Final gift for kestrelsan

[ht_murray]

Title:'C'hange or "How the Guitar Hero Gets His Bitch"
Author:tru_faith_lost
Genre: SNRPS
Pairings: JA/JP
Rating:NC-17 to be safe
Words: 8700
Summary: Love's not all fun and games. It wends in broken melodies plucked on strings held down and stretched out by an ever-tightening whammy bar, all in the key of ‘C’. It’s the only key on the ring, profound as the scarlet letter in the way it pervades. And yet, it’s just a letter. The word never crosses their lips. NOT A DEATHFIC!
Thanks: To ysbail for beta and rejeneration for hand-holding. Also everyone on my filter. *smishes*
Disclaimer: It's fiction. Nothing more. No money's trading hands. I also alluded to a Scorpions song. I don't own "Wind of Change." And I used lyrics from "Cannonball" by Damien Rice. I only wish I could be so eloquent.
Dedication: For kestrelsan who wanted "J2 or J3 kink, medium spicy." This is way more than just a little kink fic, I'm afraid, because I'm long-winded. But I think it meets the kink requirement in at least a few parts. I'm not sure it ever gets to medium spicy, though. I hope you like it anyway. The icons at the end are also for you, darlin', because you wanted some of those, too, but I'll admit they're nothing much.

 

The change, when it comes, isn’t unexpected. Every great song has a change of key, a bridge that’s more memorable than the verse and more powerful than the chorus. Jared and Jensen’s song shouldn’t be any different, but it changes key just when they’ve finally got all the harmonies down and the balance just right.

When the change comes, it doesn’t come whistling down the Moskva, melancholy and nostalgic, isn’t as profound as Cold War soldiers patrolling Gorky Park. It comes with a sonic boom--the gloating laughter of Jared, “Ask-Me-What-Else-These-Fingers-Can-Do,” Padalecki-- and echoes with a whimper across Jensen’s lips, just a bite of frost to make it stay.

Suddenly, everything’s out of tune and forced, late-night phone calls home for teary reassurances and business meetings where the fates of television heroes are rewritten to accommodate the undecided fate of the men in the hero suits.

Jared’s probably been spending too much time in Sam’s headspace, what with the last minute rewriting of the scripts and re-filming of the final season three episodes. But lately, he’s feeling Sam, really feeling him, head down in books and pamphlets and worn-out waiting room rags. Seems like all he does anymore, all he can do, is wait, and it’s just not in him to do it. Sam Winchester’s stubborn, take-the-bull-by-the-horns demeanor doesn’t come from Dean or John.

Jared’s more for making storms than weathering them, and he’s not too proud to admit feeling a little sorry for himself. How can he deny as much with his face reflecting back at him from the glass top of the table as he looks for another issue of Reader’s Digest? “Laughter is the Best Medicine” seems like it should be considered faux pas in a place like this, but if it can help push back the pout… It’s not that he’s above pouting. Hell, it’s one of his most iconed expressions, or so he’s told. But he doesn’t really have the right, does he? To pout? Jensen’s the one who…

Yeah, that highway’s heading straight to the Hell. Jared’s not going there. Running his hand through his now way-too-long (and maybe just a little greasy) hair, he follows a curve down a side street in his mind instead, along Jensen’s pouty lips, the way they were when they were fuller and more pink than gray, and ends up back at the beginning.

xXx Spring 2007 xXx



Jensen’s sexy as hell when he pouts.

“Game over. I win.”

It’s not the first time. Jared’s been kicking Jensen’s ass at “Guitar Hero” for... well, pretty much always. The High Score list on the screen contains nine variations of J, T, and P, and only one lowly JRA. Jen’s used to having his ass handed to him by now, pretty much has to be. So, there’s no good reason, as far as Jared can tell, for Jensen to be pouting on his end of the couch and looking down at the plastic guitar in his lap like a pile of spaghetti that’s soaked through a cheap paper plate.

Not that Jared’s sorry for winning. Jensen’s totally sexass when he pouts, and now he owes Jared a pretty big piece of said ass. Life is good.(Cue theme music from Ferris Bueller…tick-tick-atickaaaa)…Oh yeah.

“Pay up, butter fingers,” Jared smirks, bouncing across the cushions. Okay, maybe he’s a little over-zealous, giggly from sugar and high on Jensen Ackles. The music’s too loud, color’s too bright, and an acid-trippy kaleidoscope display reflects in the sheen on Jensen’s forehead.

And Jared? Wants. Air guitar, baby.

Yeah, too much sugar already, and lots more where that came from.

“No way.” Jensen winces. Little lines in the corners of his eyes stretch up into his forehead and across the bridge of his nose. He hisses and shakes his hand hard enough for one of the knuckles to pop. “Do over. My hand fell asleep.” Jared cocks a knowing eyebrow. “I’m serious. It hurts.”

“Nice try.” Jared snatches the controller out of Jensen’s lap by the neck and, assuming his best Captain Caveman pose, stretches his arm out over his head so Jen can’t reach it. Somehow, being taller by a few inches seems to equate into having arms a full foot longer. Jensen’s been in this predicament-- eyeball to pit stain with Jared’s shoulder-- enough times to know he’d need a step ladder to win that face-off. The resigned crinkle of his chin and lazy, upward roll of his eyes (one maybe lazier than the other-mental squeak) make Jared wanna just squish his cheeks and talk baby talk while kissing the end of his nose. God, he loves winning. “Make all the excuses you want, but you’re not getting out of this one.”

“It’s not an excuse,” Jen protests. “Y’know I got my hand slammed in a car door once when I was a kid, dislocated two fingers.” He demonstrates by making a Vulcan peace sign and separating his last two fingers from the rest of his hand.

“Aww, does baby have a owie?”


“That’s it, mock my pain, horndog. It’s really been coming back to haunt me lately.” He hisses and shakes his hand again, mock glare of betrayal in his yes. “I wonder if it’s the weather.”

