remedies that by screaming like a tea kettle and breaking the latch on the inward swinging door by hitting it hard enough to force it outward.
“Somebody! Somebody! Get it off!” There’re claws clenching in his leg hairs like they’re climbing ropes and getting closer to the summit. He’s dancing around, still rasping, “Off, off, off, off,” while fumbling with the knotted (how did it get knotted?) drawstring on his pants, when three doors open in unison. Three separate voices join his.
“Indy!”
“Stop! You’re hurting him!”
“Off, off, off, off, off!”
“Stop it!”
And no one’s having any luck with the drawstring except to pull it tighter. The next thing Jared knows, there’s a hand up his pant leg, and a couple pawfuls fewer leg hairs on his leg. The scrubs weren’t made to accommodate quite that much commotion, and since they’re already split at the bottom to fit around the cast, they promptly rip all the way up to the waistband. He’s pretty sure the boxers he’s wearing aren’t his. They just don’t feel right and probably came from the hospital along with the scrubs, but he’s glad he’s wearing something. These kids don’t need to see his half moon. He’s fairly convinced they’re monsters during every phase of the lunar cycle.
Everything falls silent, save for a few sniffles and whimpers.(At least a few of them are from the kids.) It’s more than a little awkward. What’s a guy to do when he’s wearing the equivalent of flamenco pants and surrounded by short people at crotch level? Well, fold his arms across his chest and lean nonchalantly against the wall, of course.
“His name’s Indy,” a tiny voice offers. “And I’m Joey.”
Jared looks up from the ground. The shortest child holds the furry perpetrator. Said kid’s face is just lips framed by tear tracks, barely visible between the oversized baseball cap and the Calvin and Hobbes t-shirt that must pass for pajamas. Kid wears a baseball cap to bed and no pants. What’s up with that?
“He’s a ferret,” the lips say.
“A ferret,” Jared nods. He scratches the back of his neck. “That’s a member of the weasel family, right?” He doesn’t know how he knows that. The only thing he really knows about weasels is they have sharp teeth.
“He doesn’t bite,” the other rugrat (was Jake his name?) volunteers.
“Uh, I’m sorry,” Jared says. “I didn’t know I said that out loud. I’m sure that...”
“Indy,” Joey reminds.
“I’m sure that Indy is very sweet.”
“Yeah. He only ever bit Mrs. Crandall,” Jake says, taking the ferret from Joey and holding him up for Jared to pet, “And she had it coming. We told Jensen we didn’t need a babysitter. Now he believes us, doesn’t he, Indy?”
Jared reaches out just one finger, pets the critter on the head and jerks the digit back (without squeaking like a girl, thank you very much.)
“Well, he almost bit Mrs. Parsons when she stepped on his tail, but he had the toilet paper roll stuck over his head, so he couldn’t,” Jake continues.
“Uh, Mrs. Parsons?”
“The social worker,” Jeremy offers. He snags Indy, drops him in the bedroom behind him, and closes the door.
“You have a social worker?”
“Yeah,” Jeremy shrugs. “Jen was just eighteen when Mom and Dad died. The State didn’t think he was really fit to be our guardian. They kinda watch him like a hawk.”
Jared’s about to say something on the order of, ‘not nearly close enough,’ when the sound of brakes squeak and whoosh on the road out front and a horn honks.
“School bus,” Jeremy offers.
“Uh, aren’t you supposed to be on it?”
“Do we look ready for school?” Jake asks, hand on his hip.
“Well, get ready then,” Jared says, pushing bodies toward the nearest open door. “Jeremy! Do something! They’re gonna miss the bus.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Yell out to the road. Tell it to wait!” No way he’s spending the whole day with these hooligans. Near castration via weasel is one close call too many. Besides, it’s gonna be pretty hard to sneak away if there’s a house full of witnesses. And what kind of jerk leaves little kids home alone all day?
Jeremy chuckles, crossing his arms. “Mr. Beaver? He won’t wait. You get one horn honk and one minute to hit the porch running, or he’s gone. Can’t hold up the whole route. Anyway, there’s no way you’ll get ‘em all dressed and lunches made in less than ten minutes.”
Fan-fucking-tastic. “Well, why aren’t you ready?” Jared asks, pulling his fingers through his hair hard enough that his vision curves up around the edges. “Jensen said you guys would get yourselves ready for the bus.”
“He told us to go back to bed.” Jake comes out of the bedroom with his t-shirt only half on and turned inside out to boot.
“He just meant until...” Jared can’t stand the rumpled state of disarray and general not-put-togetherness of the kid standing before him. “Here,” he says, pulling the kid’s arms up over his head and then rolling the shirt off before putting it back on the right way. He’s standing back, admiring his work, when the bus drives away. Looking between Jeremy and Jake, he says, “So, what do you usually do when you miss the bus? Do you have friends who can pick you up?”
“Not really. Chad graduated last year, and he was the only one out this way,” Jeremy supplies.
“So, what?” Jared asks. “You just stay home?”
Jake shrugs. “I guess.”
Jared looks to Jeremy who does the same. “Guess so.”
“Well, um... What do you do now?”
“I’m hungry.” Joey comes out of the bedroom wearing the same baseball cap, a sweatshirt, and jeans, sneakers untied. Jake automatically stoops down and ties them.
“I guesssss, breakfast it is, then,” Jared volunteers.
As he hops back down the stairs, he changes his plan to sneak out in the middle of the night, instead. The thought of spending the whole day here, though... Well, he can make breakfast and not actually eat any of it.
--
From what he can tell, based on his experience, which is none, breakfast is a roaring success. Not that he cares. His personal worth is so not dependent on the approval or disapproval of some unkempt little open-mouth chewers. The refrigerator had exactly one bottle of ketchup, one bottle of Miracle Whip, another one of chocolate syrup (mostly empty), and some whipped cream. Oh, and pickles. He put them all on the counter along with a loaf of white bread and made a pitcher of some sugary drink with a happy face on the package. Judging by the amount of slurping and talking with mouths full going on, the kids are satisfied with his effort. Easy crowd. But then, he bets pigs don’t turn away from anything that ends up in the trough.
Jared’s still nauseous from the prospect of staying the whole day, on his own, with no one to tell him what to do, and no clue where to start, in this... hole, and has no intention of eating anything (especially not on white bread, yeck) until Joey hands him a folded slice of the yeck and says, “Here, I made you a Miracle Whip and Ketchup sandwich.”
“Um, no thanks. I’m not hungry, really.”
“Nuh, uh, uh, uh,” the kid says, wagging a finger at him, pouty lips pursed defiantly under the bill of the cap. “You’re all bruised up and scraped, and Jensen says when you’re hurt or sick, you have to eat in order to get better.” With that, a hand snakes out and latches onto his. It takes the whole hand just to wrap around his thumb, and for a second he’s intimidated by the tininess of it and how trusting it is of him. Dizziness swims over him and joins forces with the nausea so he slumps back against the counter to keep from tipping over. It’s like something heavy just settled on his shoulders, and he can either brace himself up under it or duck away and let it fall. Joey puts the ‘sandwich’ in his upturned palm and presses his thumb over it.
“Eat.”
And Jared stands up, takes a bite, realizes while he’s still chewing that he’s famished, and shoves the entire rest of it into his mouth. Of course, that’s when he actually tastes what he’s eating, and between fighting down his gag reflex and trying not to spit the whole thing out into his hand, he ends up chewing with his mouth open, just like them. By the time he chokes it down, Jake and Joey are grinning at him and snickering to each other, and something about it is infectious. His face gives a twinge, and he realizes he’s smiling right along with them, and whattaya know? He’s got dimples. He can feel them when he swipes his tongue over his teeth to get the goop off.
“What?” he asks. “Do I have some on my face?”
The kids nod in unison.
“Where?” Jared asks. “Here?” He swipes at his forehead.
Two heads shaking.
“Here?” He wipes under his chin.
Negatory.
“How ‘bout here?” Scrubs over the bridge of his nose.
Finally, Joey reaches up and brushes a thumb over the corner of his mouth. Jared doesn’t know why he feigns biting the hand that feeds him, but the giggle it elicits definitely goes into a mental box labeled, ‘things about this place that I don’t actually hate.’
It’s the cold kitchen counter against the back of his thigh that reminds him his ass is essentially hanging out. “Wow. That was a great sandwich,” he says patting his stomach. “And now that I’m all fortified, I think maybe I’ll find something to wear.”
Except there’s the issue of not having anything to change into. No one looks his size. Sifting through the clothes basket that Jensen got dressed from that morning, Jared finds a pair of jeans that just might be his waist size and (huh, whattaya know) long enough in the inseam to... accommodate him. He guesses they’re Jensen’s, which means, they’re Jared’s now.
There’s a scissors, or possibly a wire snips in one of those overflowing kitchen drawers, and he has no guilt whatsoever in cutting the jeans up the sides and lopping off the legs. He can pull off shorts. He totally has the ass for it. Probably works out from the looks of it. Not half bad if he does say so himself. He still can’t get the cast through the leg hole and ends up slitting that leg all the way to the waistband, rendering it in essentially the same condition as the scrubs pants he just took off. This makes the crotch shift into an awkward position (not to mention bunches the boxers up underneath and breaks up the line of his ass) so he cuts the other side the same way, tears some thin strips, about a half inch wide and a couple of feet long, and uses the pointy end of the scissors to jab evenly spaced holes on each side of the torn outer seam. Then, he puts the shorts on and uses the thin strips to lace together the outsides, ties a little bow at the bottom. The ends of the lacing kinda tickle his leg hairs, and there’s some leg showing through the sides, but all-in-all, he likes it. In fact, he has some ideas for the rest of the jeans in the basket. Maybe leather inserts. Pink leather. And if he could hunt down some grommets, the lace holes would be sturdier.
Mid-thought about rhinestones, sequins, and glitter thread to monogram the pockets with, he decides Jensen must have been telling the truth. Jared is an artist. Huh. You learn something new everyday.
About then, the kids come squealing out of the kitchen, Joey screaming and chasing after Jake with a wooden spoon while Jake laughs hysterically. Jeremy saunters up to the doorframe and leans against it, raising an eyebrow at Jared’s outfit.
“They always like this?” Jared asks.
“Pretty much.”
“Wonderful.” Jared takes a deep breath, happy, glittery thoughts evaporating from his mind as reality sinks back in. “I think I need a nap.” Something tells him, this is gonna be a long day.
--
"Chris, you've still got the number the Padaleckis gave you, right?" Jensen resists the urge to smack the steering wheel, even though it's just par for the course that he always gets red at the only stoplight in town. Instead, he massages his temple with the fingers of his free hand, jerks to attention when the car behind him honks.
"Yeah, dude, what kind of Sheriff would I be if I didn't keep decent records?"
"Oh, I don't know," Jensen grumbles, "the kind who falsifies identification and accident reports in order to convince a guy with amnesia that he's someone he really isn't." He swings the truck off the main drag and onto the winding County road home, spinning in the gravel the Highway Department spread out to fill in the potholes.
"You're welcome."
"Believe me, I'm not thanking you. I didn't sleep at all last night, man. I can't believe I let you talk me into this. I was half-hoping he'd wake up this morning and not know where he was so I could just pretend this whole thing never happened."
"Did he?"
"No!"
"Good, then put him to work. It'll be good for him. You need help, and he needs a reality check. A match made in Bear Creek if ever I saw one."
"I want the number. I'm gonna call his parents to come get him." Jensen's thought about this all day. Even without the Jared Padalecki morning wake up call, just knowing he's there, in Jensen's house, on Jensen's couch, probably wondering what his and Jensen's sex life was like before he forgot it... (okay, so maybe he only imagines that Jared's thinking that because he spent all morning burning more sausage links than usual as a result of his mind drifting down that same gutter. Which is fucked up, because they never had a sex life. They're not engaged. They never even met before the play, and Jensen's... little Jensen putting in an appearance on stage was a wardrobe malfunction and not a sexual encounter. They're not lovers. They don't even play them on t.v. Fucking Christian Kane!)... well, it's all way too stressful, and Jensen already has plenty of that, thank you very much.
"I tried that, remember. They sent their, I dunno, butler or something to the hospital, didn't even fly back themselves, and the jackass swore the guy who washed up on that beach is not Jared Padalecki. Kid didn't have any i.d. on him, so for all we know, this guy's just Jared's doppleganger."
"So, just because no one's willing to claim him, it's okay to make up a fake identity? It's... I don't know what it is, emotional espionage or some shit, but it's messed up. In case you hadn't noticed, my life's pretty messed up already."
"Exactly, because you try to do everything yourself. We already had this conversation, Jensen."
Jensen's breath burns on its way out, and he massages at his breastbone, hoping to hell his acid reflux isn't fixing to flare up. He can't afford to close the diner again in order to make a doctor's appointment. "I do just fine," he lies, "and even if I didn't, I wouldn't take on a slave."
