Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky (Jensen/Jared RPS) -- 10/? (WIP)
Title: Early Mornings and Late Nights Under Overcast Sky
Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / OFC
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks. Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted... I am writing on this, but really, it took on a mind/life of it's own, and it's sorta festering at upset!Jared and a Jensen who's entirely unsure what to do... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
Summary: Jared’s girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help.
Spoilers: Nothing to see here, folks...
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Chapter Ten: Bliss and Other Ignorance
Rating: NC-17 for teh!sex…
Pairing: Jensen/Luanne (ofc-and ohgodIwrotehet-again!) and Jensen/Jared (slow going but things are looking a little better, right?)
Word Count: 2,279
Bliss and Other Ignorance
I find room 241 without incident after parking near the entrance to the hotel. I was never given to this type of thing when I was younger-going to a hotel to (meet a woman and) have sex-so this doesn’t bring back memories or make me feel like a teenager. Thing is though, as an actor, I can pretend that maybe this is more illicit than it isn’t, and I can pretend I’m younger and rushing off to get my rocks off, sneaking around the dark and trying to keep it a secret from my parents.
It gets me half-hard before I reach the door.
Luanne’s perfectly manicured hand reaches out from the darkness of the hotel room to pull me inside, and before I can get my coat off, her mouth is on mine. She’s standing on her toes, her voluptuous curves pressing against every inch of my body, and she’s already naked. If my cock wasn’t awake before, it is now, and it’s all I can do to push her away just enough to unbutton and unzip.
She does the rest, stepping back up to me, pushing my jeans to the floor, guiding me to the bed when I step out of them. Her hands skim over me, fluttering, sliding, pressing… fingertips pinching, massaging my ass. I can feel her everywhere.
She pushes me onto my back, straddles me, grinding her crotch into my dick. I’m still wearing boxers, and I’m not in the mood to play. I grab her shoulders, not gently, and turn us both until she’s underneath me, pressing her breasts into my chest, wrapping her long legs around mine.
As I work my boxers down to my ankles and kick them off, her hands find one of the condoms in my wallet. She slides the condom over me, drags her fingertips over my hips and grips my ass cheeks as I thrust into her in one movement. I’m less than gentle as I fuck her, my hips slamming into hers roughly, enough for me to feel it in my bones. She rakes her fingernails down my back, digs them into my ass when she comes. I’m pretty sure I’ll have marks.
I roll off her when I finish, sweating and breathing heavily, peel off the condom, tie it off and toss it to the floor.
She rolls over, reaches over the side of the bed and comes up with a bottle of water and a bottle of Gatorade. I take the water, swallow half the bottle in one gulp. She giggles, sips at the Gatorade slowly, licking her lips. “You men are all the same. Do you drink anything slowly?”
“Not after sex.” I say dryly, finishing off the rest of the water and falling back against the pillows with a sigh. Surprisingly, her comment doesn’t faze me in the least-about all us men being the same.
If my first girlfriend had said that to me-or even if some of the women I’d been with since had said it to me-I’d probably have been out of the bed and out of the room within seconds. Just on the principle of the matter. But not Luanne. I don’t care enough, I suppose. She’s a good lay and little else to me.
I can’t remember the last relationship I was in. Can’t remember, honestly, the last time words like that would have bothered me.
Luanne crawls over the bed to me, slides up my body to kiss me. Her body is warm and inviting, her hands skilled as she works my cock back to attention. She takes me in her mouth, looks up at me from beneath heavy-lidded eyes as I lace my fingers behind my head and lean back, let her drive.
I purposely hold off as long as possible, watching as her blond hair flops up and down as her head bobs along the length of my cock, watch as my dick disappears into her mouth to reappear moments later as she slides up its length. I’m not thinking a lot of anything coherent, which is probably why the disappearance and subsequent reappearance of my dick from her throat is so fascinating.
When I come, it’s fast and hard, and I don’t scream her name. I don’t scream anyone’s, and for reasons unknown and unanalyzed, my first thought when I return to reality is of Jared.
I should get back home.
She rolls over, her back to me, and I wait a few minutes before getting up to shower. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I walk out of the bathroom, a towel to my head, otherwise naked. Neither of us say anything as I dress, pick my keys off the floor where they’d fallen, and check my phone for messages before tucking it in my jacket pocket.
She glances over her shoulder, her hair loose and disheveled around her face, yawns as she watches me go. I pause in the doorway, she wiggles the fingers of one hand at me, mouths “goodbye”, and turns away. I shake my head, for the first time thinking that maybe this is only sex to her as well. Or maybe she just got the message.
