Useful Illusions: Hornswaggled
Title: Hornswaggled
Series: Useful Illusions
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen/Jared overtones, Jensen/Misha mention
Disclaimer: So not mine. Would be nice, but no. RPS.
Summary: Jared is confused. And uncomfortable. And confused. A lot.
Previous Installments
Being Jeffrey Beaumont by kadiel_krieger
Being Misha Collins by elizah_jane
Behind the Line by kadiel_krieger
Once Around the Weekend by kadiel_krieger
Saturday
By the time Jensen emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Jared's convinced himself he's imagining things. That all the weirdness, all the perceived innuendo, can be entirely attributed to a combination of sleep deprivation and his own stupidity. Jensen's just being Jensen. He's always kind of grudgingly allowed Jared in his space without grousing too much and Jared's allowed Jensen in his. When you work as closely as and under the conditions that they do, it's inevitable some of the normal barriers would break down.
Okay, maybe not normal, but normal for them.
Besides, Jensen never asked to have his privacy so grossly invaded and he's pretty obviously focused his attention on someone else. Which is fine, really - more than. The damage is Jared's and it's nothing a couple beers and a couple days distance won't fix.
Ideally.
But that's before Jensen wanders his way into the living room towel-clad, skirting close enough to the couch his thigh actually brushes the armrest not five inches from Jared's outstretched fingers, and his newly heightened awareness stands up to take notice. Jensen’s never been shy about his body and it's not like Jared hasn't seen it before, but it's different in a way Jared can't pin down. Hard to be sure whether it's him or Jensen or both, but he's just going to go ahead and assume it's all his fucking fault since he's the inappropriately perverse one.
Still. It's distracting and confusing and he's well within his rights to give Jensen shit about it whether it's making him uncomfortable or not. Which it is.
"Forget something, Fabio?"
Jensen makes a non-committal humming noise and turns, sunlight sparking in the drops of water splashed in the bow of his back.
Jared swallows slowly and says, "Um, clothes?"
And that's why it's stupid to think anything's going on. As soon as the words have left his lips Jensen's wandering back down the hall, presumably to oblige. Stupid. Except that sinking feeling returns when Jensen does, because the tight, faded T-shirt he's got tugged down over his artfully distressed jeans is no less distracting, no less confusing. His typical cocksure smirk has a sharp edge on it that makes Jared a little queasy, like there's a fox in his fucking hen house. Especially when Jensen slumps into the couch right next to him and kicks his feet up on the coffee table instead of occupying his usual spot in the opposite corner.
"Better?" he asks and knocks his shoulder against Jared's like he's also done a thousand times.
It's not better, because now there's a crazy twitch dancing in Jared's shoulder, skipping its way up into his neck and down into his elbow. Stubbornness (and shame) keep him from snatching his arm back, but it's a close thing.
At least his voice behaves when he says, "Yeah. Sure."
Then Jensen's reaching across him, warm and solid, damp coconut-scented spikes of his hair brushing against Jared's chin and he has to grit his teeth to keep from flinching violently and cracking both their skulls open. He doesn't dare try to stake claim to the remote. That would end badly, and the last thing he needs right now is to be tangled up with Jensen on top of a broken coffee table. So he restrains himself. Jensen leans back, pressing closer as he does, cheek almost resting against Jared's chest. It's weird and, well, uncomfortable, and he's five seconds from pulling Sam's bitchface out when Jensen sniffs him and makes a face of his own.
"Dude. You smell like a fucking locker room. Those things called showers? They're for everyone now."
Which is, okay, insulting. But it's completely Jensen, friend Jensen - not slinky, predatory, nearly naked Jensen. It also offers him an escape route, or enough of one that he might be able to settle the memories back into relative silence. And if the endless barrage of night sweats he suffered through because of Jensen’s sexcapades are the reason for his salvation? He'll just have to be okay with that. Once the decision's made, he's on his feet almost too quickly, limbs swinging awkwardly in a way they haven't since middle school. It sucks.
"Let me just go take care of that," he says and makes his way towards the stairs, takes them slow, careful to maintain at least the appearance of sanity.
"Yeah, you do that," Jensen replies, and if Jared didn't know any better he'd swear he was being mocked.
Okay, he does know better and he is being mocked. Under any other circumstances, it would earn Jensen a noseful of ripe underarm, but these circumstances are anything but normal. So instead, Jared just continues his march up the stairs and into the relative sanctuary of the shower in the master bath.