“Sounds like a personal problem that comes from being a sore loser.”

On his hands and knees, Jared stalks into Jensen’s lap, long limbs stretching like the paws of a prowling tomcat. His fingers weave under the tails of Jen’s shirt and over quivering planes of muscle to splay against the cotton tee in that warm place where it peaks between damp pecs. Grinning, he drags one knee over, denim inseam rough across Jensen’s thigh, and nuzzles against Jen’s neck. “Lemme,” a plaintive whisper, then Jensen’s tired hand is lifted, kisses pressed to each knuckle individually. “There, all better. Now stop being a baby and accept your fate. You know you want it. After all, it’s spring.”

Jensen sucks back, chin tucked in tight enough to block Jared’s lips. “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

Grinning, Jared sits up, one paw pinning Jensen to the back of the couch, rising and falling in rhythm with panted breath. His stomach does a jelly roll, and he has to bite his lip to keep from holding Jen down and humping him into the upholstery. Instead, he reaches into a bag on the end table and rustles around, cellophane crackling like the scratched soundtrack behind the love scene on a black-and-white movie.

He grins again, drawing out the moment. Jared’s not really a black-and-white movie kind of guy. He’s more into Disney himself, and the garish game colors on the television screen have the same effect on him as a red light district on a horny teenager with twenty dollars and his own car. He rocks over Jensen’s lap once, twice, and melts in.

“It’s spring,” he says, incredulous. When Jensen just gazes dumbly back, he adds, “Dude, you’re fucking twitterpated. Just admit it,” he teases, breathing hard against Jen’s ear. “You can’t wait to get your mouth on my worm.” He uses his sexiest voice, rumbles over rasps that barely cover giggles of glee. That’s right, glee. It’s way too much fun to watch Jensen’s face war between disturbed revulsion and blind lust.

He pops a gummi worm into his mouth, leaving just the green tail sticking out, (or maybe it’s the head, hard to tell with gummi worms) and ducks his chin, tilting into Jensen, “Now pay up.”

Jen twists away, a half-hearted struggle that Jared notices doesn’t go lower than his waist. “Perv! You’re trying to seduce me by quoting Bambi?”

“I don’t need to seduce. I won your ass fair and square.” Jared wiggles in his lap and watches Jen’s eyelashes flutter when their zippers stutter against each other, electric jolt of lust right where they need it.

God, the way Jen swallows and bites his bottom lip, looking down through those long eyelashes as Jared rocks against him...

Jared stops abruptly and reaches up to yank the worm out of his mouth, leaves a trickle of green syrup on his chin that he’s so not gonna lick off. “Besides, Jen, you were the one who started the whole Disney theme. Remember? ”

Letting go of his bottom lip, Jen lays his head back on the couch, eyes already glassy with arousal, one hand tight over Jared’s hip. “You want me to suck on a gummi worm with you. Gummi, spaghetti, spaghetti, gummi, add an Italian chef and a meatball, and I’d say that was a pretty obvious Lady and the Tramp setup.”

“He says as he bats his Cocker Spaniel eyelashes.”

“Bitch.”

A little more green spit drips off Jared’s lips as he pops the worm back in and continues talking. “Pot, meet kettle, baby.” He pushes Jensen deeper into the couch with his hand on a muscled shoulder and dips forward.

Jensen’s lips part expectantly, but just as the worm brushes up his chin, he snaps it shut again. “So, does this make me Lady or Tramp?”

Jared pulls out the candy without drawing back, licks up the little smear of sugar on Jensen’s chin, and says, “Depends who ends up with the meatball.”

“There’s only oneghhh?”

A mouthful of gummi worm and Padalicki shuts Jensen up pretty handily. “Mmm.”

Oh, yeah…

It starts slow, stroke and suck, slip and swallow, tongues curling around each other and using the worm as a lasso to draw the other closer. Tiny sips of breath in the briefest of shared pauses turn into panted gasps stolen from each other when parting’s no longer an option. Rush of lust and thrum of arousal become light-headed groping between heaving, oxygen-starved chests.

Jared’s mama used to tell him that, if he swallowed his chewing gum, it’d sit in his stomach for a month. Gummi worms, he decides, must last way longer. He comes to this conclusion as his jaw aches, throbbing in counterpoint to a slow, deep tongue fuck. They’re beyond lazy foreplay before the gummi’s even gooey. Gummi tummy, indeed.

Jared’s definitely got a new kink for gummi Jensen...yeah, yum. He’s gonna lick all the way to the center of that Tootsie pop, (Forever) no matter how long it takes.

In just the time it takes to tilt his chin down, unhinge his jaw that little extra bit and swallow, long drink of syrup and Jensen, forever comes to mind. Forever’s cheesy, and girly, and definitely way longer than a gummi worm can last. Jared likes the way it feels tickling over the back of his brain, gentle shove from the place where thinking and feeling form a synergistic relationship akin to clairvoyance. He just knows.

He fucking loves Jensen Ackles. For.Ever.

Panting into Jensen’s mouth, Jared concedes with a whimper of desperation that this little seduction probably wasn’t his greatest inspiration. He needs more, and right the fuck now, but the gummi won’t be rushed, slimy green bastard.

It’s supposed to be a long, slow makeout session that gets their engines revving for the bedroom. Gag reflex kinda nixes the lazy, melty goodness, though. More than once over the next however many minutes it is, the worm slides too far one way or the other. Gag, choke, swallow, start again. ‘Cause yeah, can’t stop now.

For what it is, though-- deep, slow kisses, extra wet and sweet--it’s a good payoff, worth the occasional gag and retch. He’d make that bet again, but only with Jensen.

What starts as long and slow escalates to panting and rocking, desperate clawing under t-shirts and at the flies of overly tight jeans, then ends with mutual handjobs and sleepy, post-orgasmic sucking of syrup off tired tongues. Fucking gummi worm lasts longer than they do, but in the end, gummi’s in tummies and they’ve still got tired kisses and afterglow. They are made of win.

