SPN Fic: It’s all downhill from here
Title: It’s all downhill from here
Author: deirdre_c
Pairings: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~6,000
Summary: There’s one guy on Team USA who knows Jensen will win skiing gold.
A/N: Written for a prompt by dugindeep for the Winter Olympics Porn Sam/Dean & J2 Comment-fic Meme. My apologies to skiing fans for fudging a little on the way athletes are placed on the US Olympic alpine team. A whole world of thanks to the brave and beautiful neros_violin for being such a thoughtful beta and so patient with my foibles. All remaining errors are mine.
***
Jensen won silver in Vancouver, missing gold by less than a tenth of a second. The thought of that miserable tenth kept him training and competing like a man possessed over the last four years. That is, until he screws up spectacularly at the US Team Trials in December. Getting named as a team alternate for Sochi is a fucking hard pill to swallow. Jensen considers not going, but in the end, he gets on that plane to Russia, because it’s the Olympics after all.
And if he’s been secretly praying-in the inkiest depths of his cold, black heart-for one of his teammates to suffer a Games-ending injury, the last guy he would wish it on is Jared. Jared, who roars down every slope like his skis are jet wings. Who smiles after every run, joyful when he nails it or rueful when he-so rarely-mistimes a cut or misjudges an edge, but grinning either way. Who’ll take three more shots at the slope full-speed at the end of the day when the rest of the team is close to crying like babies from fatigue and cold. Who gets into snowball fights with the kids who shyly sidle up to ask for his autograph. Who cheerfully carried Jensen’s gear around for a whole month in 2011 when Jensen broke his collarbone in a bad fall.
But it’s Jared who falls this time, on his first practice run down Sochi’s slalom course, crashing a gate and going down hard. It doesn’t look like a particularly bad spill from Jensen’s vantage point at the base of the hill, but when the trainers don’t get Jared right back on his feet, when they’re joined by Coach, when there’s clearly a long, furious conference about his condition as he sits crumpled in the snowbank, Jensen can feel the combined tickle of fear and hope in the pit of his stomach. Please, Jensen thinks, not sure what he’s pleading for.
The next morning, race day, Jensen raps on Jared’s door after pre-dawn breakfast.
“Come in!”
It takes a couple of tries with the screwy doorknob, but Jensen’s used to them by now. He presses down and to the left while turning and earns his way in, finding Jared sitting in bed with his laptop open, his leg propped straight out on a stack of cushions, bandages swathed like a giant cocoon around his knee. His body’s so broad and long, he seems to take up almost the entire double bed, and Jensen sometimes forgets that Jared’s no longer the skinny, bright-eyed kid who Jensen took under his wing when Jared first burst onto the World Cup circuit.
When Jared glances up and sees who it is, his face lights with a grin of surprised welcome. It reassures Jensen. Maybe Jared won’t hate him forever for stealing his Olympic dream-spot.
“Hey, Crip,” Jensen starts, looking around for a chair, ruling out sitting down on Jared’s mess of blankets for fear of jostling him, and opting for standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “I’m headed out to the course and I just wanted to stop by and say… I don’t know… sorry?”
“Not your fault, man,” Jared replies, way more mellow than Jensen would be in his position. More mellow than Jensen’s ever been, to be honest. “Just go out there and win it. You and I both know you’ve got a better shot than I had, no matter what Coach says.”
And how stupid is it that Jensen can feel his throat tighten up, his eyes prickling? It’s one thing to think it to yourself, or to read paid press or fans’ reactions online saying you’re the best. It’s another to hear it from a fellow skier, a world-class athlete who’s stood there at the top of the same hills, a competitor Jensen respects the hell out of, a friend.
Still, sarcasm comes easier than sincerity. “I’ll do my best to make you proud, Mom.”
Jared snorts. “I’m serious. Fuck Bode. Fuck Innerhofer. Nothing less than gold for you this time, okay?” Jared points at him and pins him with a hard stare, then turns the emphatic finger into a hand held out for luck.
“Okay,” Jensen says, reaching to shake the offered hand, his own swallowed up in Jared’s. Jensen finds himself mirroring back Jared’s sincere, infectious smile, and the soggy, sick feeling he’s been carrying around in his stomach since the team trials melts away, replaced by the steel he’s always been able to rely on in the past.
He turns to leave, but as he reaches the door he hesitates until he hears Jared call out what he always does before races. “Eat it up, man!”
“Yum!” Jensen gives their customary response, shooting a wink in Jared’s direction and heading out with an eager stride.
***
A few hours later, high on the Aigba Ridge, Jensen readies himself at the Downhill race start, the very last athlete down the hill. Norway and Switzerland top the leader board; their times quick, but not out of reach. Travis is in fourth, Bode down in seventh, so if America’s going to medal, it’s up to Jensen.
He checks his goggles and then his gloves for the final time and a trainer helps him click into the binding of his newly-waxed skis. He had a couple of warm-up runs earlier to check conditions and get his blood pumping, and now eyes closed, he traces the track in his mind one more time, his hand held out, weaving back and forth like a conductor leading an orchestra. A brief thought of how Jared might charge a particular turn flashes through his mind, but he clamps down hard on it, locking out everything but the course ahead.
Finally, there’s no more waiting. Jensen plants his poles in front of the gate and pokes his skis over the edge of the abyss. The clock, with the shrill beeps that echo in Jensen’s dreams, counts down the warning - three, two, one- and he explodes out of the gate.
Jensen has no memory of the run moment-to-moment, just the gasping for breath, skis chattering and heart thumping, carving, accelerating, catching air, landing hard, tucking tight. Not even halfway down, his thigh muscles start to burn like his blood’s turned to acid.
He sails over the last jump, almost free falling across the finish. There are crowds eight bodies thick on either side of the line, screaming and waving flags, and the stadium announcer’s voice booming “Ackles!” is gibberish in his ears. He ignores the searing pain in his legs and the numbness in his hands as he slams his skis sideway to stop, peering through the cloud of snow he throws up, desperate to see the screen. How fast? How fast?
A light blinks green and the crowd erupts. First. Fastest. Gold.
He’s engulfed in a swirl of his teammates and trainers, all of them grabbing him, slapping his back. Coach is there, swearing and shouting, and suddenly Jared’s there too, whooping and hugging Jensen along with the rest.
Jensen rears back and looks down at Jared’s knee, no sign of brace or bandage under his pants, no crutches. He looks back up again into Jared’s face. It’s too loud, too crazed for questions, so Jared just shrugs and quirks an embarrassed little smile and slips back to let others surround Jensen, pushing him forward toward the television cameras for his first of many triumphant interviews.
***
It isn’t until that evening, as Jensen drags himself back to his room from the nearby Village bar where a group of the other skiers convinced him to meet up for dinner and a few celebratory shots, that he allows himself think about seeing Jared at the finish line, whole and healthy. And the victorious exhaustion that he’d been steeping in since the race promptly washes away before the wave of anger that rolls over him.
He turns left instead of right out of the elevator in their apartment block and stomps down the narrow hall, lifting a fist to pound on Jared’s door. He doesn’t even hold up for an answer before trying the handle, but too much adrenaline and booze have passed through his system today for him to make it work, so, fuck it, he rams his shoulder into the wood to see if that will get him in.
All it gets him is a sore shoulder. He rears back to try once more anyway-because, again, fuck it-but just as he shoves forward, the door opens, and he flies into Jared, sending them both stumbling back into the room.
“Jensen!” Jared cries, wrapping his arms around Jensen’s shoulders and pretty much lifting him off the ground, carrying him to keep them both from falling until they slam up against the far wall with a simultaneous grunt.
The t-shirt stretched across Jared’s chest is soft and warm, and for a split-second Jensen’s tempted to leave his head resting on it, but then he recalls what he’s here for and lurches backward.