Now that he's well away from Jensen and the brand spanking new twitchiness he gets to endure every time they're within six feet of one another, Jared has a chance to really think. Frankly, the whole situation is pretty fucking bizarre if you ask him. Not that anyone will. Even if he sets aside the fact he's spent eighteen to twenty-four hours a day with Jensen for the last four years, that he knows Jensen - or thought he did - better than pretty much anyone, he can't make heads or tails of the situation. Because as far as he's concerned Jensen is the most heterosexual guy on the planet outside of Dean Winchester. Not that he's a ladies' man. Jensen's always been too shy to do much damage. But Jared has accidentally interrupted more than one trailer tryst over the years and he distinctly remembers breasts on all such occasions. Guys don't forget things like breasts, it's against the code. And okay, yeah, there have been gaps this year, diverging storylines that sent them to opposite ends of the set at times, but it's still the same set.
Jensen is still the same Jensen.
Misha is a curveball.
Scratch that, Misha is a flaming fucking comet spraying slightly toxic extra-terrestrial dust all over the terrain formerly known as Jared's life.
It doesn't compute.
Because Jensen hasn't changed, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the guy thing or the bi thing or any....thing. It's about trust and secrets, the fact that Jensen would think, or wouldn't think, or didn't think. It's about his best friend in the whole fucking world keeping something this huge from him so easily. And maybe, if he's being straight with himself, he's a little jealous. Not of the sex, Jesus no, but of...Shit. Whatever. Jensen should have told him. If he'd known, well, last night would have been a whole lot less excruciating. Jared would have quietly fucked off to the bar and then crashed on the pull-out in Gen's hotel room.
Jensen didn't tell him, though, so now they're both screwed. And even though he dutifully finished scrubbing and deodorizing forty-two minutes and fifteen seconds ago, not that he's counting, he doesn't want to go downstairs. Jensen's there and Jared can't look at him anymore without seeing his mouth stretched around Misha's cock.
Fuck.
But he's also determined not to become a prisoner in his own house. So. Yeah.
He sighs and forces himself back down the stairs of doom.
The last thing he expects to find is Jensen pushing his way through the sliding glass door carrying a plate full of cheeseburgers with two very affectionate, very slobbery dogs winding between his legs. Suddenly, everything feels normal, because Jensen's grumbling good-naturedly and nudging Harley out of the way with his shin, a bottle of Worcestershire tucked precariously in the crook of his arm. Jared thinks maybe, just maybe he took a magic shower and all the peculiar bullshit has leeched away. Maybe.
"Hungry?"
Definitely normal, thank God.
"I think I may build a shrine in your likeness and worship at it."
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Feed me," he says and grins, opens his mouth wide.
"Fuck you, do I look like Seymour?" There's a ghost of pissy in Jensen's tone, but that's way better than the alternatives. Especially since he plucks one of the burgers out of the pile and shoves it halfway home.
Jared gags and chews, then swallows, wishing he had about a five gallon bucket of water and a tablecloth-sized napkin because he can feel a wayward dribble of condiment sliding down his chin. Finally he chokes out the very belated come-back.
"Do I look like a man-eating Venus fly trap?"
"Well, when you open your mouth like you're planning to suck the planet's cock and your hair does that weird flippy thing it's doing, yeah, kinda."
Then the color bleaches out of the room because Jensen actually reaches out and smoothes an errant tuft of damp hair down. And Jared can't move or breathe or do anything but stare at Jensen and wonder why he still has that smirk plastered all over his smug mug, why he hasn't pulled his hand back. Mostly he can't explain what the hell is happening to him or why he's letting it. Indecision? That answer comes easy. Because half of him wants to belt Jensen and skedaddle off to parts unknown. The other half wants to lean in, wants to know what it feels like, wants to know what all the fucking fuss is about.
That half scares the shit out of him. It also apparently paralyzes him, because he doesn't even flinch when Jensen quirks a brow and thumbs what appears to be ketchup off the crest of his chin. Which is, yeah okay, weird. But he's picked eyelashes off Jensen's face so...
When Jensen sucks his thumb clean at a glacial pace, cheeks hollowed and eyes closed, well, that's when it gets really fucking weird. Because against his brain's better judgment, certain other parts of his anatomy seem to be enjoying it enough to start rolling the highlight reel again.
Fuck.
Just. Fuck.
Jared's halfway through thinking it can't get any worse when Jensen hums and slurps and grins at him then pulls his thumb free with a pop.
"Guess not," Jensen says on a shrug, and turns to start pulling plates and glasses out of the cabinet.
Right. They were talking and he's expected to say something now. Okay. But whatever the undoubtedly important point of the conversation was once upon a normal, it's gone, lost in the wild and wooly weeds of seriously inappropriate ponderings, in the curve of Jensen's lip and the spit shine of saliva, in the canyon that's opened between sanity and...this. Uh, yeah. Jared has no fucking clue where the point disappeared to, so he just says, "What?" and hopes it covers all possible past, present and future bases.