Take that, gummi bastard.

Jared’s never considered himself kinky, but green gummi worms could so become a fetish. Wet, swollen mouth and long eyelashes swept over cherry pink cheekbones could become a fetish. The hand still wrapped loosely around his cock, petting with the smooth inside of a thumb...

Well, he’s young and horny; fetishes are easy to come by.

When they finally swallow one last time, Jared rests his forehead against Jensen’s and strokes a thumb reverently over the shell of his ear. It’s nice. Disney movie nice. And yes, he is that gay.

It stays nice right up until Jared nuzzles his nose against Jen’s jaw and slides off. When Jensen can’t do up his own pants, ‘cause yeah, Jared’s that good, Jay is more than happy to help him. His dick gives an interested twitch when he threads his long fingers into the waistband, thumbs the button through the hole with Jen’s treasure trail brushing against the back of his knuckles.

Jensen either notices or has the same reaction, judging by the want bubbling in his eyes when they pause for just a second to breathe the same, sugar-sweet, sweat-damp air.

Jared kisses the sleepy-slack tops of Jen’s eyelids and helps him to his feet, thumbs rubbing in circles over the back of Jensen’s tired hand all the way down the hall to the bedroom.

This would be the part of the story where all the forest creatures break into song and dance, then run off into the bushes to make baby animals. Jared loves spring, and Jared loves Jensen.

There’s no denying it, spring is in the air, and Jared is so fucking twitterpated.

But seasons change, and even Bambi had to grow up.

The pink in Jensen’s cheeks the next morning isn’t a spring fever. It’s left over from winter, and it’s the third one that month.

When Jensen has trouble dialing, that aching hand just not cooperating, Jared calls the doctor for him. That’s when Gene Simmons smashes his guitar without unplugging the amp.

xXx

Looking back, Jared knows that’s when the wind blew away his internal smirk and froze this pout on his face. He’d have covered the plants if he’d seen it coming, but they were expecting frost in the fall, not spring. Now they’re stuck pruning off the blackened branches, among other things. Jared hasn’t really felt like laughing out loud since that day on the sofa and the night in the bed that followed, but when Jensen comes out of the treatment room, Jared drops his magazine and stands with a grin big enough for the both of them.

xXx


Time escalates from there, following those last victorious chords on the wind in eddies along fresh, raw edges like the exposed roots of broken teeth. It wends in broken melodies plucked on strings held down and stretched out by an ever-tightening whammy bar, all in the key of ‘C’. It’s the only key on the ring, profound as the scarlet letter in the way it pervades. And yet, it’s just a letter. The word never crosses their lips.

xXx

There are moments, lightning streaking ahead of a storm front, when everything’s highlighted again, clear in a way that’s reminiscent of nights spent reflecting the glow of video games while sprawled in each other’s laps without the distracting colors. They tickle over Jared’s backbrain like forever and then find a nerve that makes him jerk all the way down to his curling toes. Moments like those, jarring and visceral, strike out of the blue and rearrange his DNA somehow until Jensen’s so firmly rooted inside that Jared has a physical attachment to every tiny part of Jensen Ross Ackles.

Every lash over those pained hazel eyes.

Jared loves Jensen’s eyelashes. Jensen’s eyelashes. He loves the way they brush butterfly kisses under his jaw, over his collar bone. They’re static electricity on a dry Vancouver morning. Tingly jolts radiate off every follicle as they skim between rib bones, around his navel, and along his treasure trail until he’s arching and coming too hard to notice Jensen hasn’t touched him--not quite hard enough to remember Jensen can’t.

xXx

Seasons change, moments of clarity stolen in rapid succession as the storm gains speed, picks them up in spring and drops them in winter. They bypass summer and fall before the show even goes on hiatus.

They’re almost late to the set for filming Dean’s final episode. It’s not final, final. Kripke and the writers admit it’s a little beyond the original scope of their mythology for Sam to actually drag Dean out of Hell, but that’s exactly what he’ll do (if)when Jensen’s ready to come back. It’s decided early on, just one bleeder tied off to slow the hemorrhaging of past and future into the sucking wound that is now.

It’s never been easier to play Sam Winchester. Even when Sam’s just a costume in the wardrobe trailer before the shoot, he bleeds in, desperate, clings for dear life with fingernails and teeth. His arms tremble, tendons cording beneath flesh, eyeteeth bared around a growl of possession as he crawls under Dean’s clothes and refuses to come out. He’s rougher than Jared can be, harder than Jared will let himself be now that he knows Jensen can break.

Jared’s head thuds off the wall of the changing room when he comes, a giant anvil of reminder that Jen’s hand isn’t there to cradle his neck the way it should be.

He’s sorry, then, so sorry for the bites, the bruises, the marks Sam has made, but still hungry. He kisses an apology along Jensen’s hip bones as he tucks him back in, gentle nuzzle against his navel while he zips Dean’s jeans. He purposely misaligns the button holes when he does up the shirt that Dean will die in. The little gap leaves Jensen a warm place to tuck away his hand, warm skin to dull the throb of aching bones. For now, he’s got Jared for that, Jared who holds his hand and nuzzles up behind, slides his own fingers into the shirt gap to stroke over his still-quivering stomach.

Being Jensen’s right hand means dressing him any way Jared wants. Wardrobe doesn’t dare fix it. They can edit it out later, when Dean’s in Hell and the show’s on hiatus, the war moved into real life.

xXx

Jared’s never really been a hand-holder, not unless Jensen’s the hand and Jared’s a giant mitten. His idea of PDA (aside from the one in his pocket) is a full frontal assault of the glomming nature.

He hasn’t let go of Jensen’s hand in nearly two months.

