Wintersong, J2, NC-17, 1/3 or 4, WIP, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
unplugged32
Jan. 5th, 2009 04:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ht_murrayHere's the scoop. The lovely unplugged32 bought me in the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fics4books auction. She bid on a minimum 5000 words of J2 or Sam/Dean slash, which I hoped to have finished by the end of the year. Well, the story won't stop, and I don't know when exactly it will be finished. So, I'm going to post the parts in here as I finish them so I can stop picking at them and then crosspost when I have the whole thing finished. I don't really care if you read now or later or not at all.
Also,ysbail made me lovely cover art which I'll post with the master post once I make one. Thank you so much, sweetie.
The prompt she gave me was, Jensen and Jared are apart at Christmas. Jensen's sick and getting sicker, and Jared's trying to get to him, with bonus points if Jared gets there just in time... or something like that.
You should know it's AU. They're both about the same age, though I'm not sure I say what their ages are, and they met before Supernatural when they were both pretty down on their luck. There's m/m sex, language, legal and illegal drug use. NC-17 rating. And there is sex in this part. 5400 words so far. Don't own, no defamation or copyright infringement intended, just for fun.
Wintersong
Part One- When Silence Gets too Hard to Handle
Six years ago--Los Angeles, CA
Jared takes an unapologetic look over the shoulder of the dude dawdling in the aisle. Do people still actually pretend to shop in a pawn shop? He doesn't know why anyone bothers to browse when it's obvious they're just working up the courage to hock something.
It does take a good shrug to tear that last stitch of pride, though. Jared knows, and he recognizes the trappings of the recently demoralized all too well. This guy has all the look of someone down to his last shred of dignity, clinging to the one thing he has between himself and nothing. Probably that ancient Zippo he's polishing against his shirt hem. "It looks old," he observes and wonders if the guy even realizes he's fidgeting.
The dude looks up at him, a blush spreading up his cheeks, twitch in his gaze, and... wait a minute, Jared knows this one... wouldn't be the first 'almost someone' he's spied in this part of town...the name's on the tip of his tongue, too. After a few seconds of serious pondering, he shrugs it off. The name doesn't want to come, but if it does, he'll be sure not to forget twice. Anyway... Hot Boy jumps and almost drops the lighter when Jared leers over his shoulder.
Jared should apologize. He knows he has no respect for people's personal space, but if he apologized every time he made someone shit bricks, he'd be sorry all the time, and really, he's not. People pay good money to get him in their personal space. The way he figures it, the ones he bumps into by accident are gettin' freebies. The planet's overcrowded. It's so not his fault people keep stumbling into his larger than average gravitational pull. "That lighter," he elaborates, "It looks really old."
"It is." Hot Boy regains his composure and finishes his polishing but doesn't step out of Jared's space. That's something new, like he's looking for someone to hold him up. Come to think of it, the guy looks to be in need of some groceries. Most people lurch away like either gay or poverty is a disease that can rub off. This dude either knows better or just doesn't have the energy to give a damn. He sure has let himself go to hell since... damn, Jared knows him from some fucking where.
"You don't wanna pawn that here. Phil might give you ten bucks tops," Jared says, ducking around the front so he can get a better look. He instantly regrets it when Hot Boy looks up at him like he's going to have a panic attack right there and then. Jared knows that look. That lighter's the only thing he has left that's worth anything, and he's in hock for way more than ten bucks... probably to the wrong kind of people.
Then it hits him. Without thinking, Jared shoves the guy backward, a quick smack on both shoulders. "Get outta here! I know you! Jack Jameson, right? You played Eric on Days for those couple months when what's his name was in rehab." Jared never forgets a face. Names are harder. Usually, when he remembers one, he gets a blush, some feigned humility, maybe an offer to sign an autograph out of the deal. Jack looks like he wants to bolt, but he nods, so Jared knows he's right.
"Actually, it's Jensen, Jensen Ackles...," he stammers. "That other's just a stage name."
"Ah, you're hiding out. I get it." Jared shrugs it off. He's never heard of Jensen Ackles. Not Jared's place to go digging for deep, dark secrets. They've all got 'em. "So, what're you doing in this place? That gig was cherry, right? You should be working, not pawning your shit."
Jensen doesn't meet his gaze, and instead of blushing, he goes pastier than before. Jared would've bet money that wasn't even possible. So help him, if this guy faints in the middle of the store and Jared has to catch him. That would totally be a first.
"Yeah, well, turns out temporary stand-in for a second rate soap actor isn't the leg up you might think it is." He says it lightly enough, like it's intended to be funny, but his shoulders sag. One of those times when laughing beats crying, Jared supposes, but it's a close call which one will win out. Huh. All the people Jared's imposed himself on in his quest to know everyone in this god-forsaken town, and Jensen Ackles is the first one who's ever made him feel like he's actually stepping on toes. "Only thing I took from that gig is first hand knowledge of why the other dude ended up in rehab."
Jared's pretty sure there's an important insinuation in there somewhere, but he's too busy feeling like shit to work it out. "Look, man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." Jared's jumping around like he's got cockroaches in his boxers. Way to make contacts. Though, if he's honest, this dude looks more like the type Jared's trying to beat than join.
He's used to having tons of energy, balancing on the razor's edge of control, but he never just loses it, not like this. He's not sure what he did wrong, but he needs to fix it right the fuck now. Until he does, the world's off-kilter somehow, and he's sliding off in a none too graceful fashion. "You need cash? Cuz I can help you out. You know, one struggling actor to another. I was just coming in to pay off my loan and get my t.v back, but I don't need it. I work weird hours anyway." He holds out a handful of twenties, thinks he'll shove them in the guy's pocket if he tries to refuse.
Jensen looks at him like he's crazy. "Look, um...?"
"Jared...uh, you can call me JT, all my friends do."
"Jared," Jensen says flatly, "I appreciate the offer, but I can't take your money. I don't have any way to repay it."
"You need a job?" Jared offers. "I can get you one."
Jensen looks up, so hopeful that Jared regrets opening his mouth yet again. "Whoa, um, not an acting job. If I could get one of those, I wouldn't be hocking my t.v. to pay for headshots an agent won't even look at."
"Oh, well never mind, I guess I got myself into this mess, I gotta face the music, right?"
"C'mon, don't be like that. I can get you work at the club with me. I'll be honest with you man, it's degrading and skanky, a little dehumanizing, but it's good money if you got a thick skin."
"What is it you do, Jared..., uh,JT?" Jensen's got a glimmer in his eye that could either be desperation or hope. Either way, Jared likes it.
"I'm a dancer," he says.
"I don't dance," Jensen says, and now Jared's pretty sure he is going to faint.
"Not real dancing," Jared explains, "All you gotta do is fill out a thong and pretend you're God's gift." He puts on his best leer, does a sweeping appraisal of Jensen from toe to... navel, and back to... friggin' sexass bowed legs, then shrugs and smacks him on the shoulder. "Well, you're an actor. You can pull it off, uh, no pun intended. And c'mon, I know you did love scenes on Days. This is not that different."
