J2 Big Bang Fic: Two Cures for Love Part 2

[lizzywinks]

Chapter 1

It's hot. Unseasonably hot for New York at this time of year, and Jensen is really feeling it. It reminds him of home. It reminds him of―

Jensen clamps down ruthlessly on the thought. He hadn't enjoyed the therapy sessions his parents had forced on him, enjoyed even less the wary, hesitant way they'd treated him pretty much right up until he left home for college, as if any second he was going to flip out and set fire to their home. Again.

He reminds himself that it’s been a long time since he’s had to worry about what other people think of him, and turns his attention to putting the groceries away before they spoiled, regretting as always that air conditioning just isn’t worth the risk of the respiratory infections he always seems to get hit with. His mama always blamed the fire, and the smoke he’d inhaled...

Jensen dumps the paper grocery sacks on the table, and turns to yank the window open with unnecessary force. There's so little air though, even as open as his loft apartment is, that mostly all he manages to accomplish is to let in the sounds of traffic below.

It’s easy to forget sometimes how hemmed in he is in the city, but it’s worth it. The lack of clean air is a fair trade off for the quality of the light that floods in through the huge windows of his apartment, shifting and changing through the day and illuminating his workspace and the images he brings to life.

Still, he's got no real ties to the place, and maybe it’s time to consider another move. Somewhere he doesn't have to spend the summer cursing the heat and roasting his balls off.

Jensen lets out a weary sigh at the begrudging breeze that meanders sullenly through the window, and moves back to his unpacking. He opens the fridge to slide the milk inside, and his glance catches on the picture stuck to the front, the drawing of the flying crocodile he did back when he was eight, wings aloft and slanted, laughing eyes wide with glee as it swoops among jungle greenery.

The drawing is pretty much the only thing that survived his incinerated bedroom, and he has no idea why he still has it. It's hardly a happy memory, but it's pretty much the only possession that’s followed him from childhood to adulthood, dorm room to dorm room, city to city, silently reminding him how tenuous his grasp of reality once was.

Maybe that's why he keeps it.

He has the urge suddenly to hold a match to it, see if there's something special about the construction paper that somehow stopped it going up in flames like every other thing he owned. Rationally, he knows that it probably ended up under something solid, inflammable, and only reappeared when his room was being cleared.

That's what his therapist told him anyway, and he agreed. Not like he had much choice if he wanted to ever stop attending the damn sessions. He's reaching for the candle lighter next to the stove when he catches himself and lets it fall from his grasp as though he's holding a hot flame in his hands.

Jensen doesn't know why he's suddenly thinking about this. It's been over twenty years, and he hasn't started a single other fire, not even to toast marshmallows on, and he's never once since imagined he found an egg that hatched into a dragon named Jared. He's completely mentally sound, he reminds himself. He had a blip, probably brought on by some kind of virus, and it's not like he's the only kid in the world to have an imaginary friend, even if most of them aren't pyromaniacs.

Jensen reaches for a beer, pauses to consider and goes for a Mountain Dew instead. No sense borrowing trouble.



Jensen sits up, stretching the kinks out of his back painfully. He's been working most of the day with only a couple of breaks to grab a quick sandwich and to refill the coffee pot. His hand is cramping badly, but when he casts his eye over his easel, he's pleased with what he sees. For years he'd only collaborated with writers, providing the images based on their words, until his own work had garnered enough attention that he was getting commissions, and then his own shows, until now a piece of J R Ackles original art would make a fairly substantial dent in even the most healthy of bank balances.

Despite that, what Jensen still enjoys most is working with someone else, bringing their world to life, especially when their world is fantasy, even better when it's kid’s fiction and he can lose whole days in fantastical lands, dreaming up impossible creatures that the author has barely sketched out yet without anyone raising an eyebrow.

He reaches out, ghosts his thumb over the tiny green figure crouching at the bottom right hand corner of the canvas, almost hidden in the fronds of a giant fern.

Jared.

Jensen shakes his head, impatient with himself for giving in to the melancholy urge. He'd hoped bringing Jared back to life in paint and ink would settle his thoughts as it usually did, but today the memories are sharp and clear, close enough to reach out and touch. Lurking just behind them is the smell of smoke and the sound of crackling fire, his mother’s tear-stained eyes, his dad’s disappointed gaze.

Jensen thrusts his brushes into the jar, for once not cleaning them straight away. They’re expensive and deserve better handling, but he's decided he's earned that beer after all and isn't in the mood to delay.

