Low Rising [Jensen/Jared, PG-13]
This is my spn_j2_xmas story for ms_soma, who enjoys college AU, romance and schmoop of the not overly-sappy variety, humor, boys being boys, boys trading clothes, and coffee.
Low Rising [Jensen/Jared, PG-13]
Jared does laundry. Jensen overreacts. Danneel makes coffee. Harley has issues.
Low Rising
The first light is brittle grey; monochrome bleed of night into morning, so late it’s early.
Jensen's following his shadow, a past tense version of himself.
He sneaks up on Main Street, back ways and alleys he’s known since he could walk, shortcut through the parking lot that used to be Scribner’s until the Home Depot opened up a few miles down the road.
The sky is hushed and settled low, heavy blanket that dampens his footsteps. Snow dissolves into mud like salt in coffee and the air is fragile, culpable; it trembles at the edge of his nostrils like a summer bird caught at the wrong end of the year.
The clouds were supposed to clear hours ago, but the snow keeps falling.
Starbucks is glowing with the false warmth of yellow bulbs and post-holiday sales, impulse-buy misfits so grateful to be wanted that they don’t see themselves for what they really are: trophies of a rare breed of discount; the elusive eighty percent off, native to the dregs of December.
The sale sign in the window is red and gold, contrived festivity. Jensen blinks stray snowflakes out of his eyelashes and they melt down onto his cheeks as he pulls open the door.
The store is too warm; he pushes his hood back off his head, wipes at his face.
He’s hovering over the sale table when he’s greeted by a disembodied, “Welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you?”
“My laundry is a metaphor for my life,” he answers.
He picks up a single, matchless mug and continues on to the counter.
Danny meets him there with narrowed eyes, considering. “Venti Caramel Brulée Latte, extra whip,” she says. It’s official, a proclamation.
“That your professional opinion?” Jensen says. He doesn’t bother to feign surprise.
Danny says, “This is clearly an extra whip situation.”
Jensen spins his mug on the counter. It makes clumsy half-circles until Danneel grabs it by the handle. She tugs a little, looks up when Jensen doesn’t let go.
“Talk,” she says. “You’re wearing Jared’s sweatshirt and buying the mug that will not be sold. I need you to talk.”
He hops up onto the counter and turns the mug over in his hands. It’s not that bad. Not as nice as some of the others, maybe, but there’s no reason for it to be wasting away on the clearance table.
“Jared did my laundry,” he says.
“I can see why you’re upset,” Danny answers, steaming milk.
“Danny,” he says. He twists on the counter and lifts up the bottom of the hoodie he stole out of Jared’s truck. The t-shirt underneath is pathetic, shrunk halfway up his stomach and straining at the seams, tinged pink.
“Oh no,” she says. “Jen.”
“It’s stupid, right?” Jensen says.
“It’s not.” She reaches out and slips her fingers over the edge of the shirt. “What were we, fourteen? God, remember how big it was on you?”
Big enough that he and Danny shared it as a blanket the entire bus ride back to Texas. Halfway down to his knees at first, until he hit on the right combination of washing and growing, and it’s never been far out of reach.
The I ♥ New York over his chest is perfectly worn, lived-in and soft.
Danny smiles and touches the heart, faded and bleeding pink. “Best class trip ever. God, Chinatown. I couldn’t understand a word the guy was saying. What did you end up paying, six bucks?”
Jensen pulls the sweatshirt down.
“Yeah,” he says. Six dollars and a little slice of his soul, and he almost wishes he’d stayed home. Stayed in Texas, never realized that there’s a whole world out there he’s never going to see.
“I don’t even know what my life would be,” he says. If he hadn’t spent the last ten years trying to find a way out of Texas. He doesn’t say it because Danny knows better than anyone.
“Maybe,” she says, pauses then starts again: “Maybe it was time to retire it anyway.”
“And what? Give up? Move on with my life?” Jensen asks, bitter-edged.
“And realize that you’re still going to be you regardless of what you’re wearing under your clothes. You don’t need a shirt to remind you what you want out of life.” She pours his latte into his mug and says, “God, look at you. Did you even sleep last night?”