Hand kink. He’s fast becoming the kinkiest bastard he knows. His latest fetish, to go with pouting lips, gummi worms, and eyelashes? The little membrane of skin between Jensen’s fingers. He gets hard from the way it tickles when he holds Jensen’s hand, always electric, because Jen’s fingers are never warm enough for Jared’s liking, especially not wrapped around the cold porcelain of the sink or the toilet as much as they are.

If he could just hold Jensen's hand long enough for the fingers to warm up...Yeah, Jared hasn't let go in nearly two months..

xXx

Toes are supposed to be as flexible as fingers. Jared would never have believed it, except that now he knows Jensen’s piggy-that-stayed-home and piggy-that-ate-roast-beef can curl completely in half and leave some pretty awesome bruises when they do. He knows all the places to kiss Jensen to make his toes curl like that and get himself marked; behind his right ear lobe, the divot of his collar bone against his throat, the cut of his hip, and along the tendon behind his left knee. Jared learns them all when Jensen’s mouth is too sore for kissing.

Not kissing, despite the ravages of the disease, is never an option.

When Jensen’s fingertips brush over his face in the dark, because it’s always in the dark now, Jared kisses over his fever-damp palms. “Beautiful, baby, so beautiful to me, always,” he breathes, sucking the last two fingers of the right hand into his mouth. Jared’s decided they’re his favorite. Maybe it’s the whole, you-always-want-what-you-can’t-have mojo, or maybe it’s the tang of silver on Jensen’s ring. Jared just can’t leave them alone. Swallowing around those two fingers makes his mouth water and his eyes roll back in his head.

When they’re like this, Jared buried deep inside Jensen, one hand cradled in the divot at the base of Jensen’s bare skull, Jared can feel the way their bellies are closer than they should be, knows it’s from the edema, but can’t see Jensen as anything but beautiful, gorgeous, perfect, every thrust another endearment.

The thrusting is for Jensen, afraid to give or take when bartering with just a handful of uncertain moments like spare change he can’t afford to lose.

Jared is so fucking in love he could come just from holding tight, usually does.

Jensen clenches around him when his orgasm hits, and it breaks them both, Jen with a gasp and Jared with a grunt as he pulls Jensen’s head against his neck, shaking through the aftershocks. When the whiteout fades and they’re together in the pitch black again, Jensen’s ring is still in Jared’s mouth. He tries to put it back on with his teeth, massaging Jen’s knuckles tenderly until he finds the right finger in the dark.

Jensen threads a hand into Jared’s hair and tugs him back, whispers against the shell of his ear. “Keep it. I want you to have it.”

The words bounce around between Jared’s ribs, scatter shards of bone dust on the parts of him only words can reach. There’s a grating scrape, hard not to cough around or gag on the implication, but Jared laughs. That’s what he does. What he's always done. He doesn't see any point changing that.

“What?” Jensen’s voice is tired. Jensen’s always tired.

“Aren’t you supposed to get down on one knee or something?”

“My knees...” a cough, “are otherwise occupied.” A deep, raspy inhale punctuates the squeeze of Jen’s knees against Jared’s ribcage. “And I was giving you a present, not asking you to marry me.”

“I know.” Jared waggles the ring thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger before kissing Jen once on the end of his nose and rolling off onto his pillow. Then, because he knows it won’t fit any of his fingers, he sets the ring on the bedside table and snuggles into the sheets, wrapping his arms around Jensen tight enough to feel the slight rattle in his chest. “But I would, you know. If you were asking...I would.”

Jensen’s silent just long enough for Jared to wonder if he’s gone to sleep before he whispers, “Me, too. Ya know, if things were different. If…”

If...an unresolved chord at the end of a hymn, dangling 'A' with no 'men.'

“Yeah, I do,” Jared says with a kiss. When Jensen’s breathing evens into the rhythm of sleep, Jay snuggles a little closer, adds, “And I will.” Because ‘if’ doesn’t preclude ‘when.’ Jared doesn’t hear a fat lady, doesn’t see any stairway to Heaven.

Forever’s too long to be over.

xXx

Lightning flashes.

Jensen’s heart beats faster when he’s in pain and doesn’t want Jared to know. It beats a little raggedly after chemo, and slower after he’s spent half a night puking and curled next to the toilet, wrapped in the quilt Jared’s grandmother made for him before he was born.

Jensen’s heart slows down when he sleeps. He sleeps too much.

Jensen’s heart always beats slower than Jared’s. Jared knows, because he never sleeps. Jared’s heart spends all his nights pounding against Jensen’s back… you know, just in case Jen’s needs a jump start.

Yeah, Jared doesn’t sleep at all.

xXx

Jensen’s out of surgery and on his second round of chemo before Jared actually feels like ‘if’ is just two little letters, and ‘C’ is occasionally lower case. The past starts sliding back where it belongs and new roads open to the future. Jared thinks maybe Jensen’s not seeing the light, yet, even with the date set for Sam to drag Dean’s ass out of Hell. He’ll have to do something about that, now that he can think past the next heartbeat.

It’s been a trying couple of weeks, with the bandages and the therapy, side effects from the chemo, and now, Jared’s return to work. He’s got Jensen’s ring with him on the set, for the long hours he can’t be with Jen, rolls it around his fingers between takes when he’s not on the phone with Jensen and missing a billion glaring opportunities to prank the staff. Eric suggests he put it on a string and wear it around his neck, like Dean’s amulet. He envisions a closeup of hellfire gleaming off silver and slow pan out to scary!Sam making his big, heroic stand against the legions of Hell.

Kripke’s maybe got delusions of grandeur.

Jared doesn’t really care about how much the fans will eat it up, for once isn’t even all that concerned with Kripke’s grand vision for his character. But he loves the idea of having Jen’s ring dangling over his heart. Could be a new fetish, even.

