Oh, Brother, My Brother
Last weekend was JIBCON 2014, and both boys were in attendance and in (very) fine form. They spoke candidly about Sam and Dean's relationship, and they were their usual goofy selves. There were so many good comments about the boys (both J2 and Sam and Dean) that a lot of people now DEMAND fic! deirdre_c and I were discussing it on Twitter and zubeneschamali said "If only
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“Hey,” Jared says, snapping Jensen out of his daydream. “All done here.”
Jensen scrabbles to stand, tripping over his feet, which earns a raised eyebrow from Jared who’s heading toward the desk at the front of the salon. Jensen hangs back a little, willing his stomach to stop fluttering, calling himself an idiot for once again failing to resist Jared’s pleas that he come along to these appointments.
Jared pays, and they walk together out into the sunshine. Jared scoots close, claps a wide hand on Jensen’s shoulder, but Jensen can’t smell him, only the perfume of the product the woman sprayed last. Jensen shrugs Jared’s hand off.
“Oh. Sorry,” Jared says, a little line appearing between his brows. “I mean, sorry it took so long. Thanks for coming with me, man. I know it’s weird. It’s just-I really like having you with me. For company.”
“No problem,” Jensen says automatically. But now Jared’s chewing at his bottom lip, and sometimes it just hits Jensen a bit too hard. He figures holing up alone in his room for a little bit, maybe a shower and a date with his right hand, that should allow him to edge back into a normal headspace and stop acting like a wackjob. “I think I’ll head back to the hotel for a quick nap.”
Jared nods, running a hand through his just-styled hair and fucking it all up. “Okay. I guess I’ll-“ He looks around like a menu of activities is going to pop up in thin air. “I’ll go hit the private gym on the fourth floor.”
Oh great. Now all Jensen can think about is about is Jared, lying back on a padded bench, shirtless and sweaty and straining against a bar of weights. It’s a sickness is what it is.
“Maybe,” Jared continues in a small voice when Jensen doesn’t move or reply. “Maybe you wanna join me after you rest?”
And, once again, Jensen has zero control. None. Nada. “Sure,” he says, all casual-like. “Give me forty-five minutes.”
Because Jensen can’t decide what the best part is: the pumping iron or the treadmill. Or maybe it’s the stretching.
Definitely the stretching.
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