For a second, Jensen looks undecided, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth and shifting from one foot to the other between the door and the counter, the lighter still clenched in his fist.
Jared's not having it. Without preamble, he shoves his wad of twenties into Jensen's back pocket and leaps back, hands raised in submission. "There, now go pay whoever's breathing down your neck, and if you wanna make good on that loan, show up at the Queen's Burrow tonight around seven. Come to the back. I'll have 'em let you in."
Phil, the pawn broker, finally comes out of the store room with Jared's television, hoists it up on the counter just in time to see Jared hit the door. "Keep it man," Jared says over his shoulder. Then to Jensen, "If you're late, I'll tell Tom you wanna go balls to the wall, with the full body wax instead of the shave he usually gives the newbies." He winks and leaves Jensen pale as a ghost in the aisle.
December 20, 2008, Vancouver, BC
To this day, Jared's not entirely sure Jensen didn't finally faint as soon as Jared left the store. He showed up at the club, though, and that's all that really matters. They haven't spent a holiday apart since.
It hasn't all been fairy tale perfect, not counting the Grimm Brothers version, but they dragged each other out by the skins of their teeth, and things are finally working out. They work together, live together, pretty much have their bodily functions synced up together. That's way too much information, but Jared'd be lying if he were to say he hadn't noticed. How could he not notice when most of their minor squabbles seem to start in the vicinity of the bathroom door? Nothing serious, of course, no more than any average couple. It's understandable. No one's very gracious or generous when nature's calling.
Yeah, Jared would say things have worked out pretty well for them. Better than anything he could've expected growing up in foster homes the way he did. They're so happy, sometimes it scares him, but he can't ever remember not being afraid of something, so it's all good.
There's really only one other thing they fight about besides bathroom hogging.
They fight over the mail. A lot. It's stupid, and not a real fight-- usually just an excuse to get in each other's faces-- all the better for getting in each other's pants. But that's not to say they don't both mean it when they start in...
"I'll get the mail."
"No way, it's my turn."
"But I'm taking the dogs out, anyway."
"What part of 'it's my turn,' don't you understand?"
"The part where you make an extra trip out of the house to do something I can do on my way back in."
"So, what? You just wanna keep me chained to the stove?"
"Mmm, sounds kinky..."
Jared figures one of these days the novelty of having an address and getting mail that doesn't all go directly into the "can't pay it, so I didn't get it," pile will wear off, and the fact that there's two feet of snow on the ground between the front door and the mailbox will actually keep them from trekking out there the second the mail truck drives away. Until then, their days of staggering into the post office once a week to find the lock box empty of anything other than past due notices are over.
Jensen would give Jared shit if he knew Jared was watching him (and his cute little ass) mince his way through the snow in completely inadequate canvas sneakers and sweat pants just to beat Jared to the mailbox. He watches from between the folds of a floor length curtain that cost as much as they used to make in a week "waiting tables." He snickers to himself. That joke never gets old. They used to shake their asses in nothing but a g-string and jazz shoes. Now they wear more layers and a couple of gun belts to boot, but they're still basically shaking their asses if the mostly female fanbase is any indicator.
Jared finds himself snuggling into the drapes like bedclothes, already imagining the window lit with lights and dressed in pine swags. Christmas has always been their special time, and this one, the first in their new house, is going to be the best ever if Jared has anything to say about it. The attic crawl space's full to overflowing with decorations, most of them from second hand stores since the new ones have no character and they don't really have anything in the way of heirlooms.
He's so wrapped up, in memories, in draperies, in planning, he almost doesn't notice the way the cloud of Jensen's breath diminishes until it's just a little puff around his lips, the mail clenched in his gloveless hands. Jared bought him gloves, for pete's sake, why the hell doesn't he wear... oh, that can't be good.
Jensen's gone as white as the snow, the letters shaking with tremors, but he doesn't come back in. Instead, he takes one envelope out of the stack, doesn't seem to notice when two or three others drop at his feet. How he manages to open it at all, Jared can't say, but when the last torn corner of the envelope blows away on the breeze and Jensen doesn't move, Jared figures he'd better go out and fetch him.
They already have one snowman in the yard with a yellow stain on the lower most ball from the neighborhood dogs. They don't need another. That would be tacky.
It's all Jared can do to throw on a long scarf and stocking cap before sneaking past the dogs and out the front door. They're not both going to freeze to death in their own front yard less than a week before Christmas.
"Jen, hey, Jensen," he huffs, scuttling down the sidewalk as fast as he can without slipping, "I doubt that's written in vanishing ink, dude. It's not going anywhere in the amount of time it takes to get back inside." Jared swoops and grabs up the fallen letters from the ground before wrapping the tail end of his extra long Dr. Who scarf around Jensen's shoulders and pulling him in close. He expects Jensen to sink into him and be ushered inside. That's just what happens when Jared puts his arm around someone. Instead, he goes stock-still and tenses against Jared's shoulder, barely controlled tremors under his skin like magic fingers working his muscles from the inside.
Jared doesn't want to read over Jensen's shoulder, but he has to look pointedly over Jen's head in order to keep from doing so, pretends to be watching the neighbors putting lights up along the rain gutters. Just the few strands of Jensen's hair blowing up into his line of sight are enough to break the illusion of distraction. Jared always knows where Jensen is in time and space, even if they're in separate rooms, on separate sets, separate trailers. Jensen's both the light in Jared's universe and the shadow in the wake of it. Either way, he's always there. "What is it?" Jared asks into the short hairs at Jensen's temple, can't help but press a kiss there, just lips, something more solid than words.
For a second, Jensen's silent, just the two of them shivering with one breath cloud between them.
"Nothing." And the breath cloud's again as big from the long exhale Jensen makes as he crushes the suspect letter in his hand, tosses it like a snowball out into the street. He doesn't turn in toward Jared, but the tension evaporates, leaves him sagging against Jared's shoulder. He hands over the stack of mail. "You got a card from your agent. Smells like perfume. I think she wants you."
Jared has to shrug, because if Jensen's not talking, Jared's mostly listening for what isn't said. Jensen has a way of locking things up that should be let go. Jared's not sure what wasn't said in that sentence, so he plays along. "Doesn't everybody?"
"Only if they can't have me." There's a smirk in his expression somewhere, but it doesn't quite make the surface. They'd be reshooting this scene if they were working today. Almost as an afterthought, Jensen jerks and hisses, does an awkward little dance, even more awkward leer. "Friggin' freezing out here. Let's get your hot ass inside so it can warm me up."
He darts down the walk, dragging Jared by the scarf. Jared goes along. It's not like he's gonna deny anyone the use of his hot ass.
--
Jared's not fooled by Jensen's dismissal of the whole mail episode.
For starters, despite Jensen's promise to let Jared warm him up once they got inside, Jensen's in the kitchen cooking (and wearing entirely too many clothes) by the time Jared gets back from taking the dogs out. Jared knows from experience that anything more than one lit burner on the stove means 'come back another time.' They manage passing conversation about the squirrel stealing the carrot from the snowman down the street and the lost mitten Sadie found on the sidewalk that got stuck over her nose. Jensen's quick with all the right laughs and expletives, but it's a canned response and Jared knows it.