"He's not a slave. He's... an indentured servant. Didn't you say his parents withdrew their funding and cost you your next show? What can I say? Payback's a bitch."
"Except this guy has no idea he did anything to fuck me over. AND I have to lie to everyone I know in order to cover for you. Let's just forget my own family, because I hate to admit it, but the kids are gonna have way too much fun blackmailing me to care about the moral implications. Mom and Dad would be so proud, lemme tell ya. But I spend all day in the diner, half the town passes through there at least a couple times a week. What am I supposed to tell people? Hey, yeah, I’m really gay, and in between PTA, acting troupe, and the diner, I managed to get myself engaged to a tall, dark, guy none of you have ever even met?"
Alright, he's almost panting now, and he can tell Christian hasn't even kicked his feet down off the coffee table to address his concerns. Arguing with the guy always turns into a monologue. Jensen will be sure to name his first aneurysm Kane. He's fumed enough he almost misses the driveway, despite the freaking road sign that clearly says, Ackles Drive... er... he does a double take. Well, it used to clearly say Ackles Drive, and now it says something much less flattering. Friggin' kids. He guns the engine when he turns onto the dirt road, because he's pissed, and he wants to raise plenty of dust to let everyone know to go to ground before he gets there. Of course, it rained last night, so all he does is fishtail and almost slide in the ditch.
"They all love you and would probably perjure themselves for you in a court of law, even if it turned out you ate kittens for breakfast."
"Well they may be testifying at a custody hearing when the state comes to take the kids away, because the guy's only been at my house less than twenty-four hours, and I got a call from school that the kids never made the bus this morning. You know they investigate truancy cases, right?" Rounding the last curve in the driveway, Jensen's foot goes slack over the gas pedal. "What the fuck?" The brakes squeal, just one more thing that needs fixing, and the old truck rumbles to a stop at the front porch.
"Wha..."
Jensen clicks the phone off and shoves it in his pocket. "I'm gonna kill 'em," he mumbles. He knows as soon as he sees Jared slumped down beside the front door, Aggie's bloodhound mug planted firmly in his lap, that the kids have locked him out of the house. Seriously, they need to add a few more tricks to their repertoire. This is getting old.
The curtain flutters over the window, spearing the darkened porch with a shaft of light from inside, and Jensen doesn't have to look to know one of the kids is running recon on him from behind the recliner in the living room. The other two are probably crouched halfway up the staircase, awaiting the verdict on just how pissed Jensen is before he gets inside. He hits the porch slats hard enough to leave no question, cursing when one board cracks and falls into the darkness below, leaving him to catch himself against the door frame, almost on top of Jared who has yet to move a muscle.
"If you make me get out my keys, you're all pulling inventory down at the diner this weekend, and no free ice cream," Jensen bellows, a fair amount of growl in his voice that could as much be fatigue as agitation. It's been a long friggin' day, and the night's looking bleak as well. The dead bolt clunks and the door opens a fraction of an inch, before footsteps scamper away, the furniture scraping across the hardwood as the kids fall into deceptively casual sprawls. Because yeah, Jensen didn't teach them that back when he was their brother and not their single parent.
He's not really surprised when Jared doesn't acknowledge him or his less than graceful entrance from stage left. There's something about being pawned by a bunch of kids that takes the bluster out of a guy, even a guy with as much to spare as Mr. Rebel Without a Clue. Jensen should know. He still half expects to have his kneecaps chopped or his foot stabbed through with a wind chime when he brushes past Jared and pushes the door open. What he gets instead is nearly knocked over and pressed into the window glass face first when Jared shoves inside the second a streak of light breaches the frame.
For a guy with only one good leg, he moves pretty fast. And what the Hell is he wearing? Those better not be his best jeans, or what's left of them. And great, now there's a lip print on the window to match all of Aggie's nose prints. At least they won't have to worry about Oscar flying into it by mistake.
Jared's already disappeared into the kitchen by the time Jensen closes the front door. He's a little surprised the light doesn't switch on, but if Jared wants to sit in the dark, probably pouting like a little girl, then more power to him. Jensen's got actual kids to deal with at the moment.
"You missed the bus?" Jensen tosses his keys onto the table in the entry way, his watch in the change jar, barely glancing at the stack of bills beneath it. Even Indy won't touch those, and the little bugger's been on a real nesting expedition lately.
"You told us to go back to bed." Jensen's really got to wonder where he went wrong when the kid can so deftly twist everything to his benefit without so much as a twinge of guilt.
"And did I tell you not to answer the phone all day, too?" Bad enough the school called him at work to tell him the kids were truant, worse that he called home enough times to run down the battery on his phone without anyone doing him the decency of answering. Not that he was worried. Why should he be worried? It's not like Jake's ever set fire to the kitchen or Joey's ever accidentally hammered a hole in the dry wall.
"Never rang," Jeremy deadpans, his arms crossed, feet up on the coffee table.
"Like hell it di..." Jensen stops when the phone comes away from the wall, the cord dangling freely, no connector attached to the bare wires. Three guesses. The first two don't count. Gritting his teeth, he clamps his eyes shut, too aware of the white pulse tapping its way into his forehead like an ice pick. "Who let Indy out again?"
"Your boooyfrieeend." And that's it, a kid Joey's age should not be able to leer that effectively. Jensen shakes his head and turns away, pushing the phone desk aside to look for the jack.
"So you took it upon yourselves to torture him the rest of the day, right?"
"We di..."
A hand in the air stops them, a sure sign they didn't have a cover story planned anyway, and he's not about to listen to them fumble through an excuse they all know is a blatant lie. Life's too friggin' short. "Don't bother. He's going back, anyway." Finding the end jack, or the hole in the wall where the jack used to be, Jensen sighs, lets the crown of his head thump off the drywall a few times, little bits of plaster tittering down and dusting the floor at the opening. He barely manages to grab the rogue ferret by the tail when the end pokes out for a second.
"What, you mean the wedding's off?" There's no disguising the bitterness in Jeremy's voice, and Jensen really can't blame him for feeling played and betrayed, so he doesn't bother responding, just reels Indy in, hard-fought inch by inch. He can only do one thing at a time, after all.
The ferret's head emerges from the wall with a torn sheet of paper clutched in his teeth. Jensen doesn't give it much thought as he rips the paper out and hands the weasel off to Jake. "Take him upstairs, and the rest of you go with him. I'll call you when I get dinner around."
He imagines them slinking shamefully up the stairs, despite the distinct thunder of stampeding elephants and incessant, unrepentant bickering. Banging his head against the wall is actually a pleasant distraction at that point, until he glances down at the shred of paper in his hand-- the familiar looping handwriting with the little heart-dotted 'i's --and then there isn't enough distraction in the world.
It's a good thing his hands always shake these days, because then he can tell himself the tremble of the paper and the blur of the lines is just exhaustion and no indicator at all that Danni still has this kind of power over him after all these months.
Except he remembers the words by rote, and if that's not power, he doesn't know what is.
I love you, that's not it, so don't think for a minute that I never did.
Way to kick a dog when he's down.
"Fuck."
--
Jared doesn’t realize until he’s made it into the kitchen that he has no idea where the light switch is, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to ask. A whole day he’s been trapped in this hellhole, and he has yet to get a straight answer from anyone. His luck, they’ll direct him to put a finger in a light socket instead. He cracks the refrigerator door, finds it empty, aside from the Tropical Punch flavored Kool-Aid, but he already knew that, doesn’t stop him using the fridge light to peek in the freezer, and ‘bingo!’ Triple chocolate ice cream. The kind with chocolate ice cream, chocolate chunks, and chocolate swirls. So, maybe not everything about this place is hell-holish. Just the hellions living in it.
He hates that his hands are still shaking when he fumbles a spoon out of the dish rack and digs into the carton. What kind of a freak is he, anyway? Goes practically catatonic just from being locked outside the house. Someone probably should’ve told him he’s agoraphobic before he made the plans to ditch this place. Or, you know, at least they should’ve considered it before they pushed him off the porch and locked the door while he was taking a piss. One second, he was having what felt like an honest to God bonding moment with the antichrist, aka Jake, seeing who could get the most distance off the back porch, and the next, the screen door slammed behind them. “What’re ya doing?” Joey squeaked, and Jared swears he doesn’t know how Jake got himself tucked away so fast without getting caught in his zipper. Jared wasn’t so lucky. But hey, they’re not his pants...er, shorts. Jake looked a little shell-shocked when Jared finally turned to go back in, suddenly self-conscious and blushing as he covered Joey’s eyes with his hands. Like the kid’s never pissed in the bushes before. Didn’t all country boys do it? The bushes certainly look ruined enough, and the dog’s a she, so no chance she’s lifting her leg on it.
Five seconds of shell-shocked quickly morphed into that expression Jared is quickly learning means Lucifer has risen. Jared doesn’t even know what happened after the lock snicked into place. He vaguely remembers... fuck, did he actually try to break down the door? Why didn’t he just run around to the...? Another heaping spoonful of ice cream spikes an ice chisel through his brain, and in the process of rubbing it out, he remembers jumping off the porch, realizing anything could reach out from underneath it and grab him by the leg, and then, being the helpless gimp he is, jumping back on again. And that’s all he remembers until Jensen let him in, but he has matching claw marks on the backs of both arms and little bits of skin under his nails.
“Shit.” He is well and truly fucked.
Another few bites of ice cream, and he’s starting to feel bloated, but better than he has all day. Raising his blood sugar with massive infusions of chocolate and high fructose corn syrup has a way of clarifying things. The way he sees it, he can either go with his original plan, and ditch this popsicle stand as soon as the Ackles’s bed down for the night... and yeah, that ain’t happening. No way in hell he’s going out there with the... fuck only knows WHAT is out there... not when he has no place to go and no one to call. It’d be suicide, and he might hate his life at the moment, but he doesn’t want to die. Well, not that much, anyway.
Or, he can stay here and make the best of things. It’s not all bad. They do have ice cream, and fixing up these jeans is the most fun he’s had in, well, ever, since he can’t remember anything before yesterday, and none of that has been fun in his recollection. He takes a look around the kitchen, now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark, and yeah, it’s still a friggin’ mess. He’s still a little nauseated by the thought of what it will take to get this place into shape, but hey, there has to be an upside. Look, a whole basket full of jeans just waiting to be ‘altered’. Ice cream, a roof over his head, and a hobby. What more could a dude ask for? Well, not much, considering he’s terrified of stepping off the porch. So yeah, this is it, right here. He can deal with that.
“...he’s going back.”
“So, the wedding’s off?”
Wait. What? Jared gulps reflexively and takes down way too much ice cream that hasn’t had the chance to melt in his mouth, doubling him over from the brain freeze so he slides down off the counter and forgets about his broken leg when he lands squarely on both feet and topples sideways into a pile of laundry. By the time his brain defrosts and the rest of him relaxes from the full-body clench of agony, the living room’s quiet. He hadn’t really heard what he thought he heard, had he? Jensen’s not calling off the wedding and throwing him out? He wouldn’t do that, would he? Jared’s got nowhere else to go, and it’s not really his fault the kids didn’t make the bus. If it is, well, he can do better. He knows he can, and he’s just about to hop out into the living room and say so when he hears the hall closet shut and the distinctive thrum of an acoustic guitar. It’s enough to slow him down, peeking around the doorjamb instead of barreling through.
The kids appear to have gone upstairs, and it’s just Jensen, a worn but polished guitar in one hand, a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches in the other. Considering the state of the house, Jared should be surprised Jensen goes outside to smoke, but he’s not so much surprised as... intrigued. He didn’t know Jensen smoked. He didn’t know Jensen played the guitar. He doesn’t know anything about Jensen except he wakes up really early, works way too hard, and likes his coffee toxic. Well, that, and he’s kinda hot.
The screen door’s closed, but the front door’s still wide open. From across the living room Jared watches the match flare and the cigarette singe then burn cherry red, can just make out the outline of Jensen’s hand and then his face in profile when the glow moves up, waggles as the filter presses between his lips. It’s a long drag, half the cigarette down in one pull, and Jared can see the whites of Jensen’s eyes by the time he exhales. It occurs to him that Jensen’s eyes are too glassy, but he chalks it up to a full moon and good smoke, inches forward until he’s standing beside the door behind Jensen’s back. He doesn’t feel like he’s spying until Jensen starts to play, and then it occurs to him this is something private, between Jensen and whatever part of the universe he thinks has forgotten about him.
Jared doesn’t recognize the song.
“I hope you can manage, without me now. I love you that’s not it, so don’t think for a minute that I never did.”
Jensen misses a chord and curses under his breath, takes enough time to recover for Jared to interpret what he just said, and if he feels like his legs are starting to give out on him, he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the fact he’s only got one good one to begin with. His heart’s pounding by the time Jensen takes another drag and continues.