He hugs the mug close to his chest and takes a too-hot sip. “Hung out at Josh’s ’til he fell asleep, then I went to my parents’ place and went through my old stuff for a few hours.”
Danny sighs. “I don’t know whether to smack you or hug you,” she says.
Jensen closes his eyes. “I wore it on my first date with him. Before I knew about his family.”
Danny’s voice is bordering on annoyed when she says, “You always make it sound like he’s got some deep dark secret. He’s an army brat, Jen. So what if he lived in Europe or-”
“Texas, Germany, Italy, Oregon, Japan, California, New York.”
“And he would rather have been planted here in Nowhereville than dragged halfway around the planet every few years, you know that,” Danny says.
Jensen hops off the counter and throws a ten down to cover the coffee and mug and tip. Danny holds it up and says, “Bet you ten bucks you can’t just listen to a piece of advice for once.”
“Real money,” he says. “Raising the stakes.”
She keeps the bill stretched out in front of her until he nods. He’s screwed if this becomes a regular thing: he already owes her his firstborn and more, though he’s fairly sure she has no plans to collect.
“Listen,” she says. “Can you just listen to me? You’re not just some clearance sale townie. You’re not-the last thing left on the shelf in a little nothing of a town that didn’t even get a goddamn Starbucks until 2008, Jensen. You’re not.”
“Still bitter about that?” Jensen says. His mouth is dry, and he sucks a slow sip of coffee from his mug. “Then what am I?” he asks, abrupt, rougher than intended. “Besides twenty-five and still trying to get the hell out of Texas?”
“For starters, you’re an idiot.” Danny smiles, soft. “Jen. You’re the guy who worked his ass off in high school to pay for college, the guy who worked his ass off in college to get a full ride for grad school. You’re the guy who turned down fucking NYU for the same little nowhere college you’ve been looking at your entire life because you fell in love with a beautiful boy and his crazy-ass dog.”
“I keep telling you, he’s not crazy,” Jensen says, quiet. He flicks at a stray lock of Danneel’s hair. “He’s just got a thing for redheads.”
Danny ignores him and says, “Jared didn’t pick you off the sale rack, Jen. You picked him. And he picks you back every day.”
Jensen shrugs. “Not the point.”
“So the point,” Danny says. “Are you even hearing yourself? He says Merry Christmas to his family over the phone so he can say it to you in person.”
“Technically, we’re supposed to be alternating years.”
“He didn’t even apply anywhere else for grad school because you’re here.”
“He’s already been everywhere.”
“Jensen.” Danny wraps her hand around Jensen’s arm and says, “I get the shirt, Jen. I do. I know what it means to you to get out of this town.”
“But,” Jensen says.
“But tell me the truth: how did you feel yesterday? Before all this. Before Jared messed up your shirt and you started thinking about the life decisions you made when you were fourteen years old?”
Jensen smiles, brings the mug up to his lips to hide it. Before he found the shirt, he was stripping straight into the washer because Jared somehow managed to soak everything in a five-foot radius with beer while trying to coax Harley into the yellow raincoat and boots that his parents sent as a Christmas gift for their “favorite grand-dog”.
They were probably expecting a picture of Harley all dressed up for a walk, but the pictures Jensen took, Jared and Harley piled together on the living room floor, are so much better.
“That’s what I thought,” Danny says, half whispered like a secret. She squeezes Jensen’s arm. “Two more years until Jared finishes school, and then you’ll go.” She sighs dramatically. “After a while, you’ll forget to call, but you’ll always text me a picture of the tree in Rockefeller Center on Christmas Eve, and it’ll be everything you ever wanted. Only better, because Jared will be there with you.”
Jensen leans over the counter, kisses Danny’s forehead. “I’ll never forget to call.”
“Better not,” she says. She gets out a paper cup and sleeve. “You’re not actually taking that mug, right?”
Jensen pulls it in close to his chest. “I like the mug.”