Jensen never leaves the stove, but he still manages to overcook the noodles. He doesn't even notice when Jared has to keep running his tongue over his teeth in order to scrap the gumminess out from under his lip.
--
Jared catches Jensen's eyes on him for the umpteenth time that night. His gaze is like fingers up Jared's chest, a tug at his shirt hem like a shy child taught not to speak until spoken to. It draws energy from the all important task of trying to even out the loops of garland in the entry way between the dining room and the living room so he can attach the glass balls. He's determined to go all out, doesn't care that he'll have to duck five hundred times a day just to keep from breaking anything. Jensen hardly moves from his kneeling position next to the box of ornaments, like the weight of his stare's more than metaphorical.
It's starting to weird Jared out.
Thing is, Jared's used to being ogled, especially by Jensen. Jared's used to Jensen's eyes tracing all the places his hands will go in the dark, and he loves the attention. But now, Jensen stares up at him like Jared's the angel on the top of the tree they haven't even put up yet. His eyes glimmer more than they should since there aren't any lights strung either-- deeper pools in his lower lids, darker shadows underneath. His throat works up and down, trying to say something or trying not to. Probably both.
And Jared? He can't stand that.
He knows his shoulders slump as he drops his arms to his sides. They feel ten pounds heavier each. Must be, because as much as he wants to reach out, take Jensen's face between his hands and kiss away the lines weighing the corners of his eyes, he waits. Jensen doesn't go in for that, some part of him undeserving. Which part, Jared doesn't know. "Jen?"
"You're really into this Christmas thing."
"Um, yeah," Jared says with a confused shake of his head, "aren't you? I mean, it's always kinda been our thing."
"I know, and I love that, too." The way Jensen's eyes avert to the corner of the room, where there's absolutely nothing to look at, says 'but' so he doesn't have to.
"But, what? You don't want to do Christmas anymore?" Jared can't help the way his voice jumps into a higher key. "Because you'll change your mind once you see what this place looks like all decorated up, and..."
"I have to go home, Jay."
"Home?" It takes him a minute to realize Jensen's not talking about here. "This is our home. It's the only one we have..."
"Not our home," Jensen explains, "mine." When Jensen looks back again, the shimmer's not trapped in his eyelash anymore. "I have to go back to Texas. My family..."
"W-why?" Jared barely gets that out, his chest caving in before he can take the breath. Jared sometimes forgets Jensen once had someone other than Jared. "Those people... How are they your family? They never visited you in the hospital, never sent a card, a phone call. Nothing."
"I didn't exactly make it easy."
Jared's hollowed out, his shoulders rounding over his chest like there's nothing holding them apart. "Why now, then? Why do they get to have Christmas?"
"That letter in the mail," he explains. "From, 'The Estate of the Alan Ackles Family.'" Jensen's cheeks glisten around the edges up to the corners of his lips. He ducks his head into his hand, massages over his eyelids before continuing. "Therewasanaccident." All one word, like Jared's not spent the last six years learning to speak Jensen.
Jared's arms aren't heavy anymore. He drops to his knees, draws Jensen into his chest. A shudder goes through the both of them, Jensen's hands tight in the fabric of Jared's t-shirt, his breath hot in the ribbing at the collar. "I'm sorry. God, Jen, I'm sorry."
"Don't..." Jensen huffs, breath rasping like he's got his teeth clenched around it. With a twist that sends Jared sprawling back into the archway, knocking the wind from his lungs, Jensen breaks loose. His fingers thread into his hair, fisting over his temples. Shoving back, he manages to stagger to his feet. "Just...don't."
"Jen..." Jared lurches up, starts to follow, but Jensen turns on his way down the hall, just that crazy DT leer Jared knows too intimately. He thought he'd seen the last of that, knows that'll never really be true when the bedroom door slams shut, vibrating the few decorations he's managed to hang.
Jared kicks his way through discarded tissue paper and tangled strings of lights, shuffles down the hall with one hand on the stained oak molding, eyes on the ground. He's got a hole in his sock. Over the fourth toe of all places. He's not really surprised. Things have a way of perforating and coming apart where he least expects.
With his forehead pressed against the door, the sound of Jensen's suitcases rolling out of the closet and bouncing off the mattress only barely camouflage the ragged breathing, half-swallowed emotion too complex to define. The doorknob pulses under his fingertips, but he doesn't open it. "Look, uh, you need me to book you a flight? Tomorrow morning?"
When Jensen clears his throat, he's close by, maybe just the other side of the door, maybe with his head pressed against Jared's. It still feels like a million miles. "That... that would be awesome. Thanks, man."
"I love you." Jared always says it first.
"I know." And Jared knows it's the best he can do.
--
Jared taps the door once before opening it. Not that he has to knock on his own bedroom door. There's really nothing either of them hasn't seen, but there have to be boundaries, even for them. The door's the only thing he's seen of Jensen all night, this wall he puts up when any more is too much. As much as he's inclined to be in Jen's personal space at every opportunity, Jared's not a total ass. He respects barriers, especially when there's a whole lot to keep dammed up inside them. One of the consequences of being with someone as intense as Jensen is sometimes not being with him.
He knows Jen's not asleep. He wouldn't go to bed and leave Jared to worry about his flight and the details. He wouldn't go to bed without saying good night. They have a... thing about that. Start and end every day together. That's always been the rule, even if it's just a phone call, one waking the other, or a note taped to the alarm clock, "Figured you needed extra time to recoup," with a lewd smilie face dripping something obscene from it's Mr. Bill mouth. A quick peck on the cheek before they both collapse in exhaustion. Just some token of together to make up for all the years they spent alone.
"Jen?" he says, peering around the door. "I, uh..." He stops, the breath knocked from him momentarily when he spies Jensen sprawled in the desk chair by the window, his collar unbuttoned, tails untucked, and the flat of his hand tucked under the hem of his t-shirt. One thumb strokes across his stomach, a blank set to his face. Jensen doesn't look up, his eyelashes lowered to half-mast, distant expression as he gazes down the street. It's dark in the room except for the light from the outside, and so close to Christmas, there's a sparkling, multi-colored quality to it that takes Jared back six years to their days in the club. He'd forgotten how Jensen looked under those lights, laid out like a dinner Jared hated to share. Jared steps up behind him, rests his hands on Jensen's shoulders, knotted muscles clenching and unclenching beneath his fingertips. "I booked you a flight that leaves at 11:00. Means you gotta be up by eight. Is that too early?"
It's already after midnight, and they have unfinished business between them still.
Jensen shakes his head, a barely there movement Jared feels more than sees. He starts when he realizes Jensen's twirling a pack of Marlboros in his right hand. Twirl, tap, twirl, tap, twirl, tap, over and over against the desktop. But it's not opened. The cellophane reflects the Christmas lights all the way around the package, and there's no trace of smoke in the room. There's no sign of Jensen's lighter, either, and there'd be no missing it the way Jensen keeps it polished. "Thanks," Jensen whispers, his other hand sliding up and around Jared's wrist, a gentle tug to maneuver Jared around to the side as the chair swivels to meet him.