“I just think, we’ve grown from each other, and it’s time for us to meet someone who’s right, someone who makes us feel special.”
This time, Jensen’s voice misses, chokes off in the middle of the last word like he’s overcome with some emotion Jared can only guess at by the way it’s making him feel. Lost. Dejected. Abandoned. Hopeless. He doesn’t need a mirror to know Jensen’s not the only one with glassy eyes anymore.
“Makes us feel right. So special. So, I’m leaving tonight.”
“No!”
The guitar clunks to the top step just as the music was starting to pick up. “What the...?” Stubbing out his cigarette, Jensen lurches around, standing first at half-mast then full and meets Jared’s eyes in the muted screendoor light.
“I’ll do better,” Jared huffs. “I promise. Just don’t. Don’t go. I don’t have anywhere else. No one wants me. Please.”
Jensen’s expression goes from mildly pissed off to shocked to confused in the span of three heartbeats, which is incredibly fast considering Jared can’t catch his breath over the pounding in his chest. It’s not until Jensen reaches for the door handle that Jared sees the scrap of paper in his hand, watches as it’s quickly tucked away into a back pocket.
Jared doesn’t care if he looks like a giant girl, throwing open the door and falling forward, his hands clinging in Jensen’s shirt. “Don’t leave.”
Jensen stiffens under his hands, and for a sickening second, Jared feels like he’s going to be dropped on his face, but first fingers and then hands tentatively pat then slide between his shoulder blades before sliding back around his biceps and pulling Jared to arm’s length. Somehow Jensen’s blushing even in this light when he says, “Dude. No. I’m not going anywhere. It’s just a song. I wrote it a long time ago. It has nothing to do with you.”
And just when did Jared start blubbering like a baby? Apparently, long enough for him to have a hard time getting it under control. “Really?”
“Really,” Jensen assures. If there’s a slight roll to his eyes that implies Jared’s a drama queen, Jared can live with that, because he kind of is.
“You swear?”
“Dude, I swear.” And now Jensen props him against the doorjamb and lets go, leaving him standing on his one and a half good feet.
“But I heard you talking. You said I was going back.”
“Fuck.” It’s more an exhale than an actual exclamation, spoken into Jensen’s wrist as he rakes a hand over his forehead and through his hair. “I’m sorry. I just thought... I meant, you probably don’t want to be here if they’re going to treat you like that. And I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go.”
“Where would I go?”
Jensen looks half-ready to answer, then slides one hand into his hip pocket and the other around to the back of his neck. “How about to bed?” he suggests. “Couch is yours as long as you want it, or until we work something else out... Just,” he pats Jared’s shoulders like he’s beating dust out of a horse blanket, “try to grow a thicker skin, all right? Three kids is already more than I can handle.”
“I will!” Jared’s about to gush and doesn’t try to stop it. “I mean, I’ll help! I’ll be be better. I promise. We’ll make this work. I swear.”
“Yeah...” It’s obvious from the weight in his voice, Jensen doesn’t really believe it, but appreciates the sentiment. Jared gets the feeling he’s used to promises and disappointments. But he’s not used to Jared. Not this version of him. “Better hit the head before I put Indy in there for the night.”
When Jared comes back down the stairs, there’s a pile of blankets and even a pillow on the corner of the couch and the glow of a lit cigarette on the porch. He tries to wait for Jensen to come back in so he can say good night, but the guitar picks up again and strums on for hours before Jared’s eyelids get too heavy to prop open. The last thing he hears is Jensen’s voice over the crickets in the yard.
--
And yes, you’ve found your time to meet someone who’s right for you, makes you feel special...
--
It’s just laundry. Jared can do it. Okay, so it’s a LOT of laundry, and he’s almost positive he’s never worked a machine before, but how hard can it be? All right, yeah, he knows what happens to morons who say ‘how hard can it be,’ but even worse things tend to happen to fools who say, ‘it couldn’t possibly be any worse than,’ and those are the only two semi-encouraging thoughts he can muster while staring down the battered and dented-in washing machine. He can only assume it’s the washing machine by the slightly soggy and mildewy clothes still in it.
It’s still early. Jensen left by five a.m. for the diner, (Jared’s pretty sure he never went to bed) and the kids got on the bus, carrying grocery sacks full of peanut butter sandwiches, a packet each of Kool-Aid powder, since they didn’t seem to have any clean sports bottles to put it in, and something he found in the cupboard that had said, ‘Pork Rinds’ on the bag. He chooses to believe that wasn’t actually what it claimed to be. The point is, Jared made the coffee and the lunches himself, and now he has the whole day to make the place liveable and prove to Jensen that he is more than just another mouth to feed.
Or, at least, to not screw anything up so royally that Jensen actually throws him out.
“Ugh.” The gush of damp in his sinuses and down the back of his throat is his first clue that he’s probably allergic to mildew. “Awesome.” And why is it he wants to stay here again? It takes just a quick glance out the porch window and down to the end of the driveway and the vast expanse of nothing but dirt road and brush to remind him. The world’s a big, nasty place, and Jared doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Nowhere. Not even a nice cozy... shipping crate. This place might be a hovel, but it has walls and a floor between himself and, well, everything else. This he can figure out, one pair of dirty underwear at a time.
So... laundry. He can do laundry. Look, it’s practically spelled out for him. There’s a button or a spot on the dial for everything. All he’s gotta do is... he glances around... get all the dirty clothes, off the furniture, off the floor, off the lamp shades, and into the machine. There’s plenty within arm’s reach, not including the moldy mess already in the bottom of the machine, so he stuffs some in, whatever he can reach -- shirts, pants, towels, some boxers with suspicious brown stains in the back. Taking a moment to assess the load when the machine’s half full, he realizes that the amount of laundry he still has to do is going to take him a week to finish. He doesn’t have a week. He has to make a noticeable dent by the time Jensen comes home from work and make something for dinner. The solution? Stuff more clothes in, push them down, (he’d get in and stand on them if it wasn’t for his cast, which is starting to feel like it weighs fifty pounds on its own) stuff in some more.
Standing back, he’s pretty impressed with how much of the floor he’s managed to clear in just one load. He’s even managed to clear enough obstruction away from the cabinet door to get to the detergent. All right, so the instructions say to start filling the machine with water and then add the detergent, before the clothes. That would’ve been useful to know before he crammed a hundred pounds of laundry inside. He’ll remember that next time. This time, he just turns the knob until the water starts coming out and pours the soap into the stream. Pleased, he leans back, watches the sudsing process begin, and spies the slot on the side that says, ‘for Chlorine bleach.’ Does he need bleach? There wouldn’t be a slot for it if he didn’t need it, right? And he seems to recall something about bleach killing germs and mildew. So, yeah, he definitely needs bleach.
He pours the recommended amount of bleach into the dispenser, considers how many clothes he’s got stuffed in there, and adds another cup for good measure. About then, the machine stops. Just stops. He waits for a second, figuring it might be starting a new process, but nothing happens. “Oh, come on.” Palms slamming down on the sides of the machine, he gives the whole thing a shake. Still nothing. He pulls the lid toward himself enough to check the dial. It’s set on Heavy Duty. That has to be right. Says, ‘pull to start’. Okay, he thought he did that already, but it’s worth a try. So, he does.
The dial comes off, and the backward momentum of his hand slams the lid down on his other hand, or at least the tippy-top of his index finger. “Fucking hell!” Jerking his finger free, he’s preoccupied with sucking on it and hoping to God there’s no blood, because he’s so not fainting on the floor in the middle of this mess, and almost doesn’t notice the machine has started running until it rocks under the momentum of the agitation and smacks him on the ass.
“Huh, guess it was just waiting for me to close the lid. Like the light in the refrigerator. Learn something new everyday.” By now, he’s feeling pretty industrious, props a cowboy boot under one corner of the machine to make it stop rocking, and goes out to collect the rest of the clothes. He can do this. He really can.
--
Jensen’s not exactly sure what he expects to find when he gets home that night with Jeremy in tow after picking him up from the basketball game. (He’s guessing they lost but knows better than to ask when Jer’s in full on sulk like he is now, arms folded across his hand-me-down letter jacket, pimply forehead smearing up the glass.) Experience would suggest his day is far from over. He still expects to spend twenty minutes breaking up fights between Jake and Joey, another five minutes corralling critters so that most of the dinner he’s brought home ends up in the people he brought it for, ten minutes watching eighty percent of the food go into the kids and twenty percent of it on them, then, if he’s lucky, five minutes for a smoke on the porch before he passes out in bed, probably with his clothes still on. Today, it’s bound to be all of the above with a side of over-indulged rich, spoiled houseguest on the side.
His hands shake just thinking about it, and he has more than half a mind to drop Jer off with the pizzas and just keep on driving. Not that he expects to find something else on the horizon. More like, he knows the dirt road they live on ends in a stone fence built up over years of clearing the neighboring fields for planting, and he’s been caught between a rock and a hard place for so long, he’s about ready to take on the rock. But that would be selfish, and anyone who knows him will tell you, Jensen’s doesn’t have a selfish bone in his body. He’s pretty sure he does. They’ve just been crushed to powder. Rock. Hard place. Mortar, meet pestle.
There’s no change on the horizon. There is no horizon. Period.
So, for a guy with no expectations or ambitions outside finding his pillow and hoping there’s no ferret hair on it, he feels a little like he’s driven off the edge of the world when he gets home and finds... well, what he finds.
“What the hell?” He throws the truck in Park and turns off the ignition but leaves the headlights on a few seconds longer, ignoring the buzzing of the dash alarm in favor of getting a better look at what’s become of his house in his absence.
The front porch is screened in... by clothes. But they’re not clothes Jensen’s ever seen before --jeans with big white splotches and holes in them, socks and underwear that look tie-dyed with dark rings and splotches of various colors where the white used to be, and if that’s Jeremy’s away game basketball jersey, the school’s changed its colors, and Jensen doesn’t remember missing any board meetings where that might have happened.
The dog that meets them on the porch is still Aggie, but she’s dangling something from her collar that looks suspiciously like an air freshener.
What’s more, the place is silent-- no screaming, no echo of stampeding elephants up and down the stairs, no squawking cockatoo, no ferret dangling from the curtain rod, rattling the hangers and chattering -- and is that the clink of silverware against dishes?
“Hey, I’m home. I brought pizza,” he calls from the doorway.
That breaks the spell.
“Jennnyyyyyy.” Joey comes running from the kitchen, spoon in hand, and grabs Jensen by the hand. “We made dinner!”
“We?” Jensen asks, noticing as he’s led through the living room that the floor is bare of clothes and trash for the first time since the last scheduled State visit.
“Me, Jake, and Jared.”
“Uh, awesome,” Jensen concedes. He wasn’t aware there was anything in the house to actually cook, but he doesn’t say that, since he’s been feeling guilty about that for awhile now and doesn’t see the point of bringing it up. If there were, say twenty-eight hours in a day, and eight days in a week, there might be time for family trips to the grocery store.
The kitchen’s not exactly clean. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and the Ackles homestead won’t be raised from the ashes any faster, but the only things on the table are dishes, silverware, and elbows. The bowls don’t match, and the one Jake’s eating out of has a crack in it from one side to the other, but there’s something in them that he didn’t bring home from work, and that has never happened. Dropping the pizza boxes on the counter, he lets himself be led to the table. “Wow. What are we eating?” It looks like slop, but again, he doesn’t say so, though maybe the glance he throws Jared is a little accusatory. So help him if the guy is poisoning his kids.
Jake certainly doesn’t sound like he’s about to start puking up entrails when he pipes in with, “Milk macaroni.”
“Milk macaroni?” It can’t be what it sounds like.
“It’s just what it sounds like,” Jake says. “Jared boiled the water, I put in the noodles, and Joey put in the milk.” After taking a heaping bite, he only chews it halfway before adding, “It’s actually pretty good.”
Jeremy comes in behind him, rolls his eyes, and starts eating the pizza while standing at the counter.
“We set a place for you and Jensen, too,” Joey says, peering up from under Jensen’s elbow.
“That’s all right, squirt,” Jeremy declines. “I think the team nutritionist has banned me from eating slop.”
“Never stopped you before,” Jake accuses, eyes dark under his lashes, whatever excitement he’d had lost as he goes from shovelling in the macaroni to just dropping the spoon and resting his head on his hand, cheek squished over his eye.
Jared’s looking kinda pasty and worn around the edges when he pushes the noodles around his bowl without lifting his eyes and says, “It was the only thing we had in the house. Started out as macaroni and cheese, but Aggie ate the cheese.”
“And then she puked it up on the floor,” Joey added with a gag.
“Which is what I’m gonna do if I have to eat that sh... slop,” Jeremy mumbles around his second slice of pizza.