Jared’s peering into his face, brows are drawn together. “What’s wrong?” And Jensen thinks Jared doesn’t have a right to say anything because he’s clearly having no problem staying upright and pain-free and it’s all a fucking farce.
“You lied,” Jensen growls, planting both hands on Jared and pushing him away. And maybe he feels a bit bad when Jared hits the wall again with another ooof, but he can’t get over the feeling that his beautiful medal is tarnished, and it’s all Jared’s fault. “You fucking faked it! You could’ve raced today. I can’t believe you did this.”
“Jensen, listen-”
“No,” Jensen cuts him off, his vision going a bit red at the edges he just so angry and tired and disappointed. “You threw your spot away. That’s bullshit. I didn’t need your pity.”
“It wasn’t pity,” Jared snaps back. “It was fairness. It was patriotism. You’re the best downhill we have. Best downhill I’ve ever seen. That was your spot. And you proved it.”
“Goddamn it.” Jensen sweeps a hand across his face like clearing cobwebs. He can’t believe it. How could Jared make such a sacrifice, do such a thing to his career? If Jensen had been in his place, he’d never have surrendered that opportunity to anyone. “You should’ve gone out there and won it yourself.”
“I’ll have other chances. This was your race, not mine. I could feel it.”
“You could’ve asked me,” Jensen protests.
“You wouldn’t have agreed. I did it to make sure you’d go in without distractions.”
Jared makes it all sound nice and reasonable, but Jensen’s still aggravated, offended now on Jared’s behalf more than his own. “Well, as of right now, I’m officially retired. And I’m dedicating my post-competitive career to seeing you win every fucking alpine race between here and Pyeongchang.”
“No.” The response is immediate and intense. Jared recoils back as he says it, just a little flinch, but Jensen can’t lie, it hurts. Jared and he have always been close… or so he thought.
“What?” Jensen shoots back, “Gold medal winner not a good enough coach for you?” And he intends for it to cut, but it comes out more sad than snide.
“No, that’s not-I can’t- You don’t-” Jared stumbles. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“It’s not about owing, it’s about getting you what you deserve. I can help. I can be there for you, every day.”
Jared’s still shaking his head, though, looking down at the floor instead of looking Jensen in the eye. “That’s not going to work, Jen.” Jared pushes past him to pace across the room. “It’s ridiculous to talk about retiring. You can’t be my coach, it’s impossible.”
“Why?” He’s not getting away that easily. Jensen steps after him, and when Jared turns, Jensen’s right there in his face again. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Jesus, Jensen. Nothing’s wrong with you,” Jared grits out. “It’s me. I’m the problem.” He squeezes his eyes closed for a second, as if girding himself for some trial, then continues. "You can’t coach me because you’re one of my best friends and because- because I’m in love with you, you asshole.”
Jensen knows what it feels like to have your skis go out from under you at eighty miles-an-hour, how it feels to windmill down an icy slope, stomach left behind and no notion which way is up, hurtling like a two-hundred pound missile out of control. It feels a lot like this.
“All these years,” Jensen finally manages to blurt out, “I didn’t even know you swung my way.” Okay, that’s about the stupidest response he could’ve come up with, but Jared’s pronouncement has knocked him completely off-kilter.
“I don’t exactly advertise,” Jared says guardedly. “Guess I’m more discreet than some people.”
‘Some people’ being Jensen who, if not formally out of the closet as far as the skiing profession is concerned-although he did consider a public acknowledgment right before Sochi, just as a ‘fuck-you’ to Putin-definitely has a not-so-secret reputation for one-night-stands with any and every available guy.
“Okay, we all know I get around,” Jensen allows, then steers the conversation back to the crucial point. “But why didn’t you tell me you’re gay? Or bi? Or whatever?”
“Because of this,” Jared says, gesturing sharply between them. “Because you were my best friend on the circuit from the very start. Because me being gay would be weird, you’d treat me differently. You’d start avoiding me because you’d be worried I’d hit on you.”
Jensen snorts. “Heck, if I’d known you liked guys, I’d have hit on you… years ago! Dude, in a village full of supermodel athletes, you’re the hottest guy in the place.” Jared makes a disbelieving face, but Jensen bulls onward. “But aside from that, you’re also the nicest guy I know.”
“I’m not that nice,” Jared counters.
Jensen raises an eyebrow and taps the medal around his neck, and Jared’s cheeks blush an absurd shade of pink.
It’s like a switch has been thrown in Jensen’s brain. He’s always carefully avoided thinking about straight guys in terms of sex; it only ever leads to heartache and trouble. But suddenly, knowing Jared might be interested-more than interested-makes Jensen look at him with all new eyes. And he can’t believe he never saw it before. How perfect they would be together. He steps closer, snagging the hem of Jared’s tee with a finger. “I think the only way to conclude today-make it officially the greatest day of my life-is to get laid by the sexiest, and nicest, guy on six continents.”
“Really, man, that’s your line? That’s all the game you got?” Jared teases, smiling, but it’s tinged with sadness. He steps back, tugging the shirt out of Jensen’s grip. “Sorry. As much as I’ve always dreamed about the offer, I’m going to have to pass.” He shrugs, then rolls his shoulders in nervous habit, stiffening his spine. “I’m not really into the ‘fuck and run.’”
And Jensen remembers how, on one of their many nights over too many beers, he spouted off to Jared about how easy it was to hook up with the guys who sharked around the skiers’ bars in Colorado and Vancouver and bragged about his standard love-‘em-and-leave-‘em approach. Fuck and run.
“That’s them,” Jensen insists. “That’s other guys, not you.”
“Look,” Jared says with a sigh. “I don’t want you to hook up with me because you owe me a favor. I don’t want you to retire. I don’t want you to do anything but go savor your win and get that pretty face of yours on the cover of every sports magazine on earth.” There’s a hollow ring to Jared’s voice, and Jensen can feel him pulling away. It scares him. Jensen’s never been in love, never even much liked the guys he’s slept with. But what he has with Jared- the comfort, the fondness, the admiration-something within him instinctively recognizes that this could be different- better -than anything he’s ever felt before.
“Give me a chance?” Jensen asks quietly, suspecting that pushing too hard is a mistake.
“Jensen.” Jared says his name low, like he’s swearing. It’s neither yes nor no. Jensen waits for more, but Jared just stands there, still as stone.
Alright. It’s on Jensen, then. “I might bullshit other people, but I wouldn’t bullshit you. You know that, right? And I think -I know-I want to give this a try, if you’ll let me. You and me. Together. Not -not only for tonight.”
There’s another long pause, the longest Jensen’s ever lived through, but then Jared groans and falls forward, taking Jensen’s face in both hands and slotting his hot, hard mouth across Jensen’s, kissing the hell out of him.
It’s frantic, zero-to-sixty, he can feel Jared’s biceps bunch and flex has he pulls Jensen even closer. And Jensen can’t help it, he slips his hands up under Jared’s shirt, wandering, exploring, dragging it over his head and mussing Jared’s hair wildly along the way. Not that it matters, because a moment later, Jensen's hands are tangled in its length -not quite tugging, but not gentle, either -as he kisses Jared again and again, tongues tangled, mouth open and panting, wanting, wanting so much more than he ever thought before this moment.
He starts walking them blindly toward the bed, not breaking the kiss until the back of Jared's knees hit the mattress and he tumbles onto the sheets, taking Jensen along with him. Jensen ends up sprawled along the length of Jared’s body, and he takes advantage by shifting and grinding down meaningfully. But then he yelps in pain when he opens his legs to straddle Jared’s hips, his poor sore muscles desperately protesting the strain.
Jared, the fucker, actually laughs at him, but he also spreads a wide palm across Jensen’s back and flips him carefully over onto the mattress. “Hold up. I think you’ve done enough work today.”