Jensen's thigh bumps against Jared's and holds the contact, warm and steady except where it vibrates from toe to knee, a shiver that thrums through them both. That's all there is for a good long while, just the touch of legs and fingertips, the twirl, tap, twirl, tap, of the cigarettes against the hardwood, a drum cadence of sorts, prelude to something else Jared feels building in is chest.
Then, Jensen lifts his eyes.
The thing about Jensen is, he's hot and cold, lives in the extremes, only lukewarm to anyone who doesn't know how to read him, but that's because extremes, like ultraviolet and infrared are invisible. His eyes give him away every time, when he lets them connect. Jared's been practicing reading the intricate whorl pattern, the degrees of pupil and iris, for the last six years. He hardly ever gets it wrong.
Hardly ever.
This time he does. What he reads is quiet, plaintive, a soft need, but when he leans in, shifting his legs to straddle Jensen's outstretched feet, Jensen surges up, knocks Jared back and onto the bed fast enough to lose track of space and time. It's all good, though, because a split second later, Jensen's there, grappling with Jared's shirt until it's up over his head, stretched tight across his face. Jared breathes deep of himself through the thin cotton, and Jensen's bare chest scrapes up his stomach. Jen's tongue marks the path, darting into the ridges between abs and up, up until he's at Jared's throat.
Jared's blind and powerless, and Jensen's the only one who knows he likes it that way, the only one allowed to have it like this. It's not about submission, never has been. It's about the surge of energy that comes from having a sense taken away, the zing of creativity it inspires. How else would he know he can peel off Jensen's socks with just his toes, that Jensen's breath behind his ear is as good as any touch below the belt? It's about mystery and discovery, primal and ancient, and perfect.
Within minutes, Jared's mewling, his throat tight, breath needy, and Jensen straddles his stomach, slow, one thigh scraping up along his hip and ribs, then the other. His torso curls down and around, as much feral as fetal, his arms under Jared's shoulders, hands cradling Jared's jaw through the moistened cotton, and Jared can feel him all pulled in on himself and wound tight. Jensen's not taking more than kisses, not pressing harder than to nuzzle into warm, soft places, and Jared knows he needs more.
Wriggling downward, the shirt slides up over Jared's mouth, and he gasps, slack-jawed into the darkness. Jensen's teeth rake over his chin in his desperation to find Jared's lips, and when he does, he sucks hard, draws back until they're stretched and swollen, still gasping. Another writhing twist, and Jared's shoulders slip free. The shirt goes slack. One quick surge upward, head tipped back, chin up, mouth seeking mouth, and the collar slips over his crown and down behind his head. He doesn't bother to pull his arms free, just lowers them so the shirt bunches up behind his neck, tight across his back, but clear of everything that matters.
He meets Jensen move for move, dualing tongues, groping fingers, everything above the waist zinging, and everything below, aching and desperate. Sliding one hand down to his waistband, he undoes the snap and zipper in one fluid movement, then arches up so the head of his cock slides up along the seam of Jensen's jeans to the hard line of the waistband, can't quite reach bare skin.
Jensen takes the hint, reaches behind himself and pushes his hand inside, fisting Jared without breaking the kiss. Jared returns the favor, both hands pushing through the sweat pool between them until he finds Jensen's pants and gets them pushed down off his hips. It's not far enough, and even hoisting Jensen's off him enough to free his own hips, hands clasping Jensen's ass, Jared can only thrust up high enough for the head of his cock to tease between the cheeks.
He wraps his hand over Jensen's to keep it steady and flips them, one grunt and heave, then he's on his knees, squirming out of his jeans, then peeling Jensen's off the rest of the way, Jensen's hands sliding up onto Jared's hip bones, little prickling ache spreading from each fingernail. He makes a half-hearted grab for his t-shirt, twisting one arm and then the other up around like he's trying to scratch an elusive itch right between his shoulder blades, but it's too complicated. Jensen's lying under him, knees drawn up against his ribcage, jerking himself hard with this head tossed back, just the slits of his eyes visible over flushed cheeks.
Jared leaves the shirt right where it is and hoists Jensen's hips up onto his thighs, curls himself up so he can slide his arms behind and up, drawing an arch into Jensen's back that keeps them pressed together, Jared's chest to Jensen's ribcage, his mouth on Jensen's throat.
He grunts when Jensen wraps his ankles around behind his back, and locks them together, calves vice-tight around Jared's ribcage, kneecaps in the soft hair under his arms, smearing rivulets of sweat. Jensen's fingernails scrape up Jared's sides, Jared's hips flexing of their own accord, his cock sliding in the warm groove of Jensen's ass, prodding the soft, smooth skin at the tippy top over and over until Jensen's writhing beneath him.
"Please," Jensen begs, the word just a twitch in his Adam's apple and a hiss between clenched teeth.
Jared knows what he wants. After six years together, their bodies have molded around each other, don't require half the prep they used to need, and when Jensen's like this... well, it's all about the burn. And Jared wants him to feel it the whole time he's in Texas, wants Jensen to think of him every time he moves... wants him to hurry home.
"Almost," Jared rasps, reaching between them where Jensen's cock's leaking precum and mixing in sweat. He scoops up what he can, smears it over himself, looks skeptically at the result while Jensen worries his lip, cheeks puffing in and out with every breath.
He's reaching for the lube when Jensen gasps, "Fucking now!" and grabs two fistfuls of Jared's hair, jerks him down so their mouths lock together.
Jared gives in, squints his eyes shut tight as he works his way inside, short circular thrusts until he hits home.
Both their eyes are watering when Jensen bites down on Jared's lip and comes, Jared right behind. It has nothing to do with the burn.
TBC
unplugged32 bought me in the fics4books auction. She bid on a minimum 5000 words of J2 or Sam/Dean slash, which I hoped to have finished by the end of the year. Well, the story won't stop, and I don't know when exactly it will be finished. So, I'm going to post the parts in here as I finish them so I can stop picking at them and then crosspost when I have the whole thing finished. I don't really care if you read now or later or not at all.Also,
ysbail made me lovely cover art which I'll post with the master post once I make one. Thank you so much, sweetie. The prompt she gave me was, Jensen and Jared are apart at Christmas. Jensen's sick and getting sicker, and Jared's trying to get to him, with bonus points if Jared gets there just in time... or something like that.
You should know it's AU. They're both about the same age, though I'm not sure I say what their ages are, and they met before Supernatural when they were both pretty down on their luck. There's m/m sex, language, legal and illegal drug use. NC-17 rating. And there is sex in this part. 5400 words so far. Don't own, no defamation or copyright infringement intended, just for fun.
Wintersong
Part One- When Silence Gets too Hard to Handle
Six years ago--Los Angeles, CA
Jared takes an unapologetic look over the shoulder of the dude dawdling in the aisle. Do people still actually pretend to shop in a pawn shop? He doesn't know why anyone bothers to browse when it's obvious they're just working up the courage to hock something.