He’s almost at the fridge when the sound of a booming knock at the door echoes through the apartment. Jensen startles; no one should be able to get upstairs without being buzzed up. In fact, he doesn't think he's ever even heard anyone actually knock at his door before because he usually has it open and ready by the time the lumbering lift opens to dispatch any guests.

Through the peep hole, he can see someone standing in the small hallway. His back is to the door, but he's tall, very tall, with dark, floppy hair curling over his collar. He seems to be bouncing gently on the balls of his feet, the top of his head intermittently disappearing from view with the motion. Jensen frowns; he doesn't recognize whoever it is, and though he's plenty big enough himself, this is New York and the guy's got a couple of inches, and more than a few pounds of muscle on him.

He reaches over for the baseball bat that Misha brought him as a housewarming gift, The city violent crime rate for New York is higher than the national average by 28.5%, Jensen. Statistically, this is going to be much more useful than a ficus, and slides it closer. When he’s sure it’s in grabbing range, he edges door open.

"Can I help you?"

The man in front of him jerks round, his face lighting up in a beaming grin, two deep dimples appearing on either side.

"Jensen? Hey, I found you! I mean, I knew where you were, but still... I can't believe how big you got! I've really missed you," he adds, and then steps forward to haul Jensen up into a hug.

Jensen returns it instinctively, distantly aware of hard, firm muscles pressed against his own, and a smell that's weirdly familiar and completely strange all at once. He's searching his memories when his brain finally catches up with his indiscriminate limbs and he reaches out to grab the stranger's upper arms-which is like hanging on to two tree trunks-and pushes him away. He's only managed to put a few inches of space between them, because his new best friend doesn't seem too enthused on letting him go, but it's at least enough to allow him to examine the face in front of him.

It definitely isn't someone he's ever seen before, but, just like with the smell, he's oddly familiar. Maybe he's a relative of someone Jensen knows. A family friend or something, or someone who just has very odd ideas about boundaries. Except the other man is talking, and acting, as if they’re old friends.

"Dude, I'm sorry, but do I know you?" Jensen asks, trying to wrestle a few extra inches of space; he might as well be trying to increase the size of his apartment by pushing on the walls.

"What?" The guy laughs, and then stills when Jensen doesn't join it. "Jensen, it's me! Am I late? I mean, obviously I’m late, but those are your rules―well, not yours, but, god, it’s been so hard, was it hard for you, too?" He’s picking up speed, the words tumbling into each other, and Jensen blinks over at him dazedly. "Oh! I’m so stupid!" the other man suddenly says, releasing Jensen finally to bring an open palm up to his forehead. Underneath the broad hand, his tip tilted eyes are wide, blue-green merging into stormy gray as he berates himself. "You never saw me like this!"

Jensen feels something slick and scary settle in his stomach, a fast growing dread that's oozing along his spine and down into his veins, because he recognizes those eyes. He recognizes that voice.

"Jared?" he asks hoarsely, the name sticking in his throat.

"Yes! It's me!" Jared says, delighted, reaching out to grab for him again. "I knew you'd recognize―"

"No, I don't, that isn’t― Just, don't touch me!" he says sharply, and backs hurriedly out of reach. "I say a name, and you just say yes? Screw that, I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know you. You should leave." Jensen needs to call his therapist. He wonders a little hysterically if he'll be able to convince the receptionist to book an appointment for a twenty eight year old man. He wonders whether he can find anywhere online that's willing to deliver fire extinguishers in bulk.

"Jensen, what's wrong?" Jared (not Jared) asks, his forehead wrinkled in concern.

"Did Josh send you?" Jensen demands. He pretty sure Josh wouldn't pull such a shitty trick, pretty sure even after all these years that Josh wouldn't think this was anywhere near funny, but he's grasping at straws. No one knows what happened that night, what Jensen thought happened that night except for his family and his therapist. And even they don't know everything. Josh was the only one he confided the whole story to, and the fact that he didn't immediately blab it to everyone or look at Jensen forever afterward like the crazy person that he was had basically earned him Jensen's everlasting gratitude. He hates to doubt him now, but who else even knew Jared's name? Jensen sure as hell as never admitted it.

"No one sent me," Jared says slowly. "It's been twenty one years, Jensen. Twenty one years today. I told you I'd be back."