"Just ketchup," Jensen says, and his tongue darts out to taste, quick pink flash across his lips and Jared barely keeps himself from bolting. "So I guess you're not a cannibal."
"Oh. Well, that's good."
Jensen doesn't bother to respond, just gathers his food together and makes for the couch in the living room.
After a minute or two of spacing out Jared figures maybe he should do the same, but his legs aren't so much obeying commands as they are firmly rooted and happy to remain so. As a result, he's kind of stuck, left to stare at the ceiling and try to straighten his shit out. Maybe his legs have the right idea, because what the fuck?
He's not.
Jesus.
He's just not. Jensen may define his own sexual proclivities a little more loosely than he figured, but Jared's not Jensen. Sooner or later he'll get over it, he's just jumpy because it's all so fresh. And really, he could kill himself about a thousand times over for not ignoring that laugh, but save for the invention of some industrial-strength brain solvent he's just going to have to deal with the consequences. Acting like a total douchebag to Jensen in the meantime is not going to help things. What it will do is make him start rooting for the cause of the strange behavior and it would be best for the entire universe to never know that he saw what he saw.
So, smooth and easy it is.
He piles a plate with two more cheeseburgers, pours himself a tall glass of Mama Ackles' blend sweet tea, and adjourns to the living room to bullshit his way back to the life more ordinary. From the fucking recliner.
For the next five hours, Jared pretty much gets his way. They watch the game, they yell at the game, they berate each other mercilessly and throw things. Which, hey, sounds like a pretty awesome lazy Saturday afternoon to Jared. Jensen does his Jensen thing all over the couch and once or twice Jared sees a sliver of skin peeking more than he would have a week ago, but he's pretty damn determined not to notice, so he just doesn't.
It's good, normal. Of course, as soon the thought manifests completely, Jensen stands and stretches like he's doing his damndest to bend himself in half, tugs the tail of his shirt up over his ribs and heads vaguely in the direction of the bedroom. And Jared absolutely does not watch him go. Or if he does, it's only because Jensen's talking to him.
"I'm fucking wiped, dude. Wake me up at seven?"
Then the shirt comes the rest of the way off, a blur of faded green, and Jensen shoulders his way into his room.
What he should have said was:
"Fuck you." or
"Is your alarm clock busted?" or
"I may be tall and all, but I am not your personal Big Ben, bitch." or simply
"No."
What Jared actually says is nothing. He's too focused on the silence Jensen leaves in his wake, the thoughts that creep back on their stupid little cat paws now that he's not distracted by sweaty men running around playing with balls. And he did not just think that. He does think he's about to rattle right out of his skin if he doesn't do something, anything, and preferably in a place that is away from the place where Jensen's already snoring softly and his door is pushed wide, flush against the wall.
And damn if he doesn't feel like he swallowed half a dozen packets of Pop Rocks then chased it with battery acid, because his stomach is churning and groaning and the temptation to do something really fucking stupid sits right there in the middle of it like a stone. Jensen moans in his sleep and mutters a string of unintelligible nonsense. The only words Jared can make out are "yeah" and "lamprey." It's happy distraction for about thirty seconds, trying to figure out what role a lamprey might play on the Acklesian dreamscape, but the Jensen moans again, louder. Suddenly that something that used to make him laugh and reach for the video camera is pulling him in like gravity. Like Jensen's a tropical depression and Jared's being drawn into the eye.
Fuck.
Sometimes you've just got to bite the bullet and find out the truth of a thing whether you want to know or not.
The recliner rocks off-kilter when he stands, a shifty sideways wiggle that makes it creak and Jared half hopes it's enough to wake Sadie, which would in turn wake Jensen, but no joy. Fine.
In the harsh light of mid-afternoon, Jared feels even creepier, sweat springing on his palms at the idea that Jensen might wake up and catch him, might enjoy catching him. But that's a place he dares not tread, not if he values his-everything. He just has to know if it's him. So when he hovers on the threshold of Jensen's room, Jensen splayed boneless before him and feels a tight golden ball of heat bloom low in his belly, it's proof enough.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Now that's disturbing.
Sunday
Jared feels like an apocalypse waiting to happen. Or maybe the Apocalypse, with the capital A, but he can't be sure since they haven't gotten the script for that episode yet and his world ending frame of reference seems to be sorely lacking. For the last fourteen and a half hours he's done everything short of going to set and sleeping in his trailer to avoid Jensen. Until he can figure out what to do about the, whatever, it's the best he's got.