It does take a good shrug to tear that last stitch of pride, though. Jared knows, and he recognizes the trappings of the recently demoralized all too well. This guy has all the look of someone down to his last shred of dignity, clinging to the one thing he has between himself and nothing. Probably that ancient Zippo he's polishing against his shirt hem. "It looks old," he observes and wonders if the guy even realizes he's fidgeting.
The dude looks up at him, a blush spreading up his cheeks, twitch in his gaze, and... wait a minute, Jared knows this one... wouldn't be the first 'almost someone' he's spied in this part of town...the name's on the tip of his tongue, too. After a few seconds of serious pondering, he shrugs it off. The name doesn't want to come, but if it does, he'll be sure not to forget twice. Anyway... Hot Boy jumps and almost drops the lighter when Jared leers over his shoulder.
Jared should apologize. He knows he has no respect for people's personal space, but if he apologized every time he made someone shit bricks, he'd be sorry all the time, and really, he's not. People pay good money to get him in their personal space. The way he figures it, the ones he bumps into by accident are gettin' freebies. The planet's overcrowded. It's so not his fault people keep stumbling into his larger than average gravitational pull. "That lighter," he elaborates, "It looks really old."
"It is." Hot Boy regains his composure and finishes his polishing but doesn't step out of Jared's space. That's something new, like he's looking for someone to hold him up. Come to think of it, the guy looks to be in need of some groceries. Most people lurch away like either gay or poverty is a disease that can rub off. This dude either knows better or just doesn't have the energy to give a damn. He sure has let himself go to hell since... damn, Jared knows him from some fucking where.
"You don't wanna pawn that here. Phil might give you ten bucks tops," Jared says, ducking around the front so he can get a better look. He instantly regrets it when Hot Boy looks up at him like he's going to have a panic attack right there and then. Jared knows that look. That lighter's the only thing he has left that's worth anything, and he's in hock for way more than ten bucks... probably to the wrong kind of people.
Then it hits him. Without thinking, Jared shoves the guy backward, a quick smack on both shoulders. "Get outta here! I know you! Jack Jameson, right? You played Eric on Days for those couple months when what's his name was in rehab." Jared never forgets a face. Names are harder. Usually, when he remembers one, he gets a blush, some feigned humility, maybe an offer to sign an autograph out of the deal. Jack looks like he wants to bolt, but he nods, so Jared knows he's right.
"Actually, it's Jensen, Jensen Ackles...," he stammers. "That other's just a stage name."
"Ah, you're hiding out. I get it." Jared shrugs it off. He's never heard of Jensen Ackles. Not Jared's place to go digging for deep, dark secrets. They've all got 'em. "So, what're you doing in this place? That gig was cherry, right? You should be working, not pawning your shit."
Jensen doesn't meet his gaze, and instead of blushing, he goes pastier than before. Jared would've bet money that wasn't even possible. So help him, if this guy faints in the middle of the store and Jared has to catch him. That would totally be a first.
"Yeah, well, turns out temporary stand-in for a second rate soap actor isn't the leg up you might think it is." He says it lightly enough, like it's intended to be funny, but his shoulders sag. One of those times when laughing beats crying, Jared supposes, but it's a close call which one will win out. Huh. All the people Jared's imposed himself on in his quest to know everyone in this god-forsaken town, and Jensen Ackles is the first one who's ever made him feel like he's actually stepping on toes. "Only thing I took from that gig is first hand knowledge of why the other dude ended up in rehab."
Jared's pretty sure there's an important insinuation in there somewhere, but he's too busy feeling like shit to work it out. "Look, man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." Jared's jumping around like he's got cockroaches in his boxers. Way to make contacts. Though, if he's honest, this dude looks more like the type Jared's trying to beat than join.
He's used to having tons of energy, balancing on the razor's edge of control, but he never just loses it, not like this. He's not sure what he did wrong, but he needs to fix it right the fuck now. Until he does, the world's off-kilter somehow, and he's sliding off in a none too graceful fashion. "You need cash? Cuz I can help you out. You know, one struggling actor to another. I was just coming in to pay off my loan and get my t.v back, but I don't need it. I work weird hours anyway." He holds out a handful of twenties, thinks he'll shove them in the guy's pocket if he tries to refuse.
Jensen looks at him like he's crazy. "Look, um...?"
"Jared...uh, you can call me JT, all my friends do."
"Jared," Jensen says flatly, "I appreciate the offer, but I can't take your money. I don't have any way to repay it."
"You need a job?" Jared offers. "I can get you one."
Jensen looks up, so hopeful that Jared regrets opening his mouth yet again. "Whoa, um, not an acting job. If I could get one of those, I wouldn't be hocking my t.v. to pay for headshots an agent won't even look at."
"Oh, well never mind, I guess I got myself into this mess, I gotta face the music, right?"
"C'mon, don't be like that. I can get you work at the club with me. I'll be honest with you man, it's degrading and skanky, a little dehumanizing, but it's good money if you got a thick skin."
"What is it you do, Jared..., uh,JT?" Jensen's got a glimmer in his eye that could either be desperation or hope. Either way, Jared likes it.
"I'm a dancer," he says.
"I don't dance," Jensen says, and now Jared's pretty sure he is going to faint.
"Not real dancing," Jared explains, "All you gotta do is fill out a thong and pretend you're God's gift." He puts on his best leer, does a sweeping appraisal of Jensen from toe to... navel, and back to... friggin' sexass bowed legs, then shrugs and smacks him on the shoulder. "Well, you're an actor. You can pull it off, uh, no pun intended. And c'mon, I know you did love scenes on Days. This is not that different."
For a second, Jensen looks undecided, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth and shifting from one foot to the other between the door and the counter, the lighter still clenched in his fist.
Jared's not having it. Without preamble, he shoves his wad of twenties into Jensen's back pocket and leaps back, hands raised in submission. "There, now go pay whoever's breathing down your neck, and if you wanna make good on that loan, show up at the Queen's Burrow tonight around seven. Come to the back. I'll have 'em let you in."
Phil, the pawn broker, finally comes out of the store room with Jared's television, hoists it up on the counter just in time to see Jared hit the door. "Keep it man," Jared says over his shoulder. Then to Jensen, "If you're late, I'll tell Tom you wanna go balls to the wall, with the full body wax instead of the shave he usually gives the newbies." He winks and leaves Jensen pale as a ghost in the aisle.
December 20, 2008, Vancouver, BC
To this day, Jared's not entirely sure Jensen didn't finally faint as soon as Jared left the store. He showed up at the club, though, and that's all that really matters. They haven't spent a holiday apart since.
It hasn't all been fairy tale perfect, not counting the Grimm Brothers version, but they dragged each other out by the skins of their teeth, and things are finally working out. They work together, live together, pretty much have their bodily functions synced up together. That's way too much information, but Jared'd be lying if he were to say he hadn't noticed. How could he not notice when most of their minor squabbles seem to start in the vicinity of the bathroom door? Nothing serious, of course, no more than any average couple. It's understandable. No one's very gracious or generous when nature's calling.