“Jer,” Jensen begins, knowing full well it’s a moot point to try and reason with him when he’s in a mood.
“No...no, he’s right,” Jared interrupts. “Look. Jensen brought food. Y’know, it might’ve been nice if he’d phoned ahead and told us not to bother, but now that he’s here, we really don’t need to eat this.” His chair scrapes back from the table, and he stands way more abruptly than a dude with one bum leg ought.
“But I like...” Jake stops mid-sentence when his bowl’s snatched out from under his spoon, as is Joey’s half-empty dish, both emptied into Jared’s bowl and then dumped back into the pot on the stove.
Jared seems intent on emptying the whole thing out the back door, but he catches his cast on the corner of the refrigerator and sends the pot skidding across the floor into the laundry room.
Deathly silence settles back over the room as Jared straightens, glances over his shoulder with something glistening in the corners of his eyes, then turns into the corner, arms folded tight around himself, and rests his head against the wall.
Okay, so, side of Jared has somehow become, main course Jared.
Jensen picks up the one remaining unopened pizza box and hands it to Jake. “Why don’t you guys go eat up in your room,” he suggests. For once, there’s no argument, and he hopes to hell those aren’t tears in Joey’s eyes, too, because he’s only got two shoulders to cry on. One’s reserved for himself, and the other one’s friggin’ tired.
“Um,” Jensen clears his throat into his shirt collar, because he has no idea what to do. When one of the kids is upset, he usually opens with a noogie and a hug. Jared could probably use the latter, but Jensen’s not into the whole free love scene. He’s pretty sure he blushed the last time his mother hugged him. Might’ve let everyone in town hug him at his parents’s funeral, but he didn’t hug back. He’s not about to give Jared something he reserves for immediate family. He’s an actor, not a player, and now he really, really hates Chris for getting him into this whole mess. “Looks like you... had a busy day.”
Jared laughs. Jensen wants to believe it’s in good humor, an ice-breaker, but there’s an edge to it, laughter teetering over hysteria, and he’s been there enough times to know. “Busy.” Another dry laugh and a sniffle. “Yeah.”
“I... uh, I really appreciate, you know, the laundry... and, uh, the cooking. You really didn’t have to...”
“Bullshit!” Fingers under his armpits and clenched tight enough to turn the skin around them white, Jared pushes off the wall with his forehead. When he turns around, his eyes are bright and rimmed red but wide open, an expression of clarity and ‘I have looked into the abyss, and the abyss looked back’ resolve. Seems like the pampered rich boy finally grew a pair, and Jensen would be stupid not to take a step back. “I did have to, Jenny!” He spits the name, no question it’s intended to be a cutdown. “I had to, because it needed to be done and you dropped the ball!” For a second, his arms come unfurled from beneath his armpits, and a finger jabs toward Jensen’s shoulder, curls into a fist before it freezes in mid-air, Jared’s face melting in an expression of shock and embarrassment. Abruptly, he stuffs it back under his arm, tightens his elbows against his ribs like he doesn’t trust himself not to take a swing.
“Hey! I do the best I can!”
“When? You’re never here.”
“I have to work,” Jensen retorts. “The light bill doesn’t pay itself. The gas bill, mortgage, school supplies, clothes... None of that stuff’s free, Jared.” And now his head hurts, because he was doing a fine job of only thinking about one of those things at a time, and now, (whew) he really needs his bed. A second ago, he was infuriated, enraged, offended, ready to overlook the fact that Jared’s a good four inches and probably thirty pounds bigger. Now, he’s... okay, whoozy is kind of a girly word... but definitely not up for a fight. He’d sit down, but he’s not up for craning his neck. “I’m one guy,” he sighs.
Jared stands down. “I get that. I do.” His hands slide down his ribs and hook in the belt loops of his jeans. (They look suspiciously like Jensen’s jeans aside from the fact that they’re missing all the material below mid-thigh, but now’s not the time to bring it up. ) “It’s just... fuck!” The change in posture must’ve been premature, because both elbows slam backward into the drywall, and between Mama’s brass jell-o mold collection falling down from above the cupboard, they almost don’t hear the plaster give way under the blow. Jared goes pasty white and drops his head back, throat exposed, Adam’s apple working up and down. “Perfect! Just...”
It takes Jensen a second to realize Jared’s stuck in the wall, arms missing from bicep to forearm inside the wall, another second to realize he’s shaking all over like the Incredible Hulk about to split his shirt. Except that’s not sweat beading down his cheeks.
“Dude, don’t... It’s no big deal.” Not like half the walls in the house don’t already have holes in them he can’t afford to fix. “Just, calm down.”
Jensen doesn’t know what he’s afraid of, that Jared will go ballistic and tear out the whole wall, or that he’ll collapse in a puddle on the floor. “I’ll... just hang on a sec.” He inches forward the way he did the last time a possum got under the kitchen sink, only this time without the leather gloves and the hot dog tongs. Jared doesn’t have a tail Jensen can snag, but he works one arm and then the other free of the wall without getting his hand bitten off, Jared making noises in his throat the whole time like he’s going to start frothing at the mouth. “You’re, uh, lucky,” he says as broken chunks of wall fall at their feet, “you missed the studs.”
“Lucky.” Hands pressing into his eye sockets, Jared stays leaning against the wall, Jensen hovering just in case the entire rest of the wall decides to give way. “Let’s see. I had this whole day planned. Make the kids lunch, get them off to school, and spend the whole rest of the morning and afternoon getting this place in order so you would come home, and dinner would be ready, and you wouldn’t have to worry about anything... and then...”
“You didn’t have to...”
“But none of it worked. Everything I touched...” Jared’s fists clench at his sides but he doesn’t take anymore of his frustration out on the wall, breathes through clenched teeth for a few seconds, nostrils flared, until he gets himself under control. Well, all of himself except what’s leaking out the corners of his eyes. “I made it all worse!”
“I don’t think that’s even possible,” Jensen offers with a tired smirk.
“You don’t know... First, I couldn’t find anything to make for the lunches. The bread was turned, so I had to cut the moldy parts off. And Jake couldn’t find his shoes, so he had to go to school wearing one from two different pairs. I mean, I switched out the laces and made some stencils out of electrical tape, but I’m sure no one believed they were a matched set. And then, I did laundry.” He sniffs, starts biting at his fingernails, cupping his elbow in his palm as he nods toward the front porch. “And you see how that turned out. I packed them in so tight, half the clothes didn’t even get wet, and the ones that did either got eaten by the bleach or changed colors, and, and, and dinner’s ruined. I mean, milk macaroni? What was I even thinking?”
“If it weren’t for bad luck, we’d have no luck at alllll,” Jensen sings with a drawl. It might be the worst segue ever, and there’s no way he’s buying the weak attempt at infusing some humor into the situation, but it works. Jared goes from looking like he’s about to rip out a handful of his hair (which, he could probably do with a little less of, in Jensen’s opinion) to dead still, wearing the equivalent of a ‘thanks, I needed that’ slapped to the face expression. That’s better. And for a second, Jensen’s not a worn-to-a-frazzle, overworked and underfed brother/father/short order cook/butcher-baker-candlestick maker... er, whatever... He’s an entertainer. He knows how to work his smirk and wag his swagger, hooks his thumbs in his belt loops, and says, “C’mon, you know this one.” Tilts his head back and croons, “Gloooom, despppaiiirrr, and agonyyy on meeeee.” He gets more of the blank stare, but he’d swear there’s a hitch in the corners of Jared’s lips, maybe a squint in his eyes. “Adios, farewell, goodbye, good night, so long...” an exaggerated pause, “HEEE-HAWWW!”
“You’re insane, aren’t you?”
Jensen laughs, unhooks his thumbs from his belt loops. “Nah. You get paid for crazy around here. I’m just tired, and when I’m tired, I start spouting random show tunes.” He rubs the ache from the back of his neck, suddenly reminded that he hasn’t sat down all day, and he’s starting to fold in on himself from the top down. “That’s from a Hee Haw review my acting troupe did last summer. I... don’t know why I...”
“No,” a chuckle, and this time it’s sincere. “No, you’re right. I don’t know why I let everything get to me. I’ve only been here a couple days. I can’t believe I unloaded on you like that.”
Jensen can believe it. He’s actually finding the apology harder to swallow, but then, he actually remembers what Jared Padalecki is like. Jared doesn’t. Man, that’s gotta suck.
“No... I... You were thinking that the kids were hungry.” Jensen throws up his hands. “And you know what? You’re right. It’s my fault. I dropped the ball. They’re my responsibility. I should keep food in the house, and I should have called to tell you I was bringing pizza. Look.” He reaches around the corner and turns the light on in the laundry room. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll eat what you made. I mean, if Jake ate it, it can’t be all bad.” Stepping toward the doorway, “Some of it’s bound to still be in the pot. I don’t even care if it’s cold.”
“Wait!”
Jensen’s heart skips a beat as Jared lurches forward off the wall, and body checks him into the door frame. If the extra inches and pounds weren’t enough to keep him immobilized, the sudden realization that Jared’s A)his mock fiance who doesn’t know they really aren’t like that, B)got his hands on Jensen’s hips, and C)huffing against Jensen’s throat and shaking, would definitely paralyze him as effectively as an ice cube to the nut sack. “Uh, Jar... wha... nnn...”
“I’m sorry,” Jared whispers, and now Jensen can tell the huffing and shaking is laughter, albeit weak and still a touch hysterical. “Really, really sorry.”
“Um.” One forearm waves feebly out from under Jared’s and then keeps on waving because, now that it’s not trapped between them, the only places it can reach are Jared’s ass and the little stretch of skin where his shirt has ridden up above his ass. “I told you not to be sorry.”
“That was before you saw...”
“Saw, what? Because I gotta say, a few more seconds of oxygen deprivation, I’m gonna be seeing the inside of my eyelids and maybe a long dark tunnel with a light at the end.”
“Whoa! Sorry.” Jared jerks back but keeps himself planted between the laundry room and Jensen.
Jensen makes a show of straightening out his clothes, mostly because he can’t look Jared in the eye with this flush on his cheeks. “Dude, I once came home to find the kids patching holes in the wall with toothpaste. See, they thought a pellet gun would be more effective than a fly swatter. I’ve pretty much seen it all at this point.”
“This is gonna take more than toothpaste.” Jared’s biting his bottom lip and rolling it back and forth, but not making an effort to move out of the way until Jensen ducks under his arm. “Just, don’t be mad, all right?”
“I told you. I won’t be ma... Fuck!”
TBC
A/N: For those of you who are interested, I actually grew up eating milk macaroni. It's exactly what it sounds like. Make elbow macaroni, drain, stir in milk, onions, salt and pepper. Real poor man's food. I loved it, but I've never been able to convince anyone who wasn't raised on it to give it a try.
Part Four (Unlocked!)
A/N: Lyrics used in this section are from "A Song For Jen" by New Leaf, and used without permission.
A/N2: I feel like this is the weakest part of the whole story. Don't ask me why. So, to make up for unloading it on y'all, I'm unlocking Part Four, too. I'm warning ya, though, Part Four ends on kind of a cliffie.
After half an hour of fruitless searching (Bathroom must be upstairs. Who the hell puts a bathroom upstairs?) with Jensen’s morning road tar/coffee kicking Jared’s kidneys, bladder, and everything else into high gear, Jared decides that hopping on one leg is faster than using the crutches. Between the scattered shoes, laundry, empty pizza boxes, and what looks like kibble, (God, he hopes there’s nothing worse than kibble underneath) there’s barely enough exposed floor for a simple footpath, let alone a foot and two crutches.
Ten minutes after that, he’s managed to hop up the stairs, twice (damned golf ball). His heart’s pounding in his chest, not because he’s in poor shape, but because he’s barely managing to suppress an image of himself developing one really big hypertrophic ass cheek from doing one-legged hops and a stain on the front of his pants that isn’t coffee. He honestly doesn’t think he can take anymore of this emotional torture. At this point, he’s looking for an open window or even a potted plant. What’s worse is, twice he’s heard door locks snap shut just as he was reaching for the knob. Way to make a guy feel welcome.
Finally, he just stands in the middle of the hall, (standing being a relative term since he’s high on caffeine and trying every known contortion to pinch off his bladder short of grabbing himself and putting a kink in the hose) throws his arms in the air and says, “Uh... bathroom?”
Another door latch clicks, and Jared’s trying to decide whether it’s worthwhile to just beat his head against the wall until he knocks himself unconscious. Though, if he’s being practical, there are so many holes in the dry wall already, it’s probably not even strong enough to make a useful tranq. A door opens to his left and the kid from last night (Jeremy?) pokes his head out, bleary-eyed and squinting. “End of the hall on the left.”