Danny raises an eyebrow. The front door pushes open as she says, “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”
Jensen turns toward the blast of cold air to see Jared in the doorway, green Starbucks apron thrown over his shoulder and snow in his hair.
“You leaving me for something better, Ackles?” he says.
“Yes,” Jensen says. He licks at a stray drop of coffee on the edge of his mug and holds it up for Jared to see. “We have a connection.”
“I can see that.” Jared smiles and ducks his head to hide it. “I’m not sorry, by the way,” he says. He throws his scarf and apron down on a table and starts walking toward the counter. “And I don’t forgive you for walking out. And forgetting your phone. And stealing my sweatshirt.”
Jensen puts the mug down on the counter and starts toward Jared. “That’s okay,” he says. “I don’t forgive you for not forgiving me.”
“Just so long as we’re clear,” Jared says, when they meet by the sale table.
He links his index finger with Jensen’s, and Jensen says, “I may have overreacted.”
Jared shrugs. “I may have left the washer and dryer on hot from when I did the towels.”
“Did Harley miss me?”
“Yes,” Jared says. “And then I fed him and showed him pictures of Danneel, and he forgot you ever existed.”
Jensen snorts out a laugh and leans his head forward onto Jared’s shoulder. “Dumb dog,” he says.
“Dumb owners,” Jared amends. He wraps his arms around Jensen and pulls him all the way in. “Hey, so I had an idea,” he whispers.
“Doggie redheads anonymous?” Jensen whispers back, and Jared laughs, presses a kiss to Jensen’s shoulder.
“Maybe,” he says, “but first-” He slides a hand up Jensen’s back and tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. “Spring break, let’s go get you a new one of these.”
The door thrusts open before Jensen can answer, burst of cold that can’t steal the warmth from the air.
“Welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you, Jared, go home or you’re fired!” Danneel calls out from behind the counter.
Jensen grabs his mug and two steaming paper cups from the pick-up counter and tugs Jared out the door.
Outside, it’s suddenly, violently winter, kaleidoscope swirl of white on white. Jared threads his arms around Jensen’s waist from behind, and the snow keeps falling.
###
Low Rising [Jensen/Jared, PG-13]
Jared does laundry. Jensen overreacts. Danneel makes coffee. Harley has issues.
Low Rising
The first light is brittle grey; monochrome bleed of night into morning, so late it’s early.
Jensen's following his shadow, a past tense version of himself.
He sneaks up on Main Street, back ways and alleys he’s known since he could walk, shortcut through the parking lot that used to be Scribner’s until the Home Depot opened up a few miles down the road.
The sky is hushed and settled low, heavy blanket that dampens his footsteps. Snow dissolves into mud like salt in coffee and the air is fragile, culpable; it trembles at the edge of his nostrils like a summer bird caught at the wrong end of the year.
The clouds were supposed to clear hours ago, but the snow keeps falling.
Starbucks is glowing with the false warmth of yellow bulbs and post-holiday sales, impulse-buy misfits so grateful to be wanted that they don’t see themselves for what they really are: trophies of a rare breed of discount; the elusive eighty percent off, native to the dregs of December.
The sale sign in the window is red and gold, contrived festivity. Jensen blinks stray snowflakes out of his eyelashes and they melt down onto his cheeks as he pulls open the door.
The store is too warm; he pushes his hood back off his head, wipes at his face.
He’s hovering over the sale table when he’s greeted by a disembodied, “Welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you?”
“My laundry is a metaphor for my life,” he answers.
He picks up a single, matchless mug and continues on to the counter.
Danny meets him there with narrowed eyes, considering. “Venti Caramel Brulée Latte, extra whip,” she says. It’s official, a proclamation.
“That your professional opinion?” Jensen says. He doesn’t bother to feign surprise.
Danny says, “This is clearly an extra whip situation.”
Jensen spins his mug on the counter. It makes clumsy half-circles until Danneel grabs it by the handle. She tugs a little, looks up when Jensen doesn’t let go.