Yeah, Jared would say things have worked out pretty well for them. Better than anything he could've expected growing up in foster homes the way he did. They're so happy, sometimes it scares him, but he can't ever remember not being afraid of something, so it's all good.
There's really only one other thing they fight about besides bathroom hogging.
They fight over the mail. A lot. It's stupid, and not a real fight-- usually just an excuse to get in each other's faces-- all the better for getting in each other's pants. But that's not to say they don't both mean it when they start in...
"I'll get the mail."
"No way, it's my turn."
"But I'm taking the dogs out, anyway."
"What part of 'it's my turn,' don't you understand?"
"The part where you make an extra trip out of the house to do something I can do on my way back in."
"So, what? You just wanna keep me chained to the stove?"
"Mmm, sounds kinky..."
Jared figures one of these days the novelty of having an address and getting mail that doesn't all go directly into the "can't pay it, so I didn't get it," pile will wear off, and the fact that there's two feet of snow on the ground between the front door and the mailbox will actually keep them from trekking out there the second the mail truck drives away. Until then, their days of staggering into the post office once a week to find the lock box empty of anything other than past due notices are over.
Jensen would give Jared shit if he knew Jared was watching him (and his cute little ass) mince his way through the snow in completely inadequate canvas sneakers and sweat pants just to beat Jared to the mailbox. He watches from between the folds of a floor length curtain that cost as much as they used to make in a week "waiting tables." He snickers to himself. That joke never gets old. They used to shake their asses in nothing but a g-string and jazz shoes. Now they wear more layers and a couple of gun belts to boot, but they're still basically shaking their asses if the mostly female fanbase is any indicator.
Jared finds himself snuggling into the drapes like bedclothes, already imagining the window lit with lights and dressed in pine swags. Christmas has always been their special time, and this one, the first in their new house, is going to be the best ever if Jared has anything to say about it. The attic crawl space's full to overflowing with decorations, most of them from second hand stores since the new ones have no character and they don't really have anything in the way of heirlooms.
He's so wrapped up, in memories, in draperies, in planning, he almost doesn't notice the way the cloud of Jensen's breath diminishes until it's just a little puff around his lips, the mail clenched in his gloveless hands. Jared bought him gloves, for pete's sake, why the hell doesn't he wear... oh, that can't be good.
Jensen's gone as white as the snow, the letters shaking with tremors, but he doesn't come back in. Instead, he takes one envelope out of the stack, doesn't seem to notice when two or three others drop at his feet. How he manages to open it at all, Jared can't say, but when the last torn corner of the envelope blows away on the breeze and Jensen doesn't move, Jared figures he'd better go out and fetch him.
They already have one snowman in the yard with a yellow stain on the lower most ball from the neighborhood dogs. They don't need another. That would be tacky.
It's all Jared can do to throw on a long scarf and stocking cap before sneaking past the dogs and out the front door. They're not both going to freeze to death in their own front yard less than a week before Christmas.
"Jen, hey, Jensen," he huffs, scuttling down the sidewalk as fast as he can without slipping, "I doubt that's written in vanishing ink, dude. It's not going anywhere in the amount of time it takes to get back inside." Jared swoops and grabs up the fallen letters from the ground before wrapping the tail end of his extra long Dr. Who scarf around Jensen's shoulders and pulling him in close. He expects Jensen to sink into him and be ushered inside. That's just what happens when Jared puts his arm around someone. Instead, he goes stock-still and tenses against Jared's shoulder, barely controlled tremors under his skin like magic fingers working his muscles from the inside.
Jared doesn't want to read over Jensen's shoulder, but he has to look pointedly over Jen's head in order to keep from doing so, pretends to be watching the neighbors putting lights up along the rain gutters. Just the few strands of Jensen's hair blowing up into his line of sight are enough to break the illusion of distraction. Jared always knows where Jensen is in time and space, even if they're in separate rooms, on separate sets, separate trailers. Jensen's both the light in Jared's universe and the shadow in the wake of it. Either way, he's always there. "What is it?" Jared asks into the short hairs at Jensen's temple, can't help but press a kiss there, just lips, something more solid than words.
For a second, Jensen's silent, just the two of them shivering with one breath cloud between them.
"Nothing." And the breath cloud's again as big from the long exhale Jensen makes as he crushes the suspect letter in his hand, tosses it like a snowball out into the street. He doesn't turn in toward Jared, but the tension evaporates, leaves him sagging against Jared's shoulder. He hands over the stack of mail. "You got a card from your agent. Smells like perfume. I think she wants you."
Jared has to shrug, because if Jensen's not talking, Jared's mostly listening for what isn't said. Jensen has a way of locking things up that should be let go. Jared's not sure what wasn't said in that sentence, so he plays along. "Doesn't everybody?"
"Only if they can't have me." There's a smirk in his expression somewhere, but it doesn't quite make the surface. They'd be reshooting this scene if they were working today. Almost as an afterthought, Jensen jerks and hisses, does an awkward little dance, even more awkward leer. "Friggin' freezing out here. Let's get your hot ass inside so it can warm me up."
He darts down the walk, dragging Jared by the scarf. Jared goes along. It's not like he's gonna deny anyone the use of his hot ass.
--
Jared's not fooled by Jensen's dismissal of the whole mail episode.
For starters, despite Jensen's promise to let Jared warm him up once they got inside, Jensen's in the kitchen cooking (and wearing entirely too many clothes) by the time Jared gets back from taking the dogs out. Jared knows from experience that anything more than one lit burner on the stove means 'come back another time.' They manage passing conversation about the squirrel stealing the carrot from the snowman down the street and the lost mitten Sadie found on the sidewalk that got stuck over her nose. Jensen's quick with all the right laughs and expletives, but it's a canned response and Jared knows it.
Jensen never leaves the stove, but he still manages to overcook the noodles. He doesn't even notice when Jared has to keep running his tongue over his teeth in order to scrap the gumminess out from under his lip.
--
Jared catches Jensen's eyes on him for the umpteenth time that night. His gaze is like fingers up Jared's chest, a tug at his shirt hem like a shy child taught not to speak until spoken to. It draws energy from the all important task of trying to even out the loops of garland in the entry way between the dining room and the living room so he can attach the glass balls. He's determined to go all out, doesn't care that he'll have to duck five hundred times a day just to keep from breaking anything. Jensen hardly moves from his kneeling position next to the box of ornaments, like the weight of his stare's more than metaphorical.
It's starting to weird Jared out.
Thing is, Jared's used to being ogled, especially by Jensen. Jared's used to Jensen's eyes tracing all the places his hands will go in the dark, and he loves the attention. But now, Jensen stares up at him like Jared's the angel on the top of the tree they haven't even put up yet. His eyes glimmer more than they should since there aren't any lights strung either-- deeper pools in his lower lids, darker shadows underneath. His throat works up and down, trying to say something or trying not to. Probably both.
And Jared? He can't stand that.