He scoots to the end of the bed, reaching down to quickly draw off Jensen’s shoes, then he tugs on the string of Jensen’s track pants and gently, deftly slides them and Jensen’s briefs past his hips and down his legs in one quick motion.
“Smooth moves, Padalecki,” Jensen teases.
“Just wait,” Jared replies, “there’s lots more.” He stands and slips off his soft sweatpants in one fluid motion and Jensen gets a brief glimpse of the vee cut of Jared’s hip muscles pointing down to a thick, gorgeous cock just starting to plump up with desire. Then Jared’s climbing back onto the mattress, knees nudging Jensen’s legs apart just enough so he can settle between. He reaches up to tug at Jensen’s shirt, but then stops, smirking. “You’re gonna want to keep the medal on while we do this, aren’t you?” he asks knowingly.
Jensen should make a joke in return, but his blood’s running like rapids now, and little of it seems left in his head. All he does is lick his lips and nod, tucking his medal inside the neckline and curling up to slough off the shirt himself.
They’re both naked now, Jensen’s cock right there and ready for action, so he figures Jared’s going to move things along. But instead, Jared just slides a palm under Jensen’s right leg, carefully bending it at the knee so that Jensen’s foot rests in his hands. He cups it, pushing both thumbs deep into the tissue of the sole, massaging up the arch and hard around the tendons in the ball of his foot, and Jensen can’t help it, he throws his head back into the pillows and lets out a cry. It’s pain and pleasure and he grips the sheets with both hands as Jared works his way up the rest of the leg, kneading knots out of his calf muscle and digging a knuckle along the taut length of his hamstring until Jensen’s loose enough Jared can stretch the leg up to prop it on his shoulder.
Jensen’s wide open to him now, cock and balls even more on display, but Jared’s patient, too fucking patient. He starts in on Jensen’s left foot, then calf, then his thick thigh, Jensen groaning and panting and practically writhing beneath him. Jensen’s had more massages than he can count: clinical, therapeutic sessions designed for post-race recovery. But this is as much like those as a spoon of cough syrup to a glass of rich amber scotch. Jared’s wide hands alternate between soft, teasing touches and forceful pressure that thoroughly works his aching legs. Then both Jensen’s legs are on his shoulders and Jared’s raising his lower back off the bed to knead and spread the muscles in Jensen’s ass, digging deep into tissue until Jensen is simultaneously puddling like hot butter and straining for more, for those fingers inside him.
He doesn’t even realize how hard he is until Jared brushes a thumb lightly along the curve of his balls, tracing down to the delicate skin underneath. At just that little stimulation, Jensen’s cock twitches, blurting a thick, slick streak onto his abs.
“Jared,” he croaks, prying open his eyes to see Jared looking down at him, heavy-lidded and color high. “You’re killing me.”
“Don’t die yet,” Jared murmurs back, lowering Jensen’s boneless legs gently back down to the bed. But just when Jensen thinks he can catch his breath, Jared scrapes his nails faintly down the tender skin on the inside of Jensen’s thighs where they’re splayed open. Jensen jerks and makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a hiss.
Jared bites his lip and presses his palm to his own dick at the sound, and Jensen’s glad to know he’s not the only one riding the edge of control here.
“C’mon, man.” It’s not begging. Not yet, at least.
“Gimme a sec,” Jared says, and reaches over to rummage in the drawer of the little side table. He pulls out a bottle and a little foil packet and tosses them onto the bed next to Jensen’s hip. He tosses Jensen a little smile. “Thought I might end up the only guy in the Village who didn’t break into his allotment of condoms.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t had other offers,” Jensen says, even though even the casual thought of Jared here with someone else makes his fists clench involuntarily.
“Nah,” Jared replies. “Just never much interested in other guys when you’re around…” He trails off, blushing again so sweetly it tugs Jensen’s heart.
Jensen hauls himself up to half-sitting, capturing Jared’s gaze. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
Jared’s eyes widen as the meaning hits home. “Jesus, Jensen,” he whispers. He reaches out to grab the medal ribbon around Jensen’s neck, drawing him in for a kiss. Then Jared shifts his hand around to cup the back of Jensen’s skull, easing him back to the mattress, following him down.
Jared holds himself hovering over Jensen, surrounding him, the inch of air between their bodies oven-hot. Jensen arches up just enough to graze his dick against Jared’s and the gasp he gets in response is music to his ears.
“Want you inside me,” Jensen says.
“Okay. Okay. Flip over for me.”
“No,” Jensen says, suddenly uncharacteristically aching for the closeness, the intimacy of being face-to-face. “Like this.” But when he goes to lift his legs to wrap them around Jared’s waist, they quiver uncontrollably, and it feels like trying to press too much in the gym, his muscles weighted down with a half-ton of steel.
Jared leans down to brush his lips feather-light over Jensen’s, breathing into his mouth, “Next time. Definitely. But tonight let’s do this the easy way.” He strokes up Jensen’s flank on his way to reaching for a pillow, drawing it down and rolling Jensen over onto it so that his hips are supported, tilted conveniently up, while his overheated dick is snugged tight. “Gonna take good care of you, okay?”
Jared dips his head and runs his tongue up the groove of Jensen’s spine. Once there, he nips and bites at the wings of Jensen’s shoulder blades, the silk of his hair tickling Jensen’s skin. Over the pounding of blood in his ears, Jensen hears the click of the cap snapping open on the bottle of lube.
Jensen surrenders to the inevitable. He stretches his arms out to the sides and buries his hot face in the cool of the sheet, letting himself go, letting Jared have his way. But he also spreads his legs out wide in invitation, willing Jared to hurry.
A cold touch, a slick finger sliding down his crack to rub over his hole. It stays there, circling, massaging round and round the sensitive rim, until just the tip presses inside.
“Look at you. You’re fucking gorgeous, Jensen. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re so tight.”
Jensen’s so focused on sensation, the words barely register. But he manages to slur out, “S’been awhile because of training. Can’t hurt me. Want to feel you-nnghhh.” The rest of his sentence disintegrates into a moan as Jared slowly eases his index finger inside all the way to the second knuckle.
They hang there for a moment, and then Jared’s moving, little pumps in and out, swiveling his wrist, dragging along Jensen’s insides. The friction sends ripples of pleasure through his body.
“More,” Jensen pants, pulling his knees under a little and canting backward. “Please-another-“
Jared drizzles more lube into the spread-wide cleft of Jensen’s ass and a second finger slots right in. Jared's thumb brushes back and forth around Jensen’s hole, the pad tracing over the slick seal that clenches around his fingers. Jensen wriggles again, helplessly, and Jared starts to thrust faster, with purpose.
Jensen rocks in time to Jared’s rhythm, Jared’s fingers strong and long. And everything's so wet already, from sweat and from lube, the next finger slides in even more easily than the first two. Jared takes his time, curling them inside Jensen, teasing as he stretches, all three gliding perfectly over that spot inside that has Jensen shivering and burning simultaneously, until Jensen’s half out of his mind. Then Jared's pushing in, in, so very far, and holding there, still, his knuckles so much wider when they're deep in Jensen’s body. He squeezes his eyes shut, gasping, seeing stars on the inside of his eyelids.
Jared eases his fingers slowly out, and Jensen knows what’s next. Next is cock. Jared's cock. God, he wants it.
He hears Jared mutter, “Fuck. Fuck.” And he twists around to find him struggling to open the packet before the condom finally pops free. Jared must feel his gaze on him, because he glances up to see Jensen watching. Without breaking eye contact, Jared kneels up, legs braced, and doesn’t bother looking down as he makes a show of rolling the condom down the length of his impressive erection. “Ready?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer.
