Dijisunshine

That Stockholm Thing 7/7 (J2 AU, NC-17)

2008-12-02T22:38:57Z

That Stockholm Thing 6/7 (J2 AU, NC-17)

2008-12-02T22:31:46Z

Title: That Stockholm Thing
Author: dijisun
Pairings: Jensen/Jared, mentions Jared/Sandy and Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jensen gets kidnapped
Rating: NC-17, AU
Warnings: angst, language, some violence, DARK themes.
Disclaimer: never happened, all lies.
A/N: unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Blink, and they’re back on the porch, at least it seems that way to Jensen. The tree and porch lights beating back the darkness, the cold making itself felt on a gust of wind that shears a fine layer of snow off the ground; it’s as though he and Jared never went inside after decorating the tree.

They must have done though, because they’re dressed for a short run and not for a day of outdoor labour, and the turkey’s defrosting in the fridge waiting to go into the oven, sprig of mistletoe that wasn’t there before, twirling from a string nailed to a porch beam. Harley and Sadie occupied with gnawing on the rawhide bones by the porch steps.

‘So,’ he shoves the script at Jared, ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Yeah. Merry Christmas,’ Jared tosses him a small box wrapped in gold paper.

He shakes the box, something rattles inside. Holds the box up to his ear, can hear the thing faintly inside ticking. ‘Dude. You got me a bomb?’

‘Uh huh,’ Jared says, ‘ten seconds before detonation.’

Jensen goes all bomb disposal expert, slowly peeling the paper off and ordering Jared to, ‘get the civilians off the premises,’ as he carefully lifts the lid off the box.

Jared’s laughing, Jensen not so much. He’s staring at the watch in the box. Looks exactly the same as the expensive one Jared wore on their first ‘date,’ the one that’s hanging off his wrist at this very moment.

‘You love it,’ says Jared.

‘I do. It’s awesome, man,’ but what does it mean, two guys walking around with matching watches?

‘So wear it.’

He’s not fooled by Jared’s offhand tone, not in the slightest. This, it’s not just a watch to Jared, it’s not a casual gesture. Which shouldn’t surprise Jensen because he’s known from the start that Jared’s intentions towards him are on the opposite end of the spectrum from casual.

He ought to give the watch back, say he can’t accept it. ‘Thanks Jay,’ he says, slipping it on, and the grin on Jared’s face is totally worth it. ‘I know the script isn’t much of a gift, but-’

‘Get the fuck out,’ Jared clutches the sheaf of papers to his chest, like he’s protecting them or something. ‘It’s the best. We’re going to rock Sundance with this movie.’

Jensen smiles, heavy hearted. He looks out at the clearing. The sun’s just rising, spreading reds and pinks into the deep purple sky, promising fine weather that’ll last the whole of tomorrow with any luck. If his plans work out, he can see only two future scenarios: Jared the fugitive or Jared the guy in an orange jumpsuit. Either way, he and Jared aren’t going to be rocking Sundance.

He punches Jared’s arm – maybe a little too hard, ‘we going for that run or what?’

*
Jensen toes off his sneakers at the door, stumbles to the couch and collapses on it, panting. Quick run, Jared had said, twenty minutes tops. Fucking liar. They were out there cross-country running for – he checks his new watch – for close to an hour.

He rolls over and props his chin on the armrest, watches Jared go through stretches out on the porch. ‘You’re a liar, Padalecki.’

‘And you’ve got potatoes to peel.’

‘Now?’

Jared comes in, strips off his sweat soaked t-shirt, ‘Yes now,’ and he throws it at Jensen.

‘Gross,’ he splutters, dragging the wet t-shirt off his face.

Jared is already halfway to the kitchen, Sadie and Harley bounding ahead of him. ‘Let’s go Jensen. C’mon, move it.’

Jared’s back is strewn with the imprints of Jensen’s lips and hands; hickey at the base of his spine, another one at the top of his spine and another between his shoulder blades. Fingertip bruises where he gripped Jared’s triceps too tight, more where he held on to Jared’s waist too tight, and if he were to tug Jared’s jogging pants a little lower, he’d see the same marks on Jared’s hips too.

A quiver of satisfaction makes it way right down to his soles. He thinks the marks look good, knows that for each fading and blossoming bruise on Jared, temporary tattoos in red and purple and black, he’s got one for each of them on his own body, imprints of Jared.

That’s just him and Jared, they get carried away sometimes. Also, they work well together, step back, circle left, step right, orbiting each other in the kitchen without anyone getting trod on or knocked down. A while later, Jared has fed the dogs and put the turkey in the oven, and Jensen’s peeling the last potato.

‘Got to cut them in quarters,’ Jared says with woeful shake of his head.

Jensen clutters the potato peeler into the sink, reaches for a knife and a chopping board. ‘Where’d you learn to cook, anyway?’

‘My grandma,’ Jared measures milk into the blender, adds protein powder and ice-cubes to it.

‘Your grandma gave you cooking lessons?’

‘Not exactly,’ Jared smiles and presses a button on the blender. High speed whirring, and the mixture turns pink and frothy. ‘I used to spend a lot of time up at her place,’ he pours out two glasses of protein shake and brings one to Jensen, along with a bag of green beans. ‘The cooking just sort of rubbed off on me. Top and tail ‘em.’

‘Huh?’

‘The green beans. When you’ve washed them, slice off the ends.’

Jensen ignores the beans, hates the damn things. He downs the strawberry flavored shake in three mouthfuls, burps, grins and pats Jared’s chest, saying, ‘shower time.’

‘Make it quick. Beans aren’t going to prepare themselves you know.’

*

He makes the shower quickish, but the bed proves to be his downfall. It looks so inviting with the plump pillows and thick duvet. He unwraps the towel from his waist, sits on the bed rubbing his hair dry with the towel. The duvet grabs him, or perhaps he grabs the duvet – details, details – and before he knows it, he’s burrowed under a pillows-and-duvet nest that smells of him and Jared.

Something rustles under one of the pillows, crinkly noise. He investigates and finds a packet of Skittles. Jared sometimes eats candy in bed. And now it’s his turn. He’s curled up warm in bed, surrounded by their combined scent while eating Skittles. Yeah, life’s good.

‘What are you doing?’

Crap.

‘Jensen?’

‘Go away. I’m busy.’

‘You’re jerking off? Without me?’ The duvet’s not thick enough to muffle Jared’s offended tone.

‘Not that kind of busy,’ he reassures Jared. ‘’Nother kind of busy.’

‘Tell you what, you’re gonna be downstairs by the time I’m done showering, or I’ll get busy all over your ass.’

‘Is that like, a dire consequence?’ He pops his head from under the covers and smirks. ‘Because my ass isn’t exactly recoiling at the prospect.’

Jared giggles then contradicts that be saying, ‘I’m serious, Jensen. Get downstairs.’

Jensen sticks out his arms and spreads his hands helplessly. ‘I’m naked. Can’t cook naked, Jay. It’s unsafe, all those flames near my vitalest organ.’

‘Fine, get dressed and then get downstairs…but don’t cook,’ slitted eyes, stern finger-pointing, ‘I’ve tasted your cooking. Just peel and chop, leave the flames to me.’

‘All right,’ he ducks back under the covers, ‘five more minutes.’

He finishes the Skittles and dozes a little. Flails when the duvet is rudely yanked off, lets out a winded oomph when Jared drops on top of him.

‘Is it five minutes already?’ he wheezes.

‘Closer to thirty.’

‘Wow. Time flies.’ He blinks as drop of water splashes just under his eye. ‘There’s a towel on the floor. By the bed. Real close.’

‘So?’

‘So your hair’s dripping on me.’

‘Told you there’d be consequences,’ Jared says, right before dipping his head to take Jensen’s mouth.

*

Consequences are a chain of fresh hickeys trailing from Jensen’s collarbone to his hipbone, stubble-burn on his inner thigh as Jared sucks a mark into the soft skin there. His cock is a consequence, hard and neglected because Jared is leisurely retracing the hickey-chain that he’s already retraced twice over, dragging his tongue over nipples that are already peaked and wet, sensitive from the attention they received from Jared’s mouth a moment ago.

He rocks his hips upward, hoping Jared’ll get a clue.

Jared clasps and holds his hips down, tongue flickering in his navel. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘The green beans are waiting on me,’ any excuse to move things along.

‘They’ll keep,’ says Jared.

‘The turkey’s gonna burn.’

‘Oven’s turned down low.’

Jared ducks his head lower, and Jensen couldn’t care less if the turkey gets cremated. He loses all awareness of his surroundings, pin-point of focus on what Jared’s doing to him, fucking licking his balls. Sucking them into his mouth and humming around them, setting up tingly vibrations that turn Jensen’s bones pliable. He is play dough, compliant as Jared’s hands hook under his knees and push them towards his chest.

Warm stream of air blown over his ball sac, and Jensen’s panting, can’t catch his breath. Then what little air he has squeezes out of his lungs at the wicked feel of Jared’s tongue tapping wet and insistent at his hole.

‘Jared,’ he squirms, one part shocked and three parts so turned on he aches.

Jared doesn’t pause, doesn’t back down. Just stabs his tongue right in, withdraws and palpitates the tip of it just inside Jensen’s rim before stabbing in again, does it over and over, reducing Jensen to broken moaning. It shouldn’t feel this good, Jared’s tongue in his ass, but it does, feels goddamn good, and he shoves the back of his head into the pillow, neck arched and toes curled, tight knot of pleasure deep in his belly.

All the butt touching Jared’s been doing these last couple of weeks, all the finger fucking, it’s been leading up to this moment, and god, Jensen’s ready for it. He craves it, skitter of excitement as Jared leans across to grab the bottle of lube from the nightstand. And for a man who’s in no rush, Jared coats his hand with lube real quick, prepares Jensen just as quick. Then Jared’s poised over him, cock-head hot and snug against his slick hole.

‘Yeah?’ Jared asks, voice gravelly and eyes impossibly dark.

‘Yes,’ Jensen says, and says it again, ‘yes,’ as Jared inches into him. Burning stretch and, ‘oh fuck, Jared,’ he groans, linking his fingers on Jared’s nape. But when Jared bottoms out, sunk deep inside him, he says nothing, so full up on Jared he can’t even speak.

Jared, on the other hand, isn’t speech deprived. He’s running at the mouth while stroking in and out of Jensen, fucking him with words and cock. ‘Christ, Jen, got it bad for you,’ he says. ‘Drove me fucking crazy seeing you but not being able to touch you. Used to…used to think about this, thought about it all the damn time, you wrapped around me so hot and tight, so good Jensen, knew it would feel this way.’

How it feels, Jared pressed down on him, sliding his hands under him to cup his ass and tilt it up the better to drive into him with hard, unfaltering strokes, hitting that spot every time, it feels like Jensen’s going to pass out from coming.

*

They stay in bed all day, and while Jared might be making up for lost time, all the years he couldn’t get close enough to touch, Jensen is making up for the years he’s going to lose. He is taking sensory snap-shots and filing them away in his memory, wants to remember it all.

Texture of Jared’s groan rasping in his ear, feel of sweat-damp chest straining under his palms, rhythmic creak of bedsprings. Sweet and sharp relief as he shoots his load in Jared’s fist, edgy pleasure as Jared hardens inside him again; obscenely hot, the wet little noises his ass makes when he circles his hips in a slow, smooth grind, riding Jared.

He files these things away, and the slack-mouthed look of awe on Jared’s face, the hitched breath and clenched abs as Jared comes inside him, spurt after hot spurt till he’s dry coming, nothing left to give but tortured cusses, Jensen files these things away, too.

*

It’s after 10pm by the time they stumble out of bed, clean up and go downstairs in search of food. The turkey’s not quite charred. It kind of tastes okay – when smothered in cranberry jelly and washed down with beer.

‘Hey,’ Jared kicks his shin under the table, ‘you falling asleep on me?’

‘No,’ he yawns, ‘don’t know what gave you that idea.’

Jared smiles. He hasn’t stopped smiling since they came downstairs. Jensen commits that smile to memory and asks, ‘so was it the awsomest Christmas ever?’ his voice coming out softer than intended.

‘Almost,’ says Jared.

‘Almost?’ He fixes a mock frown on Jared, says, ‘there’s no pleasing some people.’

Jared’s laughter, light and happy, resonates through Jensen, flips his heart over. He looks away, down at his plate with its red smears of cranberry jelly and left-over slices of chalk dry turkey.

‘Got to watch a classic, Jen. Then it’ll be the awesomest ever.’

Movie or no, Jensen’s day has been awesome. He wouldn’t complain if the clock went backwards, rewound time back to that morning. His wrist watch reads 11:30, and the second hand ticks on. Tick-fucking-tock, inexorably forging ahead.

*

The couch really isn’t big enough for two men and two dogs, but they somehow manage. The lights are off and orange flames lick around the logs in the fireplace, black and white horror movie playing on the plasma screen. Jared’s watching the movie through drooping eyelids, one hand kneading the scruff of Harley’s neck and the other stroking Sadie’s head.

He slides a sideways glance at Jensen, smiles and says, ‘Stop staring, you creep.’

‘Yeah,’ he mildly agrees. ‘Creepiness, it’s contagious. I figure I caught it from you.’

Jared snuffles – half chuckle and half snort, and Jensen feels in no way creepy about watching him sink into sleep, eyelashes a sooty smudge on high cheekbones.

*

Jensen wakes up with a crick in his neck and Jared’s head pillowed on his thigh. The dogs are curled up on the hearth as though trying to make the best of the warmth from the almost dead fire. Snow crackles on the plasma screen. The gap in the drapes shows that it’s also snowing outside. Light snowfall that doesn’t justify postponing his departure yet again.

Slow, careful, he eases his leg from under Jared’s head.

Waits for a couple of beats, and when Jared still doesn’t awake, he rises from the couch, switches off the TV and heads for the bedroom. He deliberately avoids looking at the bed or at the nightstand where his things are jumbled up with Jared’s. Just no point in going there.

He goes into the takes a leak, studies his reflection in the mirror as he washes his hands. Is it his imagination or did his eyes grow bigger overnight? They stare back at him huge and wide behind the lenses of his glasses. He looks scared, but he’s really not.

He brushes his teeth, trades the glasses for contacts. Comes back into the bedroom, trades his pajama pants for jeans and his cable-knit sweater for layers: wife beater, t-shirt, turtle-neck sweater and coat.

The colt hasn’t been moved. He picks it up out of the desk drawer. It sits cold and heavy in his hand, gleaming black. He checks the chamber. It’s still loaded, six bullets. He tucks the gun into his belt, and the butt feels wrong, pressing intimately into the small of his back. It feels like a ton of wrong.

But he’s out of options and will soon run out of time if he doesn’t hustle. So he hustles to the living room and stands in front of the couch, making sure he’s not within Jared’s reach.

He glances at the dogs. They’re watching him.

He grits his teeth against the pang of guilt and pulls out the gun, aims it between Jared’s closed eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, to wake Jared, but the words stick in his throat like flies caught on sugar paper. The gun barrel wavers. He raises his left hand so he’s holding the colt in a two-handed grip. Still the barrel wavers, more. His palms are damp and his pointer finger’s trembling on the trigger. He feels kind of sick. Heart banging, temperature hiked up and guts churning with nausea.

Jesus, what is he thinking? He can’t do this shit without coffee! Needs to calm the caffeine withdrawal.

He tucks the gun back into his belt, whistles softly to Sadie and Harley as he tip-toes to the kitchen.

*

He lets the dogs out and hops onto the counter while waiting for the coffee to percolate. When it’s done, he fills a mug and drinks his coffee right there on the counter next to the coffee pot, easier to refill that way.

Two refills later, Jared comes shuffling in. He stretches his arms overhead, yawns and slouches over to Jensen, seems barely awake.

‘Morning,’ Jensen smiles.

‘Hey.’ Jared yawns again. Pouts when his gaze falls on the coffee pot. ‘You drank all the coffee.’

‘Here,’ he holds his mug out to Jared.

Jared peers into the mug. ‘It’s black,’ he states. ‘I take mine with cream - and two sugars.’

All the same, Jared accepts the mug. He sips and shudders, screwing his face up. Takes another sip, shudders, grimaces, and it’s cracking Jensen up, the shudder-grimace combination, the hopeful sips like Jared figures the coffee will turn sweet and creamy if he just perseveres.

One last shudder, and Jared holds the empty mug upside-down, triumphant grin as good as saying: I did it! All gone. Now, where’s my cookie?

His hair’s falling into his eyes, the dimples are lurking, he is just so fucking enticing, and hopelessly enticed, Jensen reaches a hand out, trails his knuckles along Jared’s jaw.

The thing about being an actor is you’ve got to have imagination. Got to be hanging painlessly from a harness above the studio floor and imagine you’re suspended in hell, screaming as hooks tear your flesh. Although he has super-honed powers of imagination, he can’t imagine the hell of not seeing Jared everyday. Really, really can’t imagine ever wanting to be with anyone else.

But he can imagine other things, can invent images of dirty blond hair and ruthless blue eyes. ‘Something weird happened to me the other day,’ he says, fitting his thumb pad to Jared’s dimple.

Jared isn’t paying attention, turning his head to try and catch Jensen’s thumb in his mouth.

‘Listen,’ he takes hold of Jared’s chin, holds him still. ‘This is important.’

‘I’m listening,’ Jared’s eyeing his lips.

‘Some psycho guy abducted me.’

That gets Jared’s full attention.

‘I was at Vancouver airport, just got off the red-eye flight from Pittsburgh. This stranger comes up to me and says he’s my driver. Me, being a dumb fuck, I go with him to the parking lot. He hits me over the head, knocks me out. I think, I think the fucker intravenously drugged me while I was passed out. He brought me to a cabin, chained me up-’

Jared backs up a couple of steps, his face tight and his voice tighter, ‘this again, Jensen? I thought we were over this.’

‘It’ll take years of therapy before I get over how he forced himself on me and-’

‘Forced you?’ Jared couldn’t have looked more injured if he’d actually shot him. ‘Bullshit, Jensen, and you know it. I never once forced you.’

‘He forced me,’ Jensen says with utter conviction, ‘I’ve got the bruises to prove it. Every couple of weeks, he’d bring me to another cabin. Another abandoned shit hole just as rundown as the one before.’

Now Jared looks both hurt and confused, frowning hard.

‘Wanna hear what really fucking scared me?’

Jared doesn’t reply.

Jensen tells him anyway, ‘the guy never planned to let me go. He implied he would, said all these things about Texas. But it was just talk. He didn’t mean a word of it, not a damn word.’

Jared’s continued silence, his guilty flush and down-turned eyes, confirm Jensen’s suspicions. Bitterness clogs the back of Jensen’s throat, along with the hurtful, angry words that he wants to vomit over Jared. But he shakes his head, swallows it all back down because he’s not mad at Jared. He’s mad at the guy.

‘I hate him. What he did, I’ll never forgive him.’

The guilty flush washes out of Jared’s face. He is pale and his eyes are too bright, shimmering. ‘Don’t, Jensen,’ he whispers. ‘Just, please stop.’

Jensen pulls the gun out. He lays it on the counter.

Jared flicks his glance at the colt, squares his shoulders. ‘That’s how this ends? With bullets?’ he asks, all emotion bled out of his tone.

The shakes Jensen had earlier? They’re gone. He’s dead calm and dead certain about what he’s saying, ‘See, a week, maybe two weeks after Thanks Giving, the guy says it’s time to move on again. So we’re in his truck heading for the next hideout and a blizzard hits. There’s a place up ahead, big cabin. Nothing like the dumps he brought me to so far. It’s obviously occupied because there’re two dogs barking at the window. The guy breaks in. The guard dogs lick him, so the guy figures he’s welcome.’

Jensen hops off the counter, starts fixing a fresh pot of coffee. When Jared doesn’t make a move towards the gun, he’s so elated he barely refrains from whooping. It’s all comes down to trust. Gotta have trust to build a solid future.

He pours two mugs of coffee – one black, the other loaded with cream and sugar. Sets Jared’s coffee right next to the colt and resumes his narrative.

Chapter Seven

That Stockholm Thing 5/7 (J2 AU, NC-17)

2008-12-02T22:26:10Z

Title: That Stockholm Thing
Author: dijisun
Pairings: Jensen/Jared, mentions Jared/Sandy and Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jensen gets kidnapped
Rating: NC-17, AU
Warnings: angst, language, some violence, DARK themes.
Disclaimer: never happened, all lies.
A/N: unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

When Jensen’s mad, he paces and glares.

When he’s madder than mad, coiled tight and steamed up, feels like flames shooting out of his nostrils instead of air, when he’s like that, dragon mad, he holds himself inhumanly still and stares at whatever’s offending him.

Since Jared’s not available to stare at, Jensen stares down at the chain snaking across the floor. He curls his fingers into his palms to resist the darkly compelling itch all over his body, prickly and peppery and just urging him to scratch, to give in and claw his skin off.

He’d thought they were doing all right, him and Jared. Thought they’d moved past the mistrust and use of force and the restriction of liberties. Clearly he’d thought wrong.

He leans back against the locked door and slides down it. Legs crossed, fists balled and jammed under his armpits. Inhumanly still, he stares at the gray, serpentine coil shackled to the metal cuff around his ankle.

*

The storm hits at around three-thirty. Howling winds buffet the cabin, shaking it to its foundations and pinging hard pellets of hail-snow at the window. There’s also howling inside the house, one of the dogs scratching and howling at his door.

Sadie’s a hard-nosed bitch. She doesn’t scare easy. ‘That you, Harley?’

Frantic scratching, piteous whine. Harley for definite.

Jensen strokes his palm down the door, would be petting Harley if it weren’t for the sturdy wooden obstacle between them. He smoothes the rough edges of his voice, speaking soft.

‘Aw come on buddy, you’re not scared of a storm, are you? Ain’t hardly a storm even, just the wind making a lot of noise.’

Harley stops scratching but is still whining and Jensen carries on trying to calm him, because it’s not Harley’s fault that his daddy’s a frigging lunatic.

*

Jensen figured he’d wait until he was seriously hungry before breaking into the packet of crackers and thermos of soup Jared left on the nightstand. But he lost his appetite soon after the winds gained momentum.

Hardly a storm? It’s a freaking blizzard, marshalling in an early dusk and cutting off the power supply.

He paces to the door, speaks to Harley, paces to the window, thinks about hazardous driving conditions.

It’s superbly dark out there. He can’t make out the shape of the trees or the glint of snow piled up in the clearing. Nothing but inky black. The same inky black envelopes his room, making it feel tomb-cold.

He shuffles in the general direction of the bed. His shin thuds into the bed frame. He bends forward, drags the duvet off the bed and wraps up in it.

‘Talk to me, Harley.’

Harley doesn’t make a sound. Seems he’s not in the mood for pleasantries.

‘Me neither.’

He picks his way through the dark to sit on the windowsill. Knowing Jared – the persistent fucker – he’ll be on the road instead of taking cover in a motel. Jensen scrapes his thumbnail back and forth across his bottom lip, hopes he’s wrong.

*

Thing about being an actor is you have to have imagination. Have to be able to look at a ball of wool and imagine it’s a crouched Wendigo about to spring on you. Be able to lick sickly corn syrup off your lips and imagine it’s the metallic taste of blood.

Thing about sitting in a freezing dark room? You’ve got nothing to do but imagine stuff. If anything, the dark brightens the slide-show. You’re no longer shivering from cold but from the sinister places your mind’s taking you.

Not lacking in the imagination department, he hears the wind screech and sees the tires of a red truck spin on ice, helpless to reverse its descent towards a ravine. Hears a bough snap and sees long limbs twisted at sickening angles. Hail patters on the window, and he sees it, sees the hail and snow bury the broken body in a carpet that is indistinguishable from the rest of the white, frozen landscape.

When Jensen’s scared shitless, he makes threats. Offense the best defense and all that.

‘Jared,’ he says, ‘you best come home in one piece so I kick your ass down a ravine.’

*

Jensen laughs and sniffs, nose squished flat on the window. He’s not imagining the twin beams filtering between the forest’s masts. Not imagining the engine’s rumble as the beams get closer. Harley barks super excited and scrambles downstairs, proof enough that the truck plowing towards the cabin isn’t a mirage.

He shrugs the duvet off his shoulders and goes to wait by the door. His joints are stiff with cold.

Sounds erupt downstairs. Grate of the garage door towing opening, boom of laughter, happy yelping, footsteps receding to the back of the cabin. Fainter, the whirr of the back-up generator cranking into life, and Jensen blinks as sudden light floods the room.

With that flood comes another, anger swamping Jensen so full he can’t see straight. He’s gonna burn down the house just by exhaling, seriously. When Jared finally comes into the room, face pinched white and shoulders wilting, exhaustion and apology written in every line of his body, Jensen wants to strangle him.

He puts his right foot forward, says, ‘take the, take it off.’

Jared hunkers down, fingers gentle as he unlocks and takes the manacle off Jensen’s ankle. He straightens up and sort of half shrugs, half smiles. ‘Bitch of a drive,’ he says, further incensing Jensen.

Bitch of a drive? Try suicidal drive. Death mission. ‘You’re okay, though? No broken bones?’

‘Yeah, I’m…’ Jared frowns, patting himself down as if to check for injuries. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Good,’ Jensen hauls his fist back and slams it into Jared’s jaw, welcomes the pain in his knuckles.

Jared staggers back, the wall behind him breaking his fall. He comes back at Jensen, eyes burning, fists clenched, bloom on his jaw a stark red in contrast to his pale face, his white-lined lips. He looks murderous. He is radiating danger, and it sends an electric fizz shooting all through Jensen.

‘Go ahead, Jay,’ he rasps. ‘Fucking go ahead.’

Jared shakes his head, unfurls his fists. The words come punching out of him. ‘You’re pissed. I get that. But I couldn’t risk coming home to find you gone. I love you, told you a thousand fucking times. Why won’t you get that, Jensen?’ he doesn’t wait for an answer before stalking out.

But Jensen’s not done with him yet.

*

He bangs Jared’s door open. It bounces off the wall and swings back towards him. He bangs it again and strides in, doesn’t recognize himself. Hates Jared for turning him into this wild thing.

Hands fisted in Jared’s shirt, dragging him close, and Jared does likewise, bunches the front of Jensen’s t-shirt in white-knuckled fists and heaves him in the rest of the way. They’re treading on each other’s toes, hip bones bruising hip bones, no space between their hard, shoving bodies.

‘Leashed like a dog, Jared. Hell, you treat your dogs better. They weren’t injected with heroine and chained up.’

‘I’d never start you on heroine, not you.’

‘Sedatives. Whatever. And that’s not even the point here.’

‘Do you have a point?’

Jensen tightens his hold, his aggression mutating into something needy but just as feral. ‘You didn’t say it. This morning, you didn’t…’ again, so not the point. ‘Fuck, Jared. I had no way of checking in on you. Storm like this, you could’ve wound up in a ditch and I couldn’t have gotten to you if you needed help.’

Jared thuds his brow onto Jensen’s, not gently. ‘Nothing bad happened to me.’

‘But it could’ve done,’ Jensen insists.

‘Well, it didn’t. I’m here, aren’t I?’

He moves one hand to grip the underside of Jared’s jaw, digs his thumb and fingertips into stubble roughened cheeks. ‘So am I,’ he kisses Jared, hard punishing pressure. ‘I’m here,’ bites at Jared’s lips to emphasize his point. ‘And I wasn’t going anywhere, would’ve been here regardless of the chain.’

He crushes his lips to Jared’s, and this time Jared bites back. Nothing’s resolved. He’s wound up, Jared’s wound up, and this kind of kissing only leads to split lips, ripped shirts and furious fucking.

Like those spinning wheels he imagined, Jensen is powerless to reverse the slippery descent. Isn’t sure he wants to, because there’s something to be said about fury. It refines lust and sharpens pleasure, tears down logic so all that’s left is mind-gone rutting. Heat is all that’s left, pure and goddamn intense.

He snaps his hips, ramming deep into Jared, groans as he watches Jared’s back lock then ripple in a sinuous arch, shaggy hair damp with sweat, skin glossy with it, death grip on the sheets as he fucks back, racing to break himself on Jensen’s cock.

‘I’m gonna…holy fuck, Jensen I’m gonna…’

‘Not yet you’re not,’ he slips out of Jared and reaches round to squeeze the base of Jared’s cock.

Jared throws his head back, arms shaking, breath a long hiss forced through gritted teeth. And god, Jensen has no idea where all this is coming from, the impulse to own Jared’s orgasms, to fucking own his cock. Own him.

‘You going to turn over, lay on your back for me?’ he’s really not asking.

‘You going to shut up and finish this, bitch?’ Jared spits out, but he’s really not protesting because he turns over to lie spread-eagled on his back.

‘Don’t I always finish it?’ He braces above Jared, props his elbows in the mattress on either side of Jared’s head. ‘You’ve got to trust me.’

Jared wraps his legs around Jensen’s back. Loose hold, direct gaze. ‘I do. Kind of.’

Kind of ain’t good enough. He wants all of, thrusts back into Jared slow and hard, deep so Jared feels him pulsing in his throat. Not kind of but really fucking Jared, searches out the spot inside Jared that makes him go wide-eyed, drills it until Jared is gasping and clawing and clinging, until he’s as feral as he makes Jensen. That’s how it goes, slow and hard, deep and good. Not kind of good. So good Jared’s gasps verge on sobs and he curls his upper body off the mattress, mouth blindly seeking Jensen’s.

Jensen doesn’t kiss him but repeats, ‘got to trust me, Jared.’

‘I do. Jesus. Fuck. I do.’

Jensen puts everything he’s got into the thrusts. ‘No more needles,’ slow, ‘no more locked doors,’ hard, ‘no more chains,’ deep, twist of his hips, deeper.

Jared keens, the next moment muffling the strung-out sound by shoving his fingers into his mouth. His legs creak Jensen’s ribs in a vice-like grip, his ass contracts, and it’s only sheer stubbornness that keeps Jensen from coming.

‘I…’ Jared takes his fingers out of his mouth and tries again. ‘I swear, Jensen. I promise. No more.’

‘Thank you,’ now he can finish it.

He kisses Jared, open-mouthed, groaning, and Jared suckles on his tongue, canting his hips to meet Jensen’s thrusts. Every one of Jensen’s nerve endings sings. He is covered in goose bumps, sudden blaze of heat as two wet fingers push between his butt cheeks and rub at his hole.

He ups his tempo, his belly rubbing on Jared’s hot, hard cock and his groans spilling into Jared’s mouth. And then it’s over, it’s finished, because Jared’s finger breaches him, the burn of it cancelled out by the bolts of pleasure as Jared hits his sweet spot again and again. It melts his mind, Jared moving inside him, him moving inside Jared, fucking with tongues and fingers and cock, bellies splattered with come, more of it coated up inside Jared.

Afterwards, when they’ve cleaned up with Jensen’s mauled t-shirt, Jared flings an arm across Jensen’s middle, mumbles, ‘stay,’ and passes out. Jensen doesn’t have the energy to totter to his room. He stays.

*

Up before Jared, he takes a long shower in Jared’s five-star bathroom. Naked sprint down the hall to go get dressed in his own room then he heads downstairs to fix lunch. Except he can’t find the stove under the mountain of grocery bags in the kitchen. Brownie points to Jared for at least dumping the perishables in the fridge and freezer.

Harley woofs and jumps onto him. Sadie doesn’t try to bite him, which is progress.

‘Let’s you and me call a truce,’ he says to her. ‘How ‘bout it, girl?’

She trots to the door and puts her paw on it, not scratching or whining. Her posture says, let me out or I will pee all over the floor.

He slides the door open, fast.

He’s unpacking the fourth grocery bag when he comes across a 2008 calendar. It’s pink, and January features Princess Barbie complete with tiara.

‘Jared you douchebag,’ he laughs, tearing out the months until he gets to December – Ice Skating Barbie.

He magnets December onto the fridge door and rummages through a drawer for a marker. After some thought, he draws a black circle around Thursday 11. He’s leaving on that date. Hopefully Jared will give up the keys without too much of a fight. He likes the guy, doesn’t want to have to put a bullet through his kneecap.

Sure, Jared’s done some bad things but that doesn’t make him a bad man. He just gets caught up in enthusiasm sometimes, gets overzealous. Jensen’s not overzealous himself, but he can see how too much zeal added to unrequited obsession can flip a person, frustrate them into doing wrong.

It’s really not complicated if you look at logically: frustration is to blame for the kidnap, not Jared.

Groceries put away, he feeds the dogs then piles a tray high with toast, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, coffee and orange juice and takes the tray to feed the man upstairs.

*

‘Been thinking,’ Jared picks up his fork and spears a slice of bacon off Jensen’s plate.

‘Hey!’

Jared chews, swallows. Grins. ‘So. Yeah. Been thinking.’

‘About swiping my bacon?’

‘About the environment, man.’

Jensen reclines against the headboard. He’s thinking about Jared’s gas-guzzling truck. ‘Really? Never figured you for an eco-warrior.’

‘Oh, I recycle,’ Jared assures him. ‘You should, too.’

‘Recycle?’

‘Move in here. That way we’d save on heating and lighting for your room. Small sacrifices make a huge difference to the polar ice-caps, you know.’

Jensen is fighting a smile. ‘You might be on to something there.’

‘Damn right I am,’ Jared nods sagely.