He knows his shoulders slump as he drops his arms to his sides. They feel ten pounds heavier each. Must be, because as much as he wants to reach out, take Jensen's face between his hands and kiss away the lines weighing the corners of his eyes, he waits. Jensen doesn't go in for that, some part of him undeserving. Which part, Jared doesn't know. "Jen?"
"You're really into this Christmas thing."
"Um, yeah," Jared says with a confused shake of his head, "aren't you? I mean, it's always kinda been our thing."
"I know, and I love that, too." The way Jensen's eyes avert to the corner of the room, where there's absolutely nothing to look at, says 'but' so he doesn't have to.
"But, what? You don't want to do Christmas anymore?" Jared can't help the way his voice jumps into a higher key. "Because you'll change your mind once you see what this place looks like all decorated up, and..."
"I have to go home, Jay."
"Home?" It takes him a minute to realize Jensen's not talking about here. "This is our home. It's the only one we have..."
"Not our home," Jensen explains, "mine." When Jensen looks back again, the shimmer's not trapped in his eyelash anymore. "I have to go back to Texas. My family..."
"W-why?" Jared barely gets that out, his chest caving in before he can take the breath. Jared sometimes forgets Jensen once had someone other than Jared. "Those people... How are they your family? They never visited you in the hospital, never sent a card, a phone call. Nothing."
"I didn't exactly make it easy."
Jared's hollowed out, his shoulders rounding over his chest like there's nothing holding them apart. "Why now, then? Why do they get to have Christmas?"
"That letter in the mail," he explains. "From, 'The Estate of the Alan Ackles Family.'" Jensen's cheeks glisten around the edges up to the corners of his lips. He ducks his head into his hand, massages over his eyelids before continuing. "Therewasanaccident." All one word, like Jared's not spent the last six years learning to speak Jensen.
Jared's arms aren't heavy anymore. He drops to his knees, draws Jensen into his chest. A shudder goes through the both of them, Jensen's hands tight in the fabric of Jared's t-shirt, his breath hot in the ribbing at the collar. "I'm sorry. God, Jen, I'm sorry."
"Don't..." Jensen huffs, breath rasping like he's got his teeth clenched around it. With a twist that sends Jared sprawling back into the archway, knocking the wind from his lungs, Jensen breaks loose. His fingers thread into his hair, fisting over his temples. Shoving back, he manages to stagger to his feet. "Just...don't."
"Jen..." Jared lurches up, starts to follow, but Jensen turns on his way down the hall, just that crazy DT leer Jared knows too intimately. He thought he'd seen the last of that, knows that'll never really be true when the bedroom door slams shut, vibrating the few decorations he's managed to hang.
Jared kicks his way through discarded tissue paper and tangled strings of lights, shuffles down the hall with one hand on the stained oak molding, eyes on the ground. He's got a hole in his sock. Over the fourth toe of all places. He's not really surprised. Things have a way of perforating and coming apart where he least expects.
With his forehead pressed against the door, the sound of Jensen's suitcases rolling out of the closet and bouncing off the mattress only barely camouflage the ragged breathing, half-swallowed emotion too complex to define. The doorknob pulses under his fingertips, but he doesn't open it. "Look, uh, you need me to book you a flight? Tomorrow morning?"
When Jensen clears his throat, he's close by, maybe just the other side of the door, maybe with his head pressed against Jared's. It still feels like a million miles. "That... that would be awesome. Thanks, man."
"I love you." Jared always says it first.
"I know." And Jared knows it's the best he can do.
--
Jared taps the door once before opening it. Not that he has to knock on his own bedroom door. There's really nothing either of them hasn't seen, but there have to be boundaries, even for them. The door's the only thing he's seen of Jensen all night, this wall he puts up when any more is too much. As much as he's inclined to be in Jen's personal space at every opportunity, Jared's not a total ass. He respects barriers, especially when there's a whole lot to keep dammed up inside them. One of the consequences of being with someone as intense as Jensen is sometimes not being with him.
He knows Jen's not asleep. He wouldn't go to bed and leave Jared to worry about his flight and the details. He wouldn't go to bed without saying good night. They have a... thing about that. Start and end every day together. That's always been the rule, even if it's just a phone call, one waking the other, or a note taped to the alarm clock, "Figured you needed extra time to recoup," with a lewd smilie face dripping something obscene from it's Mr. Bill mouth. A quick peck on the cheek before they both collapse in exhaustion. Just some token of together to make up for all the years they spent alone.
"Jen?" he says, peering around the door. "I, uh..." He stops, the breath knocked from him momentarily when he spies Jensen sprawled in the desk chair by the window, his collar unbuttoned, tails untucked, and the flat of his hand tucked under the hem of his t-shirt. One thumb strokes across his stomach, a blank set to his face. Jensen doesn't look up, his eyelashes lowered to half-mast, distant expression as he gazes down the street. It's dark in the room except for the light from the outside, and so close to Christmas, there's a sparkling, multi-colored quality to it that takes Jared back six years to their days in the club. He'd forgotten how Jensen looked under those lights, laid out like a dinner Jared hated to share. Jared steps up behind him, rests his hands on Jensen's shoulders, knotted muscles clenching and unclenching beneath his fingertips. "I booked you a flight that leaves at 11:00. Means you gotta be up by eight. Is that too early?"
It's already after midnight, and they have unfinished business between them still.
Jensen shakes his head, a barely there movement Jared feels more than sees. He starts when he realizes Jensen's twirling a pack of Marlboros in his right hand. Twirl, tap, twirl, tap, twirl, tap, over and over against the desktop. But it's not opened. The cellophane reflects the Christmas lights all the way around the package, and there's no trace of smoke in the room. There's no sign of Jensen's lighter, either, and there'd be no missing it the way Jensen keeps it polished. "Thanks," Jensen whispers, his other hand sliding up and around Jared's wrist, a gentle tug to maneuver Jared around to the side as the chair swivels to meet him.
Jensen's thigh bumps against Jared's and holds the contact, warm and steady except where it vibrates from toe to knee, a shiver that thrums through them both. That's all there is for a good long while, just the touch of legs and fingertips, the twirl, tap, twirl, tap, of the cigarettes against the hardwood, a drum cadence of sorts, prelude to something else Jared feels building in is chest.
Then, Jensen lifts his eyes.
The thing about Jensen is, he's hot and cold, lives in the extremes, only lukewarm to anyone who doesn't know how to read him, but that's because extremes, like ultraviolet and infrared are invisible. His eyes give him away every time, when he lets them connect. Jared's been practicing reading the intricate whorl pattern, the degrees of pupil and iris, for the last six years. He hardly ever gets it wrong.
Hardly ever.
This time he does. What he reads is quiet, plaintive, a soft need, but when he leans in, shifting his legs to straddle Jensen's outstretched feet, Jensen surges up, knocks Jared back and onto the bed fast enough to lose track of space and time. It's all good, though, because a split second later, Jensen's there, grappling with Jared's shirt until it's up over his head, stretched tight across his face. Jared breathes deep of himself through the thin cotton, and Jensen's bare chest scrapes up his stomach. Jen's tongue marks the path, darting into the ridges between abs and up, up until he's at Jared's throat.