There are hands are on Jensen’s ass, spreading it open, and that is the only warning he has before Jared sinks inside him, quicker and rougher than the prep, but, oh god, it’s the best kind of burn. He doesn’t stop, and Jensen feels as if all the breath is being pressed out of his lungs as Jared drives in all the way up to the hilt, the solid width of him stuffing Jensen full. The minute he’s seated, Jared falls onto him, draping himself over Jensen’s back, hot silken skin touching everywhere. Jared’s trembling, shudders running through him like a fever, gasping wet breaths onto the back of Jensen’s neck, and the feel of it drives Jensen wild.
Jensen flattens his palms against the sheets and rears back, shoving Jared impossibly deeper. "Move."
Jared moves alright, one hand gripping Jensen’s shoulder, holding him in place, the other probably leaving a cluster of fingertip bruises on his hip as he pulls back, long inches dragging out to the tip, then plunges forward again. It’s slow at first, but then quickly increases tempo and intensity, Jared’s chest sliding slick along Jensen’s back, his cock thrusting hard and deep and hitting that spot over and over again until Jensen can only gasp incoherent syllables of what might have been Jared’s name and oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
Jensen’s every nerve is lit up, jagging, searing over-bright. He's open, not just where his legs are spread, but everywhere that Jared's touching. His medal beats against his sternum in countertime with the punches of Jared's hips. It's overwhelming how intense it all feels. He doesn’t know if it’s from the desperate need to come or from sheer exhaustion, but tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes. He only knows that he wants- He wants-
"I’ve got you." Jared’s voice is sweet in his ear. Jensen feels a hand slide across the flat of this belly to wrap around his cock. He cries out in relief and then again at the exquisite thrill of Jared stroking up as he thrusts in. Faster now, and Jared says again, "Got you. Come on."
It’s like feeling the earth fall away from under his skis as he flies off a hill, suspended in air, the full-body rush.
That’s the last thought Jensen has before his orgasm strikes, blinding him for a moment, his dick jolting and throbbing in Jared’s fist as he comes in long, sticky bursts. He bows forward, swearing and grinding his forehead into the sheets from the force of the waves of pleasure that wrack him, even as Jared’s still pumping into him, thrusts growing erratic as he nears the edge. Jensen clenches his ass, almost unintentionally. And it’s as good as coming again, to hear Jared’s long, low moan, to feel the sting of Jared’s teeth on the meat of his shoulder, to sense the pulse of Jared’s cock as he empties himself into the condom.
Jensen sags. All his strength is sapped, wrung out. Jared’s obviously in the same state on top of him, practically squashing Jensen with dead weight. But Jensen doesn’t care. He's frayed and stretched and satisfied, totally unmotivated to move ever again.
Fortunately, Jared is a better man. He lifts himself off of Jensen’s back and gingerly pulls out. Jensen listens with half an ear as Jared disposes of the condom and stumbles into the bathroom to wet a washcloth for cleaning up. Jensen simply lies on the bed, hazy, feeling weightless, skimming the mattress like a balloon with the barest trace of helium left inside to keep it afloat.
Jared returns and silently starts cleaning Jensen up with the washcloth. Jensen peeks one eye open just long enough to mock-scold him in a high voice. “’Jensen,’ you said. ‘Let’s do it the easy way tonight,’ you said.” Jensen groans. “That was your easy way?”
Despite already looking like he’d run a marathon, hair slicked back with sweat, eyes glazy, Jared still manages to blush. “Sorry,” is all he says.
“Please,” Jensen insists. “Never, ever apologize.”
Jared keeps wiping down Jensen’s legs, even though Jensen’s pretty sure he’s as good as he’s going to get without a serious shower. Jared finally says quietly, almost conversationally, “So as long as Coach okays it, I think I’ll make a miraculous recovery for the Super-G on Friday.”
Jensen breaks into a grin. Super-G is one of Jared’s specialties, it would be criminal for him to miss that event as well. “Awesome. I’ll back you up 100%.”
“Even if you’re out?”
“Hell yeah, even if I’m out.” Then he echoes Jared’s own words back at him. “Nothing less than gold for you, right? Fuck Bode? Fuck Innhoffer?”
A small smile plays across Jared lips. “Fuck Jensen Ackles?”
“Don’t mind if you do,” Jensen quips. He tries to lean up on one elbow to nip Jared’s jaw, but every bone in his body screams in complaint. He falls back onto the pillow. “Oh god. I’ll have to rain check until tomorrow, though.”
“You want to sleep here for awhile?” Jared asks tentatively, still perched on the edge of the bed like it’s Jensen’s and not his. Jared’s acting pretty skittish, regardless of Jensen’s earlier pledge about making this work between them. Jensen guesses that word on the street has it, accurately, that he’s not exactly a guy who stays the night.
But that’s about to change.
Despite the fact that this bed is impossibly small for two grown men, with the last ounce of his energy, Jensen hooks a hand around Jared’s waist and drags him in, down, squeezed in close.
By necessity-because he’s certainly never been a cuddler-he curls up with his head on Jared’s shoulder. Jared’s slightly tense beneath him, careful, deliberately keeping his hands out of the way. The same Jared who hugs the lady in the cafeteria when she serves him mac-and-cheese. They’re going to have to work on this.
Jensen tugs at the ribbon that still hanging around his neck. He lays the medal right in the center of Jared’s bare chest. “Jared Padalecki. Gold medalist and world-champion in Fucking, 2014.”
Jared laughs, making Jensen’s head bounce. He wraps his arms around Jensen, as he should have at first, as he always should. Then Jared intones in a fake-hearty, podium-worthy voice, “Thanks, Bob Costas, for the exclusive interview. I’m really proud of my win and I’m hoping to do as well in the Blowjob and Shower Sex competitions as soon as Jensen’s body is up for hosting the events. Tough luck about the pink eye.”
Jensen hums an answering laugh, barely audible even to his own ears, and briefly nuzzles the thin skin along Jared’s collarbone. After a minute he admits, “I could get used to this.”
He hears the smile in Jared’s voice as he says, softly, “Me, too.”
“You’d better,” Jensen says. And finally, finally Jensen’s eyes close in exhausted relief.
***
Six days later, they’re waiting at the top of the Rosa Khutor course, both with later start assignments. After claiming gold on downhill, Jensen got to keep a starting spot, but Coach put Jared in for the Super-G, too, bumping Goldberg. Jensen ought to feel bad for the guy, knowing how it felt to be demoted to alternate, but Jensen’s here at the top of the world with Jared at his side and there’s no room in his heart for anything but joy.
They mill around the holding area talking to the chatty guys, leaving the quiet guys alone, checking the monitors and conferring avidly with the team scouts below about the course conditions. Turns out it’s not as warm and slushy as everyone feared, even though the sun has come out and is glinting off the other nearby slopes. Cold enough for Jared to risk his preferred break-neck line around the gates.
Finally an official calls “Padalecki, Team USA!” and Jared trots over to Jensen for one last word before he heads to the starting hut.
His gaze conspicuously skims up Jensen’s body, pausing at Jensen’s mouth, and then catches Jensen’s eye. He pitches his voice low, saying “Pretend this is me giving you a kiss for luck.”
Jensen raises an eyebrow. “Don’t say shit like that when I’m in my lycra. I’ll pop wood and embarrass myself on international television.”
Jared gives him a perfectly platonic and manly clap on the shoulder, but Jensen reels him in for a quick, but still manly, hug.
Jared murmurs in his ear, “See you on the podium.”
“Fuck, yeah.” Jensen replies, pushing him away toward the waiting official. “Eat it up.”
“Yum.” And at that Jared heads off to the start hut, Jensen watching as he gets his skis fitted, his gear set. Then, as the clock sounds its implacable beeps, Jared takes flight.