“End of the hall on the left,” Jared huffs, already hopping. “What kind of sadistic bastard designed this house?” Between panting breaths, “Probably buys and sells kidneys out of his garage.” He hits the door frame, his hand not quite as quick on the draw as the rest of his body. When the door does open, he stops abruptly, shaking his head. Not a bathroom. Unless bathrooms are now cleverly disguising fixtures as bedroom furniture -- really nice bedroom furniture -- four poster bed, looks hand carved, with a handmade quilt folded neatly across the foot, a matching dresser and vanity, and what looks like a sewing cabinet, one of the antique ones with the hand wheel, all framed by windows that cover most of the wall and sheer curtains draping all the way to the floor. Definitely not the bathroom.
“Your other left,” Jeremy says from directly behind him, close enough to make Jared feel like he’s being escorted off the premises.
“Right... Other left,” Jared mumbles, a little taken aback to find something actually pleasant in all this chaos, a ghost of something real in the middle of this nightmare world. Anyway, business at hand. He hears the bedroom door shut, slow, almost like it doesn’t want to, the tumblers in the latch clicking separately instead of as a single unit.
He’d apologize for whatever infraction he’s obviously committed, but he’s got the bathroom door open. It must be some kind of Pavlovian response, or just perfect timing, but it never fails. Whether he’s been holding it for five seconds or five hours, the second a toilet is in sight, he loses muscle tone everywhere in the vicinity of his navel and below. From doorknob to toilet in two seconds flat, and he doesn’t even pause to wonder why the yellowed stains on the bottom of the toilet look pretty much the same as the ones around the faucets in the sink and the tub. He doesn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.
He’s got his head tipped back, eyes closed in relief before he has the clarity of mind to wonder why the bathroom door was closed to begin with. Seems like they’d leave it open so it would be easier to find in the middle of the night. What are they trying to keep out?
Or.
In?
As fast as he got himself out, he might break the sound barrier tucking it back in (‘cause let’s face it, that thing’s gotta crack like a bull whip.) And yet, he’s not fast enough. He gets the waistband over his hips and the drawstring pulled tight just in time to see the cabinet door under the sink snap shut and a tail disappear under the pants cuff on his casted leg.
If everyone in the house isn’t already awake, he remedies that by screaming like a tea kettle and breaking the latch on the inward swinging door by hitting it hard enough to force it outward.
“Somebody! Somebody! Get it off!” There’re claws clenching in his leg hairs like they’re climbing ropes and getting closer to the summit. He’s dancing around, still rasping, “Off, off, off, off,” while fumbling with the knotted (how did it get knotted?) drawstring on his pants, when three doors open in unison. Three separate voices join his.
“Indy!”
“Stop! You’re hurting him!”
“Off, off, off, off, off!”
“Stop it!”
And no one’s having any luck with the drawstring except to pull it tighter. The next thing Jared knows, there’s a hand up his pant leg, and a couple pawfuls fewer leg hairs on his leg. The scrubs weren’t made to accommodate quite that much commotion, and since they’re already split at the bottom to fit around the cast, they promptly rip all the way up to the waistband. He’s pretty sure the boxers he’s wearing aren’t his. They just don’t feel right and probably came from the hospital along with the scrubs, but he’s glad he’s wearing something. These kids don’t need to see his half moon. He’s fairly convinced they’re monsters during every phase of the lunar cycle.
Everything falls silent, save for a few sniffles and whimpers.(At least a few of them are from the kids.) It’s more than a little awkward. What’s a guy to do when he’s wearing the equivalent of flamenco pants and surrounded by short people at crotch level? Well, fold his arms across his chest and lean nonchalantly against the wall, of course.
“His name’s Indy,” a tiny voice offers. “And I’m Joey.”
Jared looks up from the ground. The shortest child holds the furry perpetrator. Said kid’s face is just lips framed by tear tracks, barely visible between the oversized baseball cap and the Calvin and Hobbes t-shirt that must pass for pajamas. Kid wears a baseball cap to bed and no pants. What’s up with that?
“He’s a ferret,” the lips say.
“A ferret,” Jared nods. He scratches the back of his neck. “That’s a member of the weasel family, right?” He doesn’t know how he knows that. The only thing he really knows about weasels is they have sharp teeth.
“He doesn’t bite,” the other rugrat (was Jake his name?) volunteers.
“Uh, I’m sorry,” Jared says. “I didn’t know I said that out loud. I’m sure that...”
“Indy,” Joey reminds.
“I’m sure that Indy is very sweet.”
“Yeah. He only ever bit Mrs. Crandall,” Jake says, taking the ferret from Joey and holding him up for Jared to pet, “And she had it coming. We told Jensen we didn’t need a babysitter. Now he believes us, doesn’t he, Indy?”
Jared reaches out just one finger, pets the critter on the head and jerks the digit back (without squeaking like a girl, thank you very much.)
“Well, he almost bit Mrs. Parsons when she stepped on his tail, but he had the toilet paper roll stuck over his head, so he couldn’t,” Jake continues.
“Uh, Mrs. Parsons?”
“The social worker,” Jeremy offers. He snags Indy, drops him in the bedroom behind him, and closes the door.
“You have a social worker?”
“Yeah,” Jeremy shrugs. “Jen was just eighteen when Mom and Dad died. The State didn’t think he was really fit to be our guardian. They kinda watch him like a hawk.”
Jared’s about to say something on the order of, ‘not nearly close enough,’ when the sound of brakes squeak and whoosh on the road out front and a horn honks.
“School bus,” Jeremy offers.
“Uh, aren’t you supposed to be on it?”
“Do we look ready for school?” Jake asks, hand on his hip.
“Well, get ready then,” Jared says, pushing bodies toward the nearest open door. “Jeremy! Do something! They’re gonna miss the bus.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Yell out to the road. Tell it to wait!” No way he’s spending the whole day with these hooligans. Near castration via weasel is one close call too many. Besides, it’s gonna be pretty hard to sneak away if there’s a house full of witnesses. And what kind of jerk leaves little kids home alone all day?
Jeremy chuckles, crossing his arms. “Mr. Beaver? He won’t wait. You get one horn honk and one minute to hit the porch running, or he’s gone. Can’t hold up the whole route. Anyway, there’s no way you’ll get ‘em all dressed and lunches made in less than ten minutes.”
Fan-fucking-tastic. “Well, why aren’t you ready?” Jared asks, pulling his fingers through his hair hard enough that his vision curves up around the edges. “Jensen said you guys would get yourselves ready for the bus.”
“He told us to go back to bed.” Jake comes out of the bedroom with his t-shirt only half on and turned inside out to boot.
“He just meant until...” Jared can’t stand the rumpled state of disarray and general not-put-togetherness of the kid standing before him. “Here,” he says, pulling the kid’s arms up over his head and then rolling the shirt off before putting it back on the right way. He’s standing back, admiring his work, when the bus drives away. Looking between Jeremy and Jake, he says, “So, what do you usually do when you miss the bus? Do you have friends who can pick you up?”
“Not really. Chad graduated last year, and he was the only one out this way,” Jeremy supplies.
“So, what?” Jared asks. “You just stay home?”
Jake shrugs. “I guess.”
Jared looks to Jeremy who does the same. “Guess so.”
“Well, um... What do you do now?”
“I’m hungry.” Joey comes out of the bedroom wearing the same baseball cap, a sweatshirt, and jeans, sneakers untied. Jake automatically stoops down and ties them.
“I guesssss, breakfast it is, then,” Jared volunteers.
As he hops back down the stairs, he changes his plan to sneak out in the middle of the night, instead. The thought of spending the whole day here, though... Well, he can make breakfast and not actually eat any of it.
--
From what he can tell, based on his experience, which is none, breakfast is a roaring success. Not that he cares. His personal worth is so not dependent on the approval or disapproval of some unkempt little open-mouth chewers. The refrigerator had exactly one bottle of ketchup, one bottle of Miracle Whip, another one of chocolate syrup (mostly empty), and some whipped cream. Oh, and pickles. He put them all on the counter along with a loaf of white bread and made a pitcher of some sugary drink with a happy face on the package. Judging by the amount of slurping and talking with mouths full going on, the kids are satisfied with his effort. Easy crowd. But then, he bets pigs don’t turn away from anything that ends up in the trough.
Jared’s still nauseous from the prospect of staying the whole day, on his own, with no one to tell him what to do, and no clue where to start, in this... hole, and has no intention of eating anything (especially not on white bread, yeck) until Joey hands him a folded slice of the yeck and says, “Here, I made you a Miracle Whip and Ketchup sandwich.”
“Um, no thanks. I’m not hungry, really.”
“Nuh, uh, uh, uh,” the kid says, wagging a finger at him, pouty lips pursed defiantly under the bill of the cap. “You’re all bruised up and scraped, and Jensen says when you’re hurt or sick, you have to eat in order to get better.” With that, a hand snakes out and latches onto his. It takes the whole hand just to wrap around his thumb, and for a second he’s intimidated by the tininess of it and how trusting it is of him. Dizziness swims over him and joins forces with the nausea so he slumps back against the counter to keep from tipping over. It’s like something heavy just settled on his shoulders, and he can either brace himself up under it or duck away and let it fall. Joey puts the ‘sandwich’ in his upturned palm and presses his thumb over it.
“Eat.”
And Jared stands up, takes a bite, realizes while he’s still chewing that he’s famished, and shoves the entire rest of it into his mouth. Of course, that’s when he actually tastes what he’s eating, and between fighting down his gag reflex and trying not to spit the whole thing out into his hand, he ends up chewing with his mouth open, just like them. By the time he chokes it down, Jake and Joey are grinning at him and snickering to each other, and something about it is infectious. His face gives a twinge, and he realizes he’s smiling right along with them, and whattaya know? He’s got dimples. He can feel them when he swipes his tongue over his teeth to get the goop off.
“What?” he asks. “Do I have some on my face?”
The kids nod in unison.
“Where?” Jared asks. “Here?” He swipes at his forehead.
Two heads shaking.
“Here?” He wipes under his chin.
Negatory.
“How ‘bout here?” Scrubs over the bridge of his nose.
Finally, Joey reaches up and brushes a thumb over the corner of his mouth. Jared doesn’t know why he feigns biting the hand that feeds him, but the giggle it elicits definitely goes into a mental box labeled, ‘things about this place that I don’t actually hate.’
It’s the cold kitchen counter against the back of his thigh that reminds him his ass is essentially hanging out. “Wow. That was a great sandwich,” he says patting his stomach. “And now that I’m all fortified, I think maybe I’ll find something to wear.”
Except there’s the issue of not having anything to change into. No one looks his size. Sifting through the clothes basket that Jensen got dressed from that morning, Jared finds a pair of jeans that just might be his waist size and (huh, whattaya know) long enough in the inseam to... accommodate him. He guesses they’re Jensen’s, which means, they’re Jared’s now.
There’s a scissors, or possibly a wire snips in one of those overflowing kitchen drawers, and he has no guilt whatsoever in cutting the jeans up the sides and lopping off the legs. He can pull off shorts. He totally has the ass for it. Probably works out from the looks of it. Not half bad if he does say so himself. He still can’t get the cast through the leg hole and ends up slitting that leg all the way to the waistband, rendering it in essentially the same condition as the scrubs pants he just took off. This makes the crotch shift into an awkward position (not to mention bunches the boxers up underneath and breaks up the line of his ass) so he cuts the other side the same way, tears some thin strips, about a half inch wide and a couple of feet long, and uses the pointy end of the scissors to jab evenly spaced holes on each side of the torn outer seam. Then, he puts the shorts on and uses the thin strips to lace together the outsides, ties a little bow at the bottom. The ends of the lacing kinda tickle his leg hairs, and there’s some leg showing through the sides, but all-in-all, he likes it. In fact, he has some ideas for the rest of the jeans in the basket. Maybe leather inserts. Pink leather. And if he could hunt down some grommets, the lace holes would be sturdier.
Mid-thought about rhinestones, sequins, and glitter thread to monogram the pockets with, he decides Jensen must have been telling the truth. Jared is an artist. Huh. You learn something new everyday.
About then, the kids come squealing out of the kitchen, Joey screaming and chasing after Jake with a wooden spoon while Jake laughs hysterically. Jeremy saunters up to the doorframe and leans against it, raising an eyebrow at Jared’s outfit.
“They always like this?” Jared asks.
“Pretty much.”
“Wonderful.” Jared takes a deep breath, happy, glittery thoughts evaporating from his mind as reality sinks back in. “I think I need a nap.” Something tells him, this is gonna be a long day.
--
"Chris, you've still got the number the Padaleckis gave you, right?" Jensen resists the urge to smack the steering wheel, even though it's just par for the course that he always gets red at the only stoplight in town. Instead, he massages his temple with the fingers of his free hand, jerks to attention when the car behind him honks.
"Yeah, dude, what kind of Sheriff would I be if I didn't keep decent records?"