When he steals through the back door of his own damned house he stops to consider that maybe he crossed that invisible boundary into a previously undiscovered territory of ridiculous. Given the current state of affairs, he can deal with the ridiculous, just not Jensen. Which means Jared's overjoyed to discover he's still sleeping, or sleeping again, or what the fuck ever. He dashes upstairs as quickly and quietly as he's able, trying to ignore the fact that Jensen's bedroom door gapes like an open invitation. Again.
Really, the only reason he's here at all is guilt. Well, that and clean clothes, but mostly the guilt. Harley and Sadie have done nothing to deserve his weirdness and he already missed out on running them yesterday because he was messed up. So he rummages through his dresser for gear, changes like he's trying to blow away Superman's record and laces his running shoes tight. It will do him good too, always does.
He keeps his eyes locked firmly forward on his way downstairs until he's past Jensen's room.
Both dogs whine, make soft whuffing noises when he clips the leads to their collars and Jared hushes them sharply. Now is not the time to wake sleeping Jensen's, best to let them lie. They can make all the noise they want once they're clear of the house. Sunglasses set firmly in place, he eases them all out the front door silently.
Outside he can breathe again, the sweet smell of spring pushing hard at winter's chill now that the sun is up. He sucks in a breath, cleans out his lungs and stretches the tension from his muscles. It's as close as he gets to religion, the space between long-legged strides, the rhythmic strike of his heels against pavement always lulls him into a comfortable meditative state. Which is why this is exactly what he needs right now.
Harley falls in beside him, Sadie lagging behind as he kicks into an easy jog. And it's good. It gives him time to think about everything without the shade of Jensen clinging to the corners of his consciousness. With his body otherwise occupied he can work through it in his head.
Unfortunately, it still doesn't make sense to him - this thing that's cropped up, unwanted. Okay, he's seen Jensen in compromising positions before, but just flashes glimpsed in the crack of a slamming door. What compelled him to stay this time? Curiousity? Knowing he wouldn't be caught? Knowing he might be?
His feet slap harder as he picks up the pace, lungs filled to bursting with cool mid-morning air. It takes a minute to tug the truth free of all the bullshit collected around it.
Maybe to all of it. Maybe he's just a perv. Maybe he's a fucking guy and couldn't pass on free live porn.
Whatever.
But why did it get to him? Because it's bad enough to watch, but pretty hard to deny that he enjoyed it. The proof is balled up in the bottom of the hamper at home like the dirty secret it is.
Jared hears Sadie start panting hard and eases off the gas a little. In retrospect, he probably would have been better off leaving the dogs at home. Because he needs to run. Needs to fly fast enough to get this all out of his system. But he can't. So the questions coil out steadily, a sharp, seemingly endless, string of wire wrapping the tension back into his muscles.
Does that small part of him that wants to know already hold sway?
Is it just Jensen?
Has there always been something there but he just hasn't seen it until now?
All Jared knows for certain is that he can't work like this. They spend way too much time together, and as fucked up as the conversation will be, he has to talk to Jensen. If he clears the air, fesses up, things will be insanely awkward for about a week but better in the long run. Alright, maybe not better but settled.
So he tugs the leads and makes the turn towards home.
Once there, he unlocks the front door like every other sane person in the world, unclips the dogs' leashes and hangs them up, toeing his sneakers off in the process. There's a soft rustling that seems originate from the vague direction of Jensen's room, which is good because it means Jared won't have a chance to chicken out, but also bad because he's damn sure not ready.
How the hell you get ready for a conversation like this, he has no idea.
How the hell do you even start a conversation like this?
Normally, he'd knock on Jensen's door before barging in, but since it's open and he's learned the hard way what happens when you peek in on Jensen without announcing yourself, he just slides up close and leans against the wall instead.
"Jensen?"
It makes him feel all of five, the way it comes out, small and tight, but he's so fucking scared of losing--
The world tilts then, because he hears something heavy, fleshy hit the wall and Jensen groans like someone's ripping him apart. A long, guttural, "Fuuuuuuuuuuck," followed by "yeah," and "Jesus fucking Christ," and...
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
There's no way he can. Not now. Not when he's got the slope of Jensen's back and the swell of his hips stuttering behind lowered lids.
Just no.
Jared gulps a breath, then another, tries to convince himself that if he goes upstairs and just pretends he was still asleep, everything will be okay. It's not working. Another breath and he gets Jensen's fingers gripped in the hollow of Misha's hip. Another breath and he's seeing Jensen nudge his cock into the crease of Misha's ass. Another breath and...
Fuck.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will bring coffee and confront Jensen. Before makeup, before hair, before running lines. Certainly before he has to spend twelve hours parked in a car bound for nowhere next to him.
Jensen moans again, soft, and heaves a sigh.
Jared hooks his shoes with one hand, his keys with the other and slams the door on his way out. Way to be stealthy.