Jensen’s going to be right behind him all the way.
Author: deirdre_c
Pairings: Jared/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~6,000
Summary: There’s one guy on Team USA who knows Jensen will win skiing gold.
A/N: Written for a prompt by dugindeep for the Winter Olympics Porn Sam/Dean & J2 Comment-fic Meme. My apologies to skiing fans for fudging a little on the way athletes are placed on the US Olympic alpine team. A whole world of thanks to the brave and beautiful neros_violin for being such a thoughtful beta and so patient with my foibles. All remaining errors are mine.
***
Jensen won silver in Vancouver, missing gold by less than a tenth of a second. The thought of that miserable tenth kept him training and competing like a man possessed over the last four years. That is, until he screws up spectacularly at the US Team Trials in December. Getting named as a team alternate for Sochi is a fucking hard pill to swallow. Jensen considers not going, but in the end, he gets on that plane to Russia, because it’s the Olympics after all.
And if he’s been secretly praying-in the inkiest depths of his cold, black heart-for one of his teammates to suffer a Games-ending injury, the last guy he would wish it on is Jared. Jared, who roars down every slope like his skis are jet wings. Who smiles after every run, joyful when he nails it or rueful when he-so rarely-mistimes a cut or misjudges an edge, but grinning either way. Who’ll take three more shots at the slope full-speed at the end of the day when the rest of the team is close to crying like babies from fatigue and cold. Who gets into snowball fights with the kids who shyly sidle up to ask for his autograph. Who cheerfully carried Jensen’s gear around for a whole month in 2011 when Jensen broke his collarbone in a bad fall.
But it’s Jared who falls this time, on his first practice run down Sochi’s slalom course, crashing a gate and going down hard. It doesn’t look like a particularly bad spill from Jensen’s vantage point at the base of the hill, but when the trainers don’t get Jared right back on his feet, when they’re joined by Coach, when there’s clearly a long, furious conference about his condition as he sits crumpled in the snowbank, Jensen can feel the combined tickle of fear and hope in the pit of his stomach. Please, Jensen thinks, not sure what he’s pleading for.
The next morning, race day, Jensen raps on Jared’s door after pre-dawn breakfast.
“Come in!”
It takes a couple of tries with the screwy doorknob, but Jensen’s used to them by now. He presses down and to the left while turning and earns his way in, finding Jared sitting in bed with his laptop open, his leg propped straight out on a stack of cushions, bandages swathed like a giant cocoon around his knee. His body’s so broad and long, he seems to take up almost the entire double bed, and Jensen sometimes forgets that Jared’s no longer the skinny, bright-eyed kid who Jensen took under his wing when Jared first burst onto the World Cup circuit.
When Jared glances up and sees who it is, his face lights with a grin of surprised welcome. It reassures Jensen. Maybe Jared won’t hate him forever for stealing his Olympic dream-spot.
“Hey, Crip,” Jensen starts, looking around for a chair, ruling out sitting down on Jared’s mess of blankets for fear of jostling him, and opting for standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “I’m headed out to the course and I just wanted to stop by and say… I don’t know… sorry?”
“Not your fault, man,” Jared replies, way more mellow than Jensen would be in his position. More mellow than Jensen’s ever been, to be honest. “Just go out there and win it. You and I both know you’ve got a better shot than I had, no matter what Coach says.”
And how stupid is it that Jensen can feel his throat tighten up, his eyes prickling? It’s one thing to think it to yourself, or to read paid press or fans’ reactions online saying you’re the best. It’s another to hear it from a fellow skier, a world-class athlete who’s stood there at the top of the same hills, a competitor Jensen respects the hell out of, a friend.
Still, sarcasm comes easier than sincerity. “I’ll do my best to make you proud, Mom.”
Jared snorts. “I’m serious. Fuck Bode. Fuck Innerhofer. Nothing less than gold for you this time, okay?” Jared points at him and pins him with a hard stare, then turns the emphatic finger into a hand held out for luck.
“Okay,” Jensen says, reaching to shake the offered hand, his own swallowed up in Jared’s. Jensen finds himself mirroring back Jared’s sincere, infectious smile, and the soggy, sick feeling he’s been carrying around in his stomach since the team trials melts away, replaced by the steel he’s always been able to rely on in the past.
He turns to leave, but as he reaches the door he hesitates until he hears Jared call out what he always does before races. “Eat it up, man!”
“Yum!” Jensen gives their customary response, shooting a wink in Jared’s direction and heading out with an eager stride.
***
A few hours later, high on the Aigba Ridge, Jensen readies himself at the Downhill race start, the very last athlete down the hill. Norway and Switzerland top the leader board; their times quick, but not out of reach. Travis is in fourth, Bode down in seventh, so if America’s going to medal, it’s up to Jensen.
He checks his goggles and then his gloves for the final time and a trainer helps him click into the binding of his newly-waxed skis. He had a couple of warm-up runs earlier to check conditions and get his blood pumping, and now eyes closed, he traces the track in his mind one more time, his hand held out, weaving back and forth like a conductor leading an orchestra. A brief thought of how Jared might charge a particular turn flashes through his mind, but he clamps down hard on it, locking out everything but the course ahead.
Finally, there’s no more waiting. Jensen plants his poles in front of the gate and pokes his skis over the edge of the abyss. The clock, with the shrill beeps that echo in Jensen’s dreams, counts down the warning - three, two, one- and he explodes out of the gate.
Jensen has no memory of the run moment-to-moment, just the gasping for breath, skis chattering and heart thumping, carving, accelerating, catching air, landing hard, tucking tight. Not even halfway down, his thigh muscles start to burn like his blood’s turned to acid.
He sails over the last jump, almost free falling across the finish. There are crowds eight bodies thick on either side of the line, screaming and waving flags, and the stadium announcer’s voice booming “Ackles!” is gibberish in his ears. He ignores the searing pain in his legs and the numbness in his hands as he slams his skis sideway to stop, peering through the cloud of snow he throws up, desperate to see the screen. How fast? How fast?
A light blinks green and the crowd erupts. First. Fastest. Gold.
He’s engulfed in a swirl of his teammates and trainers, all of them grabbing him, slapping his back. Coach is there, swearing and shouting, and suddenly Jared’s there too, whooping and hugging Jensen along with the rest.
Jensen rears back and looks down at Jared’s knee, no sign of brace or bandage under his pants, no crutches. He looks back up again into Jared’s face. It’s too loud, too crazed for questions, so Jared just shrugs and quirks an embarrassed little smile and slips back to let others surround Jensen, pushing him forward toward the television cameras for his first of many triumphant interviews.
***
It isn’t until that evening, as Jensen drags himself back to his room from the nearby Village bar where a group of the other skiers convinced him to meet up for dinner and a few celebratory shots, that he allows himself think about seeing Jared at the finish line, whole and healthy. And the victorious exhaustion that he’d been steeping in since the race promptly washes away before the wave of anger that rolls over him.
He turns left instead of right out of the elevator in their apartment block and stomps down the narrow hall, lifting a fist to pound on Jared’s door. He doesn’t even hold up for an answer before trying the handle, but too much adrenaline and booze have passed through his system today for him to make it work, so, fuck it, he rams his shoulder into the wood to see if that will get him in.
All it gets him is a sore shoulder. He rears back to try once more anyway-because, again, fuck it-but just as he shoves forward, the door opens, and he flies into Jared, sending them both stumbling back into the room.
“Jensen!” Jared cries, wrapping his arms around Jensen’s shoulders and pretty much lifting him off the ground, carrying him to keep them both from falling until they slam up against the far wall with a simultaneous grunt.
The t-shirt stretched across Jared’s chest is soft and warm, and for a split-second Jensen’s tempted to leave his head resting on it, but then he recalls what he’s here for and lurches backward.