"Oh, I don't know," Jensen grumbles, "the kind who falsifies identification and accident reports in order to convince a guy with amnesia that he's someone he really isn't." He swings the truck off the main drag and onto the winding County road home, spinning in the gravel the Highway Department spread out to fill in the potholes.
"You're welcome."
"Believe me, I'm not thanking you. I didn't sleep at all last night, man. I can't believe I let you talk me into this. I was half-hoping he'd wake up this morning and not know where he was so I could just pretend this whole thing never happened."
"Did he?"
"No!"
"Good, then put him to work. It'll be good for him. You need help, and he needs a reality check. A match made in Bear Creek if ever I saw one."
"I want the number. I'm gonna call his parents to come get him." Jensen's thought about this all day. Even without the Jared Padalecki morning wake up call, just knowing he's there, in Jensen's house, on Jensen's couch, probably wondering what his and Jensen's sex life was like before he forgot it... (okay, so maybe he only imagines that Jared's thinking that because he spent all morning burning more sausage links than usual as a result of his mind drifting down that same gutter. Which is fucked up, because they never had a sex life. They're not engaged. They never even met before the play, and Jensen's... little Jensen putting in an appearance on stage was a wardrobe malfunction and not a sexual encounter. They're not lovers. They don't even play them on t.v. Fucking Christian Kane!)... well, it's all way too stressful, and Jensen already has plenty of that, thank you very much.
"I tried that, remember. They sent their, I dunno, butler or something to the hospital, didn't even fly back themselves, and the jackass swore the guy who washed up on that beach is not Jared Padalecki. Kid didn't have any i.d. on him, so for all we know, this guy's just Jared's doppleganger."
"So, just because no one's willing to claim him, it's okay to make up a fake identity? It's... I don't know what it is, emotional espionage or some shit, but it's messed up. In case you hadn't noticed, my life's pretty messed up already."
"Exactly, because you try to do everything yourself. We already had this conversation, Jensen."
Jensen's breath burns on its way out, and he massages at his breastbone, hoping to hell his acid reflux isn't fixing to flare up. He can't afford to close the diner again in order to make a doctor's appointment. "I do just fine," he lies, "and even if I didn't, I wouldn't take on a slave."
"He's not a slave. He's... an indentured servant. Didn't you say his parents withdrew their funding and cost you your next show? What can I say? Payback's a bitch."
"Except this guy has no idea he did anything to fuck me over. AND I have to lie to everyone I know in order to cover for you. Let's just forget my own family, because I hate to admit it, but the kids are gonna have way too much fun blackmailing me to care about the moral implications. Mom and Dad would be so proud, lemme tell ya. But I spend all day in the diner, half the town passes through there at least a couple times a week. What am I supposed to tell people? Hey, yeah, I’m really gay, and in between PTA, acting troupe, and the diner, I managed to get myself engaged to a tall, dark, guy none of you have ever even met?"
Alright, he's almost panting now, and he can tell Christian hasn't even kicked his feet down off the coffee table to address his concerns. Arguing with the guy always turns into a monologue. Jensen will be sure to name his first aneurysm Kane. He's fumed enough he almost misses the driveway, despite the freaking road sign that clearly says, Ackles Drive... er... he does a double take. Well, it used to clearly say Ackles Drive, and now it says something much less flattering. Friggin' kids. He guns the engine when he turns onto the dirt road, because he's pissed, and he wants to raise plenty of dust to let everyone know to go to ground before he gets there. Of course, it rained last night, so all he does is fishtail and almost slide in the ditch.
"They all love you and would probably perjure themselves for you in a court of law, even if it turned out you ate kittens for breakfast."
"Well they may be testifying at a custody hearing when the state comes to take the kids away, because the guy's only been at my house less than twenty-four hours, and I got a call from school that the kids never made the bus this morning. You know they investigate truancy cases, right?" Rounding the last curve in the driveway, Jensen's foot goes slack over the gas pedal. "What the fuck?" The brakes squeal, just one more thing that needs fixing, and the old truck rumbles to a stop at the front porch.
"Wha..."
Jensen clicks the phone off and shoves it in his pocket. "I'm gonna kill 'em," he mumbles. He knows as soon as he sees Jared slumped down beside the front door, Aggie's bloodhound mug planted firmly in his lap, that the kids have locked him out of the house. Seriously, they need to add a few more tricks to their repertoire. This is getting old.
The curtain flutters over the window, spearing the darkened porch with a shaft of light from inside, and Jensen doesn't have to look to know one of the kids is running recon on him from behind the recliner in the living room. The other two are probably crouched halfway up the staircase, awaiting the verdict on just how pissed Jensen is before he gets inside. He hits the porch slats hard enough to leave no question, cursing when one board cracks and falls into the darkness below, leaving him to catch himself against the door frame, almost on top of Jared who has yet to move a muscle.
"If you make me get out my keys, you're all pulling inventory down at the diner this weekend, and no free ice cream," Jensen bellows, a fair amount of growl in his voice that could as much be fatigue as agitation. It's been a long friggin' day, and the night's looking bleak as well. The dead bolt clunks and the door opens a fraction of an inch, before footsteps scamper away, the furniture scraping across the hardwood as the kids fall into deceptively casual sprawls. Because yeah, Jensen didn't teach them that back when he was their brother and not their single parent.
He's not really surprised when Jared doesn't acknowledge him or his less than graceful entrance from stage left. There's something about being pawned by a bunch of kids that takes the bluster out of a guy, even a guy with as much to spare as Mr. Rebel Without a Clue. Jensen should know. He still half expects to have his kneecaps chopped or his foot stabbed through with a wind chime when he brushes past Jared and pushes the door open. What he gets instead is nearly knocked over and pressed into the window glass face first when Jared shoves inside the second a streak of light breaches the frame.
For a guy with only one good leg, he moves pretty fast. And what the Hell is he wearing? Those better not be his best jeans, or what's left of them. And great, now there's a lip print on the window to match all of Aggie's nose prints. At least they won't have to worry about Oscar flying into it by mistake.
Jared's already disappeared into the kitchen by the time Jensen closes the front door. He's a little surprised the light doesn't switch on, but if Jared wants to sit in the dark, probably pouting like a little girl, then more power to him. Jensen's got actual kids to deal with at the moment.
"You missed the bus?" Jensen tosses his keys onto the table in the entry way, his watch in the change jar, barely glancing at the stack of bills beneath it. Even Indy won't touch those, and the little bugger's been on a real nesting expedition lately.
"You told us to go back to bed." Jensen's really got to wonder where he went wrong when the kid can so deftly twist everything to his benefit without so much as a twinge of guilt.
"And did I tell you not to answer the phone all day, too?" Bad enough the school called him at work to tell him the kids were truant, worse that he called home enough times to run down the battery on his phone without anyone doing him the decency of answering. Not that he was worried. Why should he be worried? It's not like Jake's ever set fire to the kitchen or Joey's ever accidentally hammered a hole in the dry wall.
"Never rang," Jeremy deadpans, his arms crossed, feet up on the coffee table.
"Like hell it di..." Jensen stops when the phone comes away from the wall, the cord dangling freely, no connector attached to the bare wires. Three guesses. The first two don't count. Gritting his teeth, he clamps his eyes shut, too aware of the white pulse tapping its way into his forehead like an ice pick. "Who let Indy out again?"
"Your boooyfrieeend." And that's it, a kid Joey's age should not be able to leer that effectively. Jensen shakes his head and turns away, pushing the phone desk aside to look for the jack.
"So you took it upon yourselves to torture him the rest of the day, right?"
"We di..."
A hand in the air stops them, a sure sign they didn't have a cover story planned anyway, and he's not about to listen to them fumble through an excuse they all know is a blatant lie. Life's too friggin' short. "Don't bother. He's going back, anyway." Finding the end jack, or the hole in the wall where the jack used to be, Jensen sighs, lets the crown of his head thump off the drywall a few times, little bits of plaster tittering down and dusting the floor at the opening. He barely manages to grab the rogue ferret by the tail when the end pokes out for a second.
"What, you mean the wedding's off?" There's no disguising the bitterness in Jeremy's voice, and Jensen really can't blame him for feeling played and betrayed, so he doesn't bother responding, just reels Indy in, hard-fought inch by inch. He can only do one thing at a time, after all.
The ferret's head emerges from the wall with a torn sheet of paper clutched in his teeth. Jensen doesn't give it much thought as he rips the paper out and hands the weasel off to Jake. "Take him upstairs, and the rest of you go with him. I'll call you when I get dinner around."
He imagines them slinking shamefully up the stairs, despite the distinct thunder of stampeding elephants and incessant, unrepentant bickering. Banging his head against the wall is actually a pleasant distraction at that point, until he glances down at the shred of paper in his hand-- the familiar looping handwriting with the little heart-dotted 'i's --and then there isn't enough distraction in the world.
It's a good thing his hands always shake these days, because then he can tell himself the tremble of the paper and the blur of the lines is just exhaustion and no indicator at all that Danni still has this kind of power over him after all these months.
Except he remembers the words by rote, and if that's not power, he doesn't know what is.
I love you, that's not it, so don't think for a minute that I never did.
Way to kick a dog when he's down.
"Fuck."
--
Jared doesn’t realize until he’s made it into the kitchen that he has no idea where the light switch is, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to ask. A whole day he’s been trapped in this hellhole, and he has yet to get a straight answer from anyone. His luck, they’ll direct him to put a finger in a light socket instead. He cracks the refrigerator door, finds it empty, aside from the Tropical Punch flavored Kool-Aid, but he already knew that, doesn’t stop him using the fridge light to peek in the freezer, and ‘bingo!’ Triple chocolate ice cream. The kind with chocolate ice cream, chocolate chunks, and chocolate swirls. So, maybe not everything about this place is hell-holish. Just the hellions living in it.
He hates that his hands are still shaking when he fumbles a spoon out of the dish rack and digs into the carton. What kind of a freak is he, anyway? Goes practically catatonic just from being locked outside the house. Someone probably should’ve told him he’s agoraphobic before he made the plans to ditch this place. Or, you know, at least they should’ve considered it before they pushed him off the porch and locked the door while he was taking a piss. One second, he was having what felt like an honest to God bonding moment with the antichrist, aka Jake, seeing who could get the most distance off the back porch, and the next, the screen door slammed behind them. “What’re ya doing?” Joey squeaked, and Jared swears he doesn’t know how Jake got himself tucked away so fast without getting caught in his zipper. Jared wasn’t so lucky. But hey, they’re not his pants...er, shorts. Jake looked a little shell-shocked when Jared finally turned to go back in, suddenly self-conscious and blushing as he covered Joey’s eyes with his hands. Like the kid’s never pissed in the bushes before. Didn’t all country boys do it? The bushes certainly look ruined enough, and the dog’s a she, so no chance she’s lifting her leg on it.
Five seconds of shell-shocked quickly morphed into that expression Jared is quickly learning means Lucifer has risen. Jared doesn’t even know what happened after the lock snicked into place. He vaguely remembers... fuck, did he actually try to break down the door? Why didn’t he just run around to the...? Another heaping spoonful of ice cream spikes an ice chisel through his brain, and in the process of rubbing it out, he remembers jumping off the porch, realizing anything could reach out from underneath it and grab him by the leg, and then, being the helpless gimp he is, jumping back on again. And that’s all he remembers until Jensen let him in, but he has matching claw marks on the backs of both arms and little bits of skin under his nails.
“Shit.” He is well and truly fucked.
Another few bites of ice cream, and he’s starting to feel bloated, but better than he has all day. Raising his blood sugar with massive infusions of chocolate and high fructose corn syrup has a way of clarifying things. The way he sees it, he can either go with his original plan, and ditch this popsicle stand as soon as the Ackles’s bed down for the night... and yeah, that ain’t happening. No way in hell he’s going out there with the... fuck only knows WHAT is out there... not when he has no place to go and no one to call. It’d be suicide, and he might hate his life at the moment, but he doesn’t want to die. Well, not that much, anyway.
Or, he can stay here and make the best of things. It’s not all bad. They do have ice cream, and fixing up these jeans is the most fun he’s had in, well, ever, since he can’t remember anything before yesterday, and none of that has been fun in his recollection. He takes a look around the kitchen, now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark, and yeah, it’s still a friggin’ mess. He’s still a little nauseated by the thought of what it will take to get this place into shape, but hey, there has to be an upside. Look, a whole basket full of jeans just waiting to be ‘altered’. Ice cream, a roof over his head, and a hobby. What more could a dude ask for? Well, not much, considering he’s terrified of stepping off the porch. So yeah, this is it, right here. He can deal with that.
“...he’s going back.”
“So, the wedding’s off?”