*

Not long after sacrificing his space and privacy for the sake of the environment, Jensen notices a difference in bed. To be honest, he didn’t notice until Jared, cuddling up to him and batting his eyelashes, teased, ‘we just made love. Don’t deny it. You totally cherish me, dude.’

He nearly fell out of bed denying it.

Made love? Please. Guy-sex isn’t about cherishment and Harlequiny euphemisms for fucking. It’s about getting off as quickly as possible with plenty of lube and the minimum of foreplay.

Okay, so maybe he and Jared have recently developed a tendency towards extended foreplay, and at times they get off on just that, and yes, there have been occasions when they don’t get off at all, inexplicably content to fall asleep in mid-kiss. So what? Doesn’t mean they make love. Make out, more like.

Another thing he’s noticed? Jared is all about the ass – Jensen’s ass, to be precise. They’ll be making out, and it doesn’t matter what position they’re in, vertical with Jared pushed up against the kitchen counter, or horizontal with Jensen pressed along the length of the sofa’s backrest, how ever, wherever, you can guarantee that Jared has his hands on Jensen’s butt.

*

‘Gonna make you come just from this,’ says Jared. He leans over and loosens the bow on Jensen’s robe sash with his teeth, rubs his cheek on Jensen’s belly. ‘Think you can do that Jen, come from just my fingers reaming your ass?’

Jensen thinks he’s going to come from the sound of Jared’s filthy hoarse voice alone. He’s right on the edge, has been for fucking hours it feels like. Wonders what he must look like, laid out on the living room floor with his bathrobe pooled around him, legs spread, muscles quivering and a strip of bright green tinsel wrapped loose round his twitching cock.

He’s trying to tear chunks out of the floor with his nails. The non-stop groans puncturing the air, he knows they’re falling from his lips. Can’t do a thing to tone it down, not when Jared has three fingers pressed up inside him. Smooth and silky with lube, they swivel out and plunge back in, stretch and fill him and spark off that hard nub inside him. He arches, strung tight by the circuit of sensation that’s spiraling from ass to balls to every damn where.

Jared catches and holds his gaze. ‘Yeah, you can,’ filthy hoarse voice, and Jensen comes, lets Jared kiss the profanities off his lips as the orgasm wrecks him.

‘You okay, Jen?’

Jensen’s throat’s dry, which was why he’d come downstairs in the first place, to make coffee. Found Jared poking through a box of Christmas decorations and got lassoed in tinsel.

‘Fuck,’ he laughs, ‘all I wanted was a cup of coffee.’

‘That ain’t exactly true,’ Jared uncoils he soggy strip of tinsel off Jensen and throws it in the fire. Then retrieves Jensen’s boxer-briefs from under the table, wipes the ropes of come off Jensen’s abdomen.

If called on it, Jensen will swear his full body blush is attributable to the heat from the fire and not to the heat in Jared’s eyes, possessive and scrolling over him from head to toe. He sits up and wraps the robe around him, double knots the sash.

‘The exact truth is I always want coffee.’

‘Except when you want my cock,’ Jared says, and Jensen’s throat goes a little drier, gaze darting to the hard ridge in Jared’s sweatpants ‘You want me to fuck you Jensen, and I will, real soon.’ Jared rolls to his feet, ‘Now though, I gotta get dressed for tree hunting. You coming?’

‘Nah, those forest trails are narrow. Not a whole lot of room on them for you, me and your gigantic ego.’

Jared walks backwards towards the staircase. ‘No need to sweet talk me, baby,’ he smirks, ‘I already said I’d do you.’

Jensen figures the strong cup of black coffee is well overdue. He washes his hands at the kitchen sink and takes a bag of ground coffee beans out of the fridge. The calendar flutters as he closes the fridge door.

He dumps heaped spoonfuls of coffee into the filter funnel, switches on the coffee pot and watches dark liquid drip into the glass jug. Inhales the aroma and drums his fingers on the counter, antsy.

Real soon, in two days’ time, he’ll be pointing a gun in Jared’s face.

Too soon.

He digs the marker out of the kitchen drawer, goes over to the calendar. Puts a cross through 11 and circles 19. Still gives him plenty of time to be home for Christmas.

*

Axe hefted on his shoulder, Jared looms in the doorway. The sliding door is open behind him, letting the cold air in.

‘No Jared, I will absolutely not come tree hunting with you,’ Jensen diverts his attention back to the laptop screen.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’ve got to get the final draft out by the deadline.’

Jared huffs. ‘So when’s this all important deadline?’

‘The nineteenth.’

‘Dude, that’s like, weeks away.’

‘Three days, in fact.’ Jensen moves from the couch to sit in an armchair, away from the draft. ‘And you’ve been tree hunting for way longer than three days. What’s with that, huh? I mean, seriously, how challenging can it be to find a tree in a forest?’

‘It’s not just a tree you heathen! It’s a Christmas tree. It’s the tree!’

Christ Almighty. Anyone would think he’d suggested slaughtering newborn babies under the tree the way Jared’s shrilling. ‘Whoa now, let’s not get hysterical.’

‘No tree and no hysteria? Man, the holiday season is wasted on you,’ with that, Jared steps out and slides the door shut.

It’s total bullshit of course. He’s no scrooge. He likes the tinsel Jared put up on the walls and the wreath of holly he hung on the door. He likes all things Christmas, especially the giving of gifts, which is why he’s prioritizing the script..

He sets the laptop on the floor and goes to get a beer. Weird little tug in his belly as he stares at date ringed on the calendar.

‘Shit,’ he says around a mouthful of beer.

*

‘Jensen!’

‘In here!’

‘Where?’

‘Bedroom!’ Where he’s taken to hiding with the script to escape the pestering. ‘You found the tree yet?’

Jared bursts in. His eyes are twinkling and he has strings of fairy lights criss-crossed over his chest like cartridge belts. ‘Come hold the ladder.’

Jensen’s not even going to ask. He pushes away from the desk and follows Jared out to the porch.

Jared points at a tree on the edge of the clearing. It’s got a ladder leaned up against it. ‘Right under my nose this whole time.’

‘Or over your head.’ Jensen gawks at the tree. Not the hugest in the forest but certainly not a sapling either. ‘We’ll never get it in through the door, Jared.’

‘She’s the one. Gotta have her.’

Jensen rubs his arms to ward off the cold. He’s got no shoes on and his toes curl away from the freezing boards. ‘So, what, you’re going to saw her in half?’

‘Desecrate her? No way!’

‘Right,’ Jensen frowns. ‘We’re not having a tree after all, then?’

‘Are you being deliberately retarded?’

‘I just, I don’t get your logic - what little of it there is.’

‘I’m going to decorate her out here,’ Jared claps a hand on the back of his neck. It’s colder than the floorboards. ‘We’re having an outdoors tree.’

‘You’re having frostbite.’

Jared crinkles his brow at him. ‘What?’

He pries Jared’s hand off his neck, briskly rubs it between his own. ‘Put some gloves on, Jay.’

Jared swoops his head down, smiles throughout the slow kiss. Jensen smiles too. They’re kissing with open eyes, little huffs of laughter passing back and forth between them. It’s kinda crazy. His heart is beating kinda crazy.

‘Just need you to hold the ladder steady while I climb on the lower branches. Then you can go back to work,’ says Jared.

‘How’re you going to get down without me holding the ladder?’

‘Jump. Fly. I’ll figure a way.’

‘It’s a big deal to you, isn’t it? The tree, the whole perfect Christmas thing.’

Jared doesn’t reply right away, and when he does, his voice comes out husky, soft, ‘pretty big, yeah.’

Click in Jensen’s throat as he swallows hard. There’ll be many more Christmases spent in Richardson. He can bear to give this one to Jared. Just this one, though.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll go get your gloves and put my shoes and coat on.’

He detours to the kitchen on his way to the hall closet. Retrieves the marker. Crosses out the nineteenth and circles December 26.

*

The tree’s sort of half naked, its lower branches dressed in lights while the higher up branches are nude – not counting the coverage of pine needles. Those branches weren’t strong enough to bear Jared’s weight, so they didn’t get decorated. The lights are ice-white. They look like white fire-flies congregated on the tree.

Jensen tilts his head. They look like white fire-flies that prefer to congregate on the left side of the tree. He tilts his head the other way. Yeah, definitely more lights on the left than on the right.

‘It’s lopsided,’ says Jared, flat with disappointment. He has pine needles snagged in his hair and a bark scuff high on his cheek. Smells of spruce and sweat, a hard day’s work of stringing up lights in a too big tree.

He bumps his arm into Jared’s, says, ‘It’s got character. I like character. Every Christmas tree should look like ours.’

‘Are you being sarcastic?’

‘I’m really not,’ Jensen laughs, happy. ‘I like the fucking tree, Jared.’

Jared shoots him a smile that’s as bright, white and lop-sided as the lights.

It’s cold out and darkness is encroaching, only kept at bay by the glowing tree and the porch light above their heads. He slides his arm around Jared’s waist, steps in closer when Jared lifts his arm and drapes it across his shoulders.

‘We should go inside, get out of the cold,’ he says, round of his shoulder snug in Jared’s armpit.

‘Yeah,’ Jared agrees, settling against him.

Chapter Six

That Stockholm Thing 4/7 (J2 AU, NC-17)

2008-12-02T22:20:41Z

Title: That Stockholm Thing
Author: dijisun
Pairings: Jensen/Jared, mentions Jared/Sandy and Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jensen gets kidnapped
Rating: NC-17, AU
Warnings: angst, language, some violence, DARK themes.
Disclaimer: never happened, all lies.
A/N: unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

Jensen is not certain of exactly when the idea lodged in his mind and became as unshakable as Jared himself.

Some time between the first date and the fourth, between the second snow fall and the third, between the chaste kisses at Jensen’s door after every date and the toe-curling blowjobs in his bed most mornings. Some time between soaking up the heat in the tub out back with Jared and taking long hikes with him in the snow softened woods. At some unspecified point, Jensen got the unshakable idea that he needs to fuck Jared.

This, thrusting into Jared’s fist, is no longer enough. He throws the duvet off and rolls over, onto Jared. So damn hot how Jared shifts his legs apart, just opens them to him.

He sinks into the cradle of Jared’ hips, dips his head to kiss him, and like always the flare of heat takes over. It ambushes them both so that they’re rolling their hips, rutting. Mouths aligned and trading hot bursts of breath, cocks aligned and grinding through damp boxers. Bare chests, skin on skin, pebbled nipples and shuddering abdomens and tongues caught up in desperate fucking.

Jared arches his back, exhaling a breathy moan, and that sound cuts a swathe of pleasure through Jensen. He grinds down harder on Jared’s spurting dick, keeps going until he and Jared are one spent, tangled heap.

*

Jensen’s stomach growls. He glances at Jared in expectation.

‘Your turn,’ says Jared without looking away from the plasma screen.

Jared’s favourite phrase lately, your turn. Your turn to do the laundry. Your turn to chop wood. And now it seems Jensen’s days of being served are over, it’s his turn to fix lunch.

‘Well, what you waiting on?’ Jared sweeps his arm out, pointing at the kitchen, ‘get to it.’

‘Pause the movie.’

‘I’ll rewind it when you-’

‘No you won’t. You’ll narrate the parts I missed, which is no good to me ‘cause your narration skills suck. So pause the goddamn movie, Jared.’

Jared pulls a face and sticks his tongue out at Jensen, who takes the mature approach of wrestling the remote control out of Jared’s hand. He pauses the movie and strides to the kitchen, remote control triumphantly tucked in his belt.

Supplies are low. Cereal, a box of protein bars, a few cans of Baxter’s and a bag of rice in the cupboards. Cheese, butter and orange juice in the fridge. Bread, couple of pizzas, last two liters of frozen milk and some ground beef in the freezer. Lots of ice-cubes. No danger of them running out of ice-cubes.

He dumps the contents of three cans of tomato soup into a saucepan and grates some cheese. He watches the cheese bubble and melt on slices of bread under the grill, worried. Six, maybe seven days, they’ll be cleaned out even if they cut back on meals.

He carries the soup and grilled cheese sandwiches through to the living room. ‘Food situation’s getting critical,’ he says, setting the tray on the coffee table.

Jared won’t look at him but instead sits up stiff on the couch and bites into his sandwich, vicious as though it’ll bite him if he doesn’t bite it first. ‘Fine.’

Jensen frowns at Jared’s non-communicative stance, a rarity for Jared. ‘Tell me, what’s fine about running out of food in the depth of the Canadian winter?’

‘Plenty squirrel in them woods.’

‘Are you serious? I’m not eating rodents!’

‘Christ, Jensen, would you just drop it?’ Jared snaps. ‘Like I need you bitching at me on Thanksgiving day.’

That hits Jensen so hard he shuts up.

Thanksgiving.

‘American Thanksgiving?’

‘Only one I celebrate,’ Jared confirms. ‘Not that this’s much of a celebration.’

Jensen takes his empty dishes to the kitchen then goes to the hall closet, pulls on his parker and walking boots. Jared does the same and follows him out.

*

Seething. Boiling under his fleece-lined parker. Fists clenched and nails biting into the flesh of his palms. He kicks a clod of compacted snow into a tree trunk where it explodes silently, as though wary of disturbing the forest’s serenity.

Trees have no business being serene, not when Jensen is pissed as all hell.

He picks up his pace, anger notching up when Jared effortlessly lengthens his stride. It’s burning him, the fact that he can’t out-walk Jared, can’t outrun him. Out in the open or locked up in his room, it’s all the same because Jared controls his movements. Jared controls every last fucking aspect of his life, makes all the decisions.

Jared decided not to have an aerial, so TV’s good for watching movies and playing video games, but useless for transmitting news of what’s going on beyond the cabin. He decided not to have a calendar on display, so it’s impossible to track the days.

Jared decided that Jensen isn’t entitled to Thanksgiving, and he’s not talking about turkey and candied yams either. He’s talking about family; mom and dad, Mackenzie, Josh and his wife and son. They always, always spend Thanks Giving together back home in Richardson. Always.

As cut up as he is over not being there this year, his family’s got to be feeling a hundred times worse, figuring him for dead. God, his mom. Thinking about how this is breaking her heart makes his breath snag in his throat. Blue-green glaciers flow in suspended animation down the mountain crags up in the distance. He’s seeing the blue-green through a watery shimmer, eyes scalding hot.

He jams his hands into his pockets and turns round, retraces his steps. Jared keeps pace beside him all the way back to the cabin and up to his room. Jensen can make decisions, too. He decides to shut the door in Jared’s face, entreating hazel eyes notwithstanding.

Screw you, Padalecki.

*

That night, or rather, in the small hours of the next morning, Jensen’s awake when the shaft of hallway light slices a yellow path through the gloom. Jared is a motionless silhouette in the doorway. Creepy almost, the way he just stands there. Five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen, and Jensen’s feeling the tension in his spine, adrenalin spiking his pulse.

‘I woke you,’ Jared whispers.

‘Was already awake.’

‘Want me to go away?’

‘Suddenly you give a damn what I want?’

‘Yeah I do. You wanted Thanksgiving and I’m sorry I fucked it up.’

Still Jared doesn’t get it? It’s not about a single special day. It’s about all the days he snatched from Jensen, all the days he plans to keep on snatching. Jensen’s not even angry anymore. He just wants his life back. He’s going to take it back one way or another.

Cold ripple of air as Jared pulls the duvet back, dip of the mattress as he lays down facing Jensen.

‘We’ll do Christmas,’ Jared promises, such a fucking dreamer.

Talking about how they’re going to decorate a tree, eat till they’re about to burst, drink till dawn. It’s going to be perfect, because Jared wants that, wants him to have the perfect Christmas. Maybe Jared’ll take photos of the perfect Yuletide and send them to Richardson, since that’s where he’ll be celebrating Christmas. At home, with his family.

‘Sounds like you got it all worked out,’ he idly says.

Jared’s quirky smile vanishes, expression broken open and raw with yearning. ‘Truth is, you’ve got me twisted up and spun round. I don’t know what I’m doing, Jen. Don’t know how to make you not hate me,’ his voice too, broken open and raw, seizing Jensen’s lungs up.

He and Jared, they both yearn for what the other can’t give. Can’t strong-arm someone into loving you, same way you can’t force a person to quit it with the futile fantasies and be ecstatic about dropping you off at the nearest bus depot.

‘Need you to do something for me,’ Jared pleads. ‘Lie to me, Jensen.’

God help him but he slides his leg between Jared’s, curls closer and lies. ‘Love you.’

Jared’s throat convulses, eyes falling shut. ‘Again. Say it.’

He repeats the lie, whispers it on Jared’s lips. Tangles his fingers in Jared’s hair and holds him in place for a kiss that goes deep and doesn’t feel like a lie.

Lightheaded, Jensen pulls back – barely. He drags in a breath, doesn’t get a chance to drag in another before Jared’s on him, fucking growling as he sinks his teeth into Jensen’s lip, and the sting of it hurts good, lets loose something hot and demanding inside of Jensen.

He fists the front of Jared’s t-shirt, drags it up and off. Jared is at it too, undressing Jensen with urgency. T-shirts sail to the floor, then boxer-briefs, and Jensen’s thinking he lucked out.

He is one lucky bastard to have all this spread out before him: tan skin smoothed over defined muscle, long limbs displayed in a pliant sprawl, midnight eyes and cherry lips. Thick, flushed cock twitching on a taut belly. Gorgeous on any given day, but like this, etched in light and shadow, Jared is unreal.

Fuck, Jensen almost doesn’t know what to do with him. Almost.

He taps Jared’s hip, says, ‘turn over,’ and grabs the lube off the nightstand as Jared rolls onto his hands and knees.

First time Jensen did this, he came. Couldn’t hold off, just humped the back of Jared’s thigh and came all over it, fingers deep inside Jared and clenched by that tight ass. Things are gonna end prematurely again if he doesn’t hurry up. He eases his fingers out, leaning over to smear a kiss in the dip of Jared’s spine as Jared hisses through his teeth.

‘You good, Jay? Need more slick?’

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m good.’

Jared lowers his chest to the mattress, face turned to the side and hands reaching back. Palms his ass cheeks, pulls them apart, and Jensen wants in. Like, now. Can’t wait – doesn’t. He lines up to Jared’s hole, pink and pouty and glossy with lube, rocks his hips and he’s nudging in.

Tight. So hot and tight, clamping down on his cock-head, resisting him. Way too late for that. He’s on fire here, and unless Jared says no, this tight little hole is gonna get fucked wide open. He grips Jared’s hips and pushes, flayed by shivery pleasure as the ring of muscle yields and he slides all the way in. He’s inside Jared. His cock is hard and throbbing inside Jared.

He pulls back a little, looks down at where Jared’s stretched around him, and thrusts back in. Jared’s mouth snaps open, no sound comes out. Silent participation is so not what Jensen has in mind. He needs to hear Jared. Needs it.

‘Every day,’ he says, and his voice could sand down stone it’s so rough. ‘Going to fuck you just like this. My dick inside you, every fucking day between now and Christmas. Just. Like. This.’

Grip hauling Jared into his thrusts, going in hard, driving sounds out of him, soft cusses and breathy groans, and each one of them stokes Jensen. What stokes him even more? Jared jacking himself off. Jared pushing back on him, squirming on his dick, taking it all like he can’t ever get enough.

Jared shaking and gasping his name, ‘Jensen, goddammit fuck, Jensen,’ knees sliding out from under him as Jensen pounds him, fucks him into the mattress.

Jared’s cusses cut off. He goes rigid, tense all over, but inside he’s clenching and unclenching in rhythmic pulses, and that is it for Jensen. Waves of pleasure break over him, crash through him. He’s sucking on the back of Jared’s neck and coming, choppy thrusts slipping through lube and come, hot and wet and just, damn.

It’s a while before he re-orientates.

He’s slumped over Jared who’s still in the recovery position – face planted in the pillows. Afraid he’ll suffocate the guy, Jensen gets off of him, sees the thin white trail running down Jared’s ball sac and thinks, double damn. They forgot to use a condom.

‘We, uh,’ he rubs his palm across his nape. ‘We weren’t safe.’

Jared lifts his head and twists round to look at him through half-mast eyes. ‘I don’t care,’ he says, voice gone croaky. ‘Do you?’

Does he care that Jared is filled with his come, that it’s marking Jared up on the inside? He leans over and lightly bites the swell of Jared’s ass, lays a smile on the place he just bit.

*

Jensen shrinks back against a tree trunk and holds his breath, listening out for Jared. All he hears is his drumming heart and the rush of blood in his ears. His jeans are splashed with big, wet circles. He has snow in his hair and down the collar of his parker, and also, he’s out of ammunition.

He scrambles to the next tree, bee-lining for the outer circle of trees with huge piles of snow banked up against them. He breaks into a run, and he’s close now, so close. Jared steps round from behind a tree, straight into his path.

Jensen halts, eyeing the load of snowballs Jared’s got cradled in one arm. ‘Okay. You win, I lose. Now, drop the snowballs. Please.’

Jared flashes a grin. It’s wide and evil. ‘Better run, dude.’

Jensen whirls on his heel and takes off, pursued by a blitz of slushy snowballs. Laughter, his and Jared’s, rings clear and bright in the woods.

*

Handsy is not a word Jensen would use to describe himself, until recently. It’s like he’s incapable of being in the same room as Jared without touching him. He’ll reach up and brush back the bangs tangling with Jared’s eye lashes before thinking it through, or skim his knuckles down Jared’s arm, or rub the small of his back. Creep up behind him and squeeze his arms around his waist, skate a palm down his chest to flatten the wrinkles in his shirt, or, you know, tweak his nipple.

Jared’ll mostly lean into the touches and return them, making it clear that touch is good. Touch makes the world a better place. Jensen’s all for a better world, he’s just not a handsy person. He should remind his hands of this fact – and his lips since they regularly suck on some part or other of Jared’s anatomy. Earlobe and hipbone, side of Jared’s throat…it’s really kinda slutty, all the unprecedented sucking.

Right now, he’s showing remarkable self-restraint by staying put on this end of the couch while Jared reads through the latest print-out of the script on the other end.

‘Not sure I’m not sold on the love interest idea,’ Jared says, brow scrunched. ‘Denton’s got his hands full with outlaws, no time for fucking around.’

‘Quickie, shoot out, quickie. Totally plausible,’ he’s looking at Jared’s splayed thighs. ‘Speaking of quickies…’

Jared’s eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘Jesus, again?’

‘Yeah, it’s been an eventful week,’ he concedes, smug about it. ‘I’m surprised you can sit your butt down at all.’

‘Makes two of us,’ Jared ducks his eyes back to the script, and arousal sweeps through Jensen as he watches a rosy flush sweep into Jared’s face.

Jensen goes through life at a nice, steady lukewarm. He’s temperate in all things – coffee and acting aside. He doesn’t hate deeply or love deeply or want deeply, and so it scares him, the fact that just looking at Jared knocks him breathless with want.

What he should do is take a step back. Get up, say goodnight, go to his room. Jerk off.

What he does is get up, kick Jared’s feet farther apart and slide down between them, broad shoulders splaying Jared’s legs wider. He drags his hands up Jared’s thighs, blunt nails scraping on worn denim, and buries his face in Jared’s crotch.

‘Jensen,’ Jared curls his fingers in Jensen’s hair, tightens them as though to tug him off. ‘You don’t have to.’

‘Want to,’ he mouths at the soft bulge trapped behind Jared’s zipper. ‘Wanna do this, Jared. Let me.’

The first and only time he tried this, Jensen gagged, nearly choked on a combination of too much cock, too much ambition and not enough know-how. He’s wiser now, paces himself. Licks Jared from root to tip, swirls his tongue on the plump head getting it wet and shiny before ringing his lips around it.

Jared strains his hips upwards, throaty murmur buzzing Jensen. ‘You like that, Jen? Like my cock in your mouth?’

Well, duh. What’s not to like? Velvet head dragging along the roof of his mouth, thick vein pulsing on his tongue, cheeks bulging, feel of Jared going hard and heavy in his mouth, trickle of salty pre-come. Hell yeah he likes it. Damn shame he can’t cram it all in.

He fumbles with his belt buckle and shoves his hand down his pants. It’s awkward at first, beating off while sliding his mouth down Jared and trying to come out of it alive. But then Jared’s grip in his hair is guiding him, gentle pressure on the back of his head easing it up and down, and Jensen just goes with it. Bobs his head a little deeper each time, sucks a little harder, gets Jared swearing – always a good sign.

He turns his eyes up to look at Jared, and Jared goes very, very still.

Jensen, he’s feeling mighty. His mighty mouth has rendered Jared speechless and motionless. He smiles around the dick in his mouth, teases Jared with light flicks of his tongue and under-the-lashes glances.

‘So fucking pretty, your lips stretched around me like that,’ says Jared, his voice loose and lazy and uncoiling a ribbon of heat in Jensen’s balls. ‘Want me to fuck your mouth, that what you want, Jensen?’

Before he can gurgle in the affirmative, Jared manhandles him.

Hauls him up by the shoulders, turns him round, pushes his jeans down past his knees. He’s bare assed on Jared’s lap, his back molded to Jared’s chest, and he’s not sure what’s getting him hotter, being roughed up and tossed around, or feeling Jared – slick and hard - slide up between his thighs.

‘Squeeze tight,’ Jared’s hands slap down on his thighs, pushing them together. ‘Squeeze your legs on me and lay back, that’s all you got to do.’ Jared bands an arm around Jensen’s waist, hand of the other curling around his cock. ‘I’ll get you there, make you come so good you’ll be high for days.’

It’s not an empty promise. Jared gets him there with friction from his stroking fist, and friction on that sensitive spot behind his balls as Jared fucks between his tightly pressed thighs. He bites his fingers into Jared’s arm and hangs on. Jared’s hips move beneath him, power thrusting, yeah tossing him around, and it probably says something about him that he fucking loves being Jared’s rag doll.

What it says though, he can’t decipher at the moment, because he’s coming. Splashing warm on his chin and chest, whole body just one locked down muscle, white-hot pleasure fusing his spine stiff. Jared gives a short, sharp grunt and a short, sharp thrust, and coats his thighs, arm squishing the air out of him.

They are both rag dolls limp on the couch, their damp fingers intertwined on Jensen’s thigh. He lolls his head on Jared’s shoulder, the lolling giving way to near whimpers when Jared licks his chin, long swipes cleaning the jizz off and rasping on his skin.

‘Fuck baby,’ Jared says, going for his lips.

He skates his tongue into Jared’s mouth in mute agreement.

*

It’s been five days since Thanks Giving. Jensen is strangely okay about the almost bare cupboards and the serving of ground beef sitting untouched in the dog bowls. Sadie and Harley are picky, won’t eat the congealed mounds of cooked mince. They trail Jared all over the house – except Jensen’s room, Sadie refuses to enter there – and push their noses against the back of Jared’s legs, Sadie pleading with big brown eyes and Harley whining.

Jensen’s okay with the dogs moping. But they are making Jared mope and he’s not okay with that. First of all, it’s a buzz kill in bed. Second of all…he forgot the second reason what with having to look at Jared’s tragic face.

He scoops up a handful of water and flings it at Jared.

Half-hearted smile and then Jared’s back to moping. Wide mouth set in a straight line, cat’s eyes gazing deeply into the bubbling hot tub.

Jensen sinks lower until his chin’s submerged in water, lets the heat distract him from the nagging in his belly. It’s not hunger. Hunger gnaws – and besides, he just had a bowl of soup. The nagging is more to do with Jared. The guy adores his mongrels, so Jensen doesn’t understand why he’s denying them Kibble.

‘Try freshly slain squirrel,’ he suggests. ‘Sadie and Harley would go for that.’

‘Not funny.’

‘Well, something funny’s going on. Not like you let your babies go hungry, Jared.’

‘I’ll go tomorrow.’

‘You said that yesterday.’

Jared won’t hold his gaze, cuts to where the dogs are fading away on the back porch. ‘I know. Sorry.’

Sorry. Jared’s been constantly sorry these past few days, apologizing for the lamest things. Mismatched socks. Forgetting to transfer the laundry from the washer to the dryer. The needless apologies are another thing nagging Jensen.

‘Don’t gotta be sorry,’ he says. ‘Just fix it.’

‘It’s a long drive.’ Jared glances at the dogs again. ‘I could be gone a while.’

‘You’re worried about leaving the dogs, aren’t you?’ It would explain Jared’s lack of enthusiasm about getting the grocery shopping done. ‘You are dog-whipped, man. Total sap for those mutts.’

‘Look at them. Can you blame me?’

Jensen gets why Jared is attached to Harley. Sadie, though? ‘What, you don’t trust me to look after the kids while you’re out?’

‘Course I do,’ Jared says – too quickly? ‘I’ll get a list started. Any special requests?’

‘This year’s calendar. And a pack of silk boxers. A certain asshole ripped my last decent pair.’

‘Hey, I apologized for that.’

Yes he did. Too profusely.

*

Jensen wrings the cloth in the sink and wipes down the counters. Rinses and wrings the cloth again, crosses the kitchen to wipe down the breakfast bar. Jared’s behind, trailing him, and the dogs trail Jared. So basically Jensen’s had Jared, Harley and Sadie tripping on his heels for the best part of two days.

‘Dude.’ He turns to face Jared. ‘You’re doing it again, hovering.’

Jared scratches behind his earlobe, smiling sheepishly. ‘Sorry.’

God. He’s going to throw a party when Jared quits being sorry and finally re-stocks the cupboards. ‘Did you get started on that list yet?’

‘All done.’

‘Right. So what’s the hold up?’

Jared shrugs, his glance evasive.

Jensen’s had enough of this shit. He grasps Jared’s shoulders and shakes him. ‘You’re going tomorrow. First thing.’

‘But-’

‘No Jared, I mean it,’ he shakes Jared again.

Jared sways into him, arms looping around him and face mashed in the crook of his neck. Poor thing’s probably worn out with hunger.

He rubs between Jared’s shoulder blades, kneading, and says, ‘early night for you. Go on, I’ll finish up down here.’

Still, he doesn’t release Jared. Kneads both hands down Jared’s back, loosening the kinks and knots. Warmed by satisfaction when Jared hmms and sags onto him.

*

Their early morning routine is pretty much carved in stone. Usually he’s still muzzy with sleep when Jared comes into his room, and Jared will scoot up behind him and stroke him fully awake, or roll him on his back and blow him into consciousness. Hot mouth and sure hands, hoarse I love you’s branded just above his navel. It’s not an awful way to wake up.

This morning, Jared deviates from routine. Rolls him onto his belly and feathers kisses down his spine. They’re light, kind of tickly, and he smiles, too sleep-drugged to manage laughter.

‘What you doing, Jay?’

Jared runs a finger along the waistband of his boxers, back and forth, twice then three times. ‘Jensen,’ he tugs the waistband down, ‘I’m sorry, man.’

And a quick, sharp jab stings Jensen’s ass cheek, so unexpected he yelps, rearing his head up.

Jared, the fucking bastard, has the nerve to shush him. ‘Shhh, it’s okay,’ voice low and intimate, body draped over him like a lead blanket pinning him down.

With the sedative leaching the strength out of him, he has no hope of bucking Jared off. Can’t even cuss at him properly because his tongue’s as sluggish as the rest of him.

‘Bastard, you’re a fuckin’…why’d you have to go and ruin it?’ he slurs, eyelids heavy and slipping shut. ‘We were…you and me were doing…’ his head’s heavy too, wavering. He sinks his brow into the pillow, sighs, succumbs.

Chapter Five

That Stockholm Thing 3/7 (J2 AU, NC-17)

2008-12-02T22:03:44Z

Title: That Stockholm Thing
Author: dijisun
Pairings: Jensen/Jared, mentions Jared/Sandy and Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jensen gets kidnapped
Rating: NC-17, AU
Warnings: angst, language, some violence, DARK themes.
Disclaimer: never happened, all lies.
A/N: unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.

He spreads the duvet over his bed, empties the trashcan into a black bin liner then strides down the hall to Jared’s room dragging the bin bag behind him. The division of chores evolved organically: he takes care of upstairs, Jared takes care of downstairs.

It works, most times.

‘Damn fool,’ he mutters.

‘What?’ Jared makes innocent eyes at him. He’s sitting in the center of the bed, laptop perched on his crossed legs. Candy bar taped to his bare chest.

‘Nothing,’ Jensen moves to the bathroom.

Always starts there because he hates cleaning Jared’s bathroom. Wet towels on the floor, trail of muddy dog prints across to the free-standing bath, dog shampoo uncapped on the counter. Clump of dark hair clogging the shower’s plug-hole. Jared and his fucking long tresses, freakin’ princess.

And why, why, why is there always globs of toothpaste everywhere, on the mirror even? Like, what does the guy do, have toothpaste wars with himself?

Sighing in despair, he bends down to the cupboard under the sink. Takes out the cleaning products and a pair of pink rubber gloves.

‘You know,’ he loudly muses, wriggling his fingers into a glove, ‘I don’t even like candy.’

There’s thudding and shuffling and then Jared’s shouldering the door wider open. ‘What do you like?’

Jensen fills the sink with warm water, swishes his hand around in it. ‘I’m a steak man, myself.’

Jared comes to stand behind him, lips pursed, thinking frown on his brow. Candy bar still ridiculously attached to his chest. ‘So, if I were to grill a steak and tape it on,’ he reaches his hands round to Jensen’s belt buckle, ‘pour a little gravy over it, you’d take a bite?’