Regardless, it’s none of my concern as I listen to my voice messages. One from Kripke, telling me he still hasn’t been able to reach Jared, and that “…his voicemail is full, I can’t even leave him a message. It’s not like him. I hope nothing’s happened to him.”
There’s another, static and mumbling that I can’t make out, so I delete it without even listening to the whole thing. The third and final message is from “…Megan, Jared’s sister? Can you…”
I hang up without bothering to listen to the message, toss the phone into the passenger seat and turn onto the highway back towards my house. I’ve been gone for nearly four hours. It’s almost two in the morning.
I don’t know why I feel or give in to the want (need?) to check on Jared when I get home, but I do, opening the door to the guest room to a blast of warm and stuffy air. Jared lies on the bed, asleep, blankets kicked off, the space heater on the floor on full blast and now with a thin white nightshirt on as well. He obviously woke at some point in the night.
I turn the heater off, pull the blankets over Jared’s sweat-soaked body, and after slight hesitation, let the back of my hand come to rest on his forehead. His skin is hot, damp, and he shifts, murmuring unintelligibly at my touch. I withdraw my hand, debate waking him to take his temperature and make him drink some water, ultimately deciding to let him sleep through the night. I’ll check on him in the morning.
I lie awake in bed, drifting off to sleep eventually, but not before I see the LCD display of my clock flicker to three am.
I’m jarred awake two hours later by the sound of a crash coming from the bathroom, followed by the sound of what can be nothing else but Jared retching. I hurry to the bathroom to see Jared on his knees, bent over the toilet, one arm wrapped around his midsection, the other flung over his head, resting on the porcelain seat.
I stand in the door, hands on the wooden doorframe, and suck in a breath at the sight of him. I say nothing.
He sighs into the toilet, lifts his head just slightly, and his shoulders heave suddenly, but there’s nothing coming up but spit and bile. “I’m okay, Jensen.” His voice, muffled and hollow, echoes off the porcelain.
How he knew I was there I’ll never know, but at his acknowledgement of my presence, I take a tentative step into the bathroom, barefoot across the cold tile floor. I nod, biting my lower lip. “Right.” I say tersely, taking a clean washcloth from one of the shelves on the wall and soaking it with cold water from the tap.
Jared’s body trembles as he gives in to the dry heaves, spitting into the toilet, resting his head on his arm. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on his arms, visible despite the darkness, and as I wring the excess water from the cotton cloth, he raises his head from his arm, hair soaked with sweat and little more than a mop, falling in his heavy-lidded eyes.
He looks like crap. Our eyes meet, and he doesn’t try to tell me he’s okay again, merely slumps in on himself and swivels back towards the toilet as his stomach turns over on itself again.
“Je…” I almost take the Lord’s name in vain, but stop myself, settling for my co-star’s name instead. “Jared…” I breathe, crouching half at his side, half behind him. He doesn’t answer, but doesn’t fight me either as I lift his head with one hand, gently pressing the wet cloth to his forehead with the other, lifting up, guiding him until his shoulder presses to my chest. He shakes. “Shhh…” I soothe.
And it’s somehow easy to try to calm him, help him to take easy breaths to quell the shaking, to relax him. I force myself not to analyze right now, to just go with it, because I don’t know what I’m feeling or what I’m thinking, but think that maybe it’s not important, because Jared’s responding better to this-physical touch and wordless tones-than he has to anything I may have said before or could say now.
I slide the hand not holding the washcloth to his chest, let it rest on warm, damp cotton over his heart, finding an odd comfort in the feel of his heartbeat as I pull his back to me. “Shhhh…” I murmur into his hair, followed by, “Shhh... relax, Jare…,” and as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, “…’sokay…”
It occurs to me that this, to my character, Dean, would be one of the biggest chick-flicks ever. I barely hide a smile and chuckle at the thought.
Jared reaches up a hand to flush the toilet, lets it drop listlessly back to his side afterwards. He shivers, a full-body twitch, and his teeth chatter. “C..cold, Jensen…” He whispers.
It is chilly, kneeling on the tile of the bathroom floor, dressed in little more than sweats and a tee. For Jared, sweat-soaked, it must be worse. “Okay.” I stand, lifting him with me, and not for the first time consider taking him to the hospital. His skin is warm to the touch, his cheeks ruddy and the roots of his hair dark with moisture. His eyes are unseeing, unfocused, and heavy-lidded with sleep and undoubtedly, fever.
When he slumps against me, I lift one of his spaghetti-arms and loop it around my neck, pushing all thoughts other than those centered around helping Jared out of my head-and there are plenty. “C’mon…” I say no more, pretty sure he can’t understand the words anyway. I glance up into the medicine cabinet, fumble for the thermometer and on grasping it, turn my full attention back to Jared, carefully maneuvering him back to bed.