Wait. What? Jared gulps reflexively and takes down way too much ice cream that hasn’t had the chance to melt in his mouth, doubling him over from the brain freeze so he slides down off the counter and forgets about his broken leg when he lands squarely on both feet and topples sideways into a pile of laundry. By the time his brain defrosts and the rest of him relaxes from the full-body clench of agony, the living room’s quiet. He hadn’t really heard what he thought he heard, had he? Jensen’s not calling off the wedding and throwing him out? He wouldn’t do that, would he? Jared’s got nowhere else to go, and it’s not really his fault the kids didn’t make the bus. If it is, well, he can do better. He knows he can, and he’s just about to hop out into the living room and say so when he hears the hall closet shut and the distinctive thrum of an acoustic guitar. It’s enough to slow him down, peeking around the doorjamb instead of barreling through.
The kids appear to have gone upstairs, and it’s just Jensen, a worn but polished guitar in one hand, a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches in the other. Considering the state of the house, Jared should be surprised Jensen goes outside to smoke, but he’s not so much surprised as... intrigued. He didn’t know Jensen smoked. He didn’t know Jensen played the guitar. He doesn’t know anything about Jensen except he wakes up really early, works way too hard, and likes his coffee toxic. Well, that, and he’s kinda hot.
The screen door’s closed, but the front door’s still wide open. From across the living room Jared watches the match flare and the cigarette singe then burn cherry red, can just make out the outline of Jensen’s hand and then his face in profile when the glow moves up, waggles as the filter presses between his lips. It’s a long drag, half the cigarette down in one pull, and Jared can see the whites of Jensen’s eyes by the time he exhales. It occurs to him that Jensen’s eyes are too glassy, but he chalks it up to a full moon and good smoke, inches forward until he’s standing beside the door behind Jensen’s back. He doesn’t feel like he’s spying until Jensen starts to play, and then it occurs to him this is something private, between Jensen and whatever part of the universe he thinks has forgotten about him.
Jared doesn’t recognize the song.
“I hope you can manage, without me now. I love you that’s not it, so don’t think for a minute that I never did.”
Jensen misses a chord and curses under his breath, takes enough time to recover for Jared to interpret what he just said, and if he feels like his legs are starting to give out on him, he’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the fact he’s only got one good one to begin with. His heart’s pounding by the time Jensen takes another drag and continues.
“I just think, we’ve grown from each other, and it’s time for us to meet someone who’s right, someone who makes us feel special.”
This time, Jensen’s voice misses, chokes off in the middle of the last word like he’s overcome with some emotion Jared can only guess at by the way it’s making him feel. Lost. Dejected. Abandoned. Hopeless. He doesn’t need a mirror to know Jensen’s not the only one with glassy eyes anymore.
“Makes us feel right. So special. So, I’m leaving tonight.”
“No!”
The guitar clunks to the top step just as the music was starting to pick up. “What the...?” Stubbing out his cigarette, Jensen lurches around, standing first at half-mast then full and meets Jared’s eyes in the muted screendoor light.
“I’ll do better,” Jared huffs. “I promise. Just don’t. Don’t go. I don’t have anywhere else. No one wants me. Please.”
Jensen’s expression goes from mildly pissed off to shocked to confused in the span of three heartbeats, which is incredibly fast considering Jared can’t catch his breath over the pounding in his chest. It’s not until Jensen reaches for the door handle that Jared sees the scrap of paper in his hand, watches as it’s quickly tucked away into a back pocket.
Jared doesn’t care if he looks like a giant girl, throwing open the door and falling forward, his hands clinging in Jensen’s shirt. “Don’t leave.”
Jensen stiffens under his hands, and for a sickening second, Jared feels like he’s going to be dropped on his face, but first fingers and then hands tentatively pat then slide between his shoulder blades before sliding back around his biceps and pulling Jared to arm’s length. Somehow Jensen’s blushing even in this light when he says, “Dude. No. I’m not going anywhere. It’s just a song. I wrote it a long time ago. It has nothing to do with you.”
And just when did Jared start blubbering like a baby? Apparently, long enough for him to have a hard time getting it under control. “Really?”
“Really,” Jensen assures. If there’s a slight roll to his eyes that implies Jared’s a drama queen, Jared can live with that, because he kind of is.
“You swear?”
“Dude, I swear.” And now Jensen props him against the doorjamb and lets go, leaving him standing on his one and a half good feet.
“But I heard you talking. You said I was going back.”
“Fuck.” It’s more an exhale than an actual exclamation, spoken into Jensen’s wrist as he rakes a hand over his forehead and through his hair. “I’m sorry. I just thought... I meant, you probably don’t want to be here if they’re going to treat you like that. And I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go.”
“Where would I go?”
Jensen looks half-ready to answer, then slides one hand into his hip pocket and the other around to the back of his neck. “How about to bed?” he suggests. “Couch is yours as long as you want it, or until we work something else out... Just,” he pats Jared’s shoulders like he’s beating dust out of a horse blanket, “try to grow a thicker skin, all right? Three kids is already more than I can handle.”
“I will!” Jared’s about to gush and doesn’t try to stop it. “I mean, I’ll help! I’ll be be better. I promise. We’ll make this work. I swear.”
“Yeah...” It’s obvious from the weight in his voice, Jensen doesn’t really believe it, but appreciates the sentiment. Jared gets the feeling he’s used to promises and disappointments. But he’s not used to Jared. Not this version of him. “Better hit the head before I put Indy in there for the night.”
When Jared comes back down the stairs, there’s a pile of blankets and even a pillow on the corner of the couch and the glow of a lit cigarette on the porch. He tries to wait for Jensen to come back in so he can say good night, but the guitar picks up again and strums on for hours before Jared’s eyelids get too heavy to prop open. The last thing he hears is Jensen’s voice over the crickets in the yard.
--
And yes, you’ve found your time to meet someone who’s right for you, makes you feel special...
--
It’s just laundry. Jared can do it. Okay, so it’s a LOT of laundry, and he’s almost positive he’s never worked a machine before, but how hard can it be? All right, yeah, he knows what happens to morons who say ‘how hard can it be,’ but even worse things tend to happen to fools who say, ‘it couldn’t possibly be any worse than,’ and those are the only two semi-encouraging thoughts he can muster while staring down the battered and dented-in washing machine. He can only assume it’s the washing machine by the slightly soggy and mildewy clothes still in it.
It’s still early. Jensen left by five a.m. for the diner, (Jared’s pretty sure he never went to bed) and the kids got on the bus, carrying grocery sacks full of peanut butter sandwiches, a packet each of Kool-Aid powder, since they didn’t seem to have any clean sports bottles to put it in, and something he found in the cupboard that had said, ‘Pork Rinds’ on the bag. He chooses to believe that wasn’t actually what it claimed to be. The point is, Jared made the coffee and the lunches himself, and now he has the whole day to make the place liveable and prove to Jensen that he is more than just another mouth to feed.
Or, at least, to not screw anything up so royally that Jensen actually throws him out.
“Ugh.” The gush of damp in his sinuses and down the back of his throat is his first clue that he’s probably allergic to mildew. “Awesome.” And why is it he wants to stay here again? It takes just a quick glance out the porch window and down to the end of the driveway and the vast expanse of nothing but dirt road and brush to remind him. The world’s a big, nasty place, and Jared doesn’t have anywhere else to go. Nowhere. Not even a nice cozy... shipping crate. This place might be a hovel, but it has walls and a floor between himself and, well, everything else. This he can figure out, one pair of dirty underwear at a time.
So... laundry. He can do laundry. Look, it’s practically spelled out for him. There’s a button or a spot on the dial for everything. All he’s gotta do is... he glances around... get all the dirty clothes, off the furniture, off the floor, off the lamp shades, and into the machine. There’s plenty within arm’s reach, not including the moldy mess already in the bottom of the machine, so he stuffs some in, whatever he can reach -- shirts, pants, towels, some boxers with suspicious brown stains in the back. Taking a moment to assess the load when the machine’s half full, he realizes that the amount of laundry he still has to do is going to take him a week to finish. He doesn’t have a week. He has to make a noticeable dent by the time Jensen comes home from work and make something for dinner. The solution? Stuff more clothes in, push them down, (he’d get in and stand on them if it wasn’t for his cast, which is starting to feel like it weighs fifty pounds on its own) stuff in some more.
Standing back, he’s pretty impressed with how much of the floor he’s managed to clear in just one load. He’s even managed to clear enough obstruction away from the cabinet door to get to the detergent. All right, so the instructions say to start filling the machine with water and then add the detergent, before the clothes. That would’ve been useful to know before he crammed a hundred pounds of laundry inside. He’ll remember that next time. This time, he just turns the knob until the water starts coming out and pours the soap into the stream. Pleased, he leans back, watches the sudsing process begin, and spies the slot on the side that says, ‘for Chlorine bleach.’ Does he need bleach? There wouldn’t be a slot for it if he didn’t need it, right? And he seems to recall something about bleach killing germs and mildew. So, yeah, he definitely needs bleach.
He pours the recommended amount of bleach into the dispenser, considers how many clothes he’s got stuffed in there, and adds another cup for good measure. About then, the machine stops. Just stops. He waits for a second, figuring it might be starting a new process, but nothing happens. “Oh, come on.” Palms slamming down on the sides of the machine, he gives the whole thing a shake. Still nothing. He pulls the lid toward himself enough to check the dial. It’s set on Heavy Duty. That has to be right. Says, ‘pull to start’. Okay, he thought he did that already, but it’s worth a try. So, he does.
The dial comes off, and the backward momentum of his hand slams the lid down on his other hand, or at least the tippy-top of his index finger. “Fucking hell!” Jerking his finger free, he’s preoccupied with sucking on it and hoping to God there’s no blood, because he’s so not fainting on the floor in the middle of this mess, and almost doesn’t notice the machine has started running until it rocks under the momentum of the agitation and smacks him on the ass.
“Huh, guess it was just waiting for me to close the lid. Like the light in the refrigerator. Learn something new everyday.” By now, he’s feeling pretty industrious, props a cowboy boot under one corner of the machine to make it stop rocking, and goes out to collect the rest of the clothes. He can do this. He really can.
--
Jensen’s not exactly sure what he expects to find when he gets home that night with Jeremy in tow after picking him up from the basketball game. (He’s guessing they lost but knows better than to ask when Jer’s in full on sulk like he is now, arms folded across his hand-me-down letter jacket, pimply forehead smearing up the glass.) Experience would suggest his day is far from over. He still expects to spend twenty minutes breaking up fights between Jake and Joey, another five minutes corralling critters so that most of the dinner he’s brought home ends up in the people he brought it for, ten minutes watching eighty percent of the food go into the kids and twenty percent of it on them, then, if he’s lucky, five minutes for a smoke on the porch before he passes out in bed, probably with his clothes still on. Today, it’s bound to be all of the above with a side of over-indulged rich, spoiled houseguest on the side.
His hands shake just thinking about it, and he has more than half a mind to drop Jer off with the pizzas and just keep on driving. Not that he expects to find something else on the horizon. More like, he knows the dirt road they live on ends in a stone fence built up over years of clearing the neighboring fields for planting, and he’s been caught between a rock and a hard place for so long, he’s about ready to take on the rock. But that would be selfish, and anyone who knows him will tell you, Jensen’s doesn’t have a selfish bone in his body. He’s pretty sure he does. They’ve just been crushed to powder. Rock. Hard place. Mortar, meet pestle.
There’s no change on the horizon. There is no horizon. Period.
So, for a guy with no expectations or ambitions outside finding his pillow and hoping there’s no ferret hair on it, he feels a little like he’s driven off the edge of the world when he gets home and finds... well, what he finds.
“What the hell?” He throws the truck in Park and turns off the ignition but leaves the headlights on a few seconds longer, ignoring the buzzing of the dash alarm in favor of getting a better look at what’s become of his house in his absence.
The front porch is screened in... by clothes. But they’re not clothes Jensen’s ever seen before --jeans with big white splotches and holes in them, socks and underwear that look tie-dyed with dark rings and splotches of various colors where the white used to be, and if that’s Jeremy’s away game basketball jersey, the school’s changed its colors, and Jensen doesn’t remember missing any board meetings where that might have happened.
The dog that meets them on the porch is still Aggie, but she’s dangling something from her collar that looks suspiciously like an air freshener.
What’s more, the place is silent-- no screaming, no echo of stampeding elephants up and down the stairs, no squawking cockatoo, no ferret dangling from the curtain rod, rattling the hangers and chattering -- and is that the clink of silverware against dishes?
“Hey, I’m home. I brought pizza,” he calls from the doorway.
That breaks the spell.
“Jennnyyyyyy.” Joey comes running from the kitchen, spoon in hand, and grabs Jensen by the hand. “We made dinner!”
“We?” Jensen asks, noticing as he’s led through the living room that the floor is bare of clothes and trash for the first time since the last scheduled State visit.
“Me, Jake, and Jared.”