Jensen whooshes out an exhalation as Jared’s hand slides into boxers and cups him. He’s biting all right, biting back a groan. ‘Yeah,’ he says, and dammit, it’s a groan.

‘Hmm,’ Jared hums in his ear, fingers curling around him. ‘And how do you like it done, Jensen? Medium? Rare?’

Hard and fast. That’s how he likes it and he tells Jared so, pushes his hips back from the sink to give Jared’s hand working room. Because a hand’s a hand, and if he closes his eyes, doesn’t look in the mirror, the hand jerking him off could be anyone’s.

It’s quick and dirty, cock throbbing and leaking with pre-come, hard, fast pulls becoming slicker, faster, too much. He comes, squeak of rubber on porcelain as his fingers tighten on the sink.

Jared tucks him back in then rinses his hand in the sink, wipes it on Jensen’s t-shirt and says, ‘we’re out of steak. How ‘bout slow baked ribs instead?’

Jensen laughs, winded and stuttery. ‘You gonna wear the ribs?’

Preoccupied with unwrapping the candy bar, Jared doesn’t reply. He crams the semi-melted chocolate bar whole in his mouth and wanders off, back to his laptop.

Jensen peels the gloves off. He trails after Jared and drops down beside him on the bed. ‘What you working on?’

‘Movie script,’ says Jared.

Of course Jensen’s immediately intrigued.

He cranes his neck trying to get a look at the screen. Jared hunches over, blocking his view. His shoulders are rolled forward, his head ducked low, and the hair falling into his face doesn’t hide the pink tinge on his cheeks. Jared embarrassed? Jared who has the brass to just breeze into a bathroom and jerk a guy off is feeling self-conscious about something as mundane as a script? It defies logic.

‘Shift,’ he lands a smack between Jared’s shoulder blades.

‘Ouch! The fuck, Jensen?’

‘Show me, or I’ma keep hitting you.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Jared repositions the laptop, angling it so they can both see the screen.

Jensen scrolls to the top of the page, hooks his chin on Jared’s shoulder and settles in to read. The script’s not the work of a professional. Though the dialogue’s punchy, the plot’s a mess, all action and no direction. And the abrupt ending leaves Jensen dissatisfied.

Jared looks at him expectantly, apprehension in the way he repeatedly reaches up to brush his hair off his face. Jensen tries to think of an encouraging way of telling Jared that his script sucks.

‘Okay, honestly? It sucks, man.’

Jared’s face falls.

‘But it’s got great potential,’ Jensen quickly adds. ‘Just needs a little bit of tweaking,’ he understates.

Jared doesn’t look convinced, so Jensen scrolls back up to the first page and runs the pointer along the opening scene, suggesting some changes.

‘Put ‘em in,’ says Jared.

‘Put what where?’

‘The tweaks, put them in.’

And that’s how Jensen gets manipulated into co-rewriting a futuristic western.

*

Their relationship - for lack of a better word - is one-sided. One of them is on the giving side and the other on the taking side. Jensen knows which side he’s on.

He’s the taker. Takes the affection, takes the handjobs, and doesn’t reciprocate either of those. Jared is unfailingly cheerful about it, never asks for anything. He just gives and gives and Jensen’s beginning to feel like a big, ungrateful moocher. He has arguments with himself, which really doesn’t help to cultivate a Zen mind.

A part of him will be like: you know, Jared’s real decent to you. He doesn’t torture you. He brings you food, beer and scintillating conversation, not to mention that you’d be dead of blue balls by now if he didn’t handle your morning wood every day. Least you can do is return the favor, blow the guy once in a while. Who knows, you might even like it.

And the other part of him will argue, fiercely: Jared and me, we are not in a relationship. I’m not going to enable his sick fantasies by getting up close and personal with his junk. Blow him? No fucking way, man. Zip, is what he’s getting from me. Ain’t gonna give him a goddamn thing.

The fierce part of him wins these arguments. It’s winning at the moment as Jared’s slick fist jerks him off, easy glide down, twist of wrist on the up-slide. Shock of pleasure when Jared presses his hard-on against his ass and breathes his name, but Jensen clamps his lips tight and won’t reply. He won’t give Jared the groan that’s purring in throat, won’t let it out because he is winning. Also, he’s coming, rash of sweat popping up all over his body, gasps smothered in the pillow and hips thrusting, chasing that friction until Jared has wrung out every last drop from him.

Jared rubs the warm, sticky mess into the skin of Jensen’s belly. It’s kinda gross. He stays Jared’s hand by putting his own hand over it. Barely broken, morning sheds thin light into the room, peopling it with grey and black shadow. Jensen wants to crack the window open to drive out the smell of sex and sweat and heat.

He’ll do it later, too comfortable to move right now.

‘I wrote it for you, the script,’ a confession whispered in Jensen’s hair. ‘You told Buddy TV you wanted to do a western, so I wrote you a western…’

Jared’s voice is sleepy, dream-like quality to it, and he talks about how he’s going to get the financial backing for the movie, how Jensen’s going to play the lead. It’s a stupid fantasy, chances of it coming true less than nil. But giving for a change, he doesn’t voice his disagreement, lets Jared have his fantasy.

Lets him weave pictures of their movie premiering at the Sundance Festival, of everybody seeing them together. Jensen and Jared, co-writers and partners, good ole Texas boys stepping out together. They’ll do that, too, fly to San Antonio, Texas. It’s gonna be awesome, Jensen meeting Jared’s family, and they’ll fall in love with Jensen. They’ll love Jensen almost as much as Jared loves him.

Jensen’s chest clenches as he listens to all this, to the improbable scenario of him ever being in his home State again. Because Jared must know that if he takes Jensen anywhere near a functioning phone, the first call he’s making is to the cops.

So those words of Jared’s, the promises and happy anticipation, they stab like shards of glass sliding under his skin. But that’s the whole point, isn’t it? It’s not worth giving if it doesn’t cost you.

*

It’s been snowing for two days straight. Vindictive and dark, the clouds choke out the blue in the sky and ban the sun from shining.

Jensen’s mood reflects the weather. He’s snappy with Jared, everything that comes out of his mouth cold and cutting. When he’s not snapping at Jared, he’s editing the script on the laptop. Activates the track changes function so that brutal red lines strike through Jared’s work.

‘Are you pissed at me?’ asks Jared on seeing the edits.

‘You said to tweak,’ Jensen deletes a whole scene with his new best friend the red line. ‘I’m tweaking.’

‘Look, if I did something wrong-’

‘You mean apart from kidnapping me to the North Fucking Pole? No, Jared. You didn’t do a thing wrong.’

Jared watches him for a beat, the air crackling around them. ‘Mind letting me past?’

There are more convenient places to edit a script than at the top of a staircase. Jensen feels like inconveniencing the world, which is why he’s sitting bang in the middle of the topmost step. Holding the laptop steady on his knee, he scoots over a few inches. Jared’s leg jars his arm as he pushes past.

The dogs wag their tails when Jared gets to the bottom of the staircase. Harley follows him into the living, but Sadie lies back down, her muzzle propped on the bottom step. For as long as Jensen’s on the top step, Sadie will stay at the bottom, her ears pricked up and the hairs on the scruff of her neck bristling.

‘Bet you can’t wait for me to step out of line,’ Jensen says to her.

Sadie wrinkles her snout, growling.

‘Right back at you.’ He edits a couple more scenes, eyes starting to smart with the screen glow. ‘Jared! You got a printer cord?’

‘In my desk, somewhere,’ Jared calls back.

Jared’s desk is wedged in a corner of his room. The printer’s on the desk, a mini-library on script writing is on the desk. Balls of crumpled paper, re-writeable discs, pens, sharpies of all colors, candles that smell like cookies, all on the desk.

The desk drawers absorb the chaos that can’t fit on top of the desk: more books, more half burnt candles, flash sticks, business magazines, files. He lifts a file out and underneath it is a shiny black colt.

His heart lurches into his mouth. He backs away, eyes trained on the colt.

Shit, he thinks. Shit, shit, Jared’s got a gun. Is he planning on using it for one of those murder-suicide deals? If I can’t have you, no-one’s going to have you type of thing?

Is it loaded?

Only one way to find out.

He takes decisive steps back to the desk, checks the gun’s chamber. Fully loaded. He replaces the gun exactly as it was, but then he picks it up again.

The colt is cold and solid, it’s impersonal. It’ll fire off bullets for him just as good as it will for Jared. He could, god, he could…he wouldn’t actually shoot Jared. Just scare him into giving up the keys to the truck.

Exhilaration has him curling his finger around the trigger. He raises the gun, points it at the French doors.

It’s still snowing out. Flurries of snowflakes so big and fluffy they’re like goose down. The firs bow under the weight of snow, the ground’s thick with it. Picturesque maybe, but treacherous to drive in.

He can’t tell whether the snow’s six inches or a foot deep, doesn’t know if it’ll let up in a couple of hours or a couple of days. Lost on the mountainside in this kind of weather, hypothermia’s gonna find you before anybody else does.

He puts the colt back into the drawer and the file back over the colt. Gun’ll be there when the weather clears up. He carries on searching for the cord, which turns up, not in the desk but behind it, tangled up with cobwebs and a desk-top picture frame.

The heart lurching is getting kind of old. He hooks up the laptop to the printer and places the dusty frame on the nightstand behind him. Much better. Now he can watch the printer spitting out red lined pages without distraction.

Still, he glances over his shoulder. Jared and the pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl look right together. She’s wearing a short skirt, high heels and a dazzler of a ring on the third finger of her left hand.

*

That night when they’re having dinner on the staircase – Jensen on the top step, Jared on the third step down, plates balanced on their knees – Jared asks, ‘where’d you find that photo, Jen?’

‘Wrapped in the printer cord behind your desk.’ He takes a bite of chicken, chews hard, swallows hard. Just can’t help himself, ‘who’s the girl?’

‘Sandy. My ex-fiancée. I fell out of love with her long before we broke up.’

Again Jensen can’t help himself. He smiles at the back of Jared’s head. And swallows the next bite of chicken without difficulty.

*

When he next goes in to tidy Jared’s room, the snowstorm is over, the sun’s out and the picture frame’s gone. The colt isn’t. He checks the chamber. Still fully loaded. He slides the desk drawer shut and gets on with emptying trashcans and making the bed and wiping globs of Colgate Total off the mirror.

No, he hasn’t lost his mind. He still plans on leaving – of course. It’s just that snow on the road can be deceptive, hiding ice under its blanket. He’ll wait until the sun has thawed things out a little, melted some of the snow and ice. Then he’ll pull the gun on Jared and drive to the nearest police station like a bat out of hell.

Meanwhile, he and Jared have a script to finish re-writing.

*

‘Jay? How much longer?’ he hollers.

Man, he’s starving. After eight and they’ve not had dinner yet. Normally they’d have eaten by now, but Jared’s been tramping about down there for hours now, cooking up something that smells wonderful.

‘Jared,’ and yep, he’s whining. Because he’s fucking starving.

Jared appears at the bottom of the staircase. Hands on hips, stained tea-towel slung over his shoulder. Face flushed, freckled with sweat and unamused. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Yeah, I heard you the last two million times Jensen. I’m doing the best I can.’

‘Me, too. Doing my best to wait patiently.’

Jared extends his arm and crooks his fingers. ‘Come wait downstairs.’

He didn’t know how much he wanted it, how badly he wanted to free range downstairs until Jared said that just then, come wait downstairs. It’s a miracle he doesn’t trip and break his neck, the way he zooms down the stairs.

‘You’re keen,’ Jared says with a soft laugh.

Keen yes, standing on the bottom step and leaning in towards Jared, little wrench in his gut when Jared leans in towards him. There’s no slow build up, no polite how do you do. Their mouths slot and click, instant heat. Hands everywhere, tugging and holding, just as their lips hold the kiss and prolong it.

Jared’s kisses, Jensen discovers, are like freedom; the more he gets the more he wants. He curls his fingers on Jared’s hips, dizzy with the taste and sounds of Jared, those hot groans he’s fanning into Jensen’s mouth.

‘Jared no,’ he pants when Jared breaks away. ‘Where are you going?’

Jared’s nostrils are flared with ragged breathing, voice gravel rough and making Jensen harder. ‘I, uh, think I’m gonna clean up before we eat. How about you go through and light the fire?’

‘Sure,’ he takes his hands off Jared’s hips and shoves them into his pockets, feeling harshly deprived as he watches Jared run up the stairs.

*

The dining table’s a surprise, decked out with a crisp, white tablecloth, red linen napkins, sparkling silverware and glasses. No wonder dinner is late; Jared was busy messing around with placemats and floral arrangements.

Jensen moves past the table, follows the mouth-watering scents to the oven. He takes a peek. Rack of ribs on the oven’s top shelf, and on the bottom shelf, potatoes roasting to a golden brown. He closes the oven door before he’s seriously tempted to start without Jared.

In the living room, Harley and Sadie are lying on the hearth. Sadie walks off stiff-legged when Jensen approaches. But Harley ‘helps’ him build the fire, taking the split logs off the grate as soon as Jensen lays them down.

‘C’mon Harley, stop it.’

Harley wags his tail, a log held in his slobbering jaws.

‘You want to play?’

Harley drops the log on the hearth rug and woofs, tail furiously swishing from side to side.

‘All right,’ Jensen laughs. ‘But first, the fire.’

After he’s lit the fire, he grabs a pillow off the armchair and waves it at Harley who pounces, grabbing the other end of the pillow. So, they’re playing tug of war, though Jensen’s doing more slipping than tugging, socked feet sliding on the smooth floorboards.

‘What I need,’ he puffs, trying to dig his heels in, ‘is traction. I’d totally kick your ass at this if I had traction pads on my feet.’

‘You think?’

Jensen lets go of the pillow, turns in the direction of the amused voice, and there Jared is, showered, shaved and looking fine. His legs about a mile long in the black dress pants, and his shoulders, accentuated by the white button-down, look broad enough to carry Texas.

Feeling grubby in comparison, covered in cinders and dog-hairs, Jensen brushes his jeans down. His mouth’s gone dry and he clears his throat, struggles for something witty to say.

‘Cool watch,’ he says, as if he’s never before seen the watch gleaming around Jared’s wrist.

‘Thank you,’ Jared shuffles from foot to foot.

A beat elapses then another, and they’re just sort of staring at each other over the couch. Now Jensen not only feels grubby but also sweaty and a little bit dumb.

‘You need a hand in the kitchen?’ he blurts, very witty.

‘Got it covered thanks. You just,’ Jared rushes to the table and pulls a chair out, ‘uh, sit? Hope wine’s okay, we’re out of beer.’

Jensen sits. There’s weirdness going down. He watches Jared flit back and forth between the table and the kitchen, bringing the food and wine, pouring for Jensen, serving him. Attentive but also kinda hyper, fidgeting in his chair. Acting like he’s on a hot date with a…oh.

Avoiding eye contact with Jared, he presses a napkin to his lips to stifle his laughter.

‘More wine?’ asks Jared.

Oh god, it’s coming. Fuck, it’s here, and he can’t tamp it down. It rolls up from his belly, shoots out of his mouth and once it’s out, there’s no stemming the tide of laughter.

Jared’s starting to smile. ‘What’s so damn funny?’

‘Is this a date?’ he snorts. ‘We on a date here? ‘Cause dude, you only had to ask. Didn’t have to resort to kidnap to wine and dine me.’

Jared’s smile winks out. His stare is stony and uncompromising. ‘I asked. Wrote to you a bunch of times, e-mailed you, and got squat back. I even dropped by the set, figured I’d ask you in person. Waited ten hours, and you wouldn’t give me two minutes. You wouldn’t give me a chance to take you on a real date in a real restaurant. So here we are, Jensen.’

‘You don’t know how hectic it gets, sixteen hour shoots and early morning calls,’ Jensen hates that he sounds like he’s making excuses, speaks brusquely to cover up. ‘Besides, my press officer deals with fan mail. You got a problem, take it up with her.’

‘Believe it or not, those fans? They’re busy people, too. But they make time. I made time for you. I’m making time now and you fucking throw your press officer at me?’

Not quite able to meet Jared’s eye, Jensen picks up his fork again. Suddenly the succulent ribs taste like ash and the merlot turned into vinegar. It’s a total fucking loss, because if he’d given Jared those two minutes, met him properly, chances are he’d have agreed to go out with him. Maybe not on a date. Jensen’s not wired that way, doesn’t date guys. But beer and hot wings at a sports bar, he wouldn’t have said no to that.

Well, he didn’t make time for Jared, so here they are. It’s not ideal. He doesn’t want to be here, but what’s he gonna do, sulk? Throw his plate at Jared? Easier to just go with it, be on a date if Jared wants that so bad.

‘So,’ he smiles, cocking his head slightly, ‘do you eat here often?’

‘Idiot,’ says Jared.

‘No, really, I should know the basics about my date. Like, his last name.’

Jared nods, tops up their wine glasses. ‘Fair enough.’

*

His full name is Jared Tristan Padalecki. He’s twenty-six, Cancer and studied chemistry at UCLA. When he first moved out there, he was so homesick he spent entire weekends trawling the malls for stuff that smelt like Texas. That’s how he got into scents. Wouldn’t it be cool, if he could distill the scent of Texas in a bottle or in candle wax, never be homesick again?

He came up with many scents and oil blends during his quest for the Texas formula. Some smelt like something you’d get from a skunk, but the majority were good enough to sell. People actually wanted to buy his scent. He gave the people his scent, building a company in the process. And stunned his parents when he sold the company, sold his house in LA, broke off his engagement to his long-term girlfriend – four years ain’t a joke - and upped sticks to Canada.

Jensen can’t wrap his head round it. He scrapes his spoon along the bottom of his bowl, gathering up the last dollop of mint and chocolate ice-cream. Licks the dollop off and waves his spoon at Jared.

‘Who does that? I mean, who ditches everything for some guy he saw on TV?’

‘Me, apparently.’

‘Yeah, you’re crazier than I thought. And that’s saying something seeing as I reckoned you were pretty fucking crazy to start with.’

Jared claps his hands together and throws his head back, laughing.

Uh huh. Bat-shit crazy.

*

Dinner’s over. The wine bottles are empty and the fire burnt down to embers. The air is starting to turn cold, yet still, he and Jared sit at the table talking shit.

All things considered, Jared’s not an awful date for a certifiable individual.

‘Are you going to walk me home, Romeo?’ he jokes.

Damnably chivalrous, Jared walks him to his door, presses a dry kiss to the corner of his mouth and says, ‘goodnight, Jensen.’

‘Yeah. Goodnight,’ he says, feeling harshly deprived for a second time tonight as he watches Jared walk away from him.

Chapter Four

That Stockholm Thing 2/7 (J2 AU, NC-17)

2008-12-02T21:50:57Z

Title: That Stockholm Thing
Author: dijisun
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, mention of Jensen/Danneel and Jared/Sandy
Rating: NC-17, AU
Summary: Jensen gets kidnapped.
Warnings: angst, language, some violence, some schmoop, DARK themes, explicit m/m
Disclaimer: pure fiction, none of it happened.
Feedback: yes please!
A/N: unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own. I'm a bit unsure about this fic, not sure it went how I wanted it to.

He goes to sleep blaming himself. He dreams about Danneel, and when he wakes up his sheets are damp with guilty sweat and his ankle throbbing from all the tossing and turning.

He knows that he’s not to blame. Whatever Jared did, he did on his own initiative. Knowing this doesn’t stop Jensen feeling responsible for the psycho’s actions. Then he starts really scaring himself. What if Jared decides Jensen’s family don’t love him, decides he’s better off without them?

He tries not to dwell on that, but he can’t help it. The thoughts are just there, cramming his head, spilling over into room. They hung in the air, oppressive and tangible.

Almost as oppressive is his stink. He reeks. His skin hasn’t seen soap and water in over a month. When he runs his tongue over his teeth, he can feel the thick, gunky build-up of plaque. He’s probably got particles of food merrily fermenting in his molars.

He feels non-human next to Jared who looks and smells so good, clean-shaven face and shower fresh skin. He is Jared’s pet chimp on a chain. A chained chimp with a steak knife in his hand.

He and Jared are sitting across from each other on the bed, dinner trays on their laps. They’re sitting close. He could lunge and sink the serrated knife into that soft dip between Jared’s collar bones.

He hacks off a chunk of steak, bites it off his fork, simmers. Doesn’t understand why Jared persists on tempting him in this way. One of these days, Jensen just might lunge. Not today, though.

Today, he’s being nice to Jared, as he has been for the past couple of weeks and will continue to be for a few more. See it dawned on him – a very slow dawning – that the nicer he is to Jared, the more he’ll get from Jared. More of the chat and enthusiastic happiness.

A chatty-happy Jared stacks their trays on the floor and sprawls across the foot of the bed. He is all smiles and dimples, relaxed, as though here on the sweat stained comforter is the awesomest place he could be.

Being nice to Jared comes easy – unnervingly so, sometimes – therefore Jensen can keep at it, ply Jared with quick grins and dry humor and reciprocal chatting, ply him with lazy laughter and indulgent glances, softly spoken thanks for the little gifts he keeps bringing, smack him around the head with a pillow when he’s being tiresomely goofy.

And one of these days, Jared will be so relaxed he won’t see the knife coming. He’ll be spread out like he is now, head pushed back and throat exposed, and Jensen will sink the blade right there in the soft dip at the base of his throat. Twist it in, fucking bleed him. Make him writhe and hurt.

A dark little shiver skitters up his spine. He drags his gaze down Jared’s body, gets snared by the insane hipbones that peek over the top of Jared’s low riding jeans. He wants to work his tongue on those pronounced bones.

He works his tongue to say, ‘you gonna let me off this chain so I can shower?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Jared bounces off the bed.

It seriously can’t be that simple.

It seriously is. Jared kneels at his feet, slots in the tiny iron key into the manacle, turns it. And simple as that, Jensen’s off the chain, he’s free.

Too simple. Jared’s going to make with the threats now: don’t try nothing unless you want me to break your legs.

What Jared threatens him with is, ‘mind if I change the sheets while you’re in the shower?’

Jensen shakes his head. He feels weird, kind of affectionate and pissed. Kind of warm. ‘Thanks, man,’ he pats Jared’s shoulder and almost runs to the shower room.

*

God, the things he used to take for granted. Rushed showers without really appreciating the smell of the soap or the feel of hot water sluicing his back.

He appreciates it now. Scours his skin with the lathered wash cloth, and when he’s done that, he shampoos his hair three times, conditions it twice and appreciates every second he spends in the steam warmed shower enclosure. Even appreciates the stinging when the soapy water runs over his blistered ankle.

He’s humming as he towels dry on the bath mat. Humming is really not conducive to teeth brushing and gargling, so he shelves the upbeat tune, wipes the fogged mirror and looks his face over while attacking the plaque.

So, this is what Jared sees when he looks at him, wide green eyes in a ginger hairball. He doesn’t care what Jared sees. When he rifles through the cabinet looking for a razor, he’s not doing it so Jared can behold the hotness of him. He’s a tad vain, likes to behold his own hotness. There are worse crimes.

He finds his toilet bag behind a row of products on the cabinet’s top shelf. His shaving kit’s in the bag, nail scissors too. Dirt ingrained half-moons fall into the sink as he clips his nails. The half-moons are soon joined by tufts of red-brown beard.

He sets the scissors on the counter, grabs the shaving cream and lathers up. The razor cuts a smooth path through the froth on his cheek, and he’s weirdly happy to see them again, the freckles. Banes of his existence.

His hair’s grown out, Dean Winchester wouldn’t approve. Jensen’s cool with the in-between length. It’s clean, that’s what matters.

He leaves the bathroom, humming again. Pitches a grin at Jared, who half rises from the bed and sort of gets stuck that way, not quite standing and not quite sitting. Hovering in mid-rise, his lips a candy pink O, his gaze hot and greedy, stuttering all over Jensen like he can’t decide which part of him to look at first. Chest, face, shoulders, face, legs, and yeah, back to Jensen’s face.

Just to make things a little more interesting, Jensen tugs his towel loose, lets it slither to the floor. Jared sinks onto the bed. Jensen turns and strides to the closet, smirks when Jared exhales a gaspy little squeak. Oh, Jared wants. Too bad he isn’t going to get.

‘Phenomenal shower,’ Jensen picks a pair of sweat pants off the shelf. ‘I could’ve stayed in there all night.’

He goes commando. Butt muscles flexing as he bends over to pull up the sweats. He can hear Jared not breathing, and he presses his lips together, trying not to laugh.

‘Could you come here?’ Jared sounds strangled, words thick and forced.

He doesn’t rush over to Jared. Takes his sweet time selecting and pulling on a long-sleeved t-shirt. Then strolls to the bed, stays standing.

‘Let me see your ankle.’

The concerned tone surprises Jensen. He hates surprises, especially from psychos. ‘It’s fine,’ he says.

Jared whips his hand out, and he’s got a grasp on Jensen’s pants’ leg, tugs it up to reveal the ankle. ‘Since when is gangrene fine? You should’ve told me, I’d have…shit Jensen, why didn’t you mention this?’

Jensen’s in a bizarre place. Instead of guilting Jared into a full blown freak out: yeah, look what you did, you asshole. You gave me gangrene…instead of that, he wants to soothe the asshole who gave him gangrene.

‘A couple of blisters aren’t gangrene,’ he says, gruff.

Actually, there’re more than a couple. Cluster of swollen bumps, some of them weeping clear, gluey fluid. Some of them split open, merging to form an area of red, broken skin.

Jared looks stricken. ‘Be right back,’ a few giant strides, and he’s out the door.

Jensen’s heart beat speeds up. It’s thudding at break-neck. His breath comes quick and his brain yells at him to move, run while the door is standing wide open. He could be out on the landing in five seconds, downstairs in another five. But he stays paralyzed where he is, because the part of his brain that’s not yelling is thinking.

Jared planned the abduction in minute detail. He’s not stupid.

If Jared’s not stupid, then he deliberately left the door open for a reason.

Jensen feels stupid because he can’t fathom Jared’s reasoning.

*

He’s still failing to fathom when Jared returns, a tube in his hand.

Jensen strives for casual, ‘what, no coffee?’

‘Just the cream,’ Jared slides to his knees again. He’s unfairly graceful, long fingers folding back the bottom of Jensen’s pants leg. ‘Tea tree’s supposed to have these anti-septic qualities,’ he says cupping one hand around Jensen’s calf. ‘Lift your foot.’

Jared sure likes to give orders. Come here. Lift up. Don’t fight me. And he’s not at all patient, wraps his hands around Jensen’s leg when he gets no compliance. Jared lifts and maneuvers, and Jensen stumbles, but it works out in the end, because he regains balance by clutching Jared’s head, his foot where Jared wants it to be, resting on his thigh.

Jared is talking.

Jensen’s not listening.

He sniffs as the sharp scent of tea-tree pricks his sinuses, feels like he’s still stumbling as gentle fingers salve his ankle. Seems to him that he’s always off-center around Jared, and he is sick of it. This see-saw he’s on: up and down, pure hate for Jared and genuine warmth, loathing and amusement, he’s sick of it.

‘Want me to take care of that too?’ asks Jared.

He glances down. His ankle’s smeared thick with cream and his foot planted back on the floor. His dick is half hard and rising, seemingly intent on pointing at Jared’s mouth.

He twines his fingers in Jared’s hair and draws him in closer, says, ‘why the hell not?’ A mouth’s a mouth, right?

And that mouth, when it latches around his cock-head, is slick and confident. He doesn’t need to coax the way he would with Danneel – that’s so damn good baby…little bit more, I know you can take a bit more – and he doesn’t care to go easy. He rides right in, and Jared just lets him, opens his throat to take him in deep. It’s coarse what he’s doing, fucking Jared’s face like this, watching his spit shiny dick saw in and out of Jared’s mouth.

Pleasure pooling at the base of his spine, he tucks his hips under, drives in harder, deeper, hits the back of Jared’s throat and groans as Jared gags, throat vibrating around him. Then Jared’s pulling back, face flushed and sweaty, string of saliva connecting his lips to Jensen’s cock, glitter of tears on his eyelashes, and Jensen’s never seen anything hotter.

He glides his hands to the back of Jared’s skull, cants his hips so his cock head bumps and slides on Jared’s lips. ‘Open,’ he says, raw and desperate. ‘Open for me.’

Jared does. Flicks him a glance from under wet eyelashes, parts his lips and sucks him in. Does this incredible head twist, lips all tight and sweet, and Jensen fucking loses it, balls tightening and pleasure unspooling as he comes down Jared’s throat. Only stays standing because Jared’s hands clamp his hips, hold him upright through the dizzying after-shocks.

There’s harsh breathing, from him and maybe also from Jared, who has his brow pressed to Jensen’s stomach. And there’s stroking, Jared’s palms running up and down the backs of his thighs, as if he’s trying to gentle the shaky muscles there.

It’s a first. What do you say to your kidnapper who just swallowed your jizz and is now semi-cuddling you?

Thanks, awesome blow job?

Please dude, less of the stroking?

‘Uh, so,’ he says.

‘Hmm?’ hums Jared.

‘We should move, get some sleep.’

‘Totally,’ Jared doesn’t move.

He holds in sigh, looking around the room for inspiration, sees the chain. ‘Chain’s waiting behind you,’ he says. ‘Though you could maybe give my beat up ankle a break, chain the other one?’

‘Give both your ankles a break, Jen. No chain.’

He hears the unauthorized shortening of his name, louder than that he hears: no chain. No chain! ‘No chain? Seriously?’

‘Seriously,’ smile in Jared’s voice.

‘Well alright,’ Jensen grins.

Jared tilts his head back, and like Jensen had guessed, he’s smiling. His lips are red and puffy, used. ‘Jensen,’ he says, ‘I love you.’

Jensen feels his grin dim and die. It’s the sincerity that horrifies him, because no good can come of a psycho-stalker’s sincere love. ‘Hey, come on, I wasn’t that good,’ he jokes, feebly.

‘You are. You’re perfect.’ Jared rises to his feet and full-on hugs him. Long arms wound around him, belly taut against his, hard line of cock burning into him. ‘Know what else?’ Jared dips his head, skimming his lips on Jensen’s earlobe, dips his voice to a whisper, ‘you love me too, sweetheart. You just don’t know it yet. But,’ hint on teeth on Jensen’s earlobe, ‘I’m gonna make you know it.’

All he knows is that Jared’s madness runs deep. Like, bottomless deep.

‘Sleep tight,’ and with one final squeeze, Jared leaves. He shuts the door but doesn’t lock it.

Shivering, Jensen climbs between the fresh sheets. He doesn’t take his eyes off that unlocked door all night.

*

Jared says it every day. Sometimes in the morning when he brings breakfast, sometimes at night before he goes to his own room. Usually he’ll just put it out there casual, on occasion he’ll be giddy about it, and once in a while he’ll go quiet and introspective, say it like it hurts him to feel that way.

‘Shit. I’m in love with you, Jensen.’

‘Decaf, I’m afraid. We’re out of the good stuff…oh, and I love you.’

‘Jesus, Jen! You’re such an asshole sometimes. Don’t even know why I love you.’

‘Yeah, I think I might have a tiny little crush on you, Jensen. What do you think?’

‘Dude, I fucking love you, you know?’

‘I know,’ Jensen sighs. ‘You’re obsessed with me. Now shut up about it already.’

Jared shuts up about it - until the next evening. ‘Did I mention that I love you? Well, I do. So suck it up, Ackles.’

*

Capital crimes and incessant declarations of love aside, Jared comes across as a normal guy. He does normal chores, like laundry, wood chopping in the clearing and can be heard hoovering about twice a week. He takes his dogs for daily runs, just like any normal dog owner would do.

Jared’s interests are mostly normal: cars, tits, sports, video games, movies. Your average, non-gruesome interests. He’ll bring a bottle of tequila, call Jensen a pussy for bowing out at three shots, demonstrate that he’s the man by polishing off half the bottle – then bitch about being hung over in the morning. Typical guy.

‘Kill me,’ he begs, flat on his back on Jensen’s floor, arm flung across his eyes.

‘No,’ Jensen laughs, blessedly not hung over. ‘Wanna watch you suffer.’

‘You’re mean. Go get me Advil, meanie.’

Jensen hugs his pillow. Late breakfast and lounging in bed way past noon, it feels like a Sunday. ‘I don’t have any Advil.’

‘Middle shelf in my bathroom cabinet.’

Grumbling, Jensen pushes off the bed. Yet he’s overawed. He, who’s been to Australia and Europe, traveled all over the States, is fiendishly grateful for being given the freedom to travel the short distance down the hall to Jared’s room.

He drinks in every detail, the massive bed in the center of the spacious room, laptop partially hidden under the rumpled dark blue beddings. The French doors that open onto a balcony and the sunshine splashing in through the doors to puddle on the teak floor.

He cracks open the wardrobe door and smirks at the awful lot of pink on the hangers. Steps over a pile of dirty laundry on the floor to get a closer look at the photo on the wall. It’s one of those family photos with mom and dad standing behind the kids.

Jared’s family doesn’t look out of the ordinary. He has a big brother and a baby sister, same as him. He studies the portrait of the regular family and wonders what flipped Jared. What made him step out of ordinary and into a place where abduction is perfectly acceptable.

He shouldn’t but he does it anyway, goes over to the dressing table and snoops through the drawers. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Mobile phone, crumpled till receipts, jelly bracelet, an expensive looking watch, candy, few skin magazines. Black velvet jewelers’ box.