He’s nearly asleep as I deposit him on the bed, clammy sheets clinging to equally clammy clothes-I’ll get him a change of clothes and sheets tomorrow. His head sinks into the pillow, and he murmurs something I can’t make out.
“No… you can’t sleep yet, Jare… c’mon… open up.” I hold the thermometer towards him, let the tip brush his lips.
He groans and turns his face into the pillow, away from me.
“Jared, don’t make me get the rect...” I break off, realizing what I was about to say, and sigh heavily. “…Nevermind, you might like that…” I mutter quietly, then, more firmly, “Open your mouth, Jared.”
He manages a very weak “…fuck you…”, and as he speaks, I push the thermometer between his lips, watching as he closes his mouth around it.
“One minute.” I tell him, reaching out to smooth hair from his forehead. He moves his head slightly as I do, inclining towards me, leaning into the gentle touch. I bite my lip and look away from him, leaving my hand where it is in his hair.
When the thermometer beeps, I slide it out of his mouth. Jared shifts slightly atop the covers-he’s barely awake.
It’s a digital reading of 102.4, and I remember reading or hearing somewhere that if a fever of 104 lasts for more than a day, hospital care is recommended, and make a mental note to take his temperature in the morning.
I cover his inert body with a light blanket, again let my hand brush over his hair, and turn the light off, casting the room into eerie shadows cast by early breaking morning-it’s nearly five-forty, almost six in the morning. I close the blinds and the door behind me, leaving the latter slightly ajar, though I doubt I’ll have trouble hearing Jared when he wakes, regardless of whether the door is latched or not.
I snap the blinds in my room closed as well, climb beneath the covers, and make a conscious effort to keep my mind clear, though my thoughts keep straying towards the sick man in my guest room, towards what I’d just done (I took care of him, nothing more.) and what it might have meant (It meant nothing).
I again remind myself to check his temperature in a few hours, punch my pillow a few times as the heater clicks on, and fall asleep within minutes.
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Characters/Pairing: Jensen Ackles / Jared Padalecki; Jensen Ackles / OFC
POV: Jensen Ackles
Author's Notes: It’s fiction. That means it’s not real, folks. Jensen and Jared are real people. So is Eric Kripke. The show “Supernatural” is a real TV show on the WB11. If anything else in this is real, I wasn’t aware of it.
I'm not going to say when or if the next chapter will be posted... I am writing on this, but really, it took on a mind/life of it's own, and it's sorta festering at upset!Jared and a Jensen who's entirely unsure what to do... So... read at your own risk. I would enjoy feedback, but I'll understand if you don't want to start reading a WIP with no end in sight or in the works. I really have no idea what's coming next here.
Summary: Jared’s girl (Sandra) breaks up with him. Jensen tries to help.
Spoilers: Nothing to see here, folks...
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Chapter Ten: Bliss and Other Ignorance
Rating: NC-17 for teh!sex…
Pairing: Jensen/Luanne (ofc-and ohgodIwrotehet-again!) and Jensen/Jared (slow going but things are looking a little better, right?)
Word Count: 2,279
Bliss and Other Ignorance
I find room 241 without incident after parking near the entrance to the hotel. I was never given to this type of thing when I was younger-going to a hotel to (meet a woman and) have sex-so this doesn’t bring back memories or make me feel like a teenager. Thing is though, as an actor, I can pretend that maybe this is more illicit than it isn’t, and I can pretend I’m younger and rushing off to get my rocks off, sneaking around the dark and trying to keep it a secret from my parents.
It gets me half-hard before I reach the door.
Luanne’s perfectly manicured hand reaches out from the darkness of the hotel room to pull me inside, and before I can get my coat off, her mouth is on mine. She’s standing on her toes, her voluptuous curves pressing against every inch of my body, and she’s already naked. If my cock wasn’t awake before, it is now, and it’s all I can do to push her away just enough to unbutton and unzip.
She does the rest, stepping back up to me, pushing my jeans to the floor, guiding me to the bed when I step out of them. Her hands skim over me, fluttering, sliding, pressing… fingertips pinching, massaging my ass. I can feel her everywhere.
She pushes me onto my back, straddles me, grinding her crotch into my dick. I’m still wearing boxers, and I’m not in the mood to play. I grab her shoulders, not gently, and turn us both until she’s underneath me, pressing her breasts into my chest, wrapping her long legs around mine.