He probably doesn’t need to go into a jewelry store to buy a leather thong, but he does, because it’s Jen’s ring, and you can’t find worthy leather at Wal-Mart, skinned off third world cows. Only real Texas leather will do, and a silver clasp that won’t turn green with age and sweat. ‘Cause yeah, it’s going to get sweaty. Jared can’t wait to feel the ring trapped between their chests, can’t wait for the lights to come on, so he can see it, too.

He buys more than a string.

xXx

The prosthetist traces over the long white scar on the underside of Jen’s forearm. Jared cringes, not because he thinks it causes Jensen pain, but because everyone else in the room is seeing it for the first time. The air claws and scrapes at his temples, and he crosses his arms protectively over his chest when the technician tests the wrist for range of motion. There isn’t much, what with the tiny bones fused together to add stability in the place of other tiny bones they took out. He knows this is all necessary, but he can’t stand to see anyone manipulating Jensen’s hand like that, like it’s just clay or a doll’s plastic claw.

That’s Jensen’s hand! It threads in Jared’s hair, brushes over Jared’s lips, slides over Jared’s back, through pools of love-sweat trapped in the valleys between hardened muscle. And those are just a few of the things it does...things it can still do.

“Well, you know, at least no one can get away with calling me a limp wrist, right?”

If it’s possible for air to cringe, it does.

Jensen’s naked self-consciousness turns every head in the room, like a waggling pinky finger that can’t seem to move without dragging the ring finger along behind it.

Jared’s got no qualms about being Jensen’s ring finger. His fiercely protective, take-one-for-the-team streak swallows his anger, and a large enough dose of pride to choke himself on. No way in Hell he’s leaving Jen dangling out on a limb like that. They dangle together like Jensen’s ring over Jared’s heart. That’s what forever’s for.

“Never anything limp about you baby,” he coos, cocking a Tinkerbell pose and smirking over fish lips. It’s just a pose, a mask he finds buried in a box in the corner of a forgotten closet in his mind, but it’s familiar, and that’s enough to take the edge off.

For a second, Jen looks like he wants to crawl under the table, but the pinky finger’s kinda stuck with the ring finger, too. Love’s funny that way, and he laughs, a real laugh that travels down the line until everyone else joins.

Only Jared notices the nervous way Jensen’s thumb hooks in the gap on his shirt where the buttons are done up wrong. It looks just like Jared buttoned it, but he didn’t. Jen did it himself, missed two buttonholes completely, and Jared couldn’t be more proud.

“So,” Kripke cuts in with chuckle, back to the business at hand, “I think we should start with one that curls into a fist.”

Ah yes, back to fixing Dean. Show must go on, or so they’ve been told. Life going on is the real story of the day as far as Jared’s concerned. “Then, we’ll need one that grips around a pistol, and one to...”

Jared’s heart squeezes around his throat as the color drains from Jen’s face. There’s not enough color there to begin with, just a month after Jen’s last round of chemo. And now that the edema’s gone down, there are far too many shades of gaunt in places shadows never used to linger.

Kripke rambles on, Kim and Sera suddenly bubbly with creative input, and the prosthetist nods in agreement, taking notes as he examines Jensen’s hand.

It’s just two fingers. Two missing fingers, half his right hand, and the part of his ulna where the tumor started. Just two fingers that didn’t even really do anything more than maybe hold chopsticks. Except now that everyone’s here, poking and prodding, it’s obvious they did more. They held the fork Dean was constantly shoveling into his mouth, gripped the steering wheel of the Impala, braced around the stock of a gun.

And that’s just the stuff Dean used them for.

Jensen’s only now buttoning his own clothes. He doesn’t really need to be reminded about the things his alter ego still can’t do. He nods politely, his free hand fidgeting with the gap in the front of his shirt, answers questions in a monotone, completely drawl-less stammer. “Yes, I can twist my arm. No, I can’t bend my wrist. No, no allergies to silicone.”

Jared puts his hand on the back of Jen’s neck, strokes his thumb at the roll of the knit cap he still wears, even though there’s a good half inch of hair on his head now. He can’t stop himself from stepping up, little kiss to the top of the cap, long arms around Jensen’s neck then down over his chest.

“You know what? I can answer these questions. If the prosthetic guy’s got the stuff he needs, why don’t you go back to my trailer and catch a few zzz’s.”

He half expects Jen to protest, but he doesn’t, just leans into Jared’s embrace enough to say thank you before standing. “Yeah, I am kinda tired. Think I’ll try to rest up as much as I can before we start shooting in a few weeks.”

Jared grins at how well they play off each other, smooth transition so no one in the room sees the fake. It’s smart to mention work, to mention moving forward, throw a stone in the corner while you duck out the door. Kripke and Co. buy the dismissal without protest, pat Jensen on the back as he steps out, a patronizing “Atta boy,” unspoken in the air.

They bite their tongues when Jared leans across the table, giant hands splayed on the cheap lacquer finish. Jared’s done taking one for the team. He’s about to go Michael Jordan on their asses. It’s only out of respect for Jensen that he waits until he’s sure Jen’s out of shouting distance before laying it out on the table. If it sprays out, angry and messy, he doesn’t wipe his mouth or offer tissues.

xXx

Jared’s still seething (resolution or no, the fucking callousness makes him want to squeeze the heads off dandelions and hang grasshoppers with the stems). He storms up the steps to his trailer, chin down and hands so deep in his pockets he could tie his shoes. He swears, he had no idea people could be so oblivious.

Ignorance must be catching.

Any other day, he’d pause at the threshold, fingertips on the knob, and listen first. If there’s one thing they’ve both learned through this whole ordeal, it’s the value of a little alone time. Nothing pisses Jensen off more than being caught in a moment of weakness. Of course, it’s only weakness to Jensen. If the once or twice he’s walked in to find Jen glassy-eyed and shaking is indicative of weakness, then Jared’s the flimsier of the two by far... just better at not getting caught.

Today he’s still boiling over, propelled forward by the little plume of steam he’s sure is puffing out of his ears, and takes the six steps in two strides, has the door half open in a heartbeat.