Fuck. It has been twenty one years. Jensen knows that, even though he's spent most of the day pretending he doesn't know today’s the anniversary of the worst day of his life, just like he does every year.

"I―when did you tell me?" he finds himself asking instead of ordering Jared out of the door, or figuring out if he's flexible enough to wriggle out of a straight jacket.

"In my letters, some of them anyway because it’s harder to be patient when I actually thought about it for too long, but probably all of them lately."

"I didn't get any letters."

Jared shakes his head. "This week?"

"How about ever?"

"What? That isn’t-I've been sending them for years, Jensen. They can’t have all got lost. In fact," he says, voice strengthening, "My mother took personal responsibility for them; I don’t think any of them could have gotten lost." He shakes his head again, dismissive this time, fondness and indulgence for Jensen’s obviously ridiculous claim clear in his expression.

Jensen realizes he's standing slumped slightly against the wall, legs feeling a little too shaky for him to trust to take care of themselves right then. Jared is edging closer, little shuffling steps bringing him almost back in hugging range.

It’s that final realization that has Jensen jolting upright and striding through the apartment to the kitchen area. He reaches into a cupboard and pulls out an unopened bottle of Scotch, a gift from a happy client. He doesn’t drink spirits often, can't ever risk letting his guard down that much.

He glances behind him. Jared was hot on his heels when he set off, but he's obviously been distracted and is now wandering around his apartment, plucking photos from walls and examining each one intently and generally making himself entirely too much at home. Jensen twists the cap off the bottle and takes a healthy swig. The hit of alcohol is shocking, and he coughs, waits for the burn in his throat to subside before taking another quick gulp, and then grabs a glass to pour a hefty measure into it.

Beginning to feel a little more able to cope now that the numbness of inebriation is settling down to fog his brain, he turns back to Jared who's moved on to his bookcase and is leafing through a thick book on 18th century art.

He places the book quickly back on the shelf when he hears Jensen approaching, and watches him avidly, a happy smile edging at his lips.

"You want anything?" Jensen asks, raises the glass of amber liquid he's holding high and tilting it towards Jared; his mother raised him right―even in the midst of a psychotic break, he's not about to forget his manners.

Jared leans over the glass for a long, unabashed sniff, and then pulls back. "No. Thank you," he adds quickly, and moves forward to herd Jensen towards the huge, squashy couch in front of the TV.

Jensen hesitates, and then sinks down onto the seat. Shaky legs and large quantities of alcohol don't really mix well. He lowers the glass onto the table in front of him and tries to figure out if he’s actually crazy, and, if he is, when exactly it happened.

"So, you're Jared," he says. It's not a question, but Jared seems to take it as one. He nods enthusiastically, and then drops down onto the seat beside Jensen, far too close for comfort for two strangers, and turns to face him, leg drawn up and underneath him so there's no awkward angels or comforting distance separating them.

"Yes," Jared adds, as if the violent head movement wasn't answer enough. "It really is me. I’ve travelled from my reality to yours."

Jensen snorts. "Probably best not to talk about reality right now, because I seem to be having an extended break from it."

Jared watches him closely, a worried look in his eyes. "I didn’t realize this would be such a shock to you, Jensen."

Jensen lets out a harsh bark of laughter and reaches over for his drink. "Yeah, guess you could say that," he mutters into his glass. "So, what have you been up to since we last saw each other," he asks politely. Miss. Manners has nothing on him.

"Oh, well," Jared says slowly. "That's a lot of years―"

"No, you're right, we should probably skip it and get to the good stuff―like who the hell are you and what's your angle here?"

"Angle? I don't know what―"

"Okay, how about scam? Do you understand that any better? So, what scam are you trying to pull, and, while we're at it, just how did you even get up here past the security system?"

"Through a portal, but I don’t think... Jensen, it is me," Jared says unhappily. "I'm not trying to trick you―"

"Dude, enough." Jensen lurches to his feet. "I'm not falling for it, so unless you're about to pull something phenomenally convincing out of your ass, you might as well give it up and go―"

Jensen breaks off abruptly: Turns out an actual dragon, eyes wide and apologetic, sitting on the destroyed remains of his previously incredibly comfortable couch is actually phenomenally fucking convincing.



Jared is easily persuaded to return to his human form. Which is a very good thing; Jensen's couch is broken beyond repair, and one of the floor to ceiling supporting pillars that separates the living from the working area in his apartment is now resting at a very troubling angle.