“Talk,” she says. “You’re wearing Jared’s sweatshirt and buying the mug that will not be sold. I need you to talk.”
He hops up onto the counter and turns the mug over in his hands. It’s not that bad. Not as nice as some of the others, maybe, but there’s no reason for it to be wasting away on the clearance table.
“Jared did my laundry,” he says.
“I can see why you’re upset,” Danny answers, steaming milk.
“Danny,” he says. He twists on the counter and lifts up the bottom of the hoodie he stole out of Jared’s truck. The t-shirt underneath is pathetic, shrunk halfway up his stomach and straining at the seams, tinged pink.
“Oh no,” she says. “Jen.”
“It’s stupid, right?” Jensen says.
“It’s not.” She reaches out and slips her fingers over the edge of the shirt. “What were we, fourteen? God, remember how big it was on you?”
Big enough that he and Danny shared it as a blanket the entire bus ride back to Texas. Halfway down to his knees at first, until he hit on the right combination of washing and growing, and it’s never been far out of reach.
The I ♥ New York over his chest is perfectly worn, lived-in and soft.
Danny smiles and touches the heart, faded and bleeding pink. “Best class trip ever. God, Chinatown. I couldn’t understand a word the guy was saying. What did you end up paying, six bucks?”
Jensen pulls the sweatshirt down.
“Yeah,” he says. Six dollars and a little slice of his soul, and he almost wishes he’d stayed home. Stayed in Texas, never realized that there’s a whole world out there he’s never going to see.
“I don’t even know what my life would be,” he says. If he hadn’t spent the last ten years trying to find a way out of Texas. He doesn’t say it because Danny knows better than anyone.
“Maybe,” she says, pauses then starts again: “Maybe it was time to retire it anyway.”
“And what? Give up? Move on with my life?” Jensen asks, bitter-edged.
“And realize that you’re still going to be you regardless of what you’re wearing under your clothes. You don’t need a shirt to remind you what you want out of life.” She pours his latte into his mug and says, “God, look at you. Did you even sleep last night?”
He hugs the mug close to his chest and takes a too-hot sip. “Hung out at Josh’s ’til he fell asleep, then I went to my parents’ place and went through my old stuff for a few hours.”
Danny sighs. “I don’t know whether to smack you or hug you,” she says.
Jensen closes his eyes. “I wore it on my first date with him. Before I knew about his family.”
Danny’s voice is bordering on annoyed when she says, “You always make it sound like he’s got some deep dark secret. He’s an army brat, Jen. So what if he lived in Europe or-”
“Texas, Germany, Italy, Oregon, Japan, California, New York.”
“And he would rather have been planted here in Nowhereville than dragged halfway around the planet every few years, you know that,” Danny says.
Jensen hops off the counter and throws a ten down to cover the coffee and mug and tip. Danny holds it up and says, “Bet you ten bucks you can’t just listen to a piece of advice for once.”
“Real money,” he says. “Raising the stakes.”
She keeps the bill stretched out in front of her until he nods. He’s screwed if this becomes a regular thing: he already owes her his firstborn and more, though he’s fairly sure she has no plans to collect.
“Listen,” she says. “Can you just listen to me? You’re not just some clearance sale townie. You’re not-the last thing left on the shelf in a little nothing of a town that didn’t even get a goddamn Starbucks until 2008, Jensen. You’re not.”
“Still bitter about that?” Jensen says. His mouth is dry, and he sucks a slow sip of coffee from his mug. “Then what am I?” he asks, abrupt, rougher than intended. “Besides twenty-five and still trying to get the hell out of Texas?”
“For starters, you’re an idiot.” Danny smiles, soft. “Jen. You’re the guy who worked his ass off in high school to pay for college, the guy who worked his ass off in college to get a full ride for grad school. You’re the guy who turned down fucking NYU for the same little nowhere college you’ve been looking at your entire life because you fell in love with a beautiful boy and his crazy-ass dog.”
“I keep telling you, he’s not crazy,” Jensen says, quiet. He flicks at a stray lock of Danneel’s hair. “He’s just got a thing for redheads.”