He opens it. Platinum band nestled on white silk. There’s an inscription on the inside of the ring: yours forever, Sandy.

A jagged breath kicks out of Jensen. He snaps the box shut, tosses it back into the drawer. Who the hell is…actually, it’s none of his business.

Advil is his business. That’s what he’s here for, Advil. He finds it in the bathroom on the middle shelf of the cabinet - nestled between a bottle of lube and a box of condoms.

Wishful Jared, he thinks, smirking.

He grabs the pain pills, picks up a glass from the counter, fills it with water and returns to his room. Jared is tucked up in his bed, lightly snoring. Jensen thuds the pills and water on the nightstand and retreats to the windowsill from where he glares at the annoying hump in his bed.

They’re not in a relationship. Jared has no right invading his space like this, crashing in his bed and drooling on his pillow…and he feels kind of queasy as he experiences another slow dawning.

They are in a relationship, to Jared’s way of thinking. This isn’t kidnap. It’s shacking up, boyfriends living together. That’s why the unlocked door and no chain, the increasing freedom. Can’t have a normal relationship without trust. Jared wants normal.

It’s like he’s saying, I’m letting you off the chain, I’m leaving the door unlocked and giving you golf clubs. I’m trusting you, and I want you to trust me back.

Trust Jared?

Yeah, he can do that, trust Jared. He’ll just develop sudden amnesia and wipe out the last two and a half months, forget the fact that Jared’s holding him hostage.

But, and this is where his mind starts suffocating, but either he starts showing Jared some trust, or he can kiss goodbye to the increasing freedom and any hope of escaping.

He goes over and kneels on the bed, rubs Jared’s shoulder. ‘Jared, I got your Advil,’ he says, sweet as pie.

Jared cracks one bloodshot eye open. ‘Huh?’

‘Got your pills,’ he repeats with a patience he doesn’t feel. ‘Sit up and take them.’

Groaning like a dying man, Jared complies then curves an arm around Jensen’s waist and tackles him to the mattress. Jensen allows the jostling, doesn’t protest as Jared curls around him – spoons him, for fuck’s sake.

‘Love you,’ sighs Jared, humid puff of air on Jensen’s nape.

Jensen grits his teeth.

*

A shaft of light from the hallway falls across him as Jared pushes the door open and shuffles into his room. He’s gritting his teeth even before Jared slips into his bed and wraps around him without shame or apology.

These bed invasions are taking place earlier each morning. It’s not yet light outside, and here Jared is, clinging to him like a barnacle, nose rooting behind his ear.

‘Seriously man,’ he twitches his head away, ‘what’s wrong with your own bed?’

‘You’re not in it,’ says Jared. His voice is groggy, his arms a warm and heavy clutch.

Although Jensen’s irritated – his skin’s sparking at each point of contact with Jared, that’s how irritated he is – so yes, although he’s staticky with irritation, he has to marvel at Jared’s persistence. The guy’s a superbug, like MRSA or something. Can’t fucking shake him off.

Jensen’s tried before, hard jabs with his elbow, harder kicks at Jared’s shin with his heel. Nothing he does shakes Jared off of him. The horrible truth is that he’s starting to get used to the heartbeat thudding into his back and the breath heating his nape and the palm sitting warm on his belly.

He’s getting used to Jared saying it in his ear, so now he doesn’t kick or jab but waits for the whisper, ‘love you Jen,’ before falling back to sleep.

*

Light wakes him again, this time it’s coming in from the window. Jared’s wearing a t-shirt and black jogging pants, and he’s floating outside the window. Tapping a metal object on it and yelling, ‘open the window, Jensen. It’s freezing out here!’

He watches Jared’s words turn into puffs of fog and the wind muss up his already mussed hair. Huh. How’s he doing that, floating outside the window?

‘Jensen!’ roars Jared, ‘get your ass out of bed and open this damn window!’

He pats the nightstand for his glasses, slips them on. His vision sharpens. The metal object is a crowbar and Jared’s floating with the aid of a ladder. Also, he can now see that Jared’s shivering. Serves him right, the idiot. Going out in the cold dressed like that.

He rolls out of bed and, ‘you idiot,’ he says, sliding the window up and open. ‘What were you thinking?’

Jared tumbles in with a rush of words and cold air. ‘I’m thinking I need to work up a sweat. You too. Need to get you all hot and sweaty, work off some of that pent up energy.’

Jensen backs up a step, shooting a glance at the bed and back to Jared. ‘What are you talking about, pent up energy? My energy levels are just fine.’

‘Dude, are you blushing?’

‘No,’ he says, blushing hotter under Jared’s scrutiny.

‘I made you blush,’ Jared crows. ‘It’s my awesome, you can’t resist it.’

‘Oh fuck you.’

Laughing, Jared goes to the wardrobe. He grabs a pair of sneakers, socks and sweat pants, throws them on the bed.

‘You gonna get dressed or what?’ he asks.

Jensen pulls the sweatpants on over his boxer-briefs. Socks, sneakers, and he’s following Jared out into the hallway, secretly thinking Jared is a little bit awesome for taking the slats off the window.

*

He’s working up a sweat for damn sure, pounding the treadmill alongside Jared. Turns out the room between their rooms is a home gym. It’s smaller but not so different from the gym room in Jensen’s hotel. Has the standard equipment - weight bench, barbells, dumbbells, a rowing machine, punch bag, and a mini-fridge stocked with water in the corner.

He likes that, likes the universal feel of it. Makes it so easy to imagine he’s in a gym elsewhere, free to come and go. That said, he knows there’s no restrictions to when and how often he can use the home gym. He can trust Jared on that, because Jared doesn’t do backsies, never takes back the bits of freedom he hands over. It’s kinda like an unspoken invitation; Jensen’s allowed to roam the upstairs hallway anytime he wants, hang in Jared’s room whenever he feels like it.

He felt like it the other day. Went into Jared’s room and sat out on the balcony. Jared found him there and smiled this dazzling smile, hugged him like he’d done something amazing.

The running feels pretty amazing. Tide of air surging in and out of his lungs, burn in his thigh muscles and pound of Jared’s feet keeping his feet company, it feels amazing. They’re on the same five-mile program, breathing synchronized, treadmills whining louder towards a sprint finish.

Jensen’s done by the time the program slows for the cool down. He reaches for his bottle of water as he turns a grin on Jared - and grasps at air, missing the bottle. Aim completely fucked up because Jared took his shirt off.

He took his shirt off. And he is ripped. Sculpted chest glossy with sweat. Biceps doing things, nasty wrong things as he swings his arms, long legs easy-strolling to a stop. Waist of his jogging pants hanging too low, showing off those hipbones and the jut of his ass and sweet Jesus, his motherfucking abs.

The uncalled-for cuddling clued him in that Jared has muscle on him, but no, he had not realized just how good Jared carries the bulk. He’s gorgeous, so fucking hot. The burn in Jensen’s thighs muscles climbs to his groin and smolders in his belly. Aching pulses in his cock and his skin tightens with that staticky irritation.

Except it’s not irritation, probably never was.

Jared glances at him, catches him staring, and the casual glance goes intense, smoky. Then Jared’s leaning in slow, purposeful, and Jensen just can’t seem to recover his breath, tension pulling at him when Jared holds still with their lips almost touching. So close he can taste the heat and salt on Jared’s skin.

It’s up to Jensen now, to lean in the final fraction and close the gap.

He twists away and steps off the treadmill. ‘I’m gonna take a shower.’

‘Don’t use up all the cold water,’ Jared sounds faintly amused.

*

Two red-blooded guys stuck indoors twenty-four seven with nothing to do but look at each other, spending hours in the same bed, their bodies coiled together under the duvet, situation like that, attraction is bound to spring up. It’s no big deal, not worth having an identity crisis over.

He turns off the shower tap, secure once more in his heterosexuality.

Chapter Three

That Stockholm Thing 1/7 (J2 AU, NC-17)

2008-12-02T21:42:26Z

Title: That Stockholm Thing
Author: dijisun
Pairing: Jensen/Jared, mention of Jensen/Danneel and Jared/Sandy
Rating: NC-17, AU
Summary: Jensen gets kidnapped.
Warnings: angst, language, some violence, some schmoop, DARK themes, explicit m/m
Disclaimer: pure fiction, none of it happened.
Feedback: yes please!
A/N: unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own. I'm a bit unsure about this fic, not sure it went how I wanted it to.
A/N2: from the fb, a lot of people found the story disturbing, which it was meant to be, given the subject matter re: CRIME.

Jensen frowns, uneasy. He doesn’t recognize the guy holding up a placard with Ackles printed across it. The guy is big, stands head and shoulders above the crowd milling around the arrival’s gate. Probably explains the ill-fitting uniform, like the guy couldn’t find a size to fit him. Jacket cuffs falling short of his wrists, material straining across his chest. He isn’t in regulation trousers, and although the chauffer cap is regulation, it’s having a tough time containing his too-long, dark brown hair.

The chauffer service the network uses likes to project a certain image. Clean-cut, professional. This guy does not reflect that image. His hands are encased in scruffy leather gloves. He’s got a day’s worth of stubble on his face, which is partially obscured by Aviators and by the cap visor pulled low on his brow.

Still feeling cautious, Jensen wheels his baggage trolley towards the guy. ‘Did Tony call in sick?’ he asks.

The guy takes over the trolley and flashes a wide smile, disarming dimple carving a dent in his cheek. ‘Yeah, something like that,’ his laid back voice hints of home.

Jensen totally relaxes. With the filming schedule for My Bloody Valentine, he didn’t get to spend time in Texas during the summer hiatus, so that hint of home is real welcome.

He’s thinking of blue skies and lazy-making heat as they stride out of the terminal. The scene outside couldn’t be farther removed from the one in his head, black sky drizzling liquid drops of ice. Fall only just begun and yet it already feels like winter. Welcome to Vancouver.

He sighs, a mournful little sound.

‘Sorry, I couldn’t get parked in front of the building,’ the wide friendly smile again. ‘We’re almost there.’

At least they’re out of the rain now, on the ground level of the multi-story parking lot. They head up a ramp, and up two more, hollow echo of their footsteps, clutter of the trolley’s wheels on the concrete’s rough surface.

Jensen fishes his phone out of his pocket and thumbs it on, scrolls through his messages. There’s one from his screen brother, Chad. A couple from Christian, a reminder from his actual brother about Logan’s birthday next month. Jensen tsks. As if he would forget his nephew’s birthday. Few more messages; two from Welling, one from Rosenbaum. None from Danneel.

Weird. She’s not answered her phone or returned any of his calls for the last couple of days. Actually, maybe it’s not so weird. They’ve been going through a rough patch lately. Something about his emotional unavailability, according to Danneel. Well, you know, filming a show in a whole other country will screw up your availability.

He pushes his phone back into his jeans pocket and looks around. Return of the uneasy flutters in his stomach when he realizes he’s alone with the guy on level ten of the car park. He spots a black SUV in the far corner. Familiar number plate, familiar tinted windows. He lets out a shuddery breath, laughs to himself. Obviously he’s been doing horror for too long. Not everyone is a crazed killer out to get him.

‘Hey,’ he catches up to the guy. ‘What did you say your name was, again?’

‘Jared,’ he points the key fob at the SUV. Beep, flare of orange lights. ‘I watch your show, like, a lot. It’s embarrassing…not the show! How much I watch it is embarrassing.’

The poor guy’s tripping over his words, fumbling with Jensen’s suitcase. Mortification looks adorable on him.

‘Always great to meet a Supernatural fan,’ says Jensen. He darts forward, reaches for his suitcase, ‘I’ve got it.’

Jared lets go of the suitcase and stands back. He’s behind Jensen. He is crowding Jensen against the car door, reaching around him to slide it open. Jensen feels the strength of Jared’s body, warm and forceful, unrelenting against him. He sees Tony slumped unconscious across the SUV’s back seat, gagged and trussed up, his jacket and cap missing.

Alarm slams into Jensen. He starts to twist round, bunching his hands into fists. Pain explodes the back of his head and cancels out his vision.

*

Jensen’s dry-mouthed and groggy, his head pounding. He’s lying on his side cushioned by something soft, wrapped up tight in something softer. His arms are tied behind his back, touch of metal around his wrists, touch of metal around his ankles.

He knows where he is, sort of. He’s on the road, can feel the engine vibrating under him and hear the hiss of wheels on tarmac. Picks up a rubbery scent inches from his face.

He should be panicking.

He’s tied up, can’t see a damn thing, and is being driven to fuck knows where.

Why isn’t he panicking, yelling for help?

His eyelids droop. He tries to keep them open, tries to think. He’s too comfortable, the darkness too seductive.

*

His skin itches. His mind twitches, belated stirring of panic. The surroundings are lighter, gray instead of black. He wriggles his fingers but can’t feel them through the numbness running down his arms to his fingertips.

The rubbery scent is a tarpaulin sheet stretched taut above him. The cushion underneath him is a mattress. That’s not all, there are pillows wedging him in place. Padding him against the pitch and roll as the wheels encounter rugged terrain and sharp bends. Seems Jared took a lot of care not to damage the cargo.

The thought of Jared snaps his mouth open. ‘Help,’ it’s a hoarse whisper.

Fact is he has this bad habit of sleeping in at the weekends, stays in bed past noon after red-eye flights. His family, friends and girlfriend know and respect this. They don’t disturb him with phone calls before the decent hour of two p.m. at the weekends.

Nobody’s going to help him because everybody assumes he’s decompressing in bed, resting up for the start of filming Season Four on Monday. Means Jared has at least half a day before anyone notices he’s missing.

‘Help! Help me!’ Still just a whisper mangled by the panic that’s closing a fist around his throat.

The next few hours are the worst of his life. Will he ever see them again, his parents, Josh and Mackenzie? He’d like to say the sweat inching down his cheeks isn’t mingled with tears, but he can’t guarantee that.

He can’t be sure of anything at the moment except that the ride’s gotten bumpier and the engines growling in low gear, pushing up an incline. It makes horrible sense. If he abducted someone, he’d hole them up somewhere in the mountains, too.

He yells for help, over and over. Sick dread twisting his guts as the vehicle reaches flat ground and picks up speed.

*

He recognizes the itching.

It’s the same hot-prickly itch he got all over his skin about ten years ago when they shot him full of pain relief after a quad-bike accident. Morphine based pain relief itches like mad.

Jared, the fucker, had drugged him, and that pisses him off.

This whole kidnapped situation? Fucking pisses him off. He’s gonna kill the narcotic peddling son of a bitch. Somehow.

*

Jensen leans his hip on the side of the red double-cab truck, wonders what Jared did with Tony and the SUV. He winces as pins and needles shoot up his legs. His ankles and wrists are still shackled, his lips chapped from dehydration. He estimates they drove for approximately eighteen hours straight judging from the falling dusk; pink and purple hues flirting with the snow-capped mountain peaks.

The air’s thin, and piney with the scent of the evergreens that surround an area of cleared ground. A cabin sprawls on the clearing. None of this one-roomed shack business. The two storey cabin has a garage and a wrap-around porch, forest views from its balcony.

One of the upstairs windows is boarded up with planks. Jensen twists his lips into a grim smile. He holds the smile as Jared ducks out of the cabin’s sliding door, two dogs bounding behind him. Massive dogs, just like their owner.

They approach Jensen, tails stiff, ears cocked, threat in their rising hackles. He feels like a slab of juicy steak, the way those dogs are eyeing him.

‘Sit,’ says Jared.

The dogs instantly obey.

‘This here’s Harley. He’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback mix. And this is my girl Sadie, got dingo in her,’ Jared hankers down between the dogs, loops his arms around their necks. ‘They look mean, but they’re sweethearts really. Just, sometimes their hunting instinct kicks in when, you know, they see a running target.’

Jensen says nothing. Even if he weren’t hobbled where would he run? Jared brought him to a freaking jungle in the middle of nowhere! He stares at the ground, fuming.

Jared rises and comes to stand beside him, brushes up against him. He takes a side step away from Jared, jarred by the proximity.

‘Jensen,’ sighs Jared. ‘This would go a whole lot smoother if you’d-’

‘Yeah, about this, what is it? You going to auction me to the highest bidder, is that it?’

Jared presses his lips into a tight line. His eyes are unreadable behind the dark glasses. Then he smiles, abruptly happy. He fishes a bunch of keys out of his pocket and swoops down, unlocking the fetters from around Jensen’s ankles.

Psycho, thinks Jensen.

‘Turn round so I can get the cuffs,’ Jared says.

He complies. Brief minute of their fingers touching, a click and then the cuffs are sliding off his wrists.

‘Come on, I’ll show you around,’ says Jared, like they’re buddies. Like he’s not forcing Jensen to be here.

Jensen rubs the raw skin on his wrists, bares his teeth at Jared’s back. The dingo mix mimics him. Her silent snarl is directed at Jensen and her teeth are bigger than his.

*

The downstairs is a large open-plan room spread out between the front and back sliding doors and divided into living, dining and kitchen areas. Plasma screen, music center and games console in the living area; fireplace stacked with logs. Couch and two armchairs arranged around a rug. Dog beds in the corner.

A thick iron ring is bolted into the floor next to the couch.

Couple more of the iron rings, one under the dining table and another screwed into the middle of the kitchen floor. Jensen runs his fingers along the smooth granite counters, approves of the coffee maker, and of the set of knives slotted in the wooden knife block.

There’s an outdoor heater and a grill on the back porch. A stone path leading from the porch steps to a hot tub at the edge of the clearing.

Jensen raises his eyebrow at the tub but asks about the shed set back from the cabin.

‘Wood storage and back-up generator,’ Jared slides the back door open, letting the dogs out.

Three rooms upstairs. Jared cocks his head at the first door off the landing, says, ‘that’s me.’ He strides past the second door without comment and opens the third door.

It’s the room with the boarded up window. Jensen’s luggage is stacked by the nightstand.

He schools his features into a blank mask, asks, ‘you gonna let me in?’ and hopes Jared didn’t catch that thrum of adrenalin in his voice.

‘Sure,’ Jared stands aside. He’s talking, apologizing for the slats across the window, says he’ll take them off just as soon as Jensen settles in. ‘I turned up the heating and there’s a shower room through here…’ and he gushes like an eager host.

Jensen makes as though to step past him, stops at the last second and crashes his elbow into Jared’s solar plexus. Jared doubles over, the flow of eagerness morphing into a wheeze.

Knee pulled back, Jensen grabs a hold of Jared’s head, hauls down, and the slam of his knee into Jared’s face feels so damn good. Jared’s head rears back, sunglasses askew and blood on his face. He’s cussing, looks stunned. Jensen thuds his fist into Jared’s temple before the element of surprise wears off.

Jared goes down, undignified sprawl of long limbs.

Breathing hard, Jensen prods his boot toe into Jared’s ribs. No movement. He bends over Jared and frisks his pockets. Keys, where are the goddamn…oh, thank fuck! He hooks his finger through the key ring and yanks, and the keys wrench out of Jared’s pocket just as Jared jackknifes upright, hands clamping around Jensen’s neck.

Rush of movement, and Jensen’s the one laid on his back. Jared’s on him, kneeling on his chest, and the weight of him added to the grip he’s got around Jensen’s throat make breathing unworkable.

Heart beating triple time and lungs burning for oxygen, he digs his heels into the floor and tries to buck Jared off, circles his hands around Jared’s wrists and tries to pry him loose. Jared is strong, implacable. His hands are pitiless, compressing Jensen’s windpipe, but his eyes are pleading.

And Jensen thinks, as choked sounds invade his ears and black spots swarm his eyes, he thinks he’ll die still trying to figure out what those dark, tip-tilted eyes are pleading for.

*

He paces between the bed and the window. The chain keeps time to his steps, clunks heavy on the floorboards.

He can pace as far as the toilet in the stark, white shower room, but can’t get to the sink or step inside the shower stall because the chain won’t let him.

The doors to the in-built closet are open. He can see his shirts on the hangers; see his jeans, t-shirts and sweatpants neatly folded on the shelves, shoes lined up on the closet floor. Can’t reach any of them because the chain won’t stretch that far.

The most frustrating thing is that he can reach the bedroom door but can’t open it. It’s locked.

He glances at the iron ring embedded in the floorboards at the foot of his bed. He woke up from the attempted throttling like this, chained to the floor. He’s had hours to freak out about it, but still, he freaks out again. Grabs the chain in both hands and hauls on it, twists and jerks it. He succeeds in straining his spine and aggravating the chafed skin under the metal cuff around his ankle.

Jensen understands now. He truly gets why a snared animal will chew through its leg to escape.

*

It’s been two days. He’s had time to calm down.

Thin bars of sunlight slant through the planks at the window and stripe across his cell phone on the nightstand. Piece of shit phone. He can’t ring out on it, no signal.

The dogs bark somewhere in the house. Jared’s laughter booms out.

Jensen sits on the floor, back resting against the bed’s footboard. He stares at the door. He’s expecting Jared.

He can’t figure the guy out. Take the room for instance. Expensive sheets on the king size bed, half a dozen soft pillows, luxurious duvet. Under-floor heating warms the floorboards and bathroom tiles. His case of disposable contacts and bottles of eye-cleaning fluid are placed well within reach in the nightstand drawer.

It’s as if Jared wants him to enjoy his stay here, which is a fucking contradiction considering that chains and manacles are generally not enjoyable things.

He enjoys the meals, though. Jared brings him a loaded tray three times a day. Good food, the kind that warms you through and makes you thank God for your taste buds. Jensen’s mouth waters at the thought of the fluffy scrambled eggs, buttery pancakes and bitter coffee he’s expecting for breakfast.

He grunts, disgusted with himself for enjoying Jared’s cooking.

He hates Jared. Doesn’t want to enjoy anything about him.

He stands and prowls closer to the door when he hears Jared’s tread on the landing. A knock and chiming of keys. A loud clack as Jared unlocks the door.

The doorknob turns. Jensen forces the tension out of his shoulders. He watches the door slowly push open, puts a smile on his face when Jared peeks his head round. He’s not faking the smile. It’s really great to see the dark purple bruising on Jared’s face, the still swollen lip.

‘Mornin’,’ says Jared. ‘You sleep okay?’ he asks, eyes soft with concern like he actually gives a damn.

‘Yeah, great,’ Jensen nods. ‘You?’

‘Nah,’ Jared laughs. ‘Pain from my broken face been keeping me up last couple of nights.’

This is what he can’t figure out, Jared’s affable laughter, the easy-going manner like they’re good ole friends joking about some stupid bust-up.

Also, he can’t quite figure out the color of Jared’s eyes. Hazel? Green? They change depending on the quality of light. They’re hazel shot through with green at the moment, and they’re turning darker.

It takes about a second for Jensen to place the darkening color. And during that second, his cock’s already with the program, stirring in response to Jared’s blown out pupils, the heat in his gaze. It sparks off a shiver inside Jensen, a flare of hot anticipation deep in his belly.

Yes, apparently being held captive makes him horny. ‘Breakfast smells good,’ hoarse voice, like he’s got sore throat.

Inhaling sharply, Jared pushes the door open a little wider. He sets the tray on the floor, slides it in through the gap. And Jensen springs.

He barrels his shoulder into the door, trapping Jared’s forearm between the door and frame. Veins pop up under Jared’s tanned skin, his muscles bulge. Jensen puts his whole weight on the door, raises his voice over Jared’s shout of pain.

‘What do you want from me, you crazy son of a bitch?’

‘Why you gotta be all violent?’ Jared sounds bewildered. Like he can’t possibly imagine what he’s done to provoke violence.

‘Because…you know what? It doesn’t even matter. Toss the keys on the tray.’

‘Ain’t gonna happen, baby. I changed up my whole life for you. Not gonna just hand the keys over and let you leave me.’

Jensen’s violent use of the door has nothing on the violence in Jared’s hushed voice. It punches the breath out of him, sends his mind reeling. Jared’s pushing back on the door now, making these pained, rough sounds, and they’re working their way down Jensen’s spine like the graze of calloused fingers.

Pound for pound, Jared is heavier than him. It comes as no surprise when he starts losing ground, feet sliding on the smooth floor as the door edges forward.

‘Quit fighting me,’ Jared gains another few inches. ‘I’m not trying to hurt you.’

‘And this isn’t hurting me? My family and my girlfriend, you think it’s not killing them not knowing where I am or if I’m even alive?’

Jared abruptly stops shoving. ‘You don’t have a girlfriend, Jensen. Not anymore.’

Jensen’s mind goes numb. He barely registers the door slamming shut.

*

He squints through a gap between two planks, looking down at the clearing. Jared’s down there playing with the dogs. His hair glints in the sun, shaggy bangs flopping on his forehead. He is flailing his legs in the air as the dogs playfully maul him. Tails wagging, they tug at his sweatshirt, paw his chest, lick his face, and Jared retaliates by rolling around in the dust and pine needles, laughing.

Jared’s so carefree, seems so harmless. Nothing about him screams: killer!

A hot lump forms in Jensen’s throat as he imagines it. Imagines Danneel opening her door to the tall, harmless UPS guy. Parcel for you ma’am, from Mr. Ackles. Got a pen to sign for it?

Danneel doesn’t have a pen. She goes back inside, leaves the door open ‘cause the guy’s so damn friendly. He follows her in, locks the door. Locks his big hands around her slender neck, only he doesn’t stop at throttling her unconscious. Keeps squeezing until her lips turn blue and her eyes glaze over.

It could’ve happened that way. Or in any of the other hundred ways Jensen’s been imagining.

The lump in his throat burns hotter. He’s sweltering with hatred. Normally, he doesn’t let himself feel too much hate or too much love. Goes through life at a nice, steady lukewarm. He acts on logic, not on feelings.

That’s where he’s been going wrong, attacking Jared in an impulsive rage instead of thinking it through. Logic tells him rage isn’t going to get him past Jared. Logic tells him he needs to figure out the guy’s angle and exploit it.

Logic doesn’t fucking elaborate on what Jared’s angle is.

What does Jared want from him?

If it’s money, then why hasn’t Jared sawed off Jensen’s thumb and posted it to his management company with a note demanding, ‘a million dollars in small unmarked bills, or I’ma send y’all his head.’

If it’s sex Jared wants – and Jensen has read plenty of lurid fan-mail to know that’s a possibility – well, then what’s the hold up? Why isn’t Jared here right now, hustling him into a French Maid’s outfit and manhandling him onto his hands and knees, grunting at him to call him daddy.

He purses his lips, pondering it.

Nah. Jared’s sexual fantasy is more likely to involve leather, bondage and groans of, ‘yes please, Master Jared. More, harder. I’ve been a bad, bad boy.’

He smirks at the thought.

And quickly sobers up when Jared takes off into the thick woods. He better not get himself devoured by a bear in that forest, because Jensen needs him. His life depends on Jared.

It’s a comforting thought, in a totally non-comforting way.

*

‘Good morning!’ Jared slides the tray into the room with a broomstick.

‘Fuck off.’

Jared swings the door wide open, turns round and moons him.

He blinks, a surprised grin springing to his lips. ‘The hell’s wrong with you?’

Jared pulls his pants up, throws a smile over his shoulder. He looks enormously pleased with himself.

*

There’s a book on Jensen’s nightstand the next morning. It weirds him out, the thought of Jared sneaking into his room while he was asleep.

‘Good mor…’

‘Stay out of my room,’ he interrupts Jared’s cheery greeting, throwing the book at his head.

Jared screams and shuts the door. He creates a hell of a commotion, pounding down the hallway and down the stairs, still screaming. The girly shrieks are so incongruent with Jared’s he-man physique that Jensen, well, he dissolves laughing.

Few minutes later, a knock on the door. ‘Jensen?’

‘What?’

‘Little problem. How am I gonna bring you food if I’m supposed to keep out?’

‘You’re only allowed in to bring me food.’

‘Okay,’ Jared blithely accepts.

*

Next morning, there’s a bowl of peanut M&Ms on his nightstands. He glares at it, cussing. Then he glares while munching on the chocolate-covered peanuts. When Jared brings breakfast, Jensen holds up the depleted bowl and pointedly wrinkles his brow at Jared.

‘Candy is food,’ explains Jared.

He comes right up to the bed, lays the tray on Jensen’s lap and sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed. There are two mugs on the tray, two bowls of cereal and a stack of pancakes tall enough for two and half people.

Jensen picks out a red M&M from the bowl, chucks it at Jared and mutters, ‘freak,’ when Jared catches it in his mouth.

Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t be breakfasting with his abductor, but it’s been three weeks since he had a conversation with anyone other than himself. That kind of shit, talking to yourself, it can drive you nuts. He doesn’t need the added stress of mental issues.

Besides, Jared’s good at talking, and Jensen needs him to do that. Needs him to keep the conversation coming. Maybe slip-up, give a few unintentional clues as to what his deal is.

*

The food deliveries become more inventive. An ipod under a plate of cookies – the play list doesn’t run to Jensen’s taste, but hey, it’s music.

Closing his eyes, he lounges back against the headboard and nods his head to the drumbeat, startles when Jared tugs one of the earbuds out and yells, ‘good morning!’ in his ear.

‘It was, jackass.’

*

Today, a golf ball submerged in a glass of beer on the nightstand. And propped against the wall, a golf club with a can of beer taped to it.

Jensen hurts himself getting to the golf club. Moves so quick the manacle distresses the raw skin around his ankle. He goes slower, curses Jared. May his ass eternally sizzle in the fiery pits of hell.

The golf club is solid and reassuring. He takes a few swipes in the air, imagines the satisfying crunch as iron meets Jared’s skull. He could do fatal damage with this club – and Jared knows that.

So why’s Jared trusting him with a weapon? It makes no sense.

Beer makes sense. He pops the tab on the can and near most swoons as the smooth blend of hops floods his mouth. When the can is empty, he picks up the glass, drains it – carefully, because, golf ball – and yeah, he’s pleasantly buzzing.

Forget Jared and his unfathomable nonsense.

He tips the glass onto its side on the floor, takes up position and taps the ball with the putter. It rolls right in.

‘Yeah,’ he hoots, punching the air.

He’s played five rounds by the time Jared comes in with breakfast: two hot pizzas and twelve cold beers.

Jensen hums around every salty greasy mouthful and washes it down with beer, and it is such a waste. Because Jared, chugging beer and burping, shoveling food into his mouth, whining for a turn at golf, different place and time, different set of circumstances, he and Jared would’ve been buddies.

The buzz fades. He wipes his palms on his jeans and goes to the window, sits on the sill with his hands braced on his thighs.

Jared pauses in mid-swing, ‘What’s up?’

‘Did you…Jared, did you kill her?’

Aborting the swing altogether, Jared props the golf club against the wall. He faces Jensen across the bed. ‘You really want to know?’

Jensen’s mouth goes dry, fear sponging up the moisture. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want that kind of knowledge on his conscience. ‘Don’t want to. Need to.’

‘Why, because you love her?’ Jared furrows his brow. His eyes are turbulent, mouth a flat, angry gash. ‘I was there, at Comic Con. I saw you together. You were like mannequins trying to smile, the two of you so obviously fake with each other. Danneel, not even her real name, she-’

‘Don’t,’ Jensen grits out. ‘Don’t you dare trash her. She’s not the one who goes around kidnapping people for the entertainment value.’

Jared’s lips twitch with a faint smile. When he speaks, his tone is empty of amusement but filled with eerie certainty. ‘You don’t love her, Jensen, and she never loved you. You’re better off without her.’

His heart bangs, so hard it’s getting bruised on his ribs. It’s more than he can stand to breath the same air as Jared. ‘I want you to go now.’

‘Jensen-’

‘Get the fuck out of my sight!’

Jared goes.

Jensen bites on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

Chapter Two

Ramblings of a mad scientist

2008-08-27T21:23:17Z

Title: Ramblings of a Mad Scientist (or Season 3 Gag Reel Broke my Brain)
Pairing: J2
Rating: PG 13
Summary: a crackish study of JSquared
Warnings: crack!
Word Count: 1,300
DIsclaimer: this is a fictional study written by a fictional character.
Feedback: is love.
A/N: I watched the gag reel and this is what happened.

Ramblings Of a Mad Scientist (Or Gag Reel 3 Broke My Brain)

Much has been debated on the One True Pairing. Does such a pairing exist, or is it a concept generated by overly romantic minds?

We at the OTP Institute hypothesize that the One True Pairing does exist. Since the turn of last century, we have researched historical and modern day literature to prove our hypothesis and silence the cynics once and for all. We applied scientific knowledge in determining the dynamics and behaviours that characterize the OTP, and although our global search for the definitive OTP yielded limited results, we persevered.

In mid 2005, one of our researchers stumbled upon the J-Squared Phenomenon - a phenomenal friendship between the actors Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki. We have been interrogating this phenomenon using the above mentioned scientific approach and are excited to report that we may have found our OTP in J-Squared.

Jensen is distinguished by crew-cut hair, pleasing facial and physical features and a dusting of tiny pigmentation marks commonly known as freckles. His freckle pattern tells him apart from other freckled males, much in the same way that each individual leopard has a unique spot design. Incidentally, Jensen has attributed himself with feline qualities, claiming that he always lands on all fours like a cat. We have observed Jensen in motion and can confirm an extremely appealing fluidity to his stride.

Jared is distinguished by a tall frame, dark, shaggy hair, dimples, a facial mole and a ripped torso that so impressed us we dedicated a separate paper to its musculature. Jensen once described Jared as, “smokin’ hot!” Needless to say, we concur.