Tomorrow.
Continue
Series: Useful Illusions
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jensen/Jared overtones, Jensen/Misha mention
Disclaimer: So not mine. Would be nice, but no. RPS.
Summary: Jared is confused. And uncomfortable. And confused. A lot.
Previous Installments
Being Jeffrey Beaumont by kadiel_krieger
Being Misha Collins by elizah_jane
Behind the Line by kadiel_krieger
Once Around the Weekend by kadiel_krieger
Saturday
By the time Jensen emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Jared's convinced himself he's imagining things. That all the weirdness, all the perceived innuendo, can be entirely attributed to a combination of sleep deprivation and his own stupidity. Jensen's just being Jensen. He's always kind of grudgingly allowed Jared in his space without grousing too much and Jared's allowed Jensen in his. When you work as closely as and under the conditions that they do, it's inevitable some of the normal barriers would break down.
Okay, maybe not normal, but normal for them.
Besides, Jensen never asked to have his privacy so grossly invaded and he's pretty obviously focused his attention on someone else. Which is fine, really - more than. The damage is Jared's and it's nothing a couple beers and a couple days distance won't fix.
Ideally.
But that's before Jensen wanders his way into the living room towel-clad, skirting close enough to the couch his thigh actually brushes the armrest not five inches from Jared's outstretched fingers, and his newly heightened awareness stands up to take notice. Jensen’s never been shy about his body and it's not like Jared hasn't seen it before, but it's different in a way Jared can't pin down. Hard to be sure whether it's him or Jensen or both, but he's just going to go ahead and assume it's all his fucking fault since he's the inappropriately perverse one.
Still. It's distracting and confusing and he's well within his rights to give Jensen shit about it whether it's making him uncomfortable or not. Which it is.
"Forget something, Fabio?"
Jensen makes a non-committal humming noise and turns, sunlight sparking in the drops of water splashed in the bow of his back.
Jared swallows slowly and says, "Um, clothes?"
And that's why it's stupid to think anything's going on. As soon as the words have left his lips Jensen's wandering back down the hall, presumably to oblige. Stupid. Except that sinking feeling returns when Jensen does, because the tight, faded T-shirt he's got tugged down over his artfully distressed jeans is no less distracting, no less confusing. His typical cocksure smirk has a sharp edge on it that makes Jared a little queasy, like there's a fox in his fucking hen house. Especially when Jensen slumps into the couch right next to him and kicks his feet up on the coffee table instead of occupying his usual spot in the opposite corner.
"Better?" he asks and knocks his shoulder against Jared's like he's also done a thousand times.
It's not better, because now there's a crazy twitch dancing in Jared's shoulder, skipping its way up into his neck and down into his elbow. Stubbornness (and shame) keep him from snatching his arm back, but it's a close thing.
At least his voice behaves when he says, "Yeah. Sure."
Then Jensen's reaching across him, warm and solid, damp coconut-scented spikes of his hair brushing against Jared's chin and he has to grit his teeth to keep from flinching violently and cracking both their skulls open. He doesn't dare try to stake claim to the remote. That would end badly, and the last thing he needs right now is to be tangled up with Jensen on top of a broken coffee table. So he restrains himself. Jensen leans back, pressing closer as he does, cheek almost resting against Jared's chest. It's weird and, well, uncomfortable, and he's five seconds from pulling Sam's bitchface out when Jensen sniffs him and makes a face of his own.
"Dude. You smell like a fucking locker room. Those things called showers? They're for everyone now."
Which is, okay, insulting. But it's completely Jensen, friend Jensen - not slinky, predatory, nearly naked Jensen. It also offers him an escape route, or enough of one that he might be able to settle the memories back into relative silence. And if the endless barrage of night sweats he suffered through because of Jensen’s sexcapades are the reason for his salvation? He'll just have to be okay with that. Once the decision's made, he's on his feet almost too quickly, limbs swinging awkwardly in a way they haven't since middle school. It sucks.
"Let me just go take care of that," he says and makes his way towards the stairs, takes them slow, careful to maintain at least the appearance of sanity.
"Yeah, you do that," Jensen replies, and if Jared didn't know any better he'd swear he was being mocked.
Okay, he does know better and he is being mocked. Under any other circumstances, it would earn Jensen a noseful of ripe underarm, but these circumstances are anything but normal. So instead, Jared just continues his march up the stairs and into the relative sanctuary of the shower in the master bath.