"I'm so sorry," Jared says again, wringing his hands together unhappily as they both survey the damage. "The dimensions are so different to last time... I didn’t realize how big I’d be as an adult dragon here."

"It's fine. My fault anyway―I did pretty much push you into it." Jensen sighs and makes his way toward the kitchen, Jared trailing him silently. He pushes out one of the breakfast table chairs, and Jared hesitates before perching down on it, slow and careful as if the chair is made of spun sugar.

Jensen considers the still open bottle of whiskey, and then opens the fridge to pull out two sodas, and places one in front of Jared. Jared lifts it up, examining it curiously, before holding it up to his nose and sniffing it cautiously.

Jared watches him silently, and then reaches over to pull the can away from him when Jared gives it a quick, surreptitious lick.

"Dude, that is seriously unsanitary; I have no idea where the hell that thing has been before it made it to my fridge." He pulls the tab and returns the open soda to Jared who sniffs it again before tilting his neck back to take a long swallow, and then he sneezes twice in rapid succession.

"This is delicious!" he says happily, and chugs back the last of the soda. "We don't have this at home," Jared adds, before letting out a loud, extended burp. The ferocity of the sound distracts Jensen from opening his own can, and sends his glance winging up to collide with Jared’s. "Huh," Jared says thoughtfully, and not even a tiny bit embarrassed, "that would make fire balls so much easier."

Jensen opens his mouth, and then closes it with a snap―he’s really got nothing. Jared is watching him intently now, empty Pepsi can abandoned, and Jensen shifts uncomfortably until he realizes it’s the can in his own hand that has Jared enthralled. Jensen freezes, eyes clashing with Jared whose gaze has turned decidedly jealous.

"Do you want another?" he asks slowly, and hands the can over at Jared's quick nod. "Um, I guess it would be hard to open a ring pull with claws," Jensen says awkwardly, and then bites down hard on his lip when Jared frowns over at him. "I mean, that’s probably why you don’t have them at... home."

Jensen isn’t sure if it’s crazier to keep fighting the fact he's sitting down for a catch-up session with a dragon who basically screwed up his whole childhood, or to just accept it and concentrate on finding out what the fuck Jared wants.

"Well, yeah, but you know, hands too." Jared holds out his hands as though he's offering Jensen a gift―they’re huge, like the rest of Jared, strong and capable, and Jensen feels an unexpected shiver run down his spine. He twitches unhappily; great now he’s coming down with a cold on top of everything else.

"So all dragons have two forms?" Jensen asks, pushing aside the vague health concern. "You can just change at will?"

"Yes." Jared carefully places the two empty cans on top of each other and strokes a lean, tanned finger down the side, tracing the writing as he goes.

Jensen shivers again, but by the time Jared turns his attention back to him, contentment suddenly radiating out of him as he inches his chair closer, Jensen is feeling flushed and hot. Definitely a cold, maybe even the flu.

"But you didn't when we first met," Jensen reminds, mostly to distract himself.

"Oh, well, I was just a baby really."

"You got kinda pissy when I pointed it out back then."

Jared looks down, a flush making its way up his face. "Um, yeah, sorry about that, and about the um―" he flaps his hands in front of him.

"Burning down my house?" Jensen adds helpfully. "Taking a chunk out of my ear? Almost getting me packed off to the funny farm?"

Jared opens his mouth and clamps it back down closed a second later. He looks distraught, blinking rapidly. "I wondered if that was why you didn't reply to any of my letters. I mean, I know it was only possible when the portals aligned in your world, but the instructions were clear so when no messages came, I was afraid it was because you were still too angry to forgive me."

"What? I told you, I didn't get any damn letters―no postcards, no phone calls, nothing. I’ve spent the last twenty years trying to convince myself, convince my family, that I wasn’t crazy. I wasn't mad at you, Jared, I thought I imagined you."

"Oh, okay. I’m... glad. Glad that you're not angry, I mean, " Jared says hurriedly. He's darting cautious looks up at Jensen from beneath lowered lashes, and it's clear he still doesn't believe him. There's not much Jensen can think to do to convince him, especially if it means calling Jared's mother's honesty into question, and anyway, he's kind of got bigger problems right now.

"So what prompted this visit?" he asks instead, and Jared sits abruptly upright, a quick growing confusion spreading across his face.

"It's been twenty one years, the human age of consent―I'm here to court you, Jensen."