To the casual observer, Jared and Jensen are friends and co-stars who happen to hail from the same state. The Institute is not a casual observer. Our training equips us with immense powers of perception. By scrutinizing pictorial and video evidence, we perceived that Jensen and Jared exhibit a range of typical OTP behaviours.

An OTP couple tends to employ a series of touches to center one another and ensure that the spatial distance between them is kept to a minimum. This is referred to as Tactile Centering. J-Squared touching includes, but is by no means limited to chest rubbing, butt slapping, hugging, leg humping, twizzler-ing and eye-lash grooming. We ran images of them touching through a computer known as the Tactile Extrapolator, and the results show that it is torturous for these guys to not be in physical contact.

When an OTP couple is for some reason unable to be tactile, they resort to Visual Loadation, whereby they exchange glances that are loaded with raw, visceral communication. Jared and Jensen frequently use visual loadation, making it a mammoth task to list all their heated looks and glances.

Perhaps our most prized research material to date is recently acquired video footage, referred to here as Gag Reel 3 or GR3. Sent to our laboratory by an anonymous source, GR3 abounds with illustrations of J-Squared activating OTP dynamics. For instance Psuedo-Humour, which serves to entertain and tantalize the audience, while simultaneously conveying a depth of emotion between the pair.

In GR3, Jared (in Sam’s voice) says: “I love you.” He is joking…or is he? After the third “I love you,” we perceived this joke for what it is: Psuedo-Humour, a two-pronged vocal device Jared uses to convey one thing to us, and quite another to Jensen. The fact that the pair visual loaded (stared) and tactile centered (hugged) while psuedo-humouring, only persuades us that our perceptions are accurate.

Furthermore, Jensen reciprocates Jared’s humour. At one point he quickly follows up “I love you, too,” with “I miss your musk,” read: I’m pining for your musk. We were stunned by the OTP-ness of it all. It is a true fact that Musk Pining is a vital component of the OTP bond.

As with any couple, the OTP duo flirts to signal mutual attraction. Fluttering your eyelashes, making kissy sounds and/or faces, flicking your hair are examples of general flirting. Although we have observed J-Squared flirting time and again, our interest is in a sub-category of flirting known as Posterior Presentation.

General flirting says: I like you. Posterior Presentation says: I give to you my ass, now nail it. GR3 shows Jared presenting his posterior, not once but twice, on the second occasion actually positioning his rear scant inches from Jensen’s face. Jensen does not seem in any way averse to having his co-star’s pert bottom within nailing reach.

A step up from flirting is Symbolic Objectism, which we consider to be a precursor to foreplay. Symbolic Objectism is distinct OTP behaviour. It refers to the act of arousing a partner by means of playing with a seemingly non-erotic object that in fact provokes erotic ideation. I

n GR3, both Jared and Jensen initiate Symbolic Objectism. Jared holds up a thermos (tube-like object with a smooth feel and rounded head). He tenderly cradles it against the side of his face, giggling and employing visual loading tactics. He gets an immediate response from Jensen, who lets off a deep laugh, his face averted from the camera’s knowing eye.

A little further on, Jensen wraps his fist around a stake (an object designed for piercing, plunging, thrusting). He then slowly inserts the tip of the stake into his ear hole. Jared’s reaction to this is a primal “yesss,” long-drawn-out hiss uttered from between bared teeth and repeated for emphasis, “yess!” We urge you to view the footage for yourselves, but please proceed with care if you are susceptible to ovary combustion and fits of incoherency. The less hardy of our researches had to be rushed to the ER, unintelligible and sans ovaries after catching a glimpse of this lethal segment.

Having sought medical care for our wounded colleagues, we resumed analyzing GR3. In it we come across Jared and Jensen engaged in a Courtship Tango in the rain. They are soaked through, water-slicked, Jared subtly rocking his hips and Jensen being anything but subtle. His stance is wide open, arms spread out, legs splayed, and he belts out a rich and throaty Mating Call.

“You can do me in the morning,” he sings, a blatant invitation delivered in a gravelly, goose-bump causing voice that requires no clarification as to the act he is inviting.

Unmistakable Mating Call. Obvious selected mate in close proximity.

We wriggled to the very edges of our seats, slowed the reel down viewing it frame by frame so as not to miss the second Jensen’s call would be answered. None of us breathed, none of us blinked. We were frozen in euphoric anticipation, because at last, at long last we would witness the ultimate: Consummation of the OTP bond, and would thus have complete grounds for crowning J-Squared the all-time OTP.

Imagine our horror, our utter bafflement when Jensen’s call went unanswered. Jared did not do Jensen in the morning, or indeed in the rain. We could not understand it. We had established pseudo-humour, musk pining, posterior presentation and a plethora of other OTP dynamics. So why was no doing taking place? Why were we being so cruelly thwarted?

It would have been easy to make assumptions about the lamentable absence of consummation between our pair. But we are serious scientists. We do not conjecture.

We downloaded the reel into a sophisticated piece of hardware called the Match-Make Synthesizer. MMS has analytical and perceptive capabilities even more immense than our own, combined. The following is an excerpt of our electronic interview with the infallible machine.

Researcher: you are the Match-Make Synthesizer Series IV.

MMS: affirmative.

Researcher: you sometimes make computing errors.

MMS: negative.

Researcher: you are knowledgeable on all things pertaining to pairings.

MMS: affirmative.

Researcher: Jensen and Jared are the OTP.

MMS: \o/ \o/ \o/ <3333333 squeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!

Researcher: please try to contain yourself.

MMS: apologies.

Researcher: since J-Squared = OTP, they will soon do it, preferably morning, noon and night.

MMS: the Nile.

There you have it, dear friends. Our pair is in denial. Denial is why they did not shimmy out of those clinging denims and get some doing done. Denial is why we shiver unfulfilled on the precipice of a break-through. Yet still, we gain a small measure of comfort in the knowledge that J-Squared is the OTP in all but deed.

End

How to 4/4, J2 AU

2007-12-08T02:06:57Z

Title: How to sell a guy a house in six weeks
Pairing: Jared/Jensen, Jared/Tom, Jared/Sandy and also mentions Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jared's a realtor, Jensen's a house hunter
Rating: NC-17 for adult themes
Warnings: unbeta'd, language, some angst
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: none of this is true, it's all fiction
Word Count: 14,000 for all four parts
A/N: I hope you enjoy it:) Comments and concrit welcome.

Chapter Four

At around five, Jared’s standing beside Jensen in a portable cabin on a construction site. Plywood floor criss-crossed with muddy footprints and a fine layer of chalky dust on the metal walls, the cabin doubles up as the site office and reception. The minimal natural light that makes it through the dusty windows gets diffused by the glare from the row of florescent tubes running end to end along the length of the long, narrow ceiling.

Floor plan spread out on the reception counter, the site manager is explaining how Jensen’s proposed unit will look when it’s completed. “The advantage of buying off-plan is that you get to choose the fittings and fixtures,” says Mark Hamilton. “We pride ourselves on offering a bespoke service, Mr. Ackles. There aren’t many companies that can do that with a refurb project this size.”

Jared’s excited. Jensen looks anything but.

“Could we check out the unit?” Jared figures this might pump up Jensen’s enthusiasm.

“Sure, if your agency’s insurance covers you for on-site health and safety risks,” Mark says.

“I’m covered, and so is Jensen when he’s with me.”

Mark takes down a couple of hard hats from hooks on the wall, two flashlights and reflective armbands from under the reception desk. “Site shuts down in fifteen minutes, but you can stay on a little longer. There’s going to be a security officer here to sign you out,” he hands Jared a set of keys.

Hardhats and armbands on, Jared and Jensen step out of the office. All around them are the sights and sounds of a work day coming to an end. Machinery grinding to a halt, men in construction gear walking away from an eyesore of a red-bricked building and towards the car park, in counter-flow to Jared and a visibly reluctant Jensen. The building’s a disused brewery, huge and shaped like a cross, each of its four wings ending in circular structures. Like turrets. Jared has doubts about those turrets, can’t imagine now why he thought Jensen would fancy living in a castle-like brewery.

“Suspend judgment until you’ve seen inside,” he tells Jensen.

Jensen grunts, gesturing for Jared to lead the way. He’s been cranky since Jared picked him up from set, didn’t look up from the script he was reading as they drove in through the brewery’s gates, completely ignoring the spacious grounds that opened out on either side of the driveway. If Jensen had bothered to look, he’d have noticed that the grounds were being landscaped into a private park for the residents.

“They’re converting most of the building into studio and one bedroom apartments,” Jared says, swallowing his disappointment with Jensen’s utter lack of interest. He’ll admit he acted like an ass on Friday, but he’s trying to fix things, although why is beyond him. Seems Jensen doesn’t give a damn. “The towers, turrets, whatever they are, are going to be two and three bedroom units. Yours is east facing.”

“It’s not mine yet.”

It will be, Jared thinks. He doesn’t say it, hesitant to push Jensen, who’s obviously pissed off with him. Won’t come within touching distance of Jared, won’t participate in any discussions that aren’t business related.

“Mind the second step, it’s a little uneven,” Jared says, slotting a key into one of the building’s main doors.

Inside, he turns on the flashlight and bears east. The place smells of cement mix and hops. Half built walls flank the wide passage that will eventually evolve into an outer hallway. Plaster crunches under Jared’s feet as he proceeds along the passage and he can feel Jensen’s displeasure dragging on him like a ball and chain around his ankle.

“Quit glaring holes into my back, Jensen.”

“It’s Jensen again, is it? Now that your crew’s not around?” Jensen says. “It was like being back in junior high, the cool kids spitting on the geek.”

A wave of shame washes over Jared. He’s sure his cheeks are glowing pink in the semi-dark. “They’re my friends and sometimes, they get over-protective,” he says, easier that than try and excuse for his own behaviour.

Jensen’s laughter echoes, a scoffing reverberation that sets Jared’s teeth on edge. “Chad’s your friend. Sophia’s your friend. Sandy and Wentworth? Dude, how can you not see that they’re crushing on you in a huge way?”

Sandy, maybe. But Wentworth? “Wentworth?” he spins round, beaming his flashlight in Jensen’s face. “Wentworth?”

Jensen brings his hand up, shielding his eyes. “Get that thing out of my face.”

Jared lowers the flashlight. He takes a step towards Jensen, needs him to understand that, “Sandy and I have been over for months. We talked and now, we’re really over. As for Wentworth-”

“He’s just another casualty of the Padalecki charm,” Jensen brusquely cuts him off. “You do that, Jared, have this way of getting people to like you. You with your lethal dimples and fucking open laugh, and you don’t even know that you’re killing people. So, yeah, Wentworth, that man is slowly dying. I’m amazed he has the energy to lift a dumbbell let alone do three sets of bicep curls.”

It’s a lot to take in. Jared barely processes it before speaking. “He never said.”

“Or you don’t listen too well.” Jensen directs his torch light up ahead, “can we get on with this?” his tone is final.

At the end of the passage is a door. Fumbling, Jared tries several keys before finding the right one. His enthusiasm for the viewing is gone, because he’s had time to process and he suspects that Jensen’s one of the people he’s killing. He pushes the door open, pats along the wall for the light switch and stands in awe of the space illuminated by florescent lights.

Whatever was in here has been ripped out, leaving a big, round, open space, high ceiling and a metal, spiral staircase that leads to a balcony on the first floor. Bordered by a steel balustrade, the balcony forms a circle overlooking the space Jared and Jensen are standing in. There are several doors opening out onto the balcony.

“It’s,” Jensen looks up at the round ceiling then at the curved walls then at the huge circle of concrete floor, “round. And big.”

“Kind of stating the obvious there.”

“There’re no windows,” Jensen states another obvious thing.

“Maybe they couldn’t find round ones,” Jared guesses.

Jensen smiles at that, and Jared’s so pathetically happy to see that unrestrained smile. “So where’s my kitchen?” asks Jensen.

Jared knocks on the door. “They’re going to block this up, put you kitchen here. Door from kitchen to garage is gonna be there,” Jared points, relying on his memory of the floor plan, “another door here, leading from the kitchen to the enclosed backyard. Front door somewhere on that wall.”

There’s that spark of enthusiasm Jared’s been waiting for, the blatant interest as Jensen says, “talk me through the rest.”

But they’re both talking, walking from one end of the room to the other as they demarcate it into areas.

“Living room area here,” Jensen.

“Dining area right over there,” Jared.

“Downstairs toilet next to the closet,” Jensen.

“Which is going to go there,” Jared finishes. “I’d take off some of the kitchen for a utility room, maybe slice a little bit off the living area for a den, you know, somewhere to cozy up to your Playstation and miniature beer fridge.”

“And upstairs…” Jensen moves off for the staircase, Jared right beside him.

There isn’t enough room for them to climb the staircase side by side, but that doesn’t stop them trying. Rickety stairs squeaking under their stampede, elbows and shoulders shoving and pushing, a hoot of glee from Jensen as he beats Jared to the first floor landing. They explore the rooms off the balcony, discovering a ladies’ restroom, a gents’ restroom and pintsized offices with overlarge desks and portholes for windows.

“I’m going to want the interior walls on this floor taken down, remodel the rooms into a study, a bathroom. Two guest bedrooms because Mackenzie, she’s weird about my friends using ‘her’ room when they stay over,” Jensen says, complete with air quotes. He’s back out on the balcony, closes his hands on the railing as he glances back over his shoulder. “What do you think?”

Jared’s leaning on the doorframe of the last office they looked at. He thinks a fight was brewing and he’s glad it didn’t erupt, because he doesn’t want a bust up with Jensen. He thinks he should apologize. And he thinks it’s been too long since he touched Jensen. He pushes away from the doorframe and goes to stand behind Jensen. Sweeps Jensen’s hardhat off, lets it slip from his fingers. It hits the floor with a dull thunk.

Dropping his own hardhat on the floor, he dips his head, smiles against Jensen’s ear. “Sounds good, but you’re one bedroom short.”

“No I’m not,” Jensen contradicts, stubborn shake of his head causing his temple to nudge Jared’s cheek.

Jared prolongs the contact, rubbing his cheek on Jensen’s temple and inching his face lower to rub against Jensen’s cheek, his breath hiking at the rasp-burn of Jensen’s stubble. “Yeah. You are. Master bedroom.”

“Uh,” Jensen breathes out. He pushes his hips back, pressing his butt against Jared’s hardening dick. “Nix the study, I guess. Make that my bedroom instead.”

They stand like that, Jared rubbing his cheek on Jensen’s, Jensen rubbing his ass on Jared’s cock. Jensen does that in the shower sometimes, braces his elbows on the wall arching his back so his ass juts out, rubbing slick with water and soap against Jared’s hard-on. Jared would lap at the water streaming down Jensen’s shoulder and ride his crack, cockhead prodding at Jensen’s tight little hole but not breaching it. Just sliding between those firm cheeks, slow build up until he’s clutching Jensen’s hips and they’re both clawing for breath, shivering despite the hot shower spray. He’d come like that, shoot all over Jensen’s ass and the small of his back, go down on his knees and lick it all off. Water, come and traces of soap, lick it all off and lick into Jensen, Tongue fuck him until he’s bow-string taut and begging, before turning him around and sucking him off.

God but how he wishes there was a shower in this east-facing tower. Banding one arm around Jensen’s middle and the other across his chest, he muffles his groan of frustration on the side of Jensen’s neck, flickers his tongue out, tasting salt on hot skin, bitter tang of aftershave.

“Or you could have them lower the ceiling,” he strokes a fingertip over Jensen’s navel, kisses his neck there where the pulse is throbbing. “Lower the ceiling, put your bedroom and bathroom in the loft space,” his voice drops in pitch, deep and husky, “big windows, double glass doors opening out onto a balcony. You’d like it Jensen, you’d…I’m sorry,” he’s whispering now, hoarse. “I’m so sorry ‘bout Friday. Didn’t mean to hurt you, never want to do that.”

Jensen hooks his hands on the arm Jared has across his chest, thumbs drawing slow circles on Jared’s jacket sleeve. “You’re not a coward Jared, that’s not you. So I don’t get why you went chicken shit that night.” No hint of censure, just plain confusion like Jensen’s trying to understand.

Without hesitation, Jared explains. He tells Jensen about work pressure and being put on probation and how these combined factors gave him a transient case of yellow belly when his colleagues caught him being way too handsy with a client. By the time he’s through baring all, Jensen has pushed out of his arms and is making for the staircase, tight strides.

“You got the paperwork on you?” Jensen asks.

“At the office, but it’ll keep till the morning. We don’t have to-”

“Yes we do. Because for you, it’s all about work, making a sale. So let’s go get those papers signed, Jared.”

Sweet fuck-all, that’s what honesty gets you. He should have lied to Jensen, then maybe they’d be headed for a shower right now, instead of towards another fight.

Jensen signs the contractual terms of sale without reading it. Jared avoids looking at Jensen’s signature as he Xeroxes the contract and clips a copy to the underside of the brewery brochure. He stamps ‘sold subject to final contract’ across the picture of the brewery, bold letters in wet black ink.

He fans the papers to dry the ink, procrastinating. The sense of achievement he’d been expecting, the exhilaration at finally finding Jensen the ideal property, is absent. In its place is something bitter-sweet and wretched.

“Jim Beaver in our conveyancing department is going to take over starting tomorrow. He’ll liaise with your lawyer and the vendor’s lawyer, keep you updated,” he says. “You’ll like Jim, he’s a good guy.”

“Was there anything else? It’s getting kinda late.”

Jared fans the contract one last time, frantic crackling of paper. “I’ll just take this to Eric’s office, then drive you home.”

“That’s okay. I’ll get a cab,” Jensen says, immovable.

Jared gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Alright, then.”

“See you around.”

At least Jensen didn’t say goodbye, Jared takes some comfort in that.

It’s been two weeks since Jensen didn’t say goodbye. Jared hasn’t seen him around, but they spoke on the phone a couple of times. It was strained and awkward, unfinished business throttling their conversations until they were down to grunts and one word sentences. Sandy’s back at work, things between them are strained and awkward, too.

On the upside, Jared’s off probation. Which is kind of ironic considering that his productivity is at an all time low. He scrapes by on three hours sleep, comes into work hang over most mornings and spends more time shining the display window than behind his desk. He’s there now, jacket off, sleeves rolled back, sudsy sponge in his hand, lathering the window with detergent. It shouldn’t be this hard when you love someone, and he does. He loves Jensen, knows his feelings aren’t entirely unrequited. So why is it that he and Jensen can’t get it together? Jared had felt lost, knotted up and miserable after Tom, but that was a party compared to how he feels now.

“Dude, your phone’s ringing,” Chad shouts across the office.

“Let it,” Jared rinses out the sponge in the bucket of water at his feet. That’s why the agency invested in answer-phones, so that he can clean windows uninterrupted.

Then his cell phone rings. Uttering an expletive, he wipes his hand on the seat of his pants and reaches into his pocket. Jensen, the glowing LCD says.

“Jensen,” he says into the phone, pulse firing up.

“Hi,” Jensen replies, along with the sound of traffic, car honking its horn, three sharp taps that seem to come from somewhere close by.

Jared frowns at the foam covered window. “Where are you?”

“Here,” three sharp taps again, “I’m here.”

Jared clears a patch of foam with the sponge, his first swipe revealing a pair of green, gold-flecked eyes and freckled cheeks, his second revealing a hesitant smile.

“Hi,” Jared says. His knees feel rubbery and he’s squeezing the sponge to death. Water trickles through his fingers, splashing onto the hem of his trousers.

“You were standing there, just like you are now,” Jensen says into mouthpiece, “and I was standing here, so close I could read your name tag. J. Padalecki, Senior Sales Negotiator. You didn’t see me.”

“When…” Jared licks suddenly dry lips, moves the phone to his other ear and tries again. “When was this?”

“Sandy came over and pestered you with paper clips and you dumped her in there, in that bucket of dirty water and bubbles.”

“That was a year ago,” it’s etched in Jared’s memory, like it or not.

“Fourteen months now. Anyway, you dunked Sandy in the bucket and I’d have laughed my ass off if I hadn’t been drooling. I see hot guys Jared, every day; out on the street, on set, at parties, and I’ve never looked twice. But that day I did a triple take and fell hard.”

Behind Jared, the office is going through its mid-morning peak. Phones jangling, keyboards tapping, realtors doing their best to be heard over each other. But to Jared, it’s all white noise, static muted by his thudding of his heart and Jensen’s voice in his ear. He crowds in on the window and rests his brow on it, and his shirt front’s getting wet with suds and water. He feels the damp seeping in through the thin cotton and feels hot enough to melt glass.

“Same day, I ended things with Danneel. Next day, I phoned Kripke, said I was interested in buying a property.” Jensen touches two fingers to the window, traces Jared’s lips slow and deliberate, dark eclipsing green pupils, and Jared bares his teeth because this is what Jensen does to him. Makes him capable of chewing through glass to get to Jensen. “I…Jared, I was never looking to buy. Just didn’t have the nerve to walk in and ask for what I wanted. So I waited. I suffered through many, many realtors, waiting for Kripke to assign me the right one.”

“Me?” No brainer, but after all the false starts they’ve had, Jared’s not about to take anything for granted.

“You,” Jensen says. He closes his phone and walks along the window to the door.

Jensen pushes the door open and the movement sensor trips an electronic bell that goes, ding-dong. Like a doorbell, except it’s a dinner bell that alerts the realtors that a potential bonus has just walked in. Twenty heads snap up, turning in Jensen’s direction. His chest expands with a deep breath, and Jared breathes deep too, for Jensen, because he knows how crowd-averse Jensen is. Knows that he isn’t the type to thrive on mass attention.

Looking neither left nor right, but straight ahead, Jensen walks up to him. Marching almost, defiance in the set of his jaw. Jared’s seen that defiance numerous times, right before Jensen says, it’s not me, and the fact of the matter is Jared cannot resist a defiant man.

“Been thinking on it too hard, scaring myself stupid and I’m tired of it, tired of waiting, too. Mostly though, I am so fucking sick of masquerading as a client,” Jensen takes the cell from Jared’s hand, slips it into Jared’s pocket, curls his fingers into the material, tugging Jared closer. “Should’ve done this that day. Should have walked right in and asked you…” Jensen takes another breath, and it’s shaky. But his gaze is unwavering and locked onto Jared’s. “Did you eat yet? Because I know this place that does awesome steak sandwiches.”

Coasting on elation, Jared cups Jensen’s face, thumbs resting on either side of his mouth. “Yes,” he says, nuzzling Jensen’s nose. “Yes,” he says again, lips soft against Jensen’s lips, and when Jensen lets him in, “Oh god yes, Jensen,” he breathes into Jensen’s mouth.

There’s a smattering of clapping, a few wolf whistles and a disgruntled, “get a freaking room.”

But it’s all just white noise to Jared, static silenced by Jensen.

The End.

How to 3/4, J2 AU

2007-12-08T01:58:33Z

Title: How to sell a guy a house in six weeks
Pairing: Jared/Jensen, Jared/Sandy, Jared/Tom, and mentions Jensen/Danneel
Rating: NC-17 for adult themes
Summary: Jared's a realtor and Jensen's a house hunter.
Spoilers: none
Warnings, unbeta'd, language, some angst
Disclaimer: none of this is true, it's all fiction

Chapter Three

This is how it happened. Jared was new in town, trying to find a bar where his fake I.D. wouldn’t be subjected to close scrutiny. Tom was between acting gigs, temping at the gayest straight bar in Los Angeles. He gave Jared’s I.D. a cursory glance and laughed. But served him a beer just the same, “because you look like you could use a friend.”

“Thanks, friend. I’m Jared.”

They took it slow, first date, second date, first kiss, third date, second kiss…four months on, first night together.

This is how it’s happening: Jared’s unfocused at work, unfocused at the gym. He only seems to focus when he’s with Jensen. It’s like his mind is permanently tuned onto Jensen FM. And like his body’s got a bone-deep itch that won’t quit until he’s buried inside Jensen, dripping sweat and endearments on Jensen’s nape as Jensen writhes under him, biting on his knuckle to stifle those ragged groans that Jared hears anyway.

Jared had set out to know Jensen, and now he does. He knows that Jensen loves directing but misses acting, sings and plays the guitar but hates to do so in public. Jensen loves coffee, hates early morning calls, likes his toast almost burnt, over-thinks things at times and then shrugs, laughing at himself. It scares Jared sometimes, how well he knows Jensen, because they only met five weeks ago. Everything’s moving so fast Jared can’t catch up with himself. He needs, “I need more time with Ackles, Eric.”

“You’ve still got seven days to the deadline.”

“A week’s not…it’s nowhere near enough.”

Eric does that thing where he lowers his head and peers at the reprobate over the rims of his glasses. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Mr. Ackles is very selective, which he has every right to be. So far, I haven’t identified a property that meets his criteria.”

“I’ll give you a couple more weeks. Then I bat him back to Miller.”

Jared rearranges his appointments with his other clients. Diary cleared, he skips lunch, sits at his desk throwing handfuls of gummi bears into his mouth as he reviews every property in his portfolio, matching the properties against Jensen’s virtual home. Damned if he’s going to let Wentworth handle Jensen.

Jared doesn’t realize the office is clearing out until he glances away from his computer screen at Sandy’s chirpy, “log out or we’ll miss happy hour.”

He’s blank on happy hour. It must show on his face, because Sandy says, “after-work drinks. Then dinner, then after-dinner drinks.”

He shakes his head, still blank.

“Free dinner,” Sandy emphasizes, “all you can eat. I e-mailed the details last week.”

Jared remembers the e-mail now, something about Sandy’s former client inviting her plus three to the grand opening of his sushi place. Jared had got to free, all you can eat and had instantly e-mailed back, I’m there!

“That’s this Friday? Tonight?”

“Jared,” every syllable oozing with disappointment.

“I can’t, Sandy. I’ve got all this work.”

“But Chad and Sophia are going!” Although Sandy doesn’t have hysterical tendencies, she’s close to it now; eyes wide and hands wringing her purse strap. Piercing voice, “are you that cruel you’d abandon me to Chad and Sophia feeding each other California rolls?”

Boy, is he out of the loop. “How come nobody told me Chad finally got his girl?”

“Chad’s been hinting at it all week,” says Wentworth, the only other person still in the office. He shrugs on his jacket and comes over to Jared’s desk. “I think you should know that Kripke’s trimmed four clients off my workload. He wants me to prioritize the Ackles file when you hand it over.”

Jared’s on his feet and pacing to the window, wrenching at his tie, roughly loosening it. He’s sweating, feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. Kripke that son of bitch has written him off before his time’s even up, and as if that isn’t enough, Sandy’s looking at him with that implacable expression of hers. He just can’t deal with her demands right now.

Surprisingly, Wentworth rescues him. “I’ll go with you Sandy, seeing as my training partner just cancelled on me.”

“That’s tonight?” Jared asks, appalled at himself. “I’m sorry man, I just, Eric’s been stressing me out.”

Sandy looks his chaotic desk over, her sigh wistful. “Text me when you’re through working. I’ll have an after-dinner vodka standing by.” She slips her arm through Wentworth’s, and she’s only small, but she manages to drag him towards the door, “Okay, baby, let’s roll.”

When night’s inching towards eight and Jared’s eyes are gritty from staring at the screen and his stomach’s digesting itself from lack of food, it’s not Sandy he texts.

What you doing?

Working.

Me, too. We’re sad.

Total losers.

Jared smiles, hitting the call button. “Hey, loser.”

Jensen’s reply is a gruff laugh.

“How much longer will you be?” Jared asks.

“About an hour.”

Jared has three houses with Jensen’s name on them in his shopping cart. He could add another one, maybe two in an hour. “An hour’s good.”

“Good for what?”

“Beer, burgers, fries. My treat.”

“Yeah, sure. Where?”

Habit takes over, and Jared’s halfway through reciting the address before realizing it. He’s already committed, so he keeps going and hopes the bar’s been redecorated since he last went there. Six weeks ago. Before Jensen. That’s how he demarcates the passage of time, now. Before Jensen. During Jensen. He tries not to think about After Jensen.

“So, nine fifteen?” Jensen’s tentative, like he thinks Jared’s having second thoughts.

“I’ll be there, Jensen,” he says with plenty confidence for them both.

He’s there, and the bar hasn’t been redecorated. He wonders if he has time to rip some of the photos down before Jensen arrives. Larry the owner has a penchant for putting up photos of his procession of bar staff on the walls so he can point and brag, that shmuck used to work for me before he was famous.

Tom’s one of those shmucks. There he is, wiping down the counter, and there, handing a cocktail to a giggling redhead. There again, lighting candles on a huge cake, and the shmuck with gangly arms wrapped around Tom from behind? That shmuck is him. Famous by association.

Someone brushes up beside Jared a familiar dry chuckle reaches his ears. “You look about twelve in that photo.”

“Count the candles, man. Twenty one.” Jared slides an arm across Jensen’s shoulders, feels like he’s trying to prove something as he crushes Jensen against him. “Why don’t you find us somewhere to sit? I’ll get the orders in.”

Friday nights at Larry’s are busy. Jared has to stand in line at the crowded bar and while he’s waiting to get served, he takes advantage of his height, scanning the bar over everyone’s heads to check if Jensen’s managed to find a table. Jensen hasn’t moved. He’s still staring at the wall, shoulders a rigid line under his jacket. Jared wants to go over there and tell Jensen they’re leaving, going somewhere new.

“I started thinking you were dead, kid. Where’ve you been?”

Jeff – early forties, scruffy salt and pepper beard, soulful dark eyes, and aging beautifully - is supposedly Larry’s sleeping partner but helps out behind the bar on busy nights. Jared secretly thinks they are actual sleeping partners. “Work’s been a bitch, lately,” he says.

“Tell me about it,” Jeff doesn’t mean that figuratively. It’s as though his day’s not complete until he’s listened to a sob story or ten. “Tell uncle Jeff all about it.”

Jared winces at that. “I’ll pass. Thanks, anyway.”

“Alright, what can I get you?”

Foam splashes over the rims of the full pint glasses and onto Jared’s fingers as he pushes through the press of bodies. Jensen’s sitting at a table in a booth, fixed smile on his face as some guy, a regular, talks at him from across the table.

Jared doesn’t do jealous boyfriend, it’s not his style. Also, he’s not Jensen’s boyfriend and even if he were, he wouldn’t feel threatened by average Joe over there. He sets the beers on the table, slides in next to Jensen and wraps a hand around Jensen’s throat, caressing rather than gripping. Feels Jensen’s pulse leap under his thumb, feels his own pulse kick as Jensen tilts his head back, offering his mouth. Jared takes it, kisses Jensen like they’re alone. Running his hand up Jared’s forearm to encircle his wrist, Jensen kisses him back with tongue and teeth and a groan that vibrates against Jared’s palm before it tumbles into his mouth. It’s torment, the way he wants Jensen, always on fire for him. Can’t ever get enough.

When they eventually break for air, the regular guy’s gone. Jared laughs, picking up his pint glass, and Jensen follows suit with the laughing and the chugging of beer. A waitress brings their fries and burgers over, and between bites, they trade stories about work, family and growing up in Texas. It warms Jared up and quiets him down to see Jensen loose-limbed and relaxed, giggling. Jensen’s a giggly drunk, and Jared could get used it.

“We should do this more often.”

Jensen burps, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. “Do what?”

“Go out together, not on a date or anything, just together.”

“I asked you on a date. I drummed up my courage, asked you on a date and you turned me down.”

Jared’s not stupid. He wouldn’t have done such a stupid thing like decline a date with Jensen. “I don’t think so.”

“You did,” Jensen insists, and damn if he isn’t pouting. “After viewing house number ten. You shot me down and laughed at my pain.”

Jared can’t help smiling at the memory of klutzy Jensen walking into a post. “That was you asking me on a date?”

“Trying to, yes.”

“Oh Jensen,” he says, affectionate. He wants to fold Jensen up and tuck him away safely in his pocket. Since he can’t do that, he tucks Jensen’s hand in his own and rests their joined hands on his thigh. “You don’t need courage with me. Just liquor me up and I’ll say yes to anything.”

Jensen’s face lights up and he waves to a passing waitress. “A shot of whiskey for this guy here, please.”

“Double shot,” Jared’s voice carries. And when he’s having a good time, it really carries. “Hell, just bring the whole bottle.”

“Jared? Is that you?” Comes a voice from the depth of the crowd, and then the crowd’s parting and Sandy’s standing at the table.

Thousands of bars in town and she winds up here? So unfair. Sandy flicks a sharp glance over Jensen, her smile thin and her vibe hostile. “I thought you were working,” she says, turning her attention on to Jared.

“I am, was, am,” he releases Jensen’s hand. “We, Jensen – Mr. Ackles – and I, we’re working.” He feels the warmth leach from his side as Jensen shifts away.

Sophia, Chad and Wentworth show up behind Sandy. While Wentworth’s face is unreadable, Sophia and Chad’s expressions say it all.

And Chad verbalizes it, “what the fuck dude, you blew us off for him?”

“It’s not like that. We’re working,” lame. Pathetic. He looks over at Jensen and something wrenches inside him because Jensen’s withdrawing into himself, smiles gone, walls up.

“I’ll go with the third place you described to me, Jared,” Jensen stands and drapes his jacket over his arm.

“But you haven’t seen it yet.”

“I trust your judgment. Fax me the papers Monday,” Jensen slides out of the booth as Sandy slides in on the other side.