Now that he's well away from Jensen and the brand spanking new twitchiness he gets to endure every time they're within six feet of one another, Jared has a chance to really think. Frankly, the whole situation is pretty fucking bizarre if you ask him. Not that anyone will. Even if he sets aside the fact he's spent eighteen to twenty-four hours a day with Jensen for the last four years, that he knows Jensen - or thought he did - better than pretty much anyone, he can't make heads or tails of the situation. Because as far as he's concerned Jensen is the most heterosexual guy on the planet outside of Dean Winchester. Not that he's a ladies' man. Jensen's always been too shy to do much damage. But Jared has accidentally interrupted more than one trailer tryst over the years and he distinctly remembers breasts on all such occasions. Guys don't forget things like breasts, it's against the code. And okay, yeah, there have been gaps this year, diverging storylines that sent them to opposite ends of the set at times, but it's still the same set.
Jensen is still the same Jensen.
Misha is a curveball.
Scratch that, Misha is a flaming fucking comet spraying slightly toxic extra-terrestrial dust all over the terrain formerly known as Jared's life.
It doesn't compute.
Because Jensen hasn't changed, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the guy thing or the bi thing or any....thing. It's about trust and secrets, the fact that Jensen would think, or wouldn't think, or didn't think. It's about his best friend in the whole fucking world keeping something this huge from him so easily. And maybe, if he's being straight with himself, he's a little jealous. Not of the sex, Jesus no, but of...Shit. Whatever. Jensen should have told him. If he'd known, well, last night would have been a whole lot less excruciating. Jared would have quietly fucked off to the bar and then crashed on the pull-out in Gen's hotel room.
Jensen didn't tell him, though, so now they're both screwed. And even though he dutifully finished scrubbing and deodorizing forty-two minutes and fifteen seconds ago, not that he's counting, he doesn't want to go downstairs. Jensen's there and Jared can't look at him anymore without seeing his mouth stretched around Misha's cock.
Fuck.
But he's also determined not to become a prisoner in his own house. So. Yeah.
He sighs and forces himself back down the stairs of doom.
The last thing he expects to find is Jensen pushing his way through the sliding glass door carrying a plate full of cheeseburgers with two very affectionate, very slobbery dogs winding between his legs. Suddenly, everything feels normal, because Jensen's grumbling good-naturedly and nudging Harley out of the way with his shin, a bottle of Worcestershire tucked precariously in the crook of his arm. Jared thinks maybe, just maybe he took a magic shower and all the peculiar bullshit has leeched away. Maybe.
"Hungry?"
Definitely normal, thank God.
"I think I may build a shrine in your likeness and worship at it."
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Feed me," he says and grins, opens his mouth wide.
"Fuck you, do I look like Seymour?" There's a ghost of pissy in Jensen's tone, but that's way better than the alternatives. Especially since he plucks one of the burgers out of the pile and shoves it halfway home.
Jared gags and chews, then swallows, wishing he had about a five gallon bucket of water and a tablecloth-sized napkin because he can feel a wayward dribble of condiment sliding down his chin. Finally he chokes out the very belated come-back.
"Do I look like a man-eating Venus fly trap?"
"Well, when you open your mouth like you're planning to suck the planet's cock and your hair does that weird flippy thing it's doing, yeah, kinda."
Then the color bleaches out of the room because Jensen actually reaches out and smoothes an errant tuft of damp hair down. And Jared can't move or breathe or do anything but stare at Jensen and wonder why he still has that smirk plastered all over his smug mug, why he hasn't pulled his hand back. Mostly he can't explain what the hell is happening to him or why he's letting it. Indecision? That answer comes easy. Because half of him wants to belt Jensen and skedaddle off to parts unknown. The other half wants to lean in, wants to know what it feels like, wants to know what all the fucking fuss is about.
That half scares the shit out of him. It also apparently paralyzes him, because he doesn't even flinch when Jensen quirks a brow and thumbs what appears to be ketchup off the crest of his chin. Which is, yeah okay, weird. But he's picked eyelashes off Jensen's face so...
When Jensen sucks his thumb clean at a glacial pace, cheeks hollowed and eyes closed, well, that's when it gets really fucking weird. Because against his brain's better judgment, certain other parts of his anatomy seem to be enjoying it enough to start rolling the highlight reel again.
Fuck.
Just. Fuck.
Jared's halfway through thinking it can't get any worse when Jensen hums and slurps and grins at him then pulls his thumb free with a pop.
"Guess not," Jensen says on a shrug, and turns to start pulling plates and glasses out of the cabinet.
Right. They were talking and he's expected to say something now. Okay. But whatever the undoubtedly important point of the conversation was once upon a normal, it's gone, lost in the wild and wooly weeds of seriously inappropriate ponderings, in the curve of Jensen's lip and the spit shine of saliva, in the canyon that's opened between sanity and...this. Uh, yeah. Jared has no fucking clue where the point disappeared to, so he just says, "What?" and hopes it covers all possible past, present and future bases.