Jared’s peering into his face, brows are drawn together. “What’s wrong?” And Jensen thinks Jared doesn’t have a right to say anything because he’s clearly having no problem staying upright and pain-free and it’s all a fucking farce.
“You lied,” Jensen growls, planting both hands on Jared and pushing him away. And maybe he feels a bit bad when Jared hits the wall again with another ooof, but he can’t get over the feeling that his beautiful medal is tarnished, and it’s all Jared’s fault. “You fucking faked it! You could’ve raced today. I can’t believe you did this.”
“Jensen, listen-”
“No,” Jensen cuts him off, his vision going a bit red at the edges he just so angry and tired and disappointed. “You threw your spot away. That’s bullshit. I didn’t need your pity.”
“It wasn’t pity,” Jared snaps back. “It was fairness. It was patriotism. You’re the best downhill we have. Best downhill I’ve ever seen. That was your spot. And you proved it.”
“Goddamn it.” Jensen sweeps a hand across his face like clearing cobwebs. He can’t believe it. How could Jared make such a sacrifice, do such a thing to his career? If Jensen had been in his place, he’d never have surrendered that opportunity to anyone. “You should’ve gone out there and won it yourself.”
“I’ll have other chances. This was your race, not mine. I could feel it.”
“You could’ve asked me,” Jensen protests.
“You wouldn’t have agreed. I did it to make sure you’d go in without distractions.”
Jared makes it all sound nice and reasonable, but Jensen’s still aggravated, offended now on Jared’s behalf more than his own. “Well, as of right now, I’m officially retired. And I’m dedicating my post-competitive career to seeing you win every fucking alpine race between here and Pyeongchang.”
“No.” The response is immediate and intense. Jared recoils back as he says it, just a little flinch, but Jensen can’t lie, it hurts. Jared and he have always been close… or so he thought.
“What?” Jensen shoots back, “Gold medal winner not a good enough coach for you?” And he intends for it to cut, but it comes out more sad than snide.
“No, that’s not-I can’t- You don’t-” Jared stumbles. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“It’s not about owing, it’s about getting you what you deserve. I can help. I can be there for you, every day.”
Jared’s still shaking his head, though, looking down at the floor instead of looking Jensen in the eye. “That’s not going to work, Jen.” Jared pushes past him to pace across the room. “It’s ridiculous to talk about retiring. You can’t be my coach, it’s impossible.”
“Why?” He’s not getting away that easily. Jensen steps after him, and when Jared turns, Jensen’s right there in his face again. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Jesus, Jensen. Nothing’s wrong with you,” Jared grits out. “It’s me. I’m the problem.” He squeezes his eyes closed for a second, as if girding himself for some trial, then continues. "You can’t coach me because you’re one of my best friends and because- because I’m in love with you, you asshole.”
Jensen knows what it feels like to have your skis go out from under you at eighty miles-an-hour, how it feels to windmill down an icy slope, stomach left behind and no notion which way is up, hurtling like a two-hundred pound missile out of control. It feels a lot like this.
“All these years,” Jensen finally manages to blurt out, “I didn’t even know you swung my way.” Okay, that’s about the stupidest response he could’ve come up with, but Jared’s pronouncement has knocked him completely off-kilter.
“I don’t exactly advertise,” Jared says guardedly. “Guess I’m more discreet than some people.”
‘Some people’ being Jensen who, if not formally out of the closet as far as the skiing profession is concerned-although he did consider a public acknowledgment right before Sochi, just as a ‘fuck-you’ to Putin-definitely has a not-so-secret reputation for one-night-stands with any and every available guy.
“Okay, we all know I get around,” Jensen allows, then steers the conversation back to the crucial point. “But why didn’t you tell me you’re gay? Or bi? Or whatever?”
“Because of this,” Jared says, gesturing sharply between them. “Because you were my best friend on the circuit from the very start. Because me being gay would be weird, you’d treat me differently. You’d start avoiding me because you’d be worried I’d hit on you.”
Jensen snorts. “Heck, if I’d known you liked guys, I’d have hit on you… years ago! Dude, in a village full of supermodel athletes, you’re the hottest guy in the place.” Jared makes a disbelieving face, but Jensen bulls onward. “But aside from that, you’re also the nicest guy I know.”
“I’m not that nice,” Jared counters.
Jensen raises an eyebrow and taps the medal around his neck, and Jared’s cheeks blush an absurd shade of pink.
It’s like a switch has been thrown in Jensen’s brain. He’s always carefully avoided thinking about straight guys in terms of sex; it only ever leads to heartache and trouble. But suddenly, knowing Jared might be interested-more than interested-makes Jensen look at him with all new eyes. And he can’t believe he never saw it before. How perfect they would be together. He steps closer, snagging the hem of Jared’s tee with a finger. “I think the only way to conclude today-make it officially the greatest day of my life-is to get laid by the sexiest, and nicest, guy on six continents.”
“Really, man, that’s your line? That’s all the game you got?” Jared teases, smiling, but it’s tinged with sadness. He steps back, tugging the shirt out of Jensen’s grip. “Sorry. As much as I’ve always dreamed about the offer, I’m going to have to pass.” He shrugs, then rolls his shoulders in nervous habit, stiffening his spine. “I’m not really into the ‘fuck and run.’”
And Jensen remembers how, on one of their many nights over too many beers, he spouted off to Jared about how easy it was to hook up with the guys who sharked around the skiers’ bars in Colorado and Vancouver and bragged about his standard love-‘em-and-leave-‘em approach. Fuck and run.
“That’s them,” Jensen insists. “That’s other guys, not you.”
“Look,” Jared says with a sigh. “I don’t want you to hook up with me because you owe me a favor. I don’t want you to retire. I don’t want you to do anything but go savor your win and get that pretty face of yours on the cover of every sports magazine on earth.” There’s a hollow ring to Jared’s voice, and Jensen can feel him pulling away. It scares him. Jensen’s never been in love, never even much liked the guys he’s slept with. But what he has with Jared- the comfort, the fondness, the admiration-something within him instinctively recognizes that this could be different- better -than anything he’s ever felt before.
“Give me a chance?” Jensen asks quietly, suspecting that pushing too hard is a mistake.
“Jensen.” Jared says his name low, like he’s swearing. It’s neither yes nor no. Jensen waits for more, but Jared just stands there, still as stone.
Alright. It’s on Jensen, then. “I might bullshit other people, but I wouldn’t bullshit you. You know that, right? And I think -I know-I want to give this a try, if you’ll let me. You and me. Together. Not -not only for tonight.”
There’s another long pause, the longest Jensen’s ever lived through, but then Jared groans and falls forward, taking Jensen’s face in both hands and slotting his hot, hard mouth across Jensen’s, kissing the hell out of him.
It’s frantic, zero-to-sixty, he can feel Jared’s biceps bunch and flex has he pulls Jensen even closer. And Jensen can’t help it, he slips his hands up under Jared’s shirt, wandering, exploring, dragging it over his head and mussing Jared’s hair wildly along the way. Not that it matters, because a moment later, Jensen's hands are tangled in its length -not quite tugging, but not gentle, either -as he kisses Jared again and again, tongues tangled, mouth open and panting, wanting, wanting so much more than he ever thought before this moment.
He starts walking them blindly toward the bed, not breaking the kiss until the back of Jared's knees hit the mattress and he tumbles onto the sheets, taking Jensen along with him. Jensen ends up sprawled along the length of Jared’s body, and he takes advantage by shifting and grinding down meaningfully. But then he yelps in pain when he opens his legs to straddle Jared’s hips, his poor sore muscles desperately protesting the strain.
Jared, the fucker, actually laughs at him, but he also spreads a wide palm across Jensen’s back and flips him carefully over onto the mattress. “Hold up. I think you’ve done enough work today.”