Wentworth barely waits until Jensen’s clear of the table before taking Jensen’s place. Sophia hops in beside Sandy, and Chad stays standing, watching as Jensen puts his jacket on.

“Goodnight folks,” Jensen says, turning away.

No-one replies, least of all Jared, who’s amazed at how quickly a good night went bad. He should go after Jensen or call him back. Sandy snuggles up against him, lays her head on his shoulder, and he says nothing, does nothing as the crowd closes around Jensen’s retreating figure.

On Saturday, Jared cleans his windows, twice.

On Sunday, he cleans Sandy’s windows. He’d cleaned them twice, but she tells him to stop and waves him over to the couch where she’s watching T.V. in her nightshirt and red ankle socks. Her lips are dry when she kisses him.

“We can’t,” he says. “We can’t do this anymore.”

“What’s changed?”

“I’m not what you’re looking for, Sandy.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

She’s right. “You’re not what I’m looking for,” he gets to decided that.

Sandy’s throat works. She turns her head to stare at the T.V. screen and increases the volume.

Jared leaves.

First thing Monday, he rings Jensen and gets diverted to voicemail. The third time this happens, he leaves a message saying he needs an offer on the house in writing before he can fax Jensen the terms of sale.

Jensen sends the letter of offer by courier within two hours.

Jared stuffs the letter into Jensen’s folder and picks up the phone. “At least see the house first, Jensen,” he says to the voicemail.

Sandy goes home sick at lunch time, and by the close of the day, Jared still hasn’t faxed Jensen the terms of sale.

At 9 am on Tuesday, Jared launches his offensive. “See the house, that’s all I’m asking,” he says when Jensen’s phone clicks to voicemail.

“See the house, Jensen,” he says at 10 am, voicemail again.

“I can’t proceed with the sale without you viewing the house,” he says at 11 am.

Every hour on the hour, he talks to Jensen’s voicemail, his messages variations of, see the house. He makes the last call at 9 pm, and at 9 am the next day, he starts over, “come see the house, Jensen. Please.”

Sandy’s chair is empty, her computer switched off. Later, during team meeting, Eric announces that Sandy will be off work for two weeks. Sophia scowls at Jared, Chad kicks his shin under the table. Jared glances at his watch; five minutes to three.

“I have a call to make,” he says, already at the conference room door.

“Can’t it wait?” Eric asks.

No. It can’t wait.

After work, he swings by Sandy’s place. Her eyes are puffy, her hair tangled. The clock on her DVD player says six-twenty and her apartment smells of chocolate. He follows her into the kitchen, walking on a tight-rope. There’s a fondue set on the table, melted chocolate instead of melted cheese. Gummi bears on a plate instead of the banana slices she used to dip into the chocolate when they first met. There’s also a book, open face down on the table.

Sandy impales a piece of candy on her skewer and dunks it in the chocolate. “You’re a bad habit,” she says.

His chair creaks as he fidgets, knees bumping the underside of the table. “Are you okay? It’s just that Eric said-”

“I’ve been through a lot worse, Jared. This is nothing.”

He glances away. The clock on her stove says quarter to seven and the flat leaf parsley plant on her windowsill is wilting. Jared’s shoulders sag under the force of the too sweet, too heavy chocolaty air. He has some idea how that plant’s feeling.

“I should go,” he says.

“Working late?” Sandy viciously impales a gummi bear on the skewer. “Another business dinner with Jensen.”

“Yeah, blame Jensen. He’s responsible for the mess we got ourselves into before he turned up at the agency,” Jared’s voice is raised, angry.

He never shouts at Sandy and she flinches, looks shocked for a second, before hurling the book at him. It whizzes past his ear, missing by an inch. She grabs the plate, gummi bears scattering everywhere in rainbow colours. Jared gets out, quickly.

He dutifully makes his calls to Jensen’s voicemail, one at seven, one at eight and the last at nine. Has trouble sleeping, so he fixes a nightcap of Irish coffee without the coffee.

He barges into the office, late for work. Most of the other realtors keep taping on their keyboards. Chad, Sophia and Wentworth glance up at him.

“Morning,” he grunts, snatching his mail from his pigeon hole.

He flings the mail on his desk, drops his briefcase on the floor, throws his jacket over the back of his chair and flips his phone open. Quick dials Jensen. The phone rings once, twice, will kick to voicemail on the fourth ring, and Jared will be leaving a tactless message because he’s not in the mood for softly-softly. So not in the mood.

Jensen picks up before the fourth ring. “Fine. Show me the house.”

Jared’s emotions catch him unawares. They boa-constrict him, driving the air out of his lungs. His throat hurts, his eyes prickle and his voice isn’t quite steady. “I’ll come pick you up. What time?”

“Around three-thirty,” and Jensen hangs up.

Chapter 4

How to 2/4, J2 AU

2007-12-08T01:51:52Z

Title: How to sell a guy a house in six weeks 2/4
Pairing: Jared/Jensen, also Jared/Sandy, Jared/Tom, mentions Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jared's a realtor and Jensen's a house hunter.
Rating: NC-17 for adult themes.
Warnings: unbeta'd, language and some angst.
Disclaimer: none of this is true, it's all fiction.
Feedback: comments and concrit are welcome:)

Chapter Two

Jared knows a thing or two about perfect homes. He lived in one with Tom. The apartment was a dump when they first moved in, moldy walls, defunct boiler, dodgy electrics, cracked windows, health hazard kitchen. But it was cheap, spacious and it was theirs.

Tom was a disaster at DIY. He’d fix something and it’d end up more broken than before he fixed it. So Jared did most of the fixing, and his dad stayed over one week to help him install the new bathroom and kitchen. Tom knocked down the walls they wanted knocking down and did most of the painting and decorating. Wiping out their savings, they got professionals in to do the plumbing, re-wiring, plastering and to put in new windows.

When the apartment was all fixed up, last coat of pale blue paint drying on the walls, he and Tom sat on the living room floor laughing because they were too broke to buy new furniture. They hit the garage sales. Got mismatched living room furniture and an almost new dining suite and a scarred nightstand that told a story. Then they rescued two puppies from the municipal pound and their home was complete.

Jared was happy. That sounds so simple, but he’s a simple guy. He was happy, until Tom mentioned Smallville.

“It’s a great part, Tom. You should audition for it,” trying to be the supportive boyfriend here.

“Okay, but there’s no point. I’m not leaving you so I can play a teenage superman in Vancouver.”

Tom got the part and to be fair to him, he turned it down. The second time they asked him, he came home and said, “We could always rent out the apartment, or sell it.”

“And where would I live?”

“With me, in Vancouver.”

“What happened to you not leaving me for Vancouver?”

Tom knew just how to kiss him to take the fight out of him. Backed him to the bed and pushed him down on it. Rode him slow and easy, squeezing down on Jared’s cock with every lazy swivel of his hips. Jared caught onto Tom’s pace, thrust into him slow and easy, but his words came quick and breathless, “Don’t you leave me.”

Tom leaned over and laid his forehead on Jared’s. “I’ll come home at the weekends, Jay.”

Except he didn’t, not every weekend, and the intervals grew longer.

They remained amicable after the break up, agreeing that it made sense for Jared to buy out Tom’s half of the apartment. But then Tom had to go and turn things nasty by insisting he wanted Harley with him in Canada. Jared wanted no part of a man who would even think about splitting him up from his dogs.

“Our dogs, Jared.”

“Whatever, man. Harley’s staying with me.”

Unable to face dealing with it himself, Jared asked Wentworth to handle the sale of the apartment. Wentworth had it sold in no time, ten percent above the asking price, too. When Jared moved out, all he took were his personal belongings and his dogs. Left everything else, rented a furnished apartment in a new development.

He hated it on first sight, still does. Can’t stand the magnolia walls and neutral carpets, the square windows in the square rooms. It’s got no soul. Probably why he tolerates Jensen’s finicky attitude, because he knows what it feels like to live in a place that’s not you.

It takes him ten minutes to tidy and vacuum clean. Takes an hour of crawling in Saturday morning traffic to get to Sandy’s. Her house is brimming with soul. And with books, plants, shoes and framed photographs.

“I’m up here starving,” she calls when he lets himself in.

He can’t find any clean mugs or plates. Has to wash the stack of dirty dishes in the sink and take out the garbage. She’s a slob. “You’re a slob,” he tells her as he sets a tray of coffee, orange juice and toast on her nightstand.

“Love you, too.”

“Enough to get out of bed and make me fried chicken?”

“Later,” Sandy pats the empty side of the bed.

They lie in bed crunching toast and watching the Disney Channel. Sandy falls asleep, soft and warm against him. He slides the remote from her loose fist and flips through the channels, stumbles across back-to-back episodes of Dark Angel on Sci-fi. Feeling dorkish, he settles down to watch four uninterrupted hours of Jensen.

Later, after he and Sandy have sex – what? They’re friendly exes who have platonic sex – and after they have a shower, not together, that’d be too intimate, they go to the supermarket.

“Why am I cooking you chicken again?” She asks, placing a bag of white flour in the basket hanging from the crook of his elbow.

“You know why, don’t make me say it,” it’s a sore point.

Sandy grins up at him, so infectious he grins back despite being reminded that her fried chicken is superior to his. She watched his mama fry up a batch once, and the next day she was in his parents’ kitchen, battering and deep frying and producing golden-brown drumsticks that Grandma Padalecki declared were just as good as Sherri’s and a whole heap better than Jared’s.

“Drumsticks or thighs?” Sandy asks in the poultry section.

Jared doesn’t know whether Jensen’s a drumstick man or a thigh man. He puts two packs of both in the basket.

Sandy takes two of the packs out, saying, “Even you can’t eat sixteen pieces of chicken in one sitting, Jared.”

“They’re not all for me,” he puts the two packs back in the basket and places a hand on Sandy’s upper back, nudging her towards the check out.

Her back is stiff, her face averted. She stalks through check out and sits in silence on the drive back to her place. In her kitchen, Sandy throws the chicken pieces onto the chopping block like she’s trying to stun them into submission.

Jared stows the cans of soup in a cupboard, mayonnaise in the fridge. He thinks Sandy sometimes forgets they’re not together, time she started dating again. “Did you ever phone back that lawyer guy, that Pete?”

“I lost his number,” she cracks six eggs into a ceramic bowl. “Could you peel some potatoes, unless your mysterious dinner guest’s allergic to carbs.”

“It’s Ackles,” he confesses, because, sure Sandy doesn’t own him but he hates to see her riled. “Dinner’s strictly business, before you start in on me.”

Sandy stares at him, eyes round, mouth open.

Jared rummages through a drawer for the potato peeler. “I’ve tried everything else. He just clams up like a, a fucking clam.”

“So you ask him back to your place? Jared, you could fired for that alone.”

Jared dismisses this with a shrug of his shoulder. He’s gonna be out in three weeks anyway, the way things are going.

Sandy’s staring again. “Words fail me.”

It’s a lie, of course. All through frying the chicken and making the potato salad, Sandy scolds him, proving that words don’t fail her.

Chad has this deluded idea that dogs make him more appealing to Sophia. Yeah, apparently she swoons every time Chad shows her his caring side by tending to dogs. Small glitch, Chad owns no dogs. That’s how good of a friend Jared is, he lets Chad occasionally borrow Harley and Sadie.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he tells the dogs when Chad comes to collect them. “Chad will take excellent care of you,” he shoots Chad a glance, “won’t you, Chad?”

“Christ,” Chad rolls his eyes, “they’re spending the night, not eternity.” He sniffs like a bloodhound, eyes zeroing in on the bulging paper bag on Jared’s counter. “Do I smell fried chicken, Padalecki?”

“Yeah, but not for you,” Jared slings a duffel onto his shoulder and shoos Chad and dogs out of his kitchen. “Their bowls, food and blankets are in the bag, couple of toys, too. They’re gonna want five minutes outside before they turn in, and…”

“And belly rubs and a kiss goodnight. Jeez, would you relax?” Chad snaps a leash onto Sadie’s collar, then onto Harley’s and holds his hand out for the duffel. “I’ll show the kids an awesome time, little mama.”

“Fuck off,” he shoves the duffel at Chad.

Chad laughs, draping the duffel strap across his torso. “You’ll have them back before ten tomorrow, okay?”

Jared nods, curtly.

“Okay,” Chad gently tugs on the leashes, “come on pooches.”

Jared follows the trio out of the apartment, waits with them in front of the elevator. “Ten a.m., yeah? Not p.m.,” he says, stooping to scratch behind Harley’s ears.

“You have got to stop with the separation anxiety, dude. Seriously. No-one’s whisking your dogs off to Canada.”

Jared bristles. “Who said anything about Canada?”

“You, all the time. Fucking move on already.”

“I fucking have. Not that you’re in any position to give relationship advice, you desperate dog borrower.”

Chad’s one of those people who regularly offends others but never gets offended himself. He enters the elevator, jaunty step, smug smile. “I owe you one,” he says as the doors start to slide shut, “oh, and call Miller. He’s been trying to get hold of you.”

Crap. He’d forgotten about Wentworth. They go to the same gym and when they happen to be there at the same time, they spot one another. It’s not a formal arrangement or anything, they’re not training partners. But Jared did mention that he might be going tonight. Might. Wentworth should look it up in the dictionary.

Because he doesn’t want to get drawn into a discussion on protein shakes and energy drinks, he sends Wentworth a brief text message saying he’s skipping gym tonight.

Right away Wentworth texts back, tomorrow night?

Jared chuckling, texting, You’re keen! Gonna work you, boy. Stand over you and make you bench 200.

Looking forward to it.

7:30. Meet you there. Jared switches his phone off.

He puts the chicken in the oven to warm, puts the Tupperware of potato salad in the fridge and sits at his kitchen table with the questionnaire, prepping for Jensen. At five to eight, the intercom buzzes. Jared cups a hand over his mouth and exhales, testing his breath. Fresh enough, but he pops a stick of gum into his mouth.

Finger combs his hair as he heads for the intercom. “Come on up,” he says into the speaker.

Jensen’s in a suit. He’d look cat-walk sharp if it weren’t for the dark smudges under his eyes, first two buttons of his shirt undone and tie hanging half out of his jacket pocket. “You went golfing in a suit?” he steps aside, letting Jensen in.

“That meeting I told you about? It resumed this morning and went on all day. Writers are threatening to go on strike over digital rights, producers won’t budge,” it’s more detail than Jensen has ever given on any subject. He looks up and down the hallway, a frown pinching his eyebrows closer together. “Which way to the bedroom?”

Jared swallows his gum. Didn’t mean to do that or lose his grip on the door, which slams shut.

Bemused, he watches Jensen wander down the hall towards the bedroom, poking his head round the closet and bathroom doors on his way there. Talk about rude! Jensen strolls out of the bedroom, shows himself into the living room and inspects it. Pulls the drapes open, looks out at the apartment building across the street. Abruptly spins away, hands on his hips. He casts quick glances at the couch and matching armchairs, at the bare walls and then at Jared, who is still bemused and standing behind the couch, his stance reflecting Jensen’s. Feet braced apart, hands on hips, frown on brow.

“It’s kind of lackluster,” Jensen says. “Purpose built for the bachelor with bland taste.”

Jared hikes his eyebrows, speechless.

“How long has it been empty?” Jensen asks.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning when’s the last time anyone lived here?”

Jared is not appeased by the realization that Jensen thinks the place is unlived in. “You’re not here to view the apartment, Jensen,” he says, terse with impatience.

“I’m not?”

“Nope. So, take a seat,” he sweeps an arm at the couch, “make yourself comfortable in my bland, lifeless home.”

“Oh, god,” Jensen hangs his head, hiding his face in his hands, which aren’t big enough to cover his lobster red hairline and ears. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” his voice comes out small, muffled.

Adorable trips through Jared’s mind. He goes over and throws his arms around Jensen in a loose bear hug. “Look at you all embarrassed,” he laughs, Jensen’s hair tickling the underside of his chin.

“You said you had dogs,” Jensen accuses. “I don’t see dogs.”

How can you see anything with your hands over your eyes, Jared wonders. “They’re at a doggie sleep-over.”

Hugs are not the agency approved way of reassuring clients, Jared knows this. He hugs Jensen closer, and his heart beats heavy as he slides a hand on to the back of Jensen’s neck. Rubs and kneads, fingertips working on the tension where neck slopes into shoulder. Jensen lowers his hands to Jared’s waist, brow thudding lightly onto his collar bone. Soon, Jensen’s pliant against him, shallow breaths a warm current in the hollow at the base of Jared’s throat.

“Tell me something,” Jensen’s pitch is surprisingly even, considering how tight his fingers curl on Jared’s waist.

Heat’s pooling in Jared’s belly, drying his throat out. His, “yeah?” is a scratchy whisper.

Jensen lifts his head and looks at him, direct, non-evasive, and Jared just wants to be kissing him right now. “Why am I here, in your apartment?”

“Can I kiss you?” So. He has a one-track mind.

“Tell…” Jensen pauses as his even pitch snags on a rough patch. “Tell me, Jared.”

“There’s a questionnaire needs filling out.”

Jensen lowers his gaze several notches, long eyelashes barring the expression in eyes that were candid a moment ago. A small smile curves his lips as he steps back from Jared.

Not knowing what to do with his empty arms, Jared crosses them on his chest. “You’re the only client I’ve ever let through that door, Jensen. I’m hoping you trust me enough to let me in too.”

Jensen’s small smile expands. It’s warm and brilliant and transfixes Jared. An answering smile spreads across Jared’s face and he raises his arms in victory, keeps them that way as he struts to the kitchen.

“Shut up,” Jensen laughs behind him.

Jared’s belly is full of chicken and his ribs ache from laughing. He swipes his knuckle at the corner of his eye and collapses against the couch. The questionnaire’s sitting neglected on the cushion between him and Jensen. They were supposed to tackle it while they ate, but Jensen’s droll got in the way.

Pile of chicken bones on a plate on the coffee table, two bits of potato in the bottom of a bowl and three pieces of chicken on another plate are all that’s left of dinner. Making happy little noises, Jensen adds another bone to the pile.

“That good?” Jared asks.

“I’m orgasming,” Jensen sighs. “Did you make it?”

“I wish.” Jared reaches for the pack of wet wipes, pulls a few out and drops the pack on Jensen’s lap. “Sandy made it. Remember her?”

“How can I not? She’s smart and gorgeous,” Jensen ticks Sandy’s qualities off on his greasy fingers, “and now I discover she fries the best chicken outside of Texas. I’m going to propose to her.”

“I lied. I cooked the chicken.”

Jensen’s top lip quirks upwards. “Believe me, I’d marry you. If you were gorgeous, or smart even.”

Jared balls up his handful of wipes, lunges and despite Jensen’s attempts to get away, crams them down the back of his shirt. His face a contradiction of scowls and smiles, Jensen stands and untucks his shirt from his waistband, fans his shirt tails until the wad of wipes fall out.

“The wedding’s off, asshole,” Jensen says. He gathers up the plates and takes them to the kitchen.

Jared’s laughing too hard to move.

“Fine by you if I make some coffee, Jay?” Jensen calls from the kitchen.

Jared’s laughter evaporates. Tom used to call him that. “Milk and two sugars for me,” he calls back.

He slides low in his seat, kicks his feet up on the coffee table and closes his eyes, sinking his head back on the top of the couch. He thinks maybe he’ll buy a bookshelf for the living room. Take his books out of the trunk in the store room – sorry, guest room - and put them up on the bookshelf. Might as well unpack his cache of video games while he’s at it.

“Milk, two sugars.”

He blinks his eyes open and smiles up at Jensen, who’s standing by his feet and holding two steaming mugs. He moves his feet off the table so Jensen can get past him to the other side of the couch.

“Ready?” Jared asks.

Jensen sets himself down on the spot Jared’s just lifted his feet off of, places the coffees a little farther down the table and scoots forward, elbows on his knees. He’s practically crouched between Jared’s splayed legs, and it isn’t any wonder at all that Jared’s cock goes semi-hard with anticipation.

“Let’s go,” Jensen says.

I’m a professional, Jared thinks, I can totally work under hard conditions. He picks up the pen and questionnaire and gets to work. “Ideally, how many bedrooms would you like?”

“Two. No, three. Two or three.”

Jared writes 2/3 next to the question. “How many bathrooms?”

“Including en suite? I don’t know, man. Two, I guess.”

Most people, when they set out to buy a place, they have some kind of idea of what they want. But Jensen, it’s like he hasn’t really given it much thought. Jared has to talk him through it, and together they painstakingly build a picture of Jensen’s virtual home. Jensen gets eerily focused, his gaze so intense it kind of spooks Jared.

“Do you keep a blow up doll in your closet?” Jared asks to lighten things.

“I do. Her name is quit asking damn fool questions.”

“Ample closet space needed in master bedroom,” Jared says as he writes it down.

“Be serious,” Jensen makes a grab for the pen.

“Okay, okay,” Jared knocks Jensen’s hands away. “Here’s a serious one. Why’d you give up acting?”

Sitting a little more upright, Jensen squares his shoulders. “I threw my back out doing a stunt. That’s what you get for being stubborn, a slipped disk and an agent bringing romantic comedy scripts to your hospital bedside. Romantic comedy, Jared,” Jensen spits out romantic comedy like it’s something curdled.

Jared doesn’t concur. He thinks romantic comedy is a respectable genre. He’s worried about the back, though. A person can miss out on a lot of athletic activities on account of a bad back. “How’s your back now? No lasting damage I hope?”

“Hell, I figured if I couldn’t do action, I’d direct it, right?”

“Absolutely. You can absolutely settle for directing certain types of action. Other types, well, you kind of have to be physically involved to get the full benefit.”

“I got a chance to guest direct on a project, things escalated from there and now I’m…” Jensen frowns, “we are still talking about my career?”

“Yes, and also about your back. Can you bounce?”

“Bounce?”

“Yeah, like, you know, execute summersaults on a trampoline?”

“Never tried it. My back’s good, though. Not up to being slammed into walls just yet, but yeah. It’s good.” Jensen’s smirk is entirely too knowing. “Thanks for your concern.”

“That’s me. Concerned about the welfare of my clients.” Jared holds the questionnaire up in front of his face, concealing his own smirk. “So. Dinning kitchen or separate dinning room?”

Jared leaves the couch twice; once to stretch his legs and once to brew fresh coffee. Jensen hasn’t moved from his perch on the table. If his butt is numb, or his legs cramping or his back complaining about a lack of support, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t show much of anything, focuses on the task with the intensity that makes Jared edgy.

“Are we done here?” Jensen asks.

“One last question.” Jared glances down at the question, not sure how to as it without appearing personally interested in the answer. “Sometimes I’ll show a client a house and they’ll be like, love it, where do I sign, and I’ll have the papers drawn up, deal as good as made, then their significant other – who I didn’t know existed – will be on the phone asking why they weren’t consulted, and before I can get a word in, they’ve pulled out of the purchase.”

Jensen takes a moment then says, “That’s not a question, Jared. Try again, less wordy this time.”

“Is there a significant other I should know about?” There, one concise and crucial question.

“Not at the moment. There was a Ms Harris about a year ago but we didn’t work out. That happens to me a lot, the not working out with women.” Jensen meets and holds his gaze, “I’m thinking about switching.”

The semi-hard that’s been flirting with Jared’s zipper all night swells to full hard. But Jensen’s a client and there are rules against consorting with clients. Jared’s already on probation, he really can’t go recklessly breaking rules.

“Speaking as someone who switches back and forth, I know it can be confusing,” he says. “Take your time, don’t do anything drastic until you’re sure.”

Jensen breaks eye contact, gaze slipping to Jared’s lips. “I’m sure, Jared.”

On the other hand, he’s broken about a million rules where Jensen’s concerned, what’s one more rule, right? He hooks his ankle around a table leg, pulls the table in, and leans forward, closing the last few inches to Jensen.

“C’mon man, harder, I ain’t gonna break… yeah, like that, just like…oh! Oh fuck yes, Jared…” Turns out Jensen’s outspoken about what he wants done to him in bed, no questionnaire necessary.

“Chad?” Jared stops directly in front of Chad, blocking him from advancing farther along the hallway. “And could you keep it down, you’ll wake the neighbours.”

Chad takes the dogs off their leashes and slips his sunglasses off, waves them at Jared’s feet. “Dude, you’re dripping on the carpet.”

Jared tightens the knot on the towel around his waist, “I just took a shower.” He pets the dogs, calling Sadie back when she breaks away and runs to the bathroom door. “Here, Sadie girl, come on.”

Sadie scratches at the door, softly whining.

“I left the shower running, she hates when I do that,” Jared explains Sadie’s behaviour. A clunk sounds from the bathroom, and Sadie barks. “Also, she hates rats.”

Grinning, Chad looks from the closed bathroom door to Jared. “You got Sandy in there?” He takes a deep breath and yells, “you’re busted McCoy, come on out!”

“Dammit, Chad!” Jared shoves and prods Chad down the hall, hustling him to the front door. “I’m gonna need my spare keys back,” he says. “Now,” he holds out his palm, fingers twitching.

Chad takes his time detaching Jared’s keys from his key ring. “It’s a guy, isn’t it? I can’t believe you’d bring a random pick up home, Jared.”

Chad’s his closest friend. He’s looked out for him from day one at the agency and saw him through the post-Tom trauma. Jared’s grateful for Chad, really he is but, “I need you let it go, Chad. Please, just go buy Sophia breakfast or something.”

For once Chad isn’t grinning. “Just as long as you know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” he doesn’t. He has no fucking clue what he’s doing with Jensen. “I know what I’m doing.”

Chad lets the keys go, dropping them in Jared’s palm.

It’s stupid. Even the dogs think so, trotting off in disgust as Jared and Jensen smooch against the front door like a pair of honeymooners about to be forcibly separated.

Jensen squeezes Jared’s biceps then pulls back with a groan. “What time you got to be at the gym?” breathing shot to hell.

Jared chases after Jensen’s lips, letting out a throaty murmur when Jensen opens for him. The kiss goes on and on, deep and thorough, and this has to stop before they land up in bed again. Jared stops it, superhuman effort required.

“Seven thirty,” he says, deliberately not looking at Jensen’s lips. “I’m meeting a work buddy there at seven thirty.”

“Miller,” Jensen states.

“Hey, you’re psychic.”

“Not really,” Jensen reaches for the doorknob, cracks the door open. “Miller’s chatty.”

Chatty doesn’t sound like the Miller he works with. “How’d I crop up in his conversation exactly?”

“I think his words were: my training partner, right? Legs up to here,” Jensen lifts his hand to shoulder height, “shoulders out to there,” he spread his arms wide, “dude is freaking Pada-sexy.”

“You’re kidding.” Jared starts to laugh, but Jensen leans up and smashes their mouths together, bruising hard.

“Catch you later, Pada-sexy.”

Then Jensen’s gone and it’s a while before Jared’s lips stop throbbing.

Chapter 3

How to 1/4 J2 AU

2007-12-08T01:26:01Z

A while back, I hinted that I'd write a sequel to Kiss, wherein Jensen and Jared ended up together. That fic hasn't happened yet, but I recently moved house and it got me thinking 'what if Jared was a real estate agent and Jensen was a house hunter and they met...' and so I ended up writing an AU fic along those lines.

Title: How to sell a guy a house in six weeks
Pairing: Mainly Jared/Jensen, but also Jared/Tom, Jared/Sandy and Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jared's a realtor and Jensen's a house hunter.
Rating: NC-17 for adult theme.
Warnings: language, unbeta'd
Spoilers: none.
Disclaimer: none of this is true, it's all fiction.
Word Count: 4,000 this part, 14K in total.
Comments and concrit welcome:)

Chapter One

Selling houses is a tough job. Selling houses in the Hills is out-and-out hellish. It’s not enough that you’re a good realtor, know the business inside-out. No, you also have to be pretty, with a body to go with your pretty. Insincere fawning is a pre-requisite, no matter how much of a minor celebrity your client happens to be.

The looks and body, Jared has those. He’s not bragging, just saying. The fawning…well, let’s put it this way. Jared believes in sincerity with a friendly smile. Which is probably why he’s sitting at his desk with a cup of cooling coffee in one hand and a letter in the other. The letter’s a formal warning putting him on probation for an indefinite period. His big crime? Giving a Z-list client his opinion on her crappy performance in a movie that bombed at the box office.

Bitch of it is HR acted on her complaint without even getting his side of the story. Says in the letter that, tact is our by-word here at Star Real Estate Agency, Mr. Padalecki. Your lack of tact jeopardizes the Agency’s conservative reputation. As you are no doubt aware, this is your third and final written warning. Any further complaints from the clientele will result in your immediate dismissal.

Jared’s tempted to resign on principle. But principle ain’t going to pay his gym membership. Plus he can forget about getting a good reference if he quits while on probation. He files the letter in his personal folder, picks up his coffee and strides across the open plan office to his manager’s cubicle, ready to prove that he can fawn with the best of them.

“You know me Jared, I’m a fair man,” says Eric Kripke. “And because I’m fair, I’m reassigning the Ackles file to you. Sell him a house, and you’re off the hook.”

Jared’s mouthful of coffee goes down the wrong way. He splutters, eyes tearing up and coffee shooting out of his nose.

Eric reaches for the box of tissues, tosses a couple at Jared. “Now, time scales. How does six weeks sound to you?”

Jared dabs at his nose with a tissue, swearing under his breath.

“Good,” Eric smiles. He lounges back in his chair, fingers linked on top of his balding head. “Let’s do lunch in six weeks. You, me and Ackles.”

Jared’s never actually met this Ackles character, but most of the other realtors in the office have handled his file at some point or another. Word is that Jensen Ackles is a time-wasting dick of a movie director. He’s been on the company’s books for a year, views somewhere in the region of five houses per week, and has yet to put down an offer for any property.

“It was nice working with you,” Chad commiserates when Jared tells him about the reassignment and Eric’s ‘fair’ deal.

Jared slumps behind his desk, sweeps the clutter to one side and bangs his head on the cleared space of shiny wood. Three resounding thuds.

He arrives at the house ahead of schedule. Strips off his jacket, loosens his tie, rolls back his shirt sleeves. The house is spotless, sunshine streaming in through the windows to bounce off the polished hardwood floors. Still, Jared locates the Windolene, a cloth, and starts wiping down the windows.

The guys in the office constantly poke fun at him for his strange relationship with windows. He’s convinced that there’d be less drama and hissy fitting on the shop floor if they all adopted his motto: Don’t stress out, clean windows.

He’s shining a hole through the window of a second floor bedroom when the door bell rings. He throws the cleaning products into the wardrobe and runs to answer the door, simultaneously trying to fix his tie and cuff his sleeves as he negotiates the stairs. The front door opens before Jared gets to it, and this guy in blue jeans and a white button down walks in.

He’s hot, this guy. Seriously attractive, with gold-flecked green-eyes, sculpted cheekbones and a mouth that Jared’s not even going to dwell on. He takes the last few steps at a slower pace, dwelling on the freckles because they’re ridiculous and won’t lead his thoughts astray.

“You must be Mr. Ackles.”

“Jensen.” Jensen takes a step back, tipping his head to the side, “Dude, you make me feel short.”

Jared’s smile comes easy. “I can walk around on my knees if it helps.”

“Would you? I’d appreciate it.”

Jared can’t tell from Jensen’s straight face whether he’s joking or not. He takes a chance. “Well hell. Seems they weren’t kidding about you being a whip cracking dungeon master,” he drawls, hitting Jensen with the full force of his accent.

A grin animates Jensen’s deadpan expression. “Texas, right?”

“San Antonio,” Jared nods, and how can a guy with a winning smile like that be a total dick?

“Dallas,” Jensen extends his hand. His grip is firm, his eyes warm. “Pleased to meet you, San Antonio.”

“Likewise,” it’d be true had they met under more pleasant circumstances, Jared’s sure. “How about you give me back my hand and I’ll show you around?”

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” Jensen stumbles over the words, dropping Jared’s hand like it’s poker-hot.

Jared bites the inside of his cheek to keep from making a highly inappropriate comment about the blush that’s creeping over Jensen’s cheeks. You’re just too cute, is not something you say to a client who has the power to prematurely end your career.

“Alright,” he pushes open the door to the living room, “let’s get started.”

The carpet absorbs Jared’s footfalls as he crosses the living room. Apart from the gilt-edged mirror hanging above an ornate fireplace, the room is empty. He watches Jensen through the mirror, watches how he follows far behind, seeming to run out of batteries in the middle of the room. Stands under the chandelier with his hands jammed in his trouser pockets and his gaze riveted on Jared’s back.

A tingling sensation starts up between Jared’s shoulders blades, becoming more intense as it licks down the length of his spine to spark off a slow burn low in his belly. He wants Jensen. Also, he wants to murder Jensen and stuff his body under the plush carpet.

“So. What’s the verdict?” Jared maintains a level tone, gives no hint as to how fucked off he is right now.

“Honestly?”

“Yes,” he about turns, strides closer to Jensen, “honestly.”

“It’s not me.”

“Not you? Then what is, Jensen?” He spreads his arms in bewilderment, “This is the tenth house you’ve viewed this week. The tenth. Gotta tell you man, you take pernickety to insane levels.”

“Wow. Do you sass all your customers, or do I deserve special treatment for some reason?”

The blasé does it. That and the corner of Jensen’s mouth tweaking upwards like a smirk in the making. Either Jared walks away or there’s going to be a movie director with a split lip in about two seconds. He walks away, leading Jensen to the front door and holding it open for him.