"Just ketchup," Jensen says, and his tongue darts out to taste, quick pink flash across his lips and Jared barely keeps himself from bolting. "So I guess you're not a cannibal."
"Oh. Well, that's good."
Jensen doesn't bother to respond, just gathers his food together and makes for the couch in the living room.
After a minute or two of spacing out Jared figures maybe he should do the same, but his legs aren't so much obeying commands as they are firmly rooted and happy to remain so. As a result, he's kind of stuck, left to stare at the ceiling and try to straighten his shit out. Maybe his legs have the right idea, because what the fuck?
He's not.
Jesus.
He's just not. Jensen may define his own sexual proclivities a little more loosely than he figured, but Jared's not Jensen. Sooner or later he'll get over it, he's just jumpy because it's all so fresh. And really, he could kill himself about a thousand times over for not ignoring that laugh, but save for the invention of some industrial-strength brain solvent he's just going to have to deal with the consequences. Acting like a total douchebag to Jensen in the meantime is not going to help things. What it will do is make him start rooting for the cause of the strange behavior and it would be best for the entire universe to never know that he saw what he saw.
So, smooth and easy it is.
He piles a plate with two more cheeseburgers, pours himself a tall glass of Mama Ackles' blend sweet tea, and adjourns to the living room to bullshit his way back to the life more ordinary. From the fucking recliner.
For the next five hours, Jared pretty much gets his way. They watch the game, they yell at the game, they berate each other mercilessly and throw things. Which, hey, sounds like a pretty awesome lazy Saturday afternoon to Jared. Jensen does his Jensen thing all over the couch and once or twice Jared sees a sliver of skin peeking more than he would have a week ago, but he's pretty damn determined not to notice, so he just doesn't.
It's good, normal. Of course, as soon the thought manifests completely, Jensen stands and stretches like he's doing his damndest to bend himself in half, tugs the tail of his shirt up over his ribs and heads vaguely in the direction of the bedroom. And Jared absolutely does not watch him go. Or if he does, it's only because Jensen's talking to him.
"I'm fucking wiped, dude. Wake me up at seven?"
Then the shirt comes the rest of the way off, a blur of faded green, and Jensen shoulders his way into his room.
What he should have said was:
"Fuck you." or
"Is your alarm clock busted?" or
"I may be tall and all, but I am not your personal Big Ben, bitch." or simply
"No."
What Jared actually says is nothing. He's too focused on the silence Jensen leaves in his wake, the thoughts that creep back on their stupid little cat paws now that he's not distracted by sweaty men running around playing with balls. And he did not just think that. He does think he's about to rattle right out of his skin if he doesn't do something, anything, and preferably in a place that is away from the place where Jensen's already snoring softly and his door is pushed wide, flush against the wall.
And damn if he doesn't feel like he swallowed half a dozen packets of Pop Rocks then chased it with battery acid, because his stomach is churning and groaning and the temptation to do something really fucking stupid sits right there in the middle of it like a stone. Jensen moans in his sleep and mutters a string of unintelligible nonsense. The only words Jared can make out are "yeah" and "lamprey." It's happy distraction for about thirty seconds, trying to figure out what role a lamprey might play on the Acklesian dreamscape, but the Jensen moans again, louder. Suddenly that something that used to make him laugh and reach for the video camera is pulling him in like gravity. Like Jensen's a tropical depression and Jared's being drawn into the eye.
Fuck.
Sometimes you've just got to bite the bullet and find out the truth of a thing whether you want to know or not.
The recliner rocks off-kilter when he stands, a shifty sideways wiggle that makes it creak and Jared half hopes it's enough to wake Sadie, which would in turn wake Jensen, but no joy. Fine.
In the harsh light of mid-afternoon, Jared feels even creepier, sweat springing on his palms at the idea that Jensen might wake up and catch him, might enjoy catching him. But that's a place he dares not tread, not if he values his-everything. He just has to know if it's him. So when he hovers on the threshold of Jensen's room, Jensen splayed boneless before him and feels a tight golden ball of heat bloom low in his belly, it's proof enough.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Now that's disturbing.
Sunday
Jared feels like an apocalypse waiting to happen. Or maybe the Apocalypse, with the capital A, but he can't be sure since they haven't gotten the script for that episode yet and his world ending frame of reference seems to be sorely lacking. For the last fourteen and a half hours he's done everything short of going to set and sleeping in his trailer to avoid Jensen. Until he can figure out what to do about the, whatever, it's the best he's got.