“Still a little bit of your taste, in my mouth...”

Jensen’s singing.

Jared hears the guitar playing just as he opens the door. ‘Just as’ being the exact second the knob turns with a click and he knows it’s too late to unturn it. It’s a halting, stilted rendition of a Damien Rice song Jared can’t quite put his finger on. (And yeah, could he choose his words any more poorly?)

“Still a little bit of you laced, with my doubt.”

It’s heavy chords and fumbled arpeggios on strings that haven’t been tuned since before their life got stretched out of shape.


It’s gorgeous.

But of course, the moment’s already fucked before Jared even reads the Hallmark Gold Crown on the door. The unharmonious clunk that greets him, broken waver of dissonance through an anti-acoustic hole in the world, is obviously Jensen trying to ditch the guitar and assume an innocent pose.

The song recedes into the background, the soundtrack of moments lost.

Stones, taught me to fly...

Jared could kick himself.

As it is, he swings the door only half open, creates an intentional blind spot, pauses, then enters, head down. Feigning ignorance is the best he can do.

Love, taught me to lie...

He pretends not to see the neck of the guitar sticking out from behind the couch, or the lampshade wobbling over it (Rosenbaum totally lost the little lock nut that holds it on the lamp the last time he crashed there). Jensen’s sitting on the end of the couch, left hand picking at a thread in the arm rest, bent intently forward as though he’s enthralled with the task and oblivious to Jared’s arrival.

Life, taught me to die...

Jared’s not sure if the little hissing noise is himself breathing around his bitten tongue or the dying sizzle of the fire he just spat over the powers that be.

So it’s not hard to fall...

Either way, it’s the only sound in the room, prelude to an intimate tango with an elephant.

When you float like a cannonball.

“Thought you’d be asleep.” Jared doesn’t wait for a response, just flops down on the couch beside Jensen, turns his back into Jen’s shoulder, and kicks his feet up on the opposite arm rest, crossed at the ankles. He lets out a long breath as he drops his head back against Jen’s and pulls that awkward, broken hand into his lap.

“Not so good at sleeping alone these days.”

Jensen doesn’t pull away, but Jared can still feel the tension in his arm, little quivers of hyper-awareness from too many eyes staring, even more trying not to stare. Jared’s thumbs caress over the back of his hand, cherish what’s there, brush away the ghost of what’s gone. His fingers knead into the palm, along the soft cushion of the opposable thumb, gentle assurance that it’s not less just because there’s nothing to oppose it.

Jared massages a little deeper but doesn’t speak. The elephant dances en pointe.

Jensen’s never been any good at feigning ignorance.

“So,” Jen clears his throat, “tell me you didn’t say something stupid...”

“Not stupid,” Jared shrugs. A beat as he rubs over the scars and wills them away. “I did get the prosthetist fired, though.”

This time, Jensen does pull away, and Jared lurches into an upright position beside him, action and reaction, tangled marionettes on invisible strings. Nervous, Jared picks at his nail beds, eyes fixed downward.

“You did what? What’d you say?”

“Nothing...” He raises his hand in the air, lets it float for a second, undecided, before he resigns it to fall on Jen’s thigh-- clap against denim and squeeze of assurance. “Just that the fans are always bitching about how we gloss over physical injuries on the show, and how it wouldn’t really be a stretch for Dean to come out of Hell with a few…” clears his throat, “…scars. I kinda figure part of the Winchesters’ appeal is their ability to overcome just about anything.” Another squeeze. “And Dean’s tough. He’ll learn to deal.” He pauses, glimpses up from beneath a brow he can't unfurrow, stuck between hope and worry, a dry swallow as he tries to read Jensen. "Anyway, that's what I told them."

Jen tenses under Jared’s hand. “And they bought that?”

“Why not? It’s the truth.” He turns his head, just the right angle to see Jen’s eyes start to duck away, catches his chin and holds it. The weight of Jensen’s jaw in his hand is enough to say both, ‘I know what you’re doing,’ and ‘I don’t believe you.’

“Jay...”

Jared’s not hearing any arguments. “ It's true, Jen. This is nothing Dean couldn't handle, and Dean’s got squat on you. You’ve got all his potential and half his baggage.”

“'Ts not the only thing I got half of.” He laughs dryly, just his throat and the corner of his mouth.

“Wardrobe,” Jared huffs. “Nothing’s changed but costume, Jensen. We work with wardrobe malfunctions all the time. Remember that time I ripped my pants?” His lips part to laugh at his own joke, but whatever's in his chest won't let go. Jensen's not laughing either.

“It’s not the same thing.”

It has to be. Jared says so, because he's tired of waiting for doctors, producers, directors, writers, everyone else who doesn't give a rat's ass about anything but their own bottom lines, to have the last word. The last fucking word is Jared's.

“Don’t say that. If it’s not the same thing, then this…” He gestures toward Jensen slouched into the couch, the picture of defeat and concession to circumstances. “…this guy who can’t is real. And he’s not the guy I know. Not the Jensen I fucking love…” Shit! He breaks off, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye sockets in an effort to force everything back into focus again. It comes away damp, no cheat sheet notes stenciled into his palm or arrows pointing to marks taped on the floor. He doesn’t know the scene, forgot his lines, can’t see the blocking.

Jared’s always been a man of action, so much more than words and louder than a slap in the face. When words won’t come, the rest of him speaks instead. He takes Jen’s hand in both of his, raises it to his lips. Soft nips to each remaining fingertip and tender kisses over six knuckles before he turns the hand, palm up, and sucks in the thumb. It’s salty, tastes nothing like gummi worm, green or any other variety, but it’s syrup and nectar, makes Jared’s mouth water, and no matter how much he swallows he’s thirstyhungry for more.