As I work my boxers down to my ankles and kick them off, her hands find one of the condoms in my wallet. She slides the condom over me, drags her fingertips over my hips and grips my ass cheeks as I thrust into her in one movement. I’m less than gentle as I fuck her, my hips slamming into hers roughly, enough for me to feel it in my bones. She rakes her fingernails down my back, digs them into my ass when she comes. I’m pretty sure I’ll have marks.
I roll off her when I finish, sweating and breathing heavily, peel off the condom, tie it off and toss it to the floor.
She rolls over, reaches over the side of the bed and comes up with a bottle of water and a bottle of Gatorade. I take the water, swallow half the bottle in one gulp. She giggles, sips at the Gatorade slowly, licking her lips. “You men are all the same. Do you drink anything slowly?”
“Not after sex.” I say dryly, finishing off the rest of the water and falling back against the pillows with a sigh. Surprisingly, her comment doesn’t faze me in the least-about all us men being the same.
If my first girlfriend had said that to me-or even if some of the women I’d been with since had said it to me-I’d probably have been out of the bed and out of the room within seconds. Just on the principle of the matter. But not Luanne. I don’t care enough, I suppose. She’s a good lay and little else to me.
I can’t remember the last relationship I was in. Can’t remember, honestly, the last time words like that would have bothered me.
Luanne crawls over the bed to me, slides up my body to kiss me. Her body is warm and inviting, her hands skilled as she works my cock back to attention. She takes me in her mouth, looks up at me from beneath heavy-lidded eyes as I lace my fingers behind my head and lean back, let her drive.
I purposely hold off as long as possible, watching as her blond hair flops up and down as her head bobs along the length of my cock, watch as my dick disappears into her mouth to reappear moments later as she slides up its length. I’m not thinking a lot of anything coherent, which is probably why the disappearance and subsequent reappearance of my dick from her throat is so fascinating.
When I come, it’s fast and hard, and I don’t scream her name. I don’t scream anyone’s, and for reasons unknown and unanalyzed, my first thought when I return to reality is of Jared.
I should get back home.
She rolls over, her back to me, and I wait a few minutes before getting up to shower. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I walk out of the bathroom, a towel to my head, otherwise naked. Neither of us say anything as I dress, pick my keys off the floor where they’d fallen, and check my phone for messages before tucking it in my jacket pocket.
She glances over her shoulder, her hair loose and disheveled around her face, yawns as she watches me go. I pause in the doorway, she wiggles the fingers of one hand at me, mouths “goodbye”, and turns away. I shake my head, for the first time thinking that maybe this is only sex to her as well. Or maybe she just got the message.
Regardless, it’s none of my concern as I listen to my voice messages. One from Kripke, telling me he still hasn’t been able to reach Jared, and that “…his voicemail is full, I can’t even leave him a message. It’s not like him. I hope nothing’s happened to him.”
There’s another, static and mumbling that I can’t make out, so I delete it without even listening to the whole thing. The third and final message is from “…Megan, Jared’s sister? Can you…”
I hang up without bothering to listen to the message, toss the phone into the passenger seat and turn onto the highway back towards my house. I’ve been gone for nearly four hours. It’s almost two in the morning.
I don’t know why I feel or give in to the want (need?) to check on Jared when I get home, but I do, opening the door to the guest room to a blast of warm and stuffy air. Jared lies on the bed, asleep, blankets kicked off, the space heater on the floor on full blast and now with a thin white nightshirt on as well. He obviously woke at some point in the night.
I turn the heater off, pull the blankets over Jared’s sweat-soaked body, and after slight hesitation, let the back of my hand come to rest on his forehead. His skin is hot, damp, and he shifts, murmuring unintelligibly at my touch. I withdraw my hand, debate waking him to take his temperature and make him drink some water, ultimately deciding to let him sleep through the night. I’ll check on him in the morning.
I lie awake in bed, drifting off to sleep eventually, but not before I see the LCD display of my clock flicker to three am.
I’m jarred awake two hours later by the sound of a crash coming from the bathroom, followed by the sound of what can be nothing else but Jared retching. I hurry to the bathroom to see Jared on his knees, bent over the toilet, one arm wrapped around his midsection, the other flung over his head, resting on the porcelain seat.
I stand in the door, hands on the wooden doorframe, and suck in a breath at the sight of him. I say nothing.
He sighs into the toilet, lifts his head just slightly, and his shoulders heave suddenly, but there’s nothing coming up but spit and bile. “I’m okay, Jensen.” His voice, muffled and hollow, echoes off the porcelain.
How he knew I was there I’ll never know, but at his acknowledgement of my presence, I take a tentative step into the bathroom, barefoot across the cold tile floor. I nod, biting my lower lip. “Right.” I say tersely, taking a clean washcloth from one of the shelves on the wall and soaking it with cold water from the tap.