He scoots to the end of the bed, reaching down to quickly draw off Jensen’s shoes, then he tugs on the string of Jensen’s track pants and gently, deftly slides them and Jensen’s briefs past his hips and down his legs in one quick motion.
“Smooth moves, Padalecki,” Jensen teases.
“Just wait,” Jared replies, “there’s lots more.” He stands and slips off his soft sweatpants in one fluid motion and Jensen gets a brief glimpse of the vee cut of Jared’s hip muscles pointing down to a thick, gorgeous cock just starting to plump up with desire. Then Jared’s climbing back onto the mattress, knees nudging Jensen’s legs apart just enough so he can settle between. He reaches up to tug at Jensen’s shirt, but then stops, smirking. “You’re gonna want to keep the medal on while we do this, aren’t you?” he asks knowingly.
Jensen should make a joke in return, but his blood’s running like rapids now, and little of it seems left in his head. All he does is lick his lips and nod, tucking his medal inside the neckline and curling up to slough off the shirt himself.
They’re both naked now, Jensen’s cock right there and ready for action, so he figures Jared’s going to move things along. But instead, Jared just slides a palm under Jensen’s right leg, carefully bending it at the knee so that Jensen’s foot rests in his hands. He cups it, pushing both thumbs deep into the tissue of the sole, massaging up the arch and hard around the tendons in the ball of his foot, and Jensen can’t help it, he throws his head back into the pillows and lets out a cry. It’s pain and pleasure and he grips the sheets with both hands as Jared works his way up the rest of the leg, kneading knots out of his calf muscle and digging a knuckle along the taut length of his hamstring until Jensen’s loose enough Jared can stretch the leg up to prop it on his shoulder.
Jensen’s wide open to him now, cock and balls even more on display, but Jared’s patient, too fucking patient. He starts in on Jensen’s left foot, then calf, then his thick thigh, Jensen groaning and panting and practically writhing beneath him. Jensen’s had more massages than he can count: clinical, therapeutic sessions designed for post-race recovery. But this is as much like those as a spoon of cough syrup to a glass of rich amber scotch. Jared’s wide hands alternate between soft, teasing touches and forceful pressure that thoroughly works his aching legs. Then both Jensen’s legs are on his shoulders and Jared’s raising his lower back off the bed to knead and spread the muscles in Jensen’s ass, digging deep into tissue until Jensen is simultaneously puddling like hot butter and straining for more, for those fingers inside him.
He doesn’t even realize how hard he is until Jared brushes a thumb lightly along the curve of his balls, tracing down to the delicate skin underneath. At just that little stimulation, Jensen’s cock twitches, blurting a thick, slick streak onto his abs.
“Jared,” he croaks, prying open his eyes to see Jared looking down at him, heavy-lidded and color high. “You’re killing me.”
“Don’t die yet,” Jared murmurs back, lowering Jensen’s boneless legs gently back down to the bed. But just when Jensen thinks he can catch his breath, Jared scrapes his nails faintly down the tender skin on the inside of Jensen’s thighs where they’re splayed open. Jensen jerks and makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a hiss.
Jared bites his lip and presses his palm to his own dick at the sound, and Jensen’s glad to know he’s not the only one riding the edge of control here.
“C’mon, man.” It’s not begging. Not yet, at least.
“Gimme a sec,” Jared says, and reaches over to rummage in the drawer of the little side table. He pulls out a bottle and a little foil packet and tosses them onto the bed next to Jensen’s hip. He tosses Jensen a little smile. “Thought I might end up the only guy in the Village who didn’t break into his allotment of condoms.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t had other offers,” Jensen says, even though even the casual thought of Jared here with someone else makes his fists clench involuntarily.
“Nah,” Jared replies. “Just never much interested in other guys when you’re around…” He trails off, blushing again so sweetly it tugs Jensen’s heart.
Jensen hauls himself up to half-sitting, capturing Jared’s gaze. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
Jared’s eyes widen as the meaning hits home. “Jesus, Jensen,” he whispers. He reaches out to grab the medal ribbon around Jensen’s neck, drawing him in for a kiss. Then Jared shifts his hand around to cup the back of Jensen’s skull, easing him back to the mattress, following him down.
Jared holds himself hovering over Jensen, surrounding him, the inch of air between their bodies oven-hot. Jensen arches up just enough to graze his dick against Jared’s and the gasp he gets in response is music to his ears.
“Want you inside me,” Jensen says.
“Okay. Okay. Flip over for me.”
“No,” Jensen says, suddenly uncharacteristically aching for the closeness, the intimacy of being face-to-face. “Like this.” But when he goes to lift his legs to wrap them around Jared’s waist, they quiver uncontrollably, and it feels like trying to press too much in the gym, his muscles weighted down with a half-ton of steel.
Jared leans down to brush his lips feather-light over Jensen’s, breathing into his mouth, “Next time. Definitely. But tonight let’s do this the easy way.” He strokes up Jensen’s flank on his way to reaching for a pillow, drawing it down and rolling Jensen over onto it so that his hips are supported, tilted conveniently up, while his overheated dick is snugged tight. “Gonna take good care of you, okay?”
Jared dips his head and runs his tongue up the groove of Jensen’s spine. Once there, he nips and bites at the wings of Jensen’s shoulder blades, the silk of his hair tickling Jensen’s skin. Over the pounding of blood in his ears, Jensen hears the click of the cap snapping open on the bottle of lube.
Jensen surrenders to the inevitable. He stretches his arms out to the sides and buries his hot face in the cool of the sheet, letting himself go, letting Jared have his way. But he also spreads his legs out wide in invitation, willing Jared to hurry.
A cold touch, a slick finger sliding down his crack to rub over his hole. It stays there, circling, massaging round and round the sensitive rim, until just the tip presses inside.
“Look at you. You’re fucking gorgeous, Jensen. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re so tight.”
Jensen’s so focused on sensation, the words barely register. But he manages to slur out, “S’been awhile because of training. Can’t hurt me. Want to feel you-nnghhh.” The rest of his sentence disintegrates into a moan as Jared slowly eases his index finger inside all the way to the second knuckle.
They hang there for a moment, and then Jared’s moving, little pumps in and out, swiveling his wrist, dragging along Jensen’s insides. The friction sends ripples of pleasure through his body.
“More,” Jensen pants, pulling his knees under a little and canting backward. “Please-another-“
Jared drizzles more lube into the spread-wide cleft of Jensen’s ass and a second finger slots right in. Jared's thumb brushes back and forth around Jensen’s hole, the pad tracing over the slick seal that clenches around his fingers. Jensen wriggles again, helplessly, and Jared starts to thrust faster, with purpose.
Jensen rocks in time to Jared’s rhythm, Jared’s fingers strong and long. And everything's so wet already, from sweat and from lube, the next finger slides in even more easily than the first two. Jared takes his time, curling them inside Jensen, teasing as he stretches, all three gliding perfectly over that spot inside that has Jensen shivering and burning simultaneously, until Jensen’s half out of his mind. Then Jared's pushing in, in, so very far, and holding there, still, his knuckles so much wider when they're deep in Jensen’s body. He squeezes his eyes shut, gasping, seeing stars on the inside of his eyelids.
Jared eases his fingers slowly out, and Jensen knows what’s next. Next is cock. Jared's cock. God, he wants it.
He hears Jared mutter, “Fuck. Fuck.” And he twists around to find him struggling to open the packet before the condom finally pops free. Jared must feel his gaze on him, because he glances up to see Jensen watching. Without breaking eye contact, Jared kneels up, legs braced, and doesn’t bother looking down as he makes a show of rolling the condom down the length of his impressive erection. “Ready?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer.
