Here.
The first taste is something that Jared thinks about.
They’re doing a scene for Asylum, Jensen (no, Dean, he corrects) flat on his back. Jared’s got this pump shotgun in his hand and for a fraction of a second he wishes that it were a pistol, just so that he’d have something to twirl around now, something to keep his hands busy. He settles for tapping the toe of his sneaker against the floor while they wait for the lighting adjustments, to the beat of an old Pearl Jam song. Jensen makes some offhanded comment about the vibrations, but Jared’s not really listening.
“Earth calling, Padalecki.” he all but purrs in that gravel, cigarettes and whiskey voice of his. Jared glances down just as a long leg stretches forward and the toes of Jensen’s sneakers collide with Jared’s shin, hard enough to knock him off mark but not so hard that he falls.
He grins at him in return, not his practiced movie star smile but something else. Jensen notices the way that his teeth sparkle eerily in the half-light and makes a mental note to check and make sure that his don’t do that. He watches as Jared reaches down to brush the smudge of dirt off his pants subconsciously. “Hey man, I was just doing costuming a favor,” he smirks.
Jared half straightens up again and half smiles, and Jensen knows that something is up - Jared doesn’t do anything half. Sam, maybe. Not Jared. He cocks his head and frowns for a second before a makeup artist steps in, soft brush bristling over his face and view of Jared neatly obstructed.
Jared can’t see Jensen’s face anymore, either. Now all he sees is a pink tongue sliding over rusty lips, a Polaroid that his brain’s decided to tack up somewhere it’ll be seen.
.
When the shoot is over for the day, when Dean is sufficiently mad at Sam and Sam is sufficiently broken, they head back to the van. Jared leans against the door waiting for someone to unlock it, quiet. He waves a little to the crew as he clambers into the backseat, but his usually inexorable mouth is shut. Jensen leans around the passenger seat and peers at him curiously. “Whatsa matta witch you, boy?” he spits out rhythmically, sure that Jared won’t get the Stones reference.
Jared just smiles his publicity smile.
.
Jared is out of the van the second it stops, hurrying away from clever hazel cat’s eyes and the curious scent of apricots and aftershave. He’s heading towards his own newly leased car when the thud of sneaker soles on asphalt and a hand on his shoulder stops him.
“Hey sugar, don’t run away,” Jensen drawls, teasing. “I’ve got something for you in my car.” Jared turns and his first instinct is not to trust the glint in Jensen’s eyes, but he’s never done anything but trust Jensen and so he begrudgingly follows him across the lot. His eyes graze the empty yellow parking stalls as if they’ve been painted by Renoir or Picasso, looking anywhere but ahead.
.
The doors unlock with the honk of a horn and the crystallized blue headlights turn on in the almost-twilight. Jared reaches for the door handle, meticulously clean and shining white even in this low light, in contrast with his own dirt-ridden car. He lowers himself onto the off-gray leather seats, typically Jensen. He can already feel the seat starting to heat up against his jeans, on it’s own accord. He turns and looks expectantly at Jensen.
Jensen watches as he blinks his jade and almond eyes, long eyelashes fluttering like a raven’s wings. He leans against the steering wheel, half turning towards Jared. Unlike Jared, sometimes he feels like doing things halfway. It’s easier to meet in the middle, or so he’s always thought. He waits.
Green eyes cloud over and Jensen knows that his patience is getting short. Jared fidgets in his seat, grasping for something to say. “So…uhh. I think you really nailed that last scene.” he tries.
Jensen grins widely. “You weren’t so shabby yourself. Angry Sam is kind of,” he pauses for effect, “sexy.”
Jared makes a face before he realizes that Jensen’s tone is free of irony. It’s free of mocking. It’s even free of teasing. It’s…genuine? He glances over at him questioningly, tilting his head up just in time for lips to collide with his own.
Jensen tastes like Texas. He’s never known anyone that tastes like home, but Jensen does. He tastes like the beer that they serve at the riverwalk (best damn beer y’all will ever taste), like the tortillas and salsa that burn on the end of your tongue that his mom makes, and like the way that dust from the back roads tastes when it fights into your mouth on a windy day.
Jensen pulls away, after a minute. He studies Jared as if reading him like a script, and Jared can practically see him flipping the page eagerly to find out what comes next. Jared knows. He’s already craving.
The first taste stays with you, but the next one is the one that you gotta worry about.