Jared’s body trembles as he gives in to the dry heaves, spitting into the toilet, resting his head on his arm. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on his arms, visible despite the darkness, and as I wring the excess water from the cotton cloth, he raises his head from his arm, hair soaked with sweat and little more than a mop, falling in his heavy-lidded eyes.
He looks like crap. Our eyes meet, and he doesn’t try to tell me he’s okay again, merely slumps in on himself and swivels back towards the toilet as his stomach turns over on itself again.
“Je…” I almost take the Lord’s name in vain, but stop myself, settling for my co-star’s name instead. “Jared…” I breathe, crouching half at his side, half behind him. He doesn’t answer, but doesn’t fight me either as I lift his head with one hand, gently pressing the wet cloth to his forehead with the other, lifting up, guiding him until his shoulder presses to my chest. He shakes. “Shhh…” I soothe.
And it’s somehow easy to try to calm him, help him to take easy breaths to quell the shaking, to relax him. I force myself not to analyze right now, to just go with it, because I don’t know what I’m feeling or what I’m thinking, but think that maybe it’s not important, because Jared’s responding better to this-physical touch and wordless tones-than he has to anything I may have said before or could say now.
I slide the hand not holding the washcloth to his chest, let it rest on warm, damp cotton over his heart, finding an odd comfort in the feel of his heartbeat as I pull his back to me. “Shhhh…” I murmur into his hair, followed by, “Shhh... relax, Jare…,” and as he takes a deep, shuddering breath, “…’sokay…”
It occurs to me that this, to my character, Dean, would be one of the biggest chick-flicks ever. I barely hide a smile and chuckle at the thought.
Jared reaches up a hand to flush the toilet, lets it drop listlessly back to his side afterwards. He shivers, a full-body twitch, and his teeth chatter. “C..cold, Jensen…” He whispers.
It is chilly, kneeling on the tile of the bathroom floor, dressed in little more than sweats and a tee. For Jared, sweat-soaked, it must be worse. “Okay.” I stand, lifting him with me, and not for the first time consider taking him to the hospital. His skin is warm to the touch, his cheeks ruddy and the roots of his hair dark with moisture. His eyes are unseeing, unfocused, and heavy-lidded with sleep and undoubtedly, fever.
When he slumps against me, I lift one of his spaghetti-arms and loop it around my neck, pushing all thoughts other than those centered around helping Jared out of my head-and there are plenty. “C’mon…” I say no more, pretty sure he can’t understand the words anyway. I glance up into the medicine cabinet, fumble for the thermometer and on grasping it, turn my full attention back to Jared, carefully maneuvering him back to bed.
He’s nearly asleep as I deposit him on the bed, clammy sheets clinging to equally clammy clothes-I’ll get him a change of clothes and sheets tomorrow. His head sinks into the pillow, and he murmurs something I can’t make out.
“No… you can’t sleep yet, Jare… c’mon… open up.” I hold the thermometer towards him, let the tip brush his lips.
He groans and turns his face into the pillow, away from me.
“Jared, don’t make me get the rect...” I break off, realizing what I was about to say, and sigh heavily. “…Nevermind, you might like that…” I mutter quietly, then, more firmly, “Open your mouth, Jared.”
He manages a very weak “…fuck you…”, and as he speaks, I push the thermometer between his lips, watching as he closes his mouth around it.
“One minute.” I tell him, reaching out to smooth hair from his forehead. He moves his head slightly as I do, inclining towards me, leaning into the gentle touch. I bite my lip and look away from him, leaving my hand where it is in his hair.
When the thermometer beeps, I slide it out of his mouth. Jared shifts slightly atop the covers-he’s barely awake.
It’s a digital reading of 102.4, and I remember reading or hearing somewhere that if a fever of 104 lasts for more than a day, hospital care is recommended, and make a mental note to take his temperature in the morning.
I cover his inert body with a light blanket, again let my hand brush over his hair, and turn the light off, casting the room into eerie shadows cast by early breaking morning-it’s nearly five-forty, almost six in the morning. I close the blinds and the door behind me, leaving the latter slightly ajar, though I doubt I’ll have trouble hearing Jared when he wakes, regardless of whether the door is latched or not.
I snap the blinds in my room closed as well, climb beneath the covers, and make a conscious effort to keep my mind clear, though my thoughts keep straying towards the sick man in my guest room, towards what I’d just done (I took care of him, nothing more.) and what it might have meant (It meant nothing).
I again remind myself to check his temperature in a few hours, punch my pillow a few times as the heater clicks on, and fall asleep within minutes.
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