His eyes slide shut, warm chocolate syrup in his veins. When he opens them, Jensen’s eyes find his, wet, deep, and too wide like the reflection of a full moon rising over the ocean. Jared swan dives off the bow of whatever ship is sinking beneath him, plunges into the deep, arms spread and eyes wide open. He relaxes his suction on the thumb and pulls Jen’s hand around to the back of his head, nuzzles into it briefly before leaning in for a kiss.

He keeps his eyes open as he licks over Jensen’s lips, resists the reflexive roll of his eyes up into his head as fingers card in his hair. Pausing as his heart thumps against Jensen’s chest, he parts his lips but pins Jensen’s head back with his free hand. He hangs in midair, their mouths separated by the width of a thumb, no more, anointing Jensen with his breath, cherishing the stale, used air just because it’s there, because it moves, still breathes in and out of Jensen’s lungs, didn’t stop, didn’t leave. Jared’s pretty sure it’s all he needs, all he’s ever needed, and says it by closing the gap.

Jensen holds his gaze right up until that split second where their eyes start to cross, then lets his eyelids flutter shut. Jared watches, swallows Jen’s tongue in a rolling rhythm that moves down his body and against Jensen’s. He can’t help the whimper in his throat when Jen’s hand slips from his hair, but he’s too busy cherishing to think about where it’s gone until the lampshade clatters to the floor.

Jared’s eyes fly open, and his chest clenches around the embarrassed ridge in Jensen’s forehead. He doesn’t know if Jen reached for the light out of habit or if Jensen's still drawing the blinds, not listening to Jared’s silent litany of love.

He reaches around for Jensen’s wrist, drags it down from the back of the couch before hauling them both up out of the slouch they’ve slid into. He cups a hand on Jensen’s cheek, panting. If Jensen can’t hear him, won’t listen to prayers from worshipping lips, then Jared will just have keep the lights on. It's hard to read lips in the dark.

He hasn’t forgotten the song Jen was singing, has kept it on repeat in the back of his mind. When words and actions fail him completely, he just breathes, opens his mouth, and the background music filters into the foreground.

“Still a little bit of your ghost, your witness. Still a little bit of your face, I haven’t kissed. You step a little closer each day...”

Jensen jerks against his shoulder, but Jared presses him back with a hand to his chest, stretches his other arm behind the couch. They both jump when the guitar clunks against the wall, the echo resonating inside them as much as the guitar box, but Jared doesn’t change his tactic, just moves slower, focuses on the breath between them, rise and fall of chest against chest.

Jensen’s lips are already curled around, “I can’t,” when Jared settles the guitar in his lap.

“Play for me, Jen.” He says it against Jensen’s throat, surprised how much it sounds like a sob in the thrum of proximity. His arm slides off the guitar and around behind Jensen, trace of fingers along the hem of his shirt until he’s under, hooked around the jut of bare skin at Jen’s hip.

Jensen sighs, a mix of longing and resignation, restraint and abandon that only makes Jared hold him tighter. His left hand makes halting progress onto the neck, finds the frets as easily as the spot on Jared’s jaw that makes his toes curl. It takes him longer to commit with his right hand.

“Know you can do it, baby.” Jared teases his fingertips over Jensen’s bicep, likes the way Jen’s fingers twitch in response. Knowing he can play Jensen the way Jen plays the guitar is almost enough for Jared to forget the two missing fingers, forget the aching cold spot on his head where they used to lie when Jen threaded his hand in his hair before drawing him into a kiss.

Maybe Jensen forgets, too. Just for a second, because he tries.

Then promptly remembers.

In concept, it shouldn’t be that hard. The left hand works the frets, and the first three fingers of the right handle the majority of the string-plucking. Still, what comes out of this right and left hand is a little off. Jared lets his chin rest on Jensen’s shoulder, feels the hitch rising in Jen’s chest as the song comes out recognizable but not the way Jared knows it used to sound. Maybe he's made a mistake.Wouldn't be the first. But he's not ready to concede. This is his Guitar Hero couch. He never loses here.

He just has to look farther, try harder.

Stroking a thumb over the skin under Jensen's t-shirt, he lets his head loll farther down. The sound of Jensen's heart beating, feel of Jensen's breath in his hair is made of win, way better than any championship guitar riff.

From this angle, Jared can see the problem. It’s a spatial thing. The last two fingers didn’t move much when they were there, but the curled-under knuckles always kept close enough to the strings to help the rest of the hand stay oriented. Now, the three remaining fingers drag themselves along the strings, no push from beneath to guide them where they need to go, typing on a keyboard without finding home row.

Jared knows where home row is, knows why it's called 'home' and not just start. Moving without thinking, Jared hums. The lyrics of the song elude him for a moment as he curls his hand over Jensen’s, his first three fingers feather-light over the tops of Jen’s and his last two curled into the space between heel of hand and strings. He doesn’t give Jensen time to pull back or argue, just picks up the song again, mouth so close to Jensen's ear that Jensen has to listen.

“Still a little bit of your song, in my ear. Still a little bit of your words, I long to hear. You step a little closer to me...” He watches Jensen’s left hand start to move over the frets, moves his right in tempo with his voice and the changes.

“Stones, taught me to fly.” A kiss behind Jen’s ear. “Love taught me to lie...” There's a gentle sway, subtle shrugging off of tension, as they find the same groove and lean into each other. It’s easy after that, as natural as falling into bed.

By the end of the last refrain, it’s not perfect.

“It’s not hard to fall. And I don’t wanna lose. It’s not hard to grow.” Long, hard look in Jen’s eyes as their hands finish on their own. “When you know that you just don’t know.”

But it was never perfect. Now, it’s better.

Jensen’s smiling as Jared kisses his temple, and the glint in his eye, god, is another one of Jared’s fetishes. One glimpse of the little clumps of eyelash over Jensen’s emo eyes, and Jared just wants to f... “Ow.”

It's probably a bad idea to get turned on with sharp objects in the pockets of your jeans.