Jared's blind and powerless, and Jensen's the only one who knows he likes it that way, the only one allowed to have it like this. It's not about submission, never has been. It's about the surge of energy that comes from having a sense taken away, the zing of creativity it inspires. How else would he know he can peel off Jensen's socks with just his toes, that Jensen's breath behind his ear is as good as any touch below the belt? It's about mystery and discovery, primal and ancient, and perfect.
Within minutes, Jared's mewling, his throat tight, breath needy, and Jensen straddles his stomach, slow, one thigh scraping up along his hip and ribs, then the other. His torso curls down and around, as much feral as fetal, his arms under Jared's shoulders, hands cradling Jared's jaw through the moistened cotton, and Jared can feel him all pulled in on himself and wound tight. Jensen's not taking more than kisses, not pressing harder than to nuzzle into warm, soft places, and Jared knows he needs more.
Wriggling downward, the shirt slides up over Jared's mouth, and he gasps, slack-jawed into the darkness. Jensen's teeth rake over his chin in his desperation to find Jared's lips, and when he does, he sucks hard, draws back until they're stretched and swollen, still gasping. Another writhing twist, and Jared's shoulders slip free. The shirt goes slack. One quick surge upward, head tipped back, chin up, mouth seeking mouth, and the collar slips over his crown and down behind his head. He doesn't bother to pull his arms free, just lowers them so the shirt bunches up behind his neck, tight across his back, but clear of everything that matters.
He meets Jensen move for move, dualing tongues, groping fingers, everything above the waist zinging, and everything below, aching and desperate. Sliding one hand down to his waistband, he undoes the snap and zipper in one fluid movement, then arches up so the head of his cock slides up along the seam of Jensen's jeans to the hard line of the waistband, can't quite reach bare skin.
Jensen takes the hint, reaches behind himself and pushes his hand inside, fisting Jared without breaking the kiss. Jared returns the favor, both hands pushing through the sweat pool between them until he finds Jensen's pants and gets them pushed down off his hips. It's not far enough, and even hoisting Jensen's off him enough to free his own hips, hands clasping Jensen's ass, Jared can only thrust up high enough for the head of his cock to tease between the cheeks.
He wraps his hand over Jensen's to keep it steady and flips them, one grunt and heave, then he's on his knees, squirming out of his jeans, then peeling Jensen's off the rest of the way, Jensen's hands sliding up onto Jared's hip bones, little prickling ache spreading from each fingernail. He makes a half-hearted grab for his t-shirt, twisting one arm and then the other up around like he's trying to scratch an elusive itch right between his shoulder blades, but it's too complicated. Jensen's lying under him, knees drawn up against his ribcage, jerking himself hard with this head tossed back, just the slits of his eyes visible over flushed cheeks.
Jared leaves the shirt right where it is and hoists Jensen's hips up onto his thighs, curls himself up so he can slide his arms behind and up, drawing an arch into Jensen's back that keeps them pressed together, Jared's chest to Jensen's ribcage, his mouth on Jensen's throat.
He grunts when Jensen wraps his ankles around behind his back, and locks them together, calves vice-tight around Jared's ribcage, kneecaps in the soft hair under his arms, smearing rivulets of sweat. Jensen's fingernails scrape up Jared's sides, Jared's hips flexing of their own accord, his cock sliding in the warm groove of Jensen's ass, prodding the soft, smooth skin at the tippy top over and over until Jensen's writhing beneath him.
"Please," Jensen begs, the word just a twitch in his Adam's apple and a hiss between clenched teeth.
Jared knows what he wants. After six years together, their bodies have molded around each other, don't require half the prep they used to need, and when Jensen's like this... well, it's all about the burn. And Jared wants him to feel it the whole time he's in Texas, wants Jensen to think of him every time he moves... wants him to hurry home.
"Almost," Jared rasps, reaching between them where Jensen's cock's leaking precum and mixing in sweat. He scoops up what he can, smears it over himself, looks skeptically at the result while Jensen worries his lip, cheeks puffing in and out with every breath.
He's reaching for the lube when Jensen gasps, "Fucking now!" and grabs two fistfuls of Jared's hair, jerks him down so their mouths lock together.
Jared gives in, squints his eyes shut tight as he works his way inside, short circular thrusts until he hits home.
Both their eyes are watering when Jensen bites down on Jared's lip and comes, Jared right behind. It has nothing to do with the burn.
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-01-05 11:24 pm (UTC)But I'm hooked so I guess I gotta get to the end to see!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-05 11:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-05 11:57 pm (UTC)I'm so happy you posted this ... I was getting a little impatient - but that's the story of my life.
I know you shared some of the boys' story with me but I can't wait to discover how you brought them from the porn shop to where they are now.
And you mentioned hospital ... why? when?
And... well .... I guess I'm gonna have to be patient aren't I?
And I'm thinking I may have messed up your banner 'cause if the dancing thing was only 6 years earlier then I've either made the dancers too young, or I've made the 'now' Jared and Jensen too old...
no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 12:00 am (UTC)Would this be the porn you were working on last night while I was posting mine?
*runs off to read*
no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 12:19 am (UTC)It does take a good shrug to tear that last stitch of pride, though. Jared knows, and he recognizes the trappings of the recently demoralized all too well. This guy has all the look of someone down to his last shred of dignity, clinging to the one thing he has between himself and nothing. Probably that ancient Zippo he's polishing against his shirt hem. "It looks old," he observes and wonders if the guy even realizes he's fidgeting.
I’m in love with the you write.
He's got a hole in his sock. Over the fourth toe of all places. He's not really surprised. Things have a way of perforating and coming apart where he least expects.
See how awesome it is? I totally fangirl your writing style, girl!
no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 04:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 05:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 05:21 am (UTC)Will I survive the next one? Jeesh you're tryin to kill me.
Can't say I blame Jared though it's always hard to be nice to or about someone who hurts the person you care about.
no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 09:08 am (UTC)I love this line.
Jensen's both the light in Jared's universe and the shadow in the wake of it.
And this para.
The thing about Jensen is, he's hot and cold, lives in the extremes, only lukewarm to anyone who doesn't know how to read him, but that's because extremes, like ultraviolet and infrared are invisible. His eyes give him away every time, when he lets them connect. Jared's been practicing reading the intricate whorl pattern, the degrees of pupil and iris, for the last six years.
And I take it that Jensen is already sick?
I'm dying to know what Jensen's suffering from. But, but, he's not going to die, is he? *worries*
no subject
Date: 2009-01-06 11:25 am (UTC)It's the first chapter but already so much going on, and leaving us wanting more :-)
no subject
Date: 2009-01-07 06:23 am (UTC){{snuggles you}}
no subject
Date: 2009-05-05 05:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-05 06:38 am (UTC)p.s. who recced it? I haven't even posted it outside this journal. I mean, we're mutual friends, so I find it funny someone recced it to YOU and not the other way around. LOL.
no subject
Date: 2009-05-05 06:58 am (UTC)