When he steals through the back door of his own damned house he stops to consider that maybe he crossed that invisible boundary into a previously undiscovered territory of ridiculous. Given the current state of affairs, he can deal with the ridiculous, just not Jensen. Which means Jared's overjoyed to discover he's still sleeping, or sleeping again, or what the fuck ever. He dashes upstairs as quickly and quietly as he's able, trying to ignore the fact that Jensen's bedroom door gapes like an open invitation. Again.
Really, the only reason he's here at all is guilt. Well, that and clean clothes, but mostly the guilt. Harley and Sadie have done nothing to deserve his weirdness and he already missed out on running them yesterday because he was messed up. So he rummages through his dresser for gear, changes like he's trying to blow away Superman's record and laces his running shoes tight. It will do him good too, always does.
He keeps his eyes locked firmly forward on his way downstairs until he's past Jensen's room.
Both dogs whine, make soft whuffing noises when he clips the leads to their collars and Jared hushes them sharply. Now is not the time to wake sleeping Jensen's, best to let them lie. They can make all the noise they want once they're clear of the house. Sunglasses set firmly in place, he eases them all out the front door silently.
Outside he can breathe again, the sweet smell of spring pushing hard at winter's chill now that the sun is up. He sucks in a breath, cleans out his lungs and stretches the tension from his muscles. It's as close as he gets to religion, the space between long-legged strides, the rhythmic strike of his heels against pavement always lulls him into a comfortable meditative state. Which is why this is exactly what he needs right now.
Harley falls in beside him, Sadie lagging behind as he kicks into an easy jog. And it's good. It gives him time to think about everything without the shade of Jensen clinging to the corners of his consciousness. With his body otherwise occupied he can work through it in his head.
Unfortunately, it still doesn't make sense to him - this thing that's cropped up, unwanted. Okay, he's seen Jensen in compromising positions before, but just flashes glimpsed in the crack of a slamming door. What compelled him to stay this time? Curiousity? Knowing he wouldn't be caught? Knowing he might be?
His feet slap harder as he picks up the pace, lungs filled to bursting with cool mid-morning air. It takes a minute to tug the truth free of all the bullshit collected around it.
Maybe to all of it. Maybe he's just a perv. Maybe he's a fucking guy and couldn't pass on free live porn.
Whatever.
But why did it get to him? Because it's bad enough to watch, but pretty hard to deny that he enjoyed it. The proof is balled up in the bottom of the hamper at home like the dirty secret it is.
Jared hears Sadie start panting hard and eases off the gas a little. In retrospect, he probably would have been better off leaving the dogs at home. Because he needs to run. Needs to fly fast enough to get this all out of his system. But he can't. So the questions coil out steadily, a sharp, seemingly endless, string of wire wrapping the tension back into his muscles.
Does that small part of him that wants to know already hold sway?
Is it just Jensen?
Has there always been something there but he just hasn't seen it until now?
All Jared knows for certain is that he can't work like this. They spend way too much time together, and as fucked up as the conversation will be, he has to talk to Jensen. If he clears the air, fesses up, things will be insanely awkward for about a week but better in the long run. Alright, maybe not better but settled.
So he tugs the leads and makes the turn towards home.
Once there, he unlocks the front door like every other sane person in the world, unclips the dogs' leashes and hangs them up, toeing his sneakers off in the process. There's a soft rustling that seems originate from the vague direction of Jensen's room, which is good because it means Jared won't have a chance to chicken out, but also bad because he's damn sure not ready.
How the hell you get ready for a conversation like this, he has no idea.
How the hell do you even start a conversation like this?
Normally, he'd knock on Jensen's door before barging in, but since it's open and he's learned the hard way what happens when you peek in on Jensen without announcing yourself, he just slides up close and leans against the wall instead.
"Jensen?"
It makes him feel all of five, the way it comes out, small and tight, but he's so fucking scared of losing--
The world tilts then, because he hears something heavy, fleshy hit the wall and Jensen groans like someone's ripping him apart. A long, guttural, "Fuuuuuuuuuuck," followed by "yeah," and "Jesus fucking Christ," and...
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
There's no way he can. Not now. Not when he's got the slope of Jensen's back and the swell of his hips stuttering behind lowered lids.
Just no.
Jared gulps a breath, then another, tries to convince himself that if he goes upstairs and just pretends he was still asleep, everything will be okay. It's not working. Another breath and he gets Jensen's fingers gripped in the hollow of Misha's hip. Another breath and he's seeing Jensen nudge his cock into the crease of Misha's ass. Another breath and...
Fuck.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he will bring coffee and confront Jensen. Before makeup, before hair, before running lines. Certainly before he has to spend twelve hours parked in a car bound for nowhere next to him.
Jensen moans again, soft, and heaves a sigh.
Jared hooks his shoes with one hand, his keys with the other and slams the door on his way out. Way to be stealthy.
Tomorrow.
Continue