The move to adjust himself into a more comfortable position lands Jared on one knee in front of Jensen, with a thump against the floor that shakes the whole trailer, and one hand deep in his pocket. The bruise on his knee cap is almost enough to dredge a string of curses from his throat. They make it as far as the tip of his tongue, but then he looks up. When he looks into Jen’s eyes, still bright with emotion and wide with surprise, Jared just knows he hasn't landed in this position by accident..

Good thing he brought the ring.

In a second, he goes from fluent in French, Spanish, and probably Pig Latin, to completely tongue tied, even his colorful, multi-cultural cuss vocabulary leaving him completely. He makes a few valiant attempts, but fish lips over tongue tied and behind curses is an unreconcilable difference. His voice divorces him altogether. If he had a script. Hell, he's faked his way through enough bouts of stage fright and nervous giggles before. But he hasn’t really planned this, doesn’t know what to say.

Instead he pulls the plastic jewelry box out and flips it open.

Suddenly aware of the guitar sliding out of Jensen’s slackened grip and toward his head, Jared reaches across himself to lift it out of the way, keeps the ring held out, eyes locked on Jen’s.

The silence gets too heavy in the span of twenty heartbeats-- about three seconds, and a good dose of panic and adrenaline always did loosen Jared's lips. “Um, you said if things were different…" He tries not to pant, takes a whooping breath as Jensen's expression starts to slide into the lines of his forehead. "And they are…" Even Jared can't miss the note of beseeching squeak in his voice. "Things are different, and, um, I’m still game. I mean, if you are.” His tongue’s taking a serious notion to catch up to his heart. So’s his stomach, if he’s honest. Jared bites the inside of his lower lip to stifle the rambling, finds himself almost suffocating. Who knew he was hyperventilating? He feels like an ass, lightheaded and woobie as he settles his chin on Jensen's knee and closes his eyes to stop the room spinning.

Jen swallows hard enough for Jared to hear it, the moonlight effect eclipsed for a moment by the shadow of everything Jared’s trying to push behind him. “It could come back,” Jensen rasps.

"No." Jared shakes his head which as much convinces him he's tell thing the truth as clears away the dizziness. He's not gonna go there. “It won’t,” Jared says, squeezing Jen’s knee. “And, if it does, then I’ll…” he waffles for a second, “I’ll buy you rings for your toes. And I’ll get me one of those fancy foot fetishes.” He opens his eyes searches out Jensen's, unable to stand the suspense one second longer. Jensen has to say yes. Jared likes the idea of forever too much for it to mean less to Jensen.

Jen stares back at him, stock still, for what seems like the entire Super Bowl half-time show, then breathes, doubt melting from his gaze, and nods. Well, he half-nods, barely moves his chin off the vertical before Jared pounces him, straddles his lap, and drags his hand up between them so he can slide the ring on.

“Really?” Jared asks.

“Y’yeah.”

Jared slides the ring over Jensen's finger and his tongue into his mouth at the same time, 'cause there's no way this deal's sealed with anything less than a kiss. When he finally sits back, Jensen gives a dry little chuckle and shakes his head, breathless.

“What? Did I do it wrong?”

“No,” Jen grins. “I was just thinking this is way better than any meatball.”

It takes a second for Jared to recall that conversation, a whole lifetime of worry and fear between then and now, but then he laughs out loud, the last of the nervous fear whooshing out as his head falls back. “Dude, you just admitted it. Finally. You are soo my bitch.”

Jensen turns red and ducks away for half a second before his face twists into something he stole from Dean Winchester. “Maybe...” Jen smirks. Then, he thrusts up with his hips enough for Jared to feel the straining bulge in his jeans, “But I think Thumper might disagree.”

Jared grinds down once while his upstairs brain works out the allusion, arms draped over Jensen’s shoulders. Then, "Son of a bitch," he laughs, a sonic boom that once again drows out the whistling wind of change, and claps his hands together once like it's the best joke he's heard in ages. “You did not just name your dick after a Disney rabbit.”

Jen smirks and lays his right hand against Jared’s cheek. For the first time since the surgery, it doesn’t feel like half a hand, just Jensen’s hand with a Jared-sized notch in it where the last two pieces of the puzzle lock together. “Well, you know what they say about rabbits...”

Oh yeah, Jared knows about rabbits. Those dark, blown-out pupils? The curl of tongue behind those wet, swollen lips? And Thumper? “Fuck…” More a prayer than anything he’s said to the man upstairs since spring.

“Something like that,” Jensen grins.

Rabbits are officially Jared’s new fetish, at least, until he learns something else that makes Jensen look like that. He's sure there are lots more, and now that they have forever? Well, they’re young, still plenty of room to change and grow. Jared’s game, and all bets are off.

He wastes no time claiming Jensen's smile and the lips around it.

“Oh, yeah…”

Life is good again, and as far as Jared's concerned, there was never any doubt. Everyone knows the hero gets the girl.

And the guitar hero?

Always gets his bitch.

The End

 

(1)(2)(3)(4)



(5)(6)(7)(8)



(9)(10)(11)

So, I'm no icon wizard. Not by a long shot. All I can say for these is that
I cropped and/or colored them all myself. I only have default fonts on my comp,
so I didn't take any chances putting in text. 1,2, 6,7 and 8 are all just crops of pics I've seen everywhere, so I'm not really sure who to credit for those. They aren't much, but I thought they fit the fic, so I included them. Number 3 is made from a manip by noiselessmind. Numbers 4 and 5 are from a manip by mkitty3. And 9,10, and 11 are from a manip by belfagor They're the ones who deserve credit if you decide to use them.

Psst...when I was using the picture of Jared with the Hello Kitty guitar, I mirrored the picture so it would fit better into the banner. As a result, it looks like his hands are in the opposite positions as I described in the fic. But in the original, his left hand is on the neck and his right over the body of the guitar.

Posted here and in my LJ today, cross-posted everywhere tomorrow. Merry Christmas!