Jensen steps out onto the porch, turns around, starts to say something but seems to change his mind, heads for the porch steps instead. At the bottom of the steps, he turns around again and comes back to the front door.

Jared’s dizzy from watching Jensen chase his own tail. “Did you lose your car keys or something?”

“No, no, I just…have you eaten yet?” Jensen’s glance is evasive, hovering somewhere in the vicinity of Jared’s chin. “Because if you haven’t, I know this place that does awesome steak sandwiches?”

Peace offering? Well he’s not interested in making peace with Jensen. “I’m working through lunch, catching up on some paper work.”

“It’s cool, no big deal. You, uh, catch up on that paperwork, eat some other time.” Jensen’s backing up fast, flustered, awkward and backing straight into a post. His head thwacks the wooden post hard.

Jared presses his lips together.

Jensen runs his hand over the back of his head. “Let it out, Jared. I know you’re dying to,” he says with a long-suffering sigh.

Jared lets it out, breaks down laughing. He really needs to find ways to stay pissed at Jensen. Maybe get inoculated against liking him, since his natural defense system doesn’t seem to recognize Jensen as foe.

Jared and a bunch of people from the office take it in turns to host movie night every second Wednesday of the month. It’s Jared’s turn tonight. He’s got beer and pizza laid out on the coffee table, two realtors sprawled on his couch, one curled up on an armchair and another on the way with the DVD. His dogs Sadie and Harley, are making big eyes at the guests in the hope of guilting them into sharing the pizza.

“Aww,” Sandy says, tearing a couple of pieces off her slice of ham and pepperoni.

“Don’t fall for it,” Jared tells her. “I already fed them.”

Chad arrives with the movie, snags a beer, flops onto the couch between Sophia and Wentworth, and leers at Sophia.

She rolls her eyes and pronounces Chad a, “retard.”

Laughing, Jared drops into the other armchair. “What are we watching?”

“The Brad Pitt wannabe,” says Chad. “He made top of my hit list.”

Jared groans. Movie night is supposed to be about movies, not about Chad Michael Murray’s bitch list. “I listen to you bitch about your clients all day in the office, now I gotta do it on my time off, too?”

“I don’t bitch. I constructively criticize their acting skills.”

“Let the man bitch, Padalecki. It’s a form of catharsis – like your incessant window cleaning,” is Wentworth’s wise contribution.

“Who buzzed you in anyway, Miller?”

Wentworth shrugs, “McCoy.”

Jared glances across the living room at Sandy. “Traitor,” he says. She smiles and blows him a kiss.

“Is that the wannabe?” Sophia smirks at the T.V. screen, “the one with no acting skills whatsoever?”

And the constructive criticism commences. Jared goes with the flow, he’s laid back like that. He passes round a joint, more beer, another joint, and they all somehow end up jumbled on the floor. Five mellow realtors, two dogs and four cushions, jumbled on Jared’s carpet, with the volume turned down and smoke curling towards the ceiling.

Jared slowly blinks at the blank ceiling, his head resting on Sandy’s lap. She tangles her fingers through his hair, manicured fingernails lightly scratching his scalp. The scrape of her nails reminds him of soapy water and paper clips.

His office desk faces the floor to ceiling window that runs along the front of the office. The window’s lower half is pasted over with colourful brochures to lure house hunters off the street and into Star Real Estate. Friday, just after lunch, thirteen months ago, Jared was frowning at a smudged handprint on the window and pleading down the phone.

“This isn’t just any weekend Tom, you have to make it. I reserved a table for tomorrow night.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but the filming’s been rescheduled. I’ll make it up to you-”

Jared ended the long distance call, cutting Tom off in mid apology. It was their anniversary dammit. You can’t reschedule an anniversary. He stripped the brochures off the front window, filled a bucket with soapy water, found a sponge and attacked the window.

Sandy left her own desk and walked all the way across the floor to throw paper clips at his head. “You’re giving the people on the sidewalk ideas, displaying yourself at the window like that,” she said. “We sell houses, not six foot four stud-muffins.”

She threw a few more paper clips and when he still ignored her, she dragged a chair over, climbed on it and dumped a whole box of clips over his head. Sank her fingers into his hair and mussed it, tangling it up with paper clips. He didn’t even think about it, just grabbed her, swung her round and stood her in the bucket of water.

“Oh my shoes!” she wailed. “You ruined my shoes!”

He took her shopping for a new pair - she went barefoot. “Don’t cancel the reservations,” she said, trying on a pair of red pumps in the third shop they went to. “I’ll wear a suit and you can pretend I’m Thomas Welling.”

That was that. He broke up with Tom, hooked up with Sandy. Broke up with Sandy three months in because he was still broken up over Tom. Once in a while, when he sees some random guy with clear blue eyes, deep brown hair and the sweetest smile, Jared thinks about relocating to Vancouver. Thinks he should have done that in the first place instead of trying the long distance thing. It would’ve saved him a ton in cleaning products.

Mostly though, Jared thinks he made a mistake, because no-one gets him like Sandy does. He tugs her hand from his hair, brings it down to kiss her knuckles. “I should have held onto you,” he says. His chest feels clogged up.

“It’s fine. I mean we work fine like this, don’t we?”

He doesn’t reply. His whole family loves Sandy. She comes to Texas with him now and again, fits in with the Padalecki clan in a way that Tom never did during the four years they were together.

“Jared?” Sandy’s whisper is shaky, and Jared feels it, too. That shaky hopeful feeling whispering under his skin, telling him he’s on the brink of something awesome.

He has no clue why he stomps on the potential awesomeness of he and Sandy getting back together. “’Course we do. We work just fine,” platonic smile, casual pat on her cheek. “I’m gonna get more beer,” he says.

He comes back with the beers and walks in on Wentworth bragging that he was this close to selling Jensen a house before Eric reassigned the file to Jared. Wentworth is Star’s premier earner. He nets more in sales commission than the rest of them put together and never lets an opportunity to boast pass him by.

“By the way,” Wentworth accepts a beer from Jared, “have you made any headway with the challenging Mr. Ackles?”

“I’m getting there,” Jared mutters. It’s been ten days, twenty houses and all he gets from Jensen is, it’s not me.

“Yeah, I was getting there, too. Four months later I still hadn’t arrived,” Sophia says.

Sandy frowns, mouth turned down. “Ever notice how vague he is about the kind of house he wants?”

“He’s tight-lipped about everything. Does he have a girlfriend or boyfriend, children, pets, a foot fetish? A realtor needs to know these things, you know?”

Jared knows that Sophia’s skirts got shorter and her heels higher during the time she handled the Ackles file. “Maybe you just weren’t his type,” he comes across catty without meaning to. “You’re more Chad’s type,” and now he’s insulting her.

Looking unamused, Sophia sticks a finger up at him. “I wasted the best four months of my career on that asshole.”

“It’s all part of his evil plan,” Chad says. He, at least, has made some headway, has somehow persuaded Sophia to cuddle up against his side.

Probably held a gun to her head, Jared thinks. “What evil plan, man?”

Chad picks a half smoked joint off the side of the ashtray, lights up and passes it to Sophia. “The plan that is evil,” he says, gaze centered on Sophia’s cheeks as they hollow with her drag on the joint.

“Exploitation is kind of evil,” Wentworth’s wearing his know-it-all expression. “Ackles pays a hefty retainer to stay on the agency’s books. Basically, he’s exploiting his fame and fortune for the sole purpose of entertaining himself with our futile efforts to sell him a property.”

“Exactly,” Sandy slaps her thigh. “Jensen Ackles has no friends, no goldfish and no love life – apart from the blow up doll he keeps in his bedroom closet. He is a sad, lonely, borderline recluse, who gets his kicks from torturing innocent realtors.”

Jared laughs, shaking his head. “You scare me. You’ve got Ackles figured for a sexually deviant hermit and you don’t even know him.”

“Neither do you,” Sophia says. “You don’t know him and his evil ways.”

That much is true. Beyond essential client information, he doesn’t know much about Jensen. Not that he and Jensen don’t talk. They do. Mainly, he talks and Jensen listens. Huh. He hadn’t realized just how one-sided their conversations are.

“Then I’ll get to know him,” he vows.

Chad looks at him like he’s grown horns all of sudden. “Why?”

“It’s a thing. I like to know my clients before I give up on them.”

“Good luck with that,” Wentworth sounds sincere.

“I’ve been checking up on you. Yep, IMDb is my new best friend.”

“Woodchip wallpaper? Seriously?”

“I’m going to call you Eric Brady from now on. Or CJ. Which do you prefer, Eric Brady or CJ?”

“You can accuse me of being pernickety all you like, I’m not buying this death trap.”

“Hey, are you still in touch with Jessica Alba? I wouldn’t hate to meet her. You could maybe bring her along sometime.”

“Jesus, I’ve heard of compact but this, this is small. It’s a toy condo. Do I look like a toy to you, Jared?”

“Bite me. Devour, in your case. Yeah, yeah, devour me, son of Satan.”

“Nice house, wrong location.”

That’s how their house viewings go. Jared not so subtly encourages Jensen to talk about himself, and Jensen not so subtly criticizes every house Jared shows him. It’s fun, wandering through empty homes with Jensen, having cross-wired conversations. Then again, Jared’s been told he has a weird sense of fun.

“Wanna hear something weird?” Jared straightens the dartboard on the wall.

“Games room, huh?” Jensen prowls around the pool table cue in hand. “I like it. Definitely put this one down for a second viewing.”

First time Jensen said those three precious words, I like it, Jared got a hot flash of excitement. Or maybe he was hot flashing with lust. Hard to tell; he gets all kinds of hot when he’s around Jensen. Anyhow, coming from Jensen, I like it, translates into: I’m not completely convinced it’s me. So, the flash of heat tightening Jared’s groin area as Jensen bends over the table and takes aim, ass pointing this way, that flash is purely lust inspired.

“Okay, so, you know how you auditioned for young Clark Kent, and it came down to you and one other guy? That guy’s my boyfriend. Ex. Was my boyfriend.”

Jensen strikes, sinking a succession of balls. “You’re the Jay he couldn’t stop talking about?”

“What did he say about me?” Just like a junky for pain, ripping the stitches off healing wounds, rendering them raw and open again. “No, you know what? No. Don’t answer that.”

Jensen stands the cue upright, chalks it. Taps the broad end on the toe of his boot, everything about him, his smile and movements, guarded. “Changed my mind, scratch that second viewing.”

Jared’s not surprised, or disappointed. He’s a boy scout. “I’ve got something for you.” He picks up his briefcase, lays it flat on the counter in front of the well-stocked bar and takes a sheaf of papers out of the briefcase. “I think we should scratch all your pre-booked viewings until you’ve filled this out for me,” he holds the sheaf out to Jensen.

Even more guarded, Jensen takes the papers. The scowling starts at page two, and by page four, Jensen’s wildly waving the papers. “Fucking hell Jared, are you writing a biography on me?”

Jared’s not going to laugh. He is not going to laugh. He grins. “It’s just a little questionnaire I drew up last night.”

“Eight, nine, eleven…” Jensen rifles through the papers, “fifteen pages of questions, dude. And,” Jensen squints at the bottom of the first page, “goldfish? What does it matter whether I like goldfish or not?”

“Jensen,” Jared places his hands on Jensen’s shoulders, gives them a squeeze. “Jensen, house selling is an exact science. In order to select suitable properties, I need to know exactly what you’re looking for. I need details, specifics. So, do you like goldfish, Jensen?”

“No,” Jensen snaps.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now I know not to show you houses with built-in aquariums.”

“You’re nuts.”

“And you,” he pats Jensen’s chest, “are my number one client. Here,” he fishes a pen out of his briefcase, “I’ll go through it with you.”

Jensen takes the pen but shakes his head. “Sorry, can’t get into this now. I’ve a meeting with studio executives in about half an hour.”

“No problem. Drop by the office after your meeting.”

“It’s a long meeting, Jared. Really long. Like, all night long.”

“I’m free tomorrow,” Jared says. He’s going to pin down the evasive fucker if it kills them both.

“You don’t work Saturdays.”

“I do now,” he assures Jensen.

“Well, I’m golfing. Can’t do tomorrow.”

“Sunday?”

“Completely out of the question. Some of us are church-going people.”

“You? Church?”

“I’m not the son of Satan in real life, Jared.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jared mutters. Sighing the next moment, he scribbles on the back of a business card and slots it into Jensen’s jeans pocket. “I’ll be at that address until eight tomorrow night. If you don’t show, I’ll take it you’re back on the market for a new realtor.”

Jensen jerks his head back. “Hard ball?” he says, and it’s a bark of incredulous laughter.

“Think of it as narrowing the search for your perfect home.” He flashes Jensen his dimples and snaps the briefcase shut.

Chapter 2

dijisun @ 2007-10-12T17:04:00

2007-10-12T16:26:35Z

The other night, I dreamt about these fugly zombie creatures which sort of spontaneously multiplied, and Dean and Sam had to throw them off a conveyor belt to kill them. WTF?! Methinks I need to ease off on watching Spn dvds before going to sleep.

Kiss 2/2

2007-09-23T23:43:47Z

Title: Kiss
Author: Dijisun
Pairing: Jared/Jensen mentions Jared/Sandy and Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jensen crosses the line and Jared is not amused.
Rating: Adult
Spoilers: AHBL, Season 3
Warnings: language, unbeta'd
Word Count: this part aprrox. 4,500 (w/c for total fic: 10,500).
Disclaimer: this is pure fiction, none of it is true. Furthermore, I don't own any of the characters or people portrayed in this fictional story.
Feedback: always welcome!
A/N: I enjoyed writing this and would like to say a big thank you to everyone who has read and/or commented on it.

Chapter Two

Does Jared nail that scene the next day? Yes he does. Nails it good, and Jensen’s the first person to pat his back.

Does he go back to not kissing Jensen? In a word: no.

Jared holds out for five days, stays strong. Jerks off to images of brown eyes, glossy dark hair, curvy hips, and yeah, thoughts of a hard body and freckles may have crept in once or twice, but mostly, when Jared’s got his hand on his dick he has his girlfriend on his mind.

See, Jared’s not a cheater. He’s never cheated on Sandy and he’d like to maintain his clean record. The kisses don’t count because the first two weren’t kisses and the third one was payback. Payback is allowable.

Sunday rolls around and naturally, Jared drops in on Jensen, dogs in tow. The weekly race for the couch ensues, Jensen versus Harley. It’s neck and neck, Jensen squeezes the toy in his hand, it squeaks and Harley skids to a stop. The dog has no focus, completely forgets the couch, perks up his ears and looks around as if asking, where? Where? Gimme!

Jensen tosses the toy across the room, claims the couch and spreads out, Jared laughing when Sadie pounces on the toy before Harley even gets a sniff at it. Up until Jared laughed, Jensen hadn’t said anything to him, seemed too intent on beating Harley. But now, as Jared sits on the end of the couch, laughter waning, Jensen braces up on his elbows and lets his knees fall open.

“Hey,” Jensen says, heat in his eyes and a half-smile curving his lips.

For five, long days Jared held out. On the sixth day, he crawls onto Jensen and licks the half smile off his lips.

After that, they’re at it pretty much all the time. Quick kisses stolen behind the huge board with a moonlit sky painted on it. Lip on lip brushes at the end of a particularly tough day, both of them too sapped for anything more energetic. Wet and sloppy after a night out, drunken laughter as Jared falls back on the bed in Jensen’s guest room, manhandling Jensen down with him. Slow kisses that start in Jensen’s kitchen and progress on his couch, their legs and fingers as entwined as their tongues. Frantic in Jared’s garage up against his truck, groans tinged with the sharp edge of need, and Jared would push Jensen away, or Jensen would push Jared away, because that got a little heavy there – got to keep the pants on.

So, they might be in Jared’s trailer, mouthing at each newly exposed band of skin as they strip one another’s shirts off, they might press together on the narrow bed, fingers skating over hip bones as lips meet and lock; they might be doing all this, but the pants stay on. All it is a little bit of fun, mindless recreation to break the monotony between takes – because a guy can only get so much entertainment from a PSP.

The more fun he and Jensen have, the longer Jared’s phone calls to Sandy become.

“What’s going on, Jared?” she asks one night. She’s smart.

He doesn’t answer right away, has to calm his thudding heart first. “Nothing, baby,” he finally says, his palm sweaty around the handset.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m catching the next flight out,” she’s very smart.

Jared chooses his words carefully. “I have a few days off in three, four weeks, why don’t you come then? I could rent us a lakeside cabin.”

He is so relieved when Sandy grudgingly backs down.

When Lauren Cohen arrives in Vancouver to film her first scenes of the season, he and Jensen come to an unspoken understanding to tone it down and use the breaks between takes to make Lauren feel included. They're hospitable like that. So, the three of them have lunch together. They ride to and from set together, Jared in the middle, Lauren on his left and Jensen on his right.

After a few miles, Jensen softly says, “Hand, Jared.”

Jared glances at his hand. It’s riding up and down Jensen’s thigh, fingertips running along the inseam of his jeans. Suppressing a heavy sigh, he takes his hand back and sits on it.

And on Sunday – yes, they’re working throughout the weekend - they run through their lines, all three of them, together. Squeezed companionably on the couch in Jared’s trailer.

“Hand, Jay,” Jensen whispers as Lauren ploughs through her lines.

Jared looks down, and what do you know, his hand is back on Jensen’s thigh. He takes his hand off of Jensen and drags it through his hair, irritated and not certain why.

Monday, they’re shooting scenes in a museum. Story is Sam and Dean are there to destroy a talisman which is a magnet for demonic activity. Bela – Lauren’s character – is there to steal the same talisman. Paths collide, wills clash; may the best man win. The girl wins, because she’s got a harness and shit to lower her over the glass case and winch her to the safety of the airduct hatch from where she descended. Meanwhile Sam and Dean are on ground level, picking their way through a spider web of laser beams trying not to trip the alarm system.

“Easy does it,” Jensen says as Sam wobbles with one foot in the air.

Jensen says it, not Dean and Jared breaks character, playing along as Jensen deviates from the script, instructing him to, “lift your foot higher, again…perfect. Next beam’s really low, so you got to get down and crawl under it.”

Jared hits the floor. He’s slithering across the room, dragging himself forward on his elbows, huffing and puffing. “How’m I doing Dean? Am I doing good?”

Jensen’s expression goes soft, his smile adoring. “Doing real good. You’re my good little Sammy.”

“You two are not funny,” Kim says, but he’s laughing along with Jared, Jensen and the rest of the room.

Goofing around aside, the day drags. They spend a lot of time watching Lauren’s stunt double get strapped into the harness, winched to the rafters and lowered again to hover above the glass case with the talisman in it. Kim complains about the angles and light, so they shoot the scene over. And over. Which is fine by Jared. He’ll just be over here in the corner standing close to Jensen and getting drowsy on Jensen’s body heat.

“Hand,” Jensen murmurs after a while.

Jared checks his hand. It’s splayed low on Jensen’s back and his thumb’s stroking a slow arch where Jensen’s spine slopes. Jared makes a sound in the back of his throat, a growl of frustration. His hand has always lived there. It has squatters’ rights and he's passionate about protecting the rights of his body parts.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” he says in Jensen’s ear.

“Dude, any lower and you’ll be inside my pants.”

“About time, too,” said in jest, smirk brushing Jensen’s earlobe.

Jensen turns his head and, hell, no-one has ever looked at Jared like that before, like they could straight up eat him. Like they could throw him on the ground and just eat him right fucking now. It’s a rush. It’s pure sugar melted down, laced with adrenalin and injected straight into Jared’s bloodstream. His entire body’s buzzing, goose bumps flaring on the back of his neck.

“Jensen,” he tightens his hand on Jensen’s back, fisting his shirt. “Jen, you want to…meet up later? My place, after we finish up here? We could order in or something.”

“Sure.” Jensen idles his gaze to one side of Jared. He smiles, bright and friendly. “You’re coming too, right, Lauren?”

“Actually, yeah, I’d really like that,” Lauren replies from some place in the periphery of Jared's awareness.

"Fantastic," he says.

So Dean and Sam split up. Dean’s out trawling every bar and street in search of that “Mission Impossible chick,” while Sam surfs the web and trawls through a stack of books in search of a loophole in his brother’s contract with the cross-roads demon. This means that for the rest of the week, Jared’s on set while Jensen and Lauren play hide and seek on location.

Jared loves his job, no doubting that. But he prefers action scenes, the ones where Sam’s thrown into walls or brandishing his shotgun or jumping into pools to save little girls from drowning. Those are the cool ones, and it doesn’t suck that Jensen’s in them, either. This, sitting alone in a motel room trying to convey Sam’s mounting sense of angry desperation without saying much, it’s not easy.

“That’s great Jared,” Eric says from behind the monitor. “Now mix it up a little. Dean’s running out of time, and sure, Sam’s mad about that, but he’s also scared. He’s got hardcore guilt and sadness going on, too. Let’s see you emote all that as well as the anger.”

Right. Emote.

He emotes, holed up in a murky room with Sam’s mad, sad, lonely feelings boiling in his chest. It’s intense. Jared could use some serious after-work fun to shake off the traces of Sam’s brooding.

He phones Jensen’s landline but gets the annoying answer-phone. He tries Jensen’s cell but it goes straight to voicemail. Resigned to the fact that he’s not going to be seeing Jensen tonight, tomorrow or ever at the rate work is going, he brushes his teeth and climbs into bed. Half an hour later, he’s up again, feeling like a stalker as he texts Jensen, drinks with Mike and Tom Saturday nite at 9? Usual place.

Jensen doesn’t get back to him until the next day, his message on Jared’s answer-phone so brief it’s almost rude. No hello, no goodbye, just, “Working late Sat. Meet you at the bar.” So when Jared arrives home from set on Saturday, the last person he expects to see is Jensen – looking smart-casual in a black button down shirt rolled up at the sleeves and blue jeans.

His heart executing a weird flip-flop, Jared fairly spills out of the SUV and tries not to leap up his front steps. “What are you doing here man?”

Jensen bites on his smile and scoots to one side. “Blocking your doorway, I think.”

Jared figures Jensen took a cab here since his car’s not on the drive. “I can see that, but aren’t you supposed to be filming?” he asks, sitting next to Jensen on the top step.

“Wrapped ahead of time.”

“What, and you couldn’t wait another,” Jared turns up his wrist, consulting his watch, “another three hours to see me?” he teases grinning wide.

Jensen ducks his head, fingers plucking at the thin leather bracelet around his wrist. The tips of his ears have turned a bright shade of pink. “I just knew you were going to be a jerk about this,” he gruffly complains.

To be honest, he missed Jensen, too; with a gut clenching ferocity that’s near enough had him climbing the walls. He reaches out and covers his palm over Jensen’s exposed nape, “Let’s go inside.”

Jared’s not quite sure how he got here. One minute he’s talking to a shy guy on his doorstep, next minute he’s got a tiger on his hands. He is being mauled in the hottest way possible, flat on his back on the California King, his legs wrapped high on Jensen’s bare back and his zipper aligned with Jensen’s, hard cock straining against hard cock.

Now Jared is no expert on the subject, but it seems to him that spreading his legs for Jensen like this, making choked little sounds as Jensen’s tongue teases and flicks at his nipples, well, it seems a bit gay, is all. He eases his legs to the mattress, hates to spoil the moment, but they really need to slow down before someone loses his pants.

“Jensen? I…” whatever he’d been about to say doesn’t seem as necessary as the sting of Jensen’s teeth biting down on his pectoral muscle. Jared arches his back as pain-edged pleasure sparks his nerve endings, feels so good he squirms, fingers digging into Jensen’s shoulder.

“Yeah, Jared, that’s it,” Jensen says, voice pitched low and breath warm against the side of Jared’s throat. He closes his lips there and sucks, bringing blood rushing to the surface.

Jared scrabbles for a hold of Jensen’s short hair, wants that mouth on his. “Come here,” he tugs, sighing when their lips are lined up.

His sigh turns hoarse and pleading as Jensen rolls his hips again and again, fucking him through his jeans and whispering filthy-hot promises into his mouth. “Going to make you feel good, Jay. Going to fuck you soon, soon…work your tight ass open and slide deep inside you, fuck you till we both can’t move.” And Jared’s not thinking straight or gay. He’s thinking, yeah do it, just like that baby, do it now, now, rocking his hips to meet Jensen’s thrusts.

“Please Jensen, god, please.” he says breathless, the pleasure at the root of his spine something unbearable.

Jensen sits back on his haunches, his hands going for his belt buckle. “Have you got-”

“Nightstand. Top drawer,” Jared attacks his own belt buckle.

Five seconds later, they’ve lost not only their jeans but their boxer-briefs too, and the nightstand drawer’s hanging open. Jensen has a foil packet and a bottle of lube in one hand, the other stroking Jared’s hip, his fevered eyes asking, you sure you’re ready for this?

Jared sucks in a breath, nods.

Oh, but he’s not ready for just how hot Jensen’s mouth feels sliding down his cock, undoing him with every smooth up and down bob, every rasp of tongue from root to tip. And who knew that fingers could feel so goddamn good, pushing into him slick and insistent, working him open just like Jensen said he would do. And then nothing; no mouth on him, no fingers in him and he snaps his eyes open, “don’t you stop Jensen.”

“Be with you in a sec,” Jensen says, his hands unsteady as he rips open the condom packet.

Jared would never say it out loud because it’s not the kind of thing one studly Texan says to another, but Jensen like this, fumbling as he rolls the condom down his blood-heavy cock, tan skin studded with sweat and warmed with a flush, he’s beautiful like this. And he’s with Jared, braced over him, their foreheads touching and their breath mingling. Jared’s back where he started, legs wrapped high on Jensen’s back. He squeezes his thighs, compressing Jensen’s ribs, impatient: come on, come on, are we doing this or not?

A groan fanning out of his mouth, Jensen pushes into him, and holy fuck it burns. He wiggles, trying to adjust, but there’s quite a few inches to adjust to. “Jensen, wait, wait,” he pants. “Did you read the manual? Because this feels pretty damn awful.”

“Did I read it? Jay, I wrote the thing,” Jensen says, and Jared can tell he’s holding back a chuckle, the bastard. “It gets better, I promise.”

Jensen pulls back and sinks in again, swiveling his hips, and Jared catches on, rocking in counter-point. Actually, it does get better, and better, maybe almost incredible. He fists the comforter, tries to keep from coming. Not yet, he doesn’t want this to end yet. But Jensen squeezes a hand between them and wraps it around him, jerking him off rough and upping the tempo, fucking that bit harder, his cock grinding against a spot Jared hadn't cared about until now. He swears pleasure’s melting his spine and when Jensen’s cock grinds there again, “Oh fuck Jensen,” he cries out, his orgasm hitting him hard. He’s hot and shaky, whiting out, feels shudders wrack Jensen and blindly grabs him, holds on tight.

When the fog clears, Jared becomes aware of Jensen breathing ragged beside him. He’s also aware that Tom’s the designated driver and is inhumanly good at time-keeping. He’ll be here any minute, knocking the door down.

Sticky with cooling come and sweat, Jared tips onto his side to face Jensen. “Should probably clean up before Welling shows.”

Jensen looks him over, eyes trailing from his face down his torso to his abdomin and slowly back up again. “Yeah...you’re a mess,” he whispers, moving in closer to kiss Jared’s jaw, “A fine, fine mess, Jay,” then he kisses Jared’s mouth, slow and completely.

Jared smiles into the kiss, curving a hand round the back of Jensen’s head as Jensen strokes his cheek, thumb coming to rest gently on his dimple.

Eventually, they detach from one another and since Jared has two bathrooms, they take a bathroom each. Jared flicks on the bathroom light, his gaze collides with his image in the mirror above the sink, and who the hell are you, dude?

Fine mess, Jensen had said. Ain’t that the truth. Hair standing every which way, unrecognizable smoldering in his eyes, lips…oh god, his lips! Red, puffy and very much like he’s been sucking face with some guy, which, yes he has been, but Jesus. And marks. Jensen marked him up, hickey on his collar bone, another on the side of his throat, bite marks on his chest – guy’s got a fucking dangerous mouth.

Jared wheels round from the mirror and turns the shower on, steps under the almost scalding spray. You can write a kiss off as payback or say you were just fooling around, but when you can still feel the shape and pulsing of a dick in your ass, it’s kind of hard to say, just fooling.

It’s cheating by any definition.

The hot shower does nothing to cool him down. He dries off and stalks into the dressing room, cussing as he turns it upside-down looking for his black turtle-neck sweater. The door bell rings, the dogs bark and footsteps thud down the stairs.

“Hurry it up Jared, Tom’s here!” Jensen shouts.

Jared can’t find his sweater. He settles for a shirt, buttons it right up to the collar and meets Jensen, Mike and Tom downstairs.

“You’re late,” Tom chastises.

Yeah, Jared thinks, late and about ready to smack a bitch.

The bar is packed, music blaring from the speakers, laughter and conversation swelling to the ceiling, alcohol flowing like water from a bust pipe. A respectable amount of that alcohol is flowing in Jared system. He chugs his vodka shot, hisses through his teeth as the liquor sears his throat and slams his shot glass down, hurling Jensen a slit-eyed glare across the table.

Hand loose around his beer glass, Jensen makes some comment about Kane’s upcoming tour.

Tom and Mike glance at each other then rush into speech at the same time. “Yeah? Awesome,” from Tom, and, “tell your boy Christian we don’t want him touring these parts,” from Mike.

Jared refills his shot glass. “Don’t be like that, Mikey. A guy like Jensen needs his boys.”

That’s how it’s been all night; Jared taking swipes at Jensen, Jensen letting it all roll off him, Mike and Tom trying to lighten the mood when they’re not sitting in uncomfortable silence, embarrassed for Jensen. But, see, Jared ain’t nobody’s boy and he figures he oughtta make this clear to Jensen one way or the other.

Jared squints at the vodka bottles on the table, they’re both empty. “I’m gonna…gonna…” he waves in the general direction of the bar and pushes to his feet.

He makes it round the table but stops as the floor tilts. It’s possible that he’s also tilting. Then Jensen’s there, hands on Jared’s shoulders, steadying him. He pushes Jensen’s hands off because, “I have a girlfriend!”

Jensen’s face goes blank. He shoves one hand into his pocket.

Mike bursts out laughing. He sounds hysterically wasted.

“We know,” Tom comes over and affectionately punches Jared’s shoulder. “The whole world knows you have a girlfriend.”

Jared’s trying to make a point here. A very important point. “Yeah, well, just in case some of you forgot, I have a girlfriend. Sandy and me, we’re a couple. A happily dating couple.”

“Congratulations,” Jensen’s smile is tight.

“Happily dating,” Jared repeats for emphasis. “And I’m not looking to change that any time soon. So if you think just ‘cause you and me-”

“You’ve had enough,” Jensen grabs his arm and hauls him through the crowd. “I’m getting us a cab.”

Jared’s head is swimming, his vision blurry, his legs rubbery. He staggers into Jensen from behind and slings his other arm across Jensen’s chest, clinging on for support. “You don’t got to get us a cab, Jensen,” he argues, “C’n get my own damn fucking cab!”

A door slams, waking Jared. He cracks his eyes open and wishes his hadn’t. The sunlight streaming through the gap in the drapes is too bright, hurts his eyes. His head’s pounding, his throat feels sandpaper rough and his mouth’s furry, like a rodent crawled in there and died.

He’s in Jensen’s guest room. Can’t remember climbing between the cotton sheets, but has woken up to the sight of those heavy cream-coloured drapes and the ticking of the clock on the wall enough times to pin-point where he is. Also, the liter of water and bottle of Advil on the nightstand are a give away. Jensen does that; he puts out water and pain killers for Jared after a drinking session.

Jared takes a couple of Advil and drinks half the water. He glances at the clock; eight thirty. Way past his waking hour, too early to face Jensen. His stomach pitches, bile rising. He grits his teeth, folds his arm over his eyes and lays very still.

It’s after three when Jared next wakes up. Jensen’s been in, left a plate of sandwiches and a glass of milk by Jared’s cell phone on the nightstand; towel, pair of jeans, boxers and a T-shirt by his pillow. The clothes belong to Jared, the scent of fabric softener on them belongs to Jensen. It’s a constant source of bickering.

“How many times have I asked you not to use that shit on my clothes man?” Jared has complained time and again.

“Starts with a toothbrush, next thing I know, you’re moving in, fucking taking liberties. Learn to bring your laundry home, Jared.”

Jensen’s a good host really, with the Advil and clean clothes, milk, sandwiches. Jared wolfs down the first sandwich – peanut butter and jelly, Jensen knows him well – and is biting into the second when his cell rings.

It’s Mike, says he’s got the number for an excellent marriage guidance counselor. Jared and Jensen might want to make an appointment, “’cause you kids were totally having a domestic last night.” Jared hangs up on Mike’s cackling.

Not long after, Tom calls, says he just wants to make sure Jared’s not in hospital with alcohol poisoning, oh, and by the way, how is the girlfriend Jared’s very happily dating?

“Eat kryptonite and die, superfreak,” Jared growls, and hangs up.

Jared’s barely finished his milk when Chad calls. Before Chad gets a word in, Jared warns, “rib me about last night, and I will disown you.”

Pause, and then, “Jared. Dude. I’d never listen to rumors about how you went PMS on your co-star in a jam-packed bar.”