Danny ignores him and says, “Jared didn’t pick you off the sale rack, Jen. You picked him. And he picks you back every day.”
Jensen shrugs. “Not the point.”
“So the point,” Danny says. “Are you even hearing yourself? He says Merry Christmas to his family over the phone so he can say it to you in person.”
“Technically, we’re supposed to be alternating years.”
“He didn’t even apply anywhere else for grad school because you’re here.”
“He’s already been everywhere.”
“Jensen.” Danny wraps her hand around Jensen’s arm and says, “I get the shirt, Jen. I do. I know what it means to you to get out of this town.”
“But,” Jensen says.
“But tell me the truth: how did you feel yesterday? Before all this. Before Jared messed up your shirt and you started thinking about the life decisions you made when you were fourteen years old?”
Jensen smiles, brings the mug up to his lips to hide it. Before he found the shirt, he was stripping straight into the washer because Jared somehow managed to soak everything in a five-foot radius with beer while trying to coax Harley into the yellow raincoat and boots that his parents sent as a Christmas gift for their “favorite grand-dog”.
They were probably expecting a picture of Harley all dressed up for a walk, but the pictures Jensen took, Jared and Harley piled together on the living room floor, are so much better.
“That’s what I thought,” Danny says, half whispered like a secret. She squeezes Jensen’s arm. “Two more years until Jared finishes school, and then you’ll go.” She sighs dramatically. “After a while, you’ll forget to call, but you’ll always text me a picture of the tree in Rockefeller Center on Christmas Eve, and it’ll be everything you ever wanted. Only better, because Jared will be there with you.”
Jensen leans over the counter, kisses Danny’s forehead. “I’ll never forget to call.”
“Better not,” she says. She gets out a paper cup and sleeve. “You’re not actually taking that mug, right?”
Jensen pulls it in close to his chest. “I like the mug.”
Danny raises an eyebrow. The front door pushes open as she says, “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”
Jensen turns toward the blast of cold air to see Jared in the doorway, green Starbucks apron thrown over his shoulder and snow in his hair.
“You leaving me for something better, Ackles?” he says.
“Yes,” Jensen says. He licks at a stray drop of coffee on the edge of his mug and holds it up for Jared to see. “We have a connection.”
“I can see that.” Jared smiles and ducks his head to hide it. “I’m not sorry, by the way,” he says. He throws his scarf and apron down on a table and starts walking toward the counter. “And I don’t forgive you for walking out. And forgetting your phone. And stealing my sweatshirt.”
Jensen puts the mug down on the counter and starts toward Jared. “That’s okay,” he says. “I don’t forgive you for not forgiving me.”
“Just so long as we’re clear,” Jared says, when they meet by the sale table.
He links his index finger with Jensen’s, and Jensen says, “I may have overreacted.”
Jared shrugs. “I may have left the washer and dryer on hot from when I did the towels.”
“Did Harley miss me?”
“Yes,” Jared says. “And then I fed him and showed him pictures of Danneel, and he forgot you ever existed.”
Jensen snorts out a laugh and leans his head forward onto Jared’s shoulder. “Dumb dog,” he says.
“Dumb owners,” Jared amends. He wraps his arms around Jensen and pulls him all the way in. “Hey, so I had an idea,” he whispers.
“Doggie redheads anonymous?” Jensen whispers back, and Jared laughs, presses a kiss to Jensen’s shoulder.
“Maybe,” he says, “but first-” He slides a hand up Jensen’s back and tugs at the hem of his t-shirt. “Spring break, let’s go get you a new one of these.”
The door thrusts open before Jensen can answer, burst of cold that can’t steal the warmth from the air.
“Welcome to Starbucks, how may I help you, Jared, go home or you’re fired!” Danneel calls out from behind the counter.
Jensen grabs his mug and two steaming paper cups from the pick-up counter and tugs Jared out the door.
Outside, it’s suddenly, violently winter, kaleidoscope swirl of white on white. Jared threads his arms around Jensen’s waist from behind, and the snow keeps falling.
###