Jensen can't help it, he laughs, and then immediately feels guilty when Jared's face crumples. "Sorry, I just... twenty one years? Where did you even―you know what, doesn't matter; I just―I was not expecting that."

"Oh." Jared seems relieved. "Some of my terminology is a little outdated, I guess? I've been watching as much of your TV as I could, but portal access is limited even for me. I had to stick mostly to old stuff―less chance of being discovered that way―so I’m not completely up to date. There's still a lot of... resistance in my world to even the thought of integration. Things are getting better," he adds quickly, "but there are still plenty of... dragons who object."

"Wait, you're only twenty one?" Jensen asks, because, yes, that's the most important part of this conversation.

"Well, in human years, but dragons include our shell years as well."

"Which makes you...?"

"Twenty five."

"You spent four years as an egg?" Jensen takes in Jared's long length, legs stretched out and only prevented by tangling with Jensen's own by a table leg blocking the way. He can’t image this Jared curled up in such a cramped, confined space, no room to stretch his long limbs for freaking years.

"We mostly sleep, some lessons of course, but a dragon's birth depends on the stars; sometimes it takes them longer to align perfectly than others―my younger sister actually hatched before me."

"Look, Jared," Jensen begins slowly, and Jared hitches eagerly forward. "I'm not sure how to break this to you, so I'm just gonna come right out and say it, okay?" Jared nods, and watches Jensen with utter trust. It makes Jensen feel like crap. "So the whole courting thing? I'm guessing it means the same in dragon as it does in human, and, um, basically that really isn't going to work for me."

"Oh, that's―I know that humans are more forward than dragons in matters of the heart," Jared says, faint color high up on his cheekbones. "But my family will demand at least a short courtship period before―"

"No, that's not what I meant. Jared," he says as gently as he can, "I don't date men.

"I'm not a man."

"Yeah, well I don't date dragons, either."

"But, but, technically we’re already mated, Jensen. I took your blood into me―"

"Wait, that's what that was? Dude, that’s sick! We were just kids! And anyway, you can't go around gnawing on innocent bystanders like that and then announcing you're mated!"

"I know, but I was just a hatching! And I was so sure about you, but then you didn't even believe I was real! I got...frustrated. I shouldn't have bitten you without your consent, I know, but―"

"Okay, don't feel bad, there's no real harm done," Jensen says over him, trying to calm both himself and Jared with a soothing tone. "I release you, or whatever. Now you can head home and find a nice lady dragon, or guy dragon, I'm not judging here, and set up home. No one needs to know about this, but, if anyone asks, just tell them when you found me I was already married. Or dead. Whichever's easier." There's a weird little ache at the idea of Jared finding himself a cute little lady dragon, but Jensen refuses to focus on it―he barely knows Jared, it's just that he's always been a possessive son of a bitch.

"Jensen, we're mated," Jared's frantic voice distracts him from his thoughts, "and the mating wouldn’t have taken if we weren’t meant for each other! I can't just find someone else!"

"Sure you can, humans do it all the time. Trust me," Jensen says, standing, and urging Jared to his feet too. "A year from now, and you'll be sitting in your cave―"

"We don't―"

"―counting your gold―"

"Dragon gold isn't―

"―and you'll barely be able to remember my name."

"Your name is burned into my soul and mine into yours!"

"Cool," Jensen says, hardening his heart and shepherding Jared toward the door. "Like a drunken tattoo. Everyone gets one at some point, right?"

"Jensen, I don't understand..." Jared trails off to watch Jensen reach around to inch the door open behind him. "You want me to go?"

"I don't mean to be rude, and it's been great catching up, and finding out finally that I'm not actually crazy, obviously, but I'm actually right in the middle of something." He gently guides Jared across the threshold. "But we should definitely grab a beer―some time soon, okay?"

Jared is still shaking his head dumbly, confusion and hurt warring on his face, when Jensen gently closes the door on him.

*~*

When Jensen works up the courage a few hours later to creep back toward the door and glance through the peep hole, Jared is still pretty much where he left him, except he's slumped down now on the floor, his back resting against the wall and his ridiculously long legs stretched out in front of him. Jensen watches, guilt slowly growing, as Jared reaches up to kneed unhappily at the muscles in his neck, possibly where two dark green wings would sprout in his other form, and then settles back down with a sigh.

Jensen scuttles back to his kitchen and the half empty bottle of scotch. He's got some catching up to do.

Chapter 3