There are hands are on Jensen’s ass, spreading it open, and that is the only warning he has before Jared sinks inside him, quicker and rougher than the prep, but, oh god, it’s the best kind of burn. He doesn’t stop, and Jensen feels as if all the breath is being pressed out of his lungs as Jared drives in all the way up to the hilt, the solid width of him stuffing Jensen full. The minute he’s seated, Jared falls onto him, draping himself over Jensen’s back, hot silken skin touching everywhere. Jared’s trembling, shudders running through him like a fever, gasping wet breaths onto the back of Jensen’s neck, and the feel of it drives Jensen wild.
Jensen flattens his palms against the sheets and rears back, shoving Jared impossibly deeper. "Move."
Jared moves alright, one hand gripping Jensen’s shoulder, holding him in place, the other probably leaving a cluster of fingertip bruises on his hip as he pulls back, long inches dragging out to the tip, then plunges forward again. It’s slow at first, but then quickly increases tempo and intensity, Jared’s chest sliding slick along Jensen’s back, his cock thrusting hard and deep and hitting that spot over and over again until Jensen can only gasp incoherent syllables of what might have been Jared’s name and oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
Jensen’s every nerve is lit up, jagging, searing over-bright. He's open, not just where his legs are spread, but everywhere that Jared's touching. His medal beats against his sternum in countertime with the punches of Jared's hips. It's overwhelming how intense it all feels. He doesn’t know if it’s from the desperate need to come or from sheer exhaustion, but tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes. He only knows that he wants- He wants-
"I’ve got you." Jared’s voice is sweet in his ear. Jensen feels a hand slide across the flat of this belly to wrap around his cock. He cries out in relief and then again at the exquisite thrill of Jared stroking up as he thrusts in. Faster now, and Jared says again, "Got you. Come on."
It’s like feeling the earth fall away from under his skis as he flies off a hill, suspended in air, the full-body rush.
That’s the last thought Jensen has before his orgasm strikes, blinding him for a moment, his dick jolting and throbbing in Jared’s fist as he comes in long, sticky bursts. He bows forward, swearing and grinding his forehead into the sheets from the force of the waves of pleasure that wrack him, even as Jared’s still pumping into him, thrusts growing erratic as he nears the edge. Jensen clenches his ass, almost unintentionally. And it’s as good as coming again, to hear Jared’s long, low moan, to feel the sting of Jared’s teeth on the meat of his shoulder, to sense the pulse of Jared’s cock as he empties himself into the condom.
Jensen sags. All his strength is sapped, wrung out. Jared’s obviously in the same state on top of him, practically squashing Jensen with dead weight. But Jensen doesn’t care. He's frayed and stretched and satisfied, totally unmotivated to move ever again.
Fortunately, Jared is a better man. He lifts himself off of Jensen’s back and gingerly pulls out. Jensen listens with half an ear as Jared disposes of the condom and stumbles into the bathroom to wet a washcloth for cleaning up. Jensen simply lies on the bed, hazy, feeling weightless, skimming the mattress like a balloon with the barest trace of helium left inside to keep it afloat.
Jared returns and silently starts cleaning Jensen up with the washcloth. Jensen peeks one eye open just long enough to mock-scold him in a high voice. “’Jensen,’ you said. ‘Let’s do it the easy way tonight,’ you said.” Jensen groans. “That was your easy way?”
Despite already looking like he’d run a marathon, hair slicked back with sweat, eyes glazy, Jared still manages to blush. “Sorry,” is all he says.
“Please,” Jensen insists. “Never, ever apologize.”
Jared keeps wiping down Jensen’s legs, even though Jensen’s pretty sure he’s as good as he’s going to get without a serious shower. Jared finally says quietly, almost conversationally, “So as long as Coach okays it, I think I’ll make a miraculous recovery for the Super-G on Friday.”
Jensen breaks into a grin. Super-G is one of Jared’s specialties, it would be criminal for him to miss that event as well. “Awesome. I’ll back you up 100%.”
“Even if you’re out?”
“Hell yeah, even if I’m out.” Then he echoes Jared’s own words back at him. “Nothing less than gold for you, right? Fuck Bode? Fuck Innhoffer?”
A small smile plays across Jared lips. “Fuck Jensen Ackles?”
“Don’t mind if you do,” Jensen quips. He tries to lean up on one elbow to nip Jared’s jaw, but every bone in his body screams in complaint. He falls back onto the pillow. “Oh god. I’ll have to rain check until tomorrow, though.”
“You want to sleep here for awhile?” Jared asks tentatively, still perched on the edge of the bed like it’s Jensen’s and not his. Jared’s acting pretty skittish, regardless of Jensen’s earlier pledge about making this work between them. Jensen guesses that word on the street has it, accurately, that he’s not exactly a guy who stays the night.
But that’s about to change.
Despite the fact that this bed is impossibly small for two grown men, with the last ounce of his energy, Jensen hooks a hand around Jared’s waist and drags him in, down, squeezed in close.
By necessity-because he’s certainly never been a cuddler-he curls up with his head on Jared’s shoulder. Jared’s slightly tense beneath him, careful, deliberately keeping his hands out of the way. The same Jared who hugs the lady in the cafeteria when she serves him mac-and-cheese. They’re going to have to work on this.
Jensen tugs at the ribbon that still hanging around his neck. He lays the medal right in the center of Jared’s bare chest. “Jared Padalecki. Gold medalist and world-champion in Fucking, 2014.”
Jared laughs, making Jensen’s head bounce. He wraps his arms around Jensen, as he should have at first, as he always should. Then Jared intones in a fake-hearty, podium-worthy voice, “Thanks, Bob Costas, for the exclusive interview. I’m really proud of my win and I’m hoping to do as well in the Blowjob and Shower Sex competitions as soon as Jensen’s body is up for hosting the events. Tough luck about the pink eye.”
Jensen hums an answering laugh, barely audible even to his own ears, and briefly nuzzles the thin skin along Jared’s collarbone. After a minute he admits, “I could get used to this.”
He hears the smile in Jared’s voice as he says, softly, “Me, too.”
“You’d better,” Jensen says. And finally, finally Jensen’s eyes close in exhausted relief.
***
Six days later, they’re waiting at the top of the Rosa Khutor course, both with later start assignments. After claiming gold on downhill, Jensen got to keep a starting spot, but Coach put Jared in for the Super-G, too, bumping Goldberg. Jensen ought to feel bad for the guy, knowing how it felt to be demoted to alternate, but Jensen’s here at the top of the world with Jared at his side and there’s no room in his heart for anything but joy.
They mill around the holding area talking to the chatty guys, leaving the quiet guys alone, checking the monitors and conferring avidly with the team scouts below about the course conditions. Turns out it’s not as warm and slushy as everyone feared, even though the sun has come out and is glinting off the other nearby slopes. Cold enough for Jared to risk his preferred break-neck line around the gates.
Finally an official calls “Padalecki, Team USA!” and Jared trots over to Jensen for one last word before he heads to the starting hut.
His gaze conspicuously skims up Jensen’s body, pausing at Jensen’s mouth, and then catches Jensen’s eye. He pitches his voice low, saying “Pretend this is me giving you a kiss for luck.”
Jensen raises an eyebrow. “Don’t say shit like that when I’m in my lycra. I’ll pop wood and embarrass myself on international television.”
Jared gives him a perfectly platonic and manly clap on the shoulder, but Jensen reels him in for a quick, but still manly, hug.
Jared murmurs in his ear, “See you on the podium.”
“Fuck, yeah.” Jensen replies, pushing him away toward the waiting official. “Eat it up.”
“Yum.” And at that Jared heads off to the start hut, Jensen watching as he gets his skis fitted, his gear set. Then, as the clock sounds its implacable beeps, Jared takes flight.
Jensen’s going to be right behind him all the way.