Jared would like to cuss off Chad for at least ten minutes, but he’s got a co-star to appease and dogs to see to. “You’re disowned, dickwad,” he presses the disconnect button.

He showers, bundles his dirty clothes into Jensen’s hamper with a slight smile, but has the good manners to collect and the empty glass and plate from the guest room. He goes in search of Jensen. Finds him in the kitchen loading stuff into a cardboard box on the breakfast bar.

“Hey,” cautious as a man walking a tightrope, Jared sets the glass and plate on the breakfast bar.

Jensen just pats him on the chest, skirts around him and strides to the broom closet. He’s got mud stains on his jeans and, “grass in your hair,” Jared observes.

“Your beasts, checked in on them earlier,” Jensen brings a pair of flip-flops from the closet. Jared’s flip-flops. “Sadie knocked me over and Harley dragged me through the flower bed,” he says, putting the flip-flops into the box.

There’s an orange Frisbee in the box, and a collection of dog chewed toys, dog biscuits, two water bowls and two food bowls. Jared’s caught between gratitude that Jensen checked in on his dogs, and panic about the box with all of Sadie and Harley’s Sunday things in it. And his flip-flops.

Panic wins over. Before he knows it, he’s curling his hands around Jensen’s upper arms. “I said some stuff, I know, but you don’t have to do this Jensen.”

He and Jensen have only ever had one fight, and then like now, he could feel the tension thrumming through Jensen, could feel the cold from those green eyes right before Jensen blasted him, voice dripping with icicles. Jared steels himself for the blasting, wants it, so they can move on to the part where they’re making up.

“You were right, though. You have a girlfriend,” Jensen says resigned more than angry, sorely disappointing Jared. “I’ve got one of those too, Jay, and sure, Danneel and I may not be practically engaged like you and Sandy, but…” Jensen’s earnest gaze sums it up better than his stilted, “damn it Jared, I really like her.”

Something clenches and twists Jared’s guts. He rubs his fingers across his mouth, bile rising again. “Like, really really like her?”

“Really really and then a whole lot more. Besides,” Jensen smirks, “You freaked out on me last night man, completely flipped. Clearly, your fragile nerves can’t deal with an alternative lifestyle.”

Jared laughs, the sound hollow. Funny how an alternative lifestyle doesn’t seem so heinous after twelve hours’ sleep. “Fragile nerves? Dude, go get your keys before I remind you which one of us faints at the words: interview with E! News.”

“Just for that, you can walk home.” Still, Jensen goes and gets his car keys, but not before hugging him close and kissing him hard and brief, lips closed, no entry.

As Jared climbs the steps to his front door, box weighting his arms, brown-gold leaves rustling under his feet and a slight breeze ruffling his hair, chilling him through despite the fall sunshine, he knows that this thing between him and Jensen is done. For real this time.

The End.

J2 Fanfic

2007-09-18T01:36:00Z

Title: KISS 1/2
Author: Dijisun
Pairing: Jared/Jensen mentions Jared/Sandy and Jensen/Danneel
Summary: Jensen crossed the line and Jared is not amused.
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 11,000 (this part approx. 5,500)
Spoilers: AHBL 1 and 2. Also, if you don't want to read anything about the new female characters in Season 3, please look away now.
Warning: language, unbeta'd
Disclaimer: all this is pure fiction, none of it is true, and none of the characters belong to me.
A/N: I'm new to the SPN fandom and I think I may have gotten myself hooked, because first, I used to just watch the show (love it), then I got the boxset, then I started reading fanfic and now, I've written my first J2 fic. Feedback/concrit is welcome.

KISS

New is good. New season, new regulars starting soon, new supernatural encounters. Jared can work with new. ‘nother new thing? He and Jensen are not staying in hotels this time around. It’s like they’re brain twins, both had the same idea of renting places for the season. Jensen’s got one of those open plan apartments in the city; sleek everything, floor to ceiling windows, underground parking and a doorman who looks like he can handle trouble. Jared’s leasing a small house set back from a quiet, tree-lined street. Big yard with a lawn for his dogs to tear up, walk-in wardrobe – mainly for Sandy because she doesn’t travel light – and double garage to fit his truck and all the power tools he’s going to buy.

His dogs love the yard, but he and Harley are going to have to have a serious talk about this rolling in muddy flower-beds business. Not now though, the SUV’s just pulled up in the driveway. Jared tuts at the mud-caked dog, grabs a travel mug off the kitchen counter and heads out.

Some things stay the same. They’re a tradition. Like Jensen never being ready on time, and when he does show, his first word is, “coffee,” as if Jared’s a Starbucks franchise.

“My own fault,” Jared says. He hands Jensen the travel mug, just like he’s done every morning this week and for the last two seasons.

“What is?”

“Nothing. Drink your damn coffee.”

Jensen takes a sip and, “perfect,” he sighs. “I trained you up good.”

“Asshat,” Jared swats Jensen’s thigh. He keeps his hand there, kneading just above Jensen’s knee.

Jared likes this time of day; clear roads, sky starting to lighten gray-pink, van’s engine purring as he and Jensen get caught up. It’s random, their conversation, flits from football to home to just about anywhere. Jared slides into the familiar rhythm and hell, he can’t define what he means by that, rhythm, it’s just there between him and Jensen. Always has been.

“Want to give me a hand getting settled in this weekend?” Jared’s been living among the chaos of suitcases and packing boxes. It’s causing him grief, never being able to find anything.

“What’s in it for me?” Jensen asks.

“Me.”

Jensen makes a face. “Because I don’t see enough of you already.”

“I’ll throw in beer and pizza.”

“Don’t beg, it’s creepy.”

“No, what’s creepy is a grown ass man playing hard to get.”

“Aw Jay, didn’t know you were trying to get me.”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

So it goes until they’re on set. Make up, wardrobe, and Jared folds himself into the passenger seat of one of the Impalas, a book on his lap and Jensen at the wheel. Take one: Jensen cracks up at absolutely nothing. Same old same old.

Jared sighs. People don’t even get it. They see Jensen looking cool at upfronts and such, all reserved charm and reluctant smiles, and they conclude Jensen’s the levelheaded one. Jared’s the goofy hairball put on earth to try Jensen’s patience, or so they think.

The truth is, if Jared humped Jensen in public that one time…okay, twice then…oh alright, if he humped Jensen in public three times, it was only because Jensen humped him first when the cameras weren’t looking. Jensen always starts this shit and Jared has no choice but to reply. It’s, like, a default setting guys have. Someone punches you, you punch him back. He pins you to a wall and ruts against you in the men’s room, you go one better and molest him on the CW red carpet. Jensen’s fault entirely.

The director calls action.

Jensen grips the steering wheel and slides him a sidelong glance. “What you got, Sam?”

Jared lets Sam take over, can feel Sam’s frown ruffle his brow as he turns a page of the book. He glances across at Dean’s serious face and just can’t help it. “Blue balls,” he announces gravely. “Got blue balls the size of Alaska, Dean. It’s been too many miles since Madison.”

“Cut!”

Jensen’s laughing, head thrown back, shoulders shaking, gone.

Jared flashes him grin. “You are so easy.”

Jensen’s made a new season resolution to quit smoking. Great, except now, he’s muscling in on Jared’s candy. They’d be riding home in the SUV and Jensen would dip into Jared’s packet of gummi worms. Without asking. There’s not a lot he won’t do for Jensen, but candy sharing goes above and beyond the call of friendship.

“Buy your own,” he bats Jensen’s hand away.

“Come on, Jared. I need a little something to take the edge off.”

“No, seriously. I only got three left. You’ll just have to suffer,” Jared closes his fist around his packet of last three gummi worms and waits for the attack. Because Jensen’s a thug in expensive clothing. He’s been known to attack with headlocks, tackles and full body slams to make Jared reconsider his decisions.

Jensen just shakes his head and looks out the window at the dark Vancouver streets. Jared frowns, not sure he likes this new behavior of Jensen’s. It kind of takes the victory out of the moment. He clamps a gummi worm’s head between his teeth, letting its sugar-coated body dangle down his chin.

Jensen glances over, his eyes tracking the gummi pendulum; back, forth, back. He licks his lips, Jared purses his, making the string of red and green candy wriggle. Taunting Jensen just because he can. The van pulls up outside Jensen’s apartment building. He slides the door open, starts to climb out then turns round and it happens so quick Jared has no chance to reply. He just sits there, breath tangled up in his throat as Jensen grabs his head, holding him still for the scrape of teeth and tongue on his chin, and the press of lips full and soft on his. He shivers, honest to god shivers when he feels the edge of Jensen’s teeth graze his lower lip. Then there’s a tug, a snap and it’s over.

Jensen pulls back, smirk on his face as he chews the body of the gummi worm, and Jared, he’s trying not to swallow the severed head whole.

“Later,” Jensen says. He climbs out and the van pulls away.

Jared, meanwhile, can still feel Jensen’s hands on him like a brand, can taste chapstick on his lips and can’t deny that his blood is hot, rushing southward and hollering for the return of soft, full lips.

That’s when Jared’s default setting kicks in. “He stole my candy,” he crosses his arms on his chest, indignant as all hell. Jensen stole his candy and kissed him and Jared’s not going to take that lying down.

The next day, Saturday, is a day off. Up at the crack of dawn, Jared takes the dogs for a run on the dirt track through the woods not far from his house. Sweat’s stinging his eyes and plastering his tee shirt to his torso by the time he completes his circuit. The dogs run straight to their water bowls in the kitchen. Jared toes off his running shoes just inside the front door and phones Sandy, wishing her luck for the audition she has later.

“Thanks, baby.” Her voice is soft, and Jared pictures her curled in bed, her eyes closed and a smile tugging at her lips.

A pang goes through him, sharp in his chest. He sits on the bottom stair and plucks dog hair off the hallway carpet, misses Sandy so bad. “Call me, after the audition, okay?”

“’kay. Can I go back to sleep now?”

After Sandy ends the call, Jared quick dials Jensen, who picks up with a groggy, “you sick?”

“No.”

“The dogs alright?”

Jared smiles. “They’re fine.”

“Then why are you calling me in the middle of the freaking night, Padalecki?”

Jared laughs, taking the handset through to the kitchen. “Dude. It’s almost seven.”

“For this you woke me up - to tell me the time?”

Cold air chills Jared’s clammy tee shirt as he takes a bottle of water from the fridge. He unscrews the cap and drinks deep. “Come over.”

“What, now?”

“You were gonna, anyway.”

“Gimme a couple of hours.”

“An hour,” Jared bargains.

Jensen sighs heavily. “An hour and a half.”

Jared nods, has no clue why he’s grinning like an idiot. “Bring me maple syrup, I’m all out.”

Harley’s up on his back paws, tail wagging furiously and front paws scrabbling at the doorknob. Sadie’s whining, her nose pressed to the narrow gap at bottom of the door. She glances round, giving a short, sharp bark as Jared ambles down the hallway. He turns his mouth down at the dogs. All this excitement for the candy stealer who laid a sneaky one on him and bolted before Jared could reply. He has his reply ready now, though. Yeah, as soon as he’s got that door open, he’ll be telling Jensen a thing or two ‘bout boundaries.

“Here, Harley,” he says. “You too, Sadie, here.”

The dogs mill around his legs, making unhappy noises. Whatever. He orders them to stay put, steps to the door, pulls it open and huffs as the disobedient dogs rush past him. Jensen hunkers down to meet Sadie and Harley, strokes and fusses them. Jared watches, oddly satisfied about seeing Jensen get messed up. Not so picture perfect with Harley’s slobber dribbling onto his jeans and Sadie’s breath fogging up his glasses. Jensen jerks his head back with a laugh when Sadie goes to lick his nose. Jared smiles, remembers that he’s supposed to be riled with Jensen and squashes the smile.

Problem is, Jared’s about as good at holding grudges as a sieve is at holding water. The smile colours his voice when he says, “there’s a line, Jensen. You crossed it.”

Jared found out early on that Jensen will not be rushed. Oh, he can be quick on the uptake, learn his lines in one reading. But sometimes, Jensen slows right down; you could light a fire under his feet and it still wouldn’t speed him up. Jensen does that now, stands upright real slow and shrugs out of his jacket lazy like. Takes a bottle of syrup out of his jacket pocket, hangs the jacket on the coat rail and strolls down the hall to the kitchen.

Jared follows. He’d like to prod Jensen with a pitch fork, see if that gets him talking any quicker. Probably wouldn’t because, all due respect to Jensen’s mama, but that man is a stubborn son of bitch.

Jensen sets the syrup beside a plate of pancakes on the breakfast bar, pours himself a coffee from the machine Jared only bought because Jensen’s addicted to the stuff, and leans back against a counter, hand wrapped around his mug.

“The hell you talking about, Jared?”

“Last night, man. The kiss thing. We don’t do that.”

“You call that a kiss?”

“I call it a throw down,” and Jared’s starting to feel all kinds of ridiculous. “So, you know, pucker up, because I never yet walked away from a challenge.”

Jensen blinks, eyes going slightly wider. “This makes sense to you? I crossed the line, so you want to re-cross that same line by doing the thing we don’t do?”

“Dude, retaliation’s always logical.”

“Lame.” Jensen swallows a few mouthfuls of coffee before adding, “I refuse to be dragged down to your level of lameness.”

Jared forks half the stack of pancakes onto a plate and drizzles syrup over them. “This ain’t over,” he mutters.

Jensen flat out laughs. He ducks the pancake Jared throws at him and laughs harder, making references to cowboys and pistols at dawn.

Jared could throw more pancakes, but, well, he’s hungry. And like he already said, he’s crap at holding grudges, especially not when Jensen’s helping him get the house to look more like a home than a storage facility. It’s not that Jared can’t unpack a box. He’s unpacked hundreds of boxes and suitcases in his twenty-five years. Just, sometimes…okay, a lot of the time, he gets distracted, which is why the chaos.

Now Jensen, he doesn’t distract easy. He’s a man on a mission, getting those boxes unpacked and looking around the living room with an expression that’s a frown shy of critical.

“Too much floor in here, Jared. You need a rug.”

According to Jensen, Jared needs to touch up the paint in the dining area, and could do with new stools for the breakfast bar in the kitchen. And are the drapes hanging at Jared’s bedroom window for real? Because to Jensen, they look like the type of bad joke from any one of Sam and Dean’s motel rooms.

Sadie and Harley are rooting around in a box by the foot of Jared’s California King. They wag their tails when Jared scratches behind their ears and says, “That’s why I wanted Jensen here, because he’s this amazing domestic goddess. Actor by day, goddess by night. I shit you not.”

Jensen takes off his glasses, tosses them on the bed and Jared runs for the door. He doesn’t make it. Jensen slams into him from behind, tackles him to the carpet and it’s on. They grapple and roll across the floor, disturbing the box the dogs are pawing through. Sadie huffs out a snort as if to say she’s seen Jared and Jensen’s roughhousing many times before, and frankly, it’s getting tired. Jared could hold Jensen down all day everyday and not get tired of it. Something very affirming about putting his weight on Jensen and feeling him strain, tension in his hips and biceps. He’s got a hold of Jensen’s wrists and he pins them down on either side of Jensen’s head, laughing down at narrowed eyes spitting green fire at him.

Jensen’s making threats, “Your ass is kicked. Gonna kick your ass, Pada-”

Jared cuts him off, bending his head to take revenge on Jensen’s candy stealing lips. It’s nothing like kissing a girl, not as good. Not good, period. First, there’s Jensen’s stubble, burning Jared’s skin and jarring him out of his comfort zone. Then there’s the rhythm, in the sense that there is none. It’s clashing mouths and bitter coffee, harsh grunts as clacking teeth catch on tender skin. Pushy attitude on both sides; too much testosterone. For the first time in ever, he and Jensen don’t click. They’ve lost their chemistry and that jars on Jared more than the stubble or the fact that he’s kissing his male co-star. Jared feels Jensen’s full body shove, tumbles onto his back with Jensen over him, pressure on his chest as Jensen braces his fists there before pushing up off him.

Jensen wipes the back of his hand across lips gone cherry red, and Jared can tell from the determined glint in his eyes that as far as Jensen’s concerned, this thing is done. Shame, because Jared wants to try and try again until the chemistry’s sparking so bright between him and Jensen that people will have to wear shades around them. Then Jared can cross back to the land of non-kissing bestfriends.

“Dude, when you said you were gonna feed me, I didn’t think you meant tongue,” Jensen says just this side of gruff.

Jared forces a light laugh and clambers to his feet. “Meant pizza. You want a side order of wings?”

Days roll into weeks. On set, things are going fine. The Winchester brothers end vengeful spirits, race against the clock that is Dean’s deal with the cross-roads demon and avoid talking about their fear that Sam maybe come back wrong.

Off set, things are going great. He and Jensen do the usual bars, sometimes with some of the crew or with Mike and Tom; most times just the two of them - Jared and Jensen. About once, maybe twice a week, they stay in and watch a DVD on Jared’s monster plasma screen, or get competitive over Madden, or catch a game if there’s one on. Lately, Jared’s gotten into the habit of going to Jensen’s on Sundays come rain, shine or hangover. He always brings the dogs with him.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Jensen asks on letting Jared, Sadie and Harley in one Sunday. Past noon, and Jensen’s got bed hair, pillow creases on one side of his face, drool crusted on the corner of his mouth and morning breath in his yawn.

Downright unattractive, Jared thinks. “As your friend, it’s my duty to haul your lazy ass out of bed,” he says. “Now go shower, stinky.”

In fact, he disturbs Jensen’s Sundays just to watch Harley mess with Jensen’s head. Jensen loves his couch and he objects to having dog hairs on it. Harley loves Jensen’s couch, too. He’ll pad around it and sniff it and Jensen will be like, “don’t you dare, Harley Padalecki.” Harley, he’ll lay down not too far from the couch, and every few minutes, he’ll belly-crawl towards the couch. Just a couple of inches at a time, watching Jensen and stopping when Jensen looks at him. Dog and dude stare at each other and when dude looks away, dog creeps closer to the couch.

Jared thinks it’s hilarious. “Oh, man, every time,” he laughs, slapping his thigh.

It usually ends with Jensen fishing dog treats out of his kitchen cupboard to distract Harley, or he’ll bring out the Frisbee and suggest the park. Sometimes though, Jensen defends his territory, sprawls out on the couch with his feet tucked under Jared’s thigh, no room for Harley. He’ll doze off like that, a bar of sunlight falling across his face to show up long eyelashes fanned against freckled cheeks.

This one time, Sadie gets her paws on the TV remote and accidentally turns the volume up so loud both she and Harley whine, scuttling to the kitchen.

Jensen startles awake. “Jay?”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Jared scoops up the remote and turns the volume down, his other hand on Jensen’s belly, stroking and soothing. Sliding under his tee shirt to rub tense muscle and scratch lightly at warm skin.

“’S good,” Jensen murmurs low in his throat.

A bolt of heat shoots through Jared and it’s all he can do to not lean down, cross that line and kiss Jensen stupid. He opens his mouth and the words rush out before he can censor them, “you’re so damn hot, Jensen…when’d that happen?”

Jensen doesn’t reply. He’s all sleepy smiles and heavy lidded eyes and falls asleep again in no time flat.

So, yeah, aside from Jared’s occasionally x-rated thoughts about Jensen, things are pretty good. Things are great and not wanting to tilt the equilibrium of their friendship, Jared doesn’t act on his x-rated thoughts. It’s just a phase he’s going through, he tells himself. The thoughts will fade and he’ll once again become oblivious to the hotness of sexy – and did he mention hot – Jensen Ackles.

The thing about thoughts though, is they take on a life of their own. They torture you in your dreams and drive you crazy insane in your waking hours. Take for instance the hug. Jensen hugs Jared all the damn time, nothing new there. Of late, when Jensen loops his arms around him, Jared will be thinking, Jen, you want me. I can feel it in the way you hold on a little too tight for a little too long. You want me. Just admit it.

Jensen admits to nothing.

The worst thing, the thing that really screws up Jared’s thought process, is when Jensen stays over. Why? Because Jensen sleeps with his top half naked. And Jensen grumbles about the couch being a bitch to sleep on. So early the next morning when Jared comes in after taking the dogs running, the couch is empty and his bed is occupied by Jensen. Arms around Jared’s pillow, cheek nuzzled in the pillow, his back contoured with toned muscle and dusted with freckles, and his ass…

Can’t no one tell me that ass ain’t begging to be tapped, say Jared’s thoughts. His cock twitches in agreement. Jared stifles a groan, grabs a change of clothes and leaves his room to shower in the guest bathroom across the landing.

The lights come on, the cameras roll and Jared disappears. It’s all Sam. Sam googling the urban legend of the week. Sam rolling his eyes at Dean’s wisecracks. Exhausted Sam face-planting on his motel room bed.

“Get the lights,” Sam mumbles.

The bedsprings creak as Dean climbs into his own bed. “You’re closer.”

“Last one in gets the lights, Dean.”

“Older one calls the shots, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They go to sleep with the lights on and at some point in the dead of the night, Dean whimpers.

Whoa, Jared thinks, breaking character. The script said: Dean groans in pain. That whimper didn’t sound like pain. Sounded like pre-orgasmic pleasure and Jared’s interest is anything but brotherly concern.

Dean whimpers again, raw and breathless, and it scrapes the length of Jared’s spine. He’s breathless, too. And starting to get hard. Dean shifts restlessly, kicking the covers off. It’s Sam’s cue to rush over and investigate. But Sam’s gone; it’s all Jared. Jared stumbling across to Dean’s bed, Jared holding back, reluctant to get too close.

“Dean. Wake up, I’ve got you.” The delivery’s flat, Jared knows it and screws his eyes shut even before Kim calls cut.

Take two. Sam and Dean are asleep. Dead of the night, Dean whimpers. Kim doesn’t have to call cut. Jared does it for him, snapping at Jensen, “cut that shit out, man. Seriously.”

“What?” Jensen looks surprised. “I’m not the one flubbing my lines.”

“You’ve got no lines, all you gotta do is groan. Not whine or whatever the hell it is you were doing.”

Jensen’s jaw tightens. He stares hard at Jared. Jared stares back.

“All right guys,” Kim interrupts, “let’s take it from: get the lights.”

Take three. Sam and Dean are asleep. Dead of the night, Dean groans. It’s a thousand times hotter than the whimper, fires up Jared’s libido. Dean’s thrashing now, head pushed back so his neck’s arched, lower lip caught between his lips, face tight and gleaming with sweat. Jared, semi-hard and on the fast track to nail pounding hard, wonders if that’s how Jensen gets when he’s coming.

He sits up, draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “Uh…Kim? I’m gonna need a minute here,” he says. “Can’t seem to act worth a damn today.”

Take seventeen. Dean’s thrashing and groaning wakes Sam. He stumbles to his brother’s bed and grasps his shoulders, shaking him from the nightmare.

“Dean! Wake up, I’ve got you,” he squeezes Dean’s shoulders, holding on tight when Dean gasps awake as though breaking the surface of water to come up for air. “Just a dream, Dean.”

Dean’s shaking, sweating a wet patch into his gray tee shirt. His fingers dig into Sam’s arms. “Not a dream, Sam. The cross-roads bitch took me on a familiarization tour.”

Sam doesn’t get it at first, then he picks up the smell of ashes and sulfur rising from Dean’s skin, and his heart slams against his ribs. “Dean,” a horrified whisper.

Dean tries to smile, fails. He’s been to hell and back, literally, and he has a souvenir to prove it, a cluster of red blisters on the side of his neck.

Sam gently touches his fingertips to the edge of the cluster. “You got burns anywhere else on you?”

Wincing, Dean pulls away from Sam’s touch. “You’ll make an awesome mom someday, really,” cocky. But his lips tremble as he expels a long breath through them. Sam’s gaze snaps to Dean’s lips, stays there. Since Sam’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be perving on his brother, he retreats.

Don’t you desert me Sam, Jared thinks, the prospect of take eighteen intolerable. His desperation is real as he shoves Dean’s shirt up, “Show me, Dean. Show me.”

If Sam were here, he’d inhale sharply on seeing the symbol etched in black on Dean’s chest, burnt into his skin. Jared inhales sharply, but he’s not seeing a symbol of the demon’s claim on Dean’s soul. He’s seeing body art. Really beautiful body art painted over Jensen’s heart.

He traces the symbol, his fingertip gliding on sweat-slick skin, and swear to god it’s like he’s wired into Jensen or something, because when Jensen’s breath hitches, his does, too. And when goose-bumps break out all over Jensen’s chest, nipples going hard, a flush sweeps over Jared, settling hot and heavy in his belly. His skin feels too tight, like it just can’t hold him in.

He glances up along Jensen’s body to meet his eyes and those sparks Jared wanted? They’re charging the air between him and Jensen, burning up the oxygen so Jared goes light headed, can’t fucking breath.

“Jesus, Jensen,” he whispers, right before Kim shouts, “cut, goddamnit!”

Shit.

The cameramen, light and sound technicians, make-up artists and PA’s are giving Jared foul looks. He doesn’t blame them. They’ve been shooting this scene for hours and it’s the only thing standing between them and the end of the day.

“Fifteen minute break, guys,” Kim sighs.

Fifteen minutes later, Jared’s on his mark, all set to face-plant on Sam’s bed. Jensen’s on the sidelines, a dressing gown thrown over Dean’s sleep wear of boxers and tee shirt. He’s blowing at the steam rising from his styrofoam coffee cup.

“Ready, Jensen?” Kim asks.

Jensen pushes his hand into a gown pocket, “No.”

This really bad silence descends on soundstage and all those foul looks are redirected from Jared to Jensen. He just raises his cup to his lips and takes a slow sip, absolutely will not be rushed. Jared smiles despite himself.

Kim climbs out of the director’s chair. He is not smiling. He heads straight for Jensen, waving Jared over. “Now look here, boys,” Kim starts, but Jensen heads him off.

“You think we do a good job on the show, Kim?”

“I’d say about average. Below that, at the moment.”

“Bullshit,” Jensen laughs.

Kim sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get to the point, Jensen, fast.”

“Jared and me, everyone here, we give you one hundred percent - hell, one hundred and ten. But this scene done sucked us dry. Best thing is for us all to head on home, pick it up tomorrow.”

Jared holds back a chuckle. It’s the drawl, gets him laughing every time Jensen lays the Texas on – which happens almost never.

“Son, you telling me how to do my job?” Kim asks, hands planted on his hips.

“No sir,” Jensen widens his eyes in shocked innocence. “Just speaking my mind like my daddy taught me.”

Kim can chew out someone with one glance and that’s what he does now, rebukes Jared with a ruthless stare. “Can you also guarantee me a hundred and ten percent tomorrow, Jared?”

“Hundred and ten,” he quickly guarantees. He just wants to shower, change back into his own clothes and go home to his dogs.

The shower stall in his trailer is small, but the water’s hot and Jared stands under it for a while, trying to ease the tension that’s had him keyed up since take one of that bastard scene. When he gets to the car, Jensen’s already there. He looks like he’s had a shower too, hair damp and spiky, face clean of make up. Jared has this urge to lean closer and get a lungful of the tangy scent of Jensen’s showergel.

He doesn’t lean in because, just no.

The van moves off. Jared clears his throat and adjusts his seat belt. He glances over at Jensen, smiles. Jensen smiles back. Jared bounces his knee, expands the smile. His cheeks ache. And for some reason he feels as though he’s wearing pigtails and those pink denim dungarees Megan favoured when she was twelve.

He scrabbles for something adult male to say and comes up with, “Thanks, man.”

“What for?” Jensen asks, a puzzled frown playing on his brow.

“The intervention with Kim.”

Jensen’s frown smoothes out. “Get over yourself, I didn’t do it for you,” a little bit scathing, a little bit teasing and a whole lot warm. Jensen could be cussing at you and his voice would be warm, like the sun on your back or an arm around your shoulders, easing your tension better than any shower ever could.

“Oh, you did it for me. Because you totally love me.”

“Totally. Fuck knows why, though,” Jensen throws back.

Maybe Jared laughs louder than the comment calls for, but it feels good so he lets loose. Lips twitching, Jensen leans forward to speak to the driver. “Could you take us to the psychiatric hospital? I think he’s having some kind of breakdown.”

The driver nods. “It’s been a long time coming.”

When the van comes to a standstill outside Jensen’s apartment building, he taps Jared’s knee saying, “come on.” And that’s how Jared ends up changing his plans from an evening with his dogs to an evening with his co-star.

Jensen cooks pasta and heats ready made marinara sauce to go on it. The salad’s also ready made, baby leaf salad with strips of beetroot in it. They eat at the kitchen table. Jared picks the beetroot out of his salad and pokes his fork at the pasta, digging through it.

“Hold up, where’s the meat?”

Jensen cocks his eyebrows, his lips around his forkful of pasta and just like that, Jared’s mind makes the leap to a whole other type of meat. He ducks his head and god help him he’s blushing. Burning neck and cheeks, absent verbal skills and what’s up with that? Where are his oratory powers when he needs them most?

“What is it about that scene that’s got you worked up, big guy?” Jensen asks, his tone soft with concern.

Jared’s cheeks burn hotter. He’s dead from mortification, can’t look at Jensen. He shovels pasta into his mouth, waves his fork around in vague circles. “How come I didn’t know you cook a mean pasta?” Still not looking at Jensen.

“Lots of things you don’t know about me.”

“Yeah?” He eyes Jensen, more than a little curious. “Like?”

“Nothing scandalous, just…” Jensen shrugs. “Anyway, we’re talking about you and your problem.”

“Don’t have a problem,” Jared lies.

“Right.”

That’s it for a while. Forks tines scrape against crockery and water glasses thud on the table as Jared and Jensen eat in silence.

“Was fourteen when I smoked my first cigarette,” Jensen says out of the blue. “Hated the taste, still do. I figure that first would have been my last if it hadn’t been for my momma.”

“She made you smoke?” Jared asks, stunned. Mrs Ackles seems like such a nice lady.

“Caught me at it and you know what mothers are like. Made a big deal, swear I thought I’d killed someone…” and Jensen rambles. He’s like a train rambling up a hill and down a hill, chugging to nowhere.

Jared clears the table, stacks the dishes in the dishwasher, uncaps two beers, hands one to Jensen and leans back against the counter. By the time he finishes his beer, Jared’s paying more attention to the rich texture of Jensen’s voice than to his actual words, because cigarettes have never interested him much. Jensen brings him another beer, Jared starting to smile as Jensen winds down his rambling with many uhms and finally, “you want what you’re not allowed to have, even though you don’t necessarily like it.”

“But, wait.” Jared points the bottle mouth at his own chest, “am I the cigarette?”

“I’m the cigarette. You’re the teenager hell bent on showing his momma,” Jensen steps in closer. “Go ahead, Jay, take a hit. Smoke me till you choke, get it all out of your system.”

“Damn that’s the sexiest thing I ever heard, smoke me till you choke.”

“Just do it,” Jensen grits. He looks pained, fate worse than death.

Fact is Jared wouldn’t have to strain himself to find someone who’d actually want to kiss him if he decided to go on a random kissing spree. So this martyr routine of Jensen’s? Screw it. He raises his beer bottle and kisses that, head tipped back as he sucks down the cold, smooth liquid. Keeps pulling until the bottle’s empty. What he finds when he lowers his head is Jensen staring at him, eyes fixated on his throat.

“I…uh,” Jensen’s voice cracks, dusty dry. His tongue peeks out, dragging along his lower lip to leave it shiny-wet.

It’s sinful, more temptation than Jared can handle.

He ditches the bottle on the counter top, cups both hands to Jensen’s face and dips his head, nuzzling his lips below Jensen’s cheekbone, stubble be damned. “Think I’ll take that hit now,” he says, slanting his mouth over Jensen’s.

And then they’re kissing, really kissing. Deep, slow and so fucking sweet. Tongues moving in synch, tasting and rubbing, getting acquainted. Heat curls through Jared as Jensen’s hands, strong and sure, grip his hips, body all hard planes against his when Jensen pulls him in closer. Closer, but still not close enough. Jared wants to climb under Jensen’s skin, wants more than a taste, wants, god, just more of Jensen, more. He angles Jensen’s head for better access and goes down on Jensen’s mouth, turning what started as so fucking sweet to plain fucking. Sucks and licks, strokes in and out between Jensen’s softly parted lips, going steel hard when Jensen groans his name. Jay, he says in a voice full of hoarse.

“Jen…Jensen?” Jared has no idea what he’s asking for, but it doesn’t matter because his cell phone rings and they both know whose tune it is.

Jensen steps away, looking positively pornographic what with his breathing shot to hell, cheeks flushed pink, eyes dazed and pupils dark. Jared did that. He turned Jensen into porn, and the thought makes him so much harder he hurts. Can’t stop his hand from shaking as he reaches into his pocket for the phone. Can’t stop hearing the echo of Jensen’s husky tones under Sandy’s bright chatter.

Jared can’t keep from taking in the tapered waist and narrow hips as Jensen strides out into the living area.

Jensen gives him a ride home. While waiting for the light to turn green, he asks how Sandy’s doing? “Did she finally come to her senses and realize she can do way better than Sasquatch?”

He flips Jensen off. Jensen whaps him on the arm. Jared retaliates, then they’re slapping at each other until the car behind honks.

“Light’s changed, dude, go,” Jared laughs.

Banter, bitch slapping and chuckles, comfortable as well worn jeans, familiar as iced tea on a scorching day. They’ve got their groove back, Jared thinks. So now he can go back to not kissing Jensen.

TBC