“Uh, awesome,” Jensen concedes. He wasn’t aware there was anything in the house to actually cook, but he doesn’t say that, since he’s been feeling guilty about that for awhile now and doesn’t see the point of bringing it up. If there were, say twenty-eight hours in a day, and eight days in a week, there might be time for family trips to the grocery store.
The kitchen’s not exactly clean. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and the Ackles homestead won’t be raised from the ashes any faster, but the only things on the table are dishes, silverware, and elbows. The bowls don’t match, and the one Jake’s eating out of has a crack in it from one side to the other, but there’s something in them that he didn’t bring home from work, and that has never happened. Dropping the pizza boxes on the counter, he lets himself be led to the table. “Wow. What are we eating?” It looks like slop, but again, he doesn’t say so, though maybe the glance he throws Jared is a little accusatory. So help him if the guy is poisoning his kids.
Jake certainly doesn’t sound like he’s about to start puking up entrails when he pipes in with, “Milk macaroni.”
“Milk macaroni?” It can’t be what it sounds like.
“It’s just what it sounds like,” Jake says. “Jared boiled the water, I put in the noodles, and Joey put in the milk.” After taking a heaping bite, he only chews it halfway before adding, “It’s actually pretty good.”
Jeremy comes in behind him, rolls his eyes, and starts eating the pizza while standing at the counter.
“We set a place for you and Jensen, too,” Joey says, peering up from under Jensen’s elbow.
“That’s all right, squirt,” Jeremy declines. “I think the team nutritionist has banned me from eating slop.”
“Never stopped you before,” Jake accuses, eyes dark under his lashes, whatever excitement he’d had lost as he goes from shovelling in the macaroni to just dropping the spoon and resting his head on his hand, cheek squished over his eye.
Jared’s looking kinda pasty and worn around the edges when he pushes the noodles around his bowl without lifting his eyes and says, “It was the only thing we had in the house. Started out as macaroni and cheese, but Aggie ate the cheese.”
“And then she puked it up on the floor,” Joey added with a gag.
“Which is what I’m gonna do if I have to eat that sh... slop,” Jeremy mumbles around his second slice of pizza.
“Jer,” Jensen begins, knowing full well it’s a moot point to try and reason with him when he’s in a mood.
“No...no, he’s right,” Jared interrupts. “Look. Jensen brought food. Y’know, it might’ve been nice if he’d phoned ahead and told us not to bother, but now that he’s here, we really don’t need to eat this.” His chair scrapes back from the table, and he stands way more abruptly than a dude with one bum leg ought.
“But I like...” Jake stops mid-sentence when his bowl’s snatched out from under his spoon, as is Joey’s half-empty dish, both emptied into Jared’s bowl and then dumped back into the pot on the stove.
Jared seems intent on emptying the whole thing out the back door, but he catches his cast on the corner of the refrigerator and sends the pot skidding across the floor into the laundry room.
Deathly silence settles back over the room as Jared straightens, glances over his shoulder with something glistening in the corners of his eyes, then turns into the corner, arms folded tight around himself, and rests his head against the wall.
Okay, so, side of Jared has somehow become, main course Jared.
Jensen picks up the one remaining unopened pizza box and hands it to Jake. “Why don’t you guys go eat up in your room,” he suggests. For once, there’s no argument, and he hopes to hell those aren’t tears in Joey’s eyes, too, because he’s only got two shoulders to cry on. One’s reserved for himself, and the other one’s friggin’ tired.
“Um,” Jensen clears his throat into his shirt collar, because he has no idea what to do. When one of the kids is upset, he usually opens with a noogie and a hug. Jared could probably use the latter, but Jensen’s not into the whole free love scene. He’s pretty sure he blushed the last time his mother hugged him. Might’ve let everyone in town hug him at his parents’s funeral, but he didn’t hug back. He’s not about to give Jared something he reserves for immediate family. He’s an actor, not a player, and now he really, really hates Chris for getting him into this whole mess. “Looks like you... had a busy day.”
Jared laughs. Jensen wants to believe it’s in good humor, an ice-breaker, but there’s an edge to it, laughter teetering over hysteria, and he’s been there enough times to know. “Busy.” Another dry laugh and a sniffle. “Yeah.”
“I... uh, I really appreciate, you know, the laundry... and, uh, the cooking. You really didn’t have to...”
“Bullshit!” Fingers under his armpits and clenched tight enough to turn the skin around them white, Jared pushes off the wall with his forehead. When he turns around, his eyes are bright and rimmed red but wide open, an expression of clarity and ‘I have looked into the abyss, and the abyss looked back’ resolve. Seems like the pampered rich boy finally grew a pair, and Jensen would be stupid not to take a step back. “I did have to, Jenny!” He spits the name, no question it’s intended to be a cutdown. “I had to, because it needed to be done and you dropped the ball!” For a second, his arms come unfurled from beneath his armpits, and a finger jabs toward Jensen’s shoulder, curls into a fist before it freezes in mid-air, Jared’s face melting in an expression of shock and embarrassment. Abruptly, he stuffs it back under his arm, tightens his elbows against his ribs like he doesn’t trust himself not to take a swing.
“Hey! I do the best I can!”
“When? You’re never here.”
“I have to work,” Jensen retorts. “The light bill doesn’t pay itself. The gas bill, mortgage, school supplies, clothes... None of that stuff’s free, Jared.” And now his head hurts, because he was doing a fine job of only thinking about one of those things at a time, and now, (whew) he really needs his bed. A second ago, he was infuriated, enraged, offended, ready to overlook the fact that Jared’s a good four inches and probably thirty pounds bigger. Now, he’s... okay, whoozy is kind of a girly word... but definitely not up for a fight. He’d sit down, but he’s not up for craning his neck. “I’m one guy,” he sighs.
Jared stands down. “I get that. I do.” His hands slide down his ribs and hook in the belt loops of his jeans. (They look suspiciously like Jensen’s jeans aside from the fact that they’re missing all the material below mid-thigh, but now’s not the time to bring it up. ) “It’s just... fuck!” The change in posture must’ve been premature, because both elbows slam backward into the drywall, and between Mama’s brass jell-o mold collection falling down from above the cupboard, they almost don’t hear the plaster give way under the blow. Jared goes pasty white and drops his head back, throat exposed, Adam’s apple working up and down. “Perfect! Just...”
It takes Jensen a second to realize Jared’s stuck in the wall, arms missing from bicep to forearm inside the wall, another second to realize he’s shaking all over like the Incredible Hulk about to split his shirt. Except that’s not sweat beading down his cheeks.
“Dude, don’t... It’s no big deal.” Not like half the walls in the house don’t already have holes in them he can’t afford to fix. “Just, calm down.”
Jensen doesn’t know what he’s afraid of, that Jared will go ballistic and tear out the whole wall, or that he’ll collapse in a puddle on the floor. “I’ll... just hang on a sec.” He inches forward the way he did the last time a possum got under the kitchen sink, only this time without the leather gloves and the hot dog tongs. Jared doesn’t have a tail Jensen can snag, but he works one arm and then the other free of the wall without getting his hand bitten off, Jared making noises in his throat the whole time like he’s going to start frothing at the mouth. “You’re, uh, lucky,” he says as broken chunks of wall fall at their feet, “you missed the studs.”
“Lucky.” Hands pressing into his eye sockets, Jared stays leaning against the wall, Jensen hovering just in case the entire rest of the wall decides to give way. “Let’s see. I had this whole day planned. Make the kids lunch, get them off to school, and spend the whole rest of the morning and afternoon getting this place in order so you would come home, and dinner would be ready, and you wouldn’t have to worry about anything... and then...”
“You didn’t have to...”
“But none of it worked. Everything I touched...” Jared’s fists clench at his sides but he doesn’t take anymore of his frustration out on the wall, breathes through clenched teeth for a few seconds, nostrils flared, until he gets himself under control. Well, all of himself except what’s leaking out the corners of his eyes. “I made it all worse!”
“I don’t think that’s even possible,” Jensen offers with a tired smirk.
“You don’t know... First, I couldn’t find anything to make for the lunches. The bread was turned, so I had to cut the moldy parts off. And Jake couldn’t find his shoes, so he had to go to school wearing one from two different pairs. I mean, I switched out the laces and made some stencils out of electrical tape, but I’m sure no one believed they were a matched set. And then, I did laundry.” He sniffs, starts biting at his fingernails, cupping his elbow in his palm as he nods toward the front porch. “And you see how that turned out. I packed them in so tight, half the clothes didn’t even get wet, and the ones that did either got eaten by the bleach or changed colors, and, and, and dinner’s ruined. I mean, milk macaroni? What was I even thinking?”
“If it weren’t for bad luck, we’d have no luck at alllll,” Jensen sings with a drawl. It might be the worst segue ever, and there’s no way he’s buying the weak attempt at infusing some humor into the situation, but it works. Jared goes from looking like he’s about to rip out a handful of his hair (which, he could probably do with a little less of, in Jensen’s opinion) to dead still, wearing the equivalent of a ‘thanks, I needed that’ slapped to the face expression. That’s better. And for a second, Jensen’s not a worn-to-a-frazzle, overworked and underfed brother/father/short order cook/butcher-baker-candlestick maker... er, whatever... He’s an entertainer. He knows how to work his smirk and wag his swagger, hooks his thumbs in his belt loops, and says, “C’mon, you know this one.” Tilts his head back and croons, “Gloooom, despppaiiirrr, and agonyyy on meeeee.” He gets more of the blank stare, but he’d swear there’s a hitch in the corners of Jared’s lips, maybe a squint in his eyes. “Adios, farewell, goodbye, good night, so long...” an exaggerated pause, “HEEE-HAWWW!”
“You’re insane, aren’t you?”
Jensen laughs, unhooks his thumbs from his belt loops. “Nah. You get paid for crazy around here. I’m just tired, and when I’m tired, I start spouting random show tunes.” He rubs the ache from the back of his neck, suddenly reminded that he hasn’t sat down all day, and he’s starting to fold in on himself from the top down. “That’s from a Hee Haw review my acting troupe did last summer. I... don’t know why I...”
“No,” a chuckle, and this time it’s sincere. “No, you’re right. I don’t know why I let everything get to me. I’ve only been here a couple days. I can’t believe I unloaded on you like that.”
Jensen can believe it. He’s actually finding the apology harder to swallow, but then, he actually remembers what Jared Padalecki is like. Jared doesn’t. Man, that’s gotta suck.
“No... I... You were thinking that the kids were hungry.” Jensen throws up his hands. “And you know what? You’re right. It’s my fault. I dropped the ball. They’re my responsibility. I should keep food in the house, and I should have called to tell you I was bringing pizza. Look.” He reaches around the corner and turns the light on in the laundry room. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll eat what you made. I mean, if Jake ate it, it can’t be all bad.” Stepping toward the doorway, “Some of it’s bound to still be in the pot. I don’t even care if it’s cold.”
“Wait!”
Jensen’s heart skips a beat as Jared lurches forward off the wall, and body checks him into the door frame. If the extra inches and pounds weren’t enough to keep him immobilized, the sudden realization that Jared’s A)his mock fiance who doesn’t know they really aren’t like that, B)got his hands on Jensen’s hips, and C)huffing against Jensen’s throat and shaking, would definitely paralyze him as effectively as an ice cube to the nut sack. “Uh, Jar... wha... nnn...”
“I’m sorry,” Jared whispers, and now Jensen can tell the huffing and shaking is laughter, albeit weak and still a touch hysterical. “Really, really sorry.”
“Um.” One forearm waves feebly out from under Jared’s and then keeps on waving because, now that it’s not trapped between them, the only places it can reach are Jared’s ass and the little stretch of skin where his shirt has ridden up above his ass. “I told you not to be sorry.”
“That was before you saw...”
“Saw, what? Because I gotta say, a few more seconds of oxygen deprivation, I’m gonna be seeing the inside of my eyelids and maybe a long dark tunnel with a light at the end.”
“Whoa! Sorry.” Jared jerks back but keeps himself planted between the laundry room and Jensen.
Jensen makes a show of straightening out his clothes, mostly because he can’t look Jared in the eye with this flush on his cheeks. “Dude, I once came home to find the kids patching holes in the wall with toothpaste. See, they thought a pellet gun would be more effective than a fly swatter. I’ve pretty much seen it all at this point.”
“This is gonna take more than toothpaste.” Jared’s biting his bottom lip and rolling it back and forth, but not making an effort to move out of the way until Jensen ducks under his arm. “Just, don’t be mad, all right?”
“I told you. I won’t be ma... Fuck!”
TBC
A/N: For those of you who are interested, I actually grew up eating milk macaroni. It's exactly what it sounds like. Make elbow macaroni, drain, stir in milk, onions, salt and pepper. Real poor man's food. I loved it, but I've never been able to convince anyone who wasn't raised on it to give it a try.
Part Four (Unlocked!)
