.0092 (II) - Dare You to Let Me Be Your (Your One and Only)

[jojothecr]

I dare you to let me be your, your one and only
Promise I'm worthy to hold in your arms
So come on and give me a chance
To prove I am the one who can walk that mile
- Adele



The snow is quiet as it falls, chilly and light, covering every available surface and blanketing the sidewalks and roads, dimming every smell and sound of the city. The sky is like a heavy, impenetrable blanket of inky blue and ashy gray, the moon above just a thin crescent that sporadically flickers in between, like the distant flare of a lighthouse. It’s cold, freezing cold just as February in Canada tends to be, and long, sharp icicles hang from the roofs, traffic lights and road signs, threatening to fall and shatter to thousands crystalline pieces, slide down like an uncontrolled shot and hurt. The window shops are full of lights, silver and gold and all shades of red from light pink to passionate ruby, adorned with cheap symbols and reminders of love, which is never as simple or easy as those paper hearts and cupids.

Crossing the road in a gaggle of nameless faces, Jared pulls the scarf tighter around his neck and sighs, letting out a puff of breath that hangs in the air for a moment more before it disappears in the twirling veil of snowflakes. He rolls up the sleeve of his long coat just enough to glance at the silver watch on his wrist, quite unnecessarily so because he already knows that he’s late, ten minutes or twelve, possibly thirteen. Nothing new there, really, though there’s probably only one person who’s actually used to it, who tolerates Jared’s late mornings and all those embarrassing delayed arrivals for conventions and interviews. And who’ll never stop complaining about it either.

Jared wonders, too often, maybe, if Jensen will truly keep his promise. If he will sit down one day, not too soon, and put his complaints into written words and paragraphs, immortalize the minutes and days of his life that he wasted by waiting on him. It might be an interesting trip down the memory lane, later, when the show is over and their paths part, leading them separate ways and fates, towards different people and projects, new co-stars and friends. Strangely, Jared wishes the day would never come.

He’s not meeting Jensen tonight, though, and maybe that’s why his feet feel so heavy all of a sudden, why his legs seem to be moving slower the closer he gets to the coffeehouse. It’s not the first time, not really, it’s their third official date, fourth, actually, but none of those previous nights felt this strange, this tense, like it’s downright wrong.

The windows of Terry’s Café pour soft light out onto the street, making the snow on the ground glisten with lemon and honey gold glare, and giving off a vibe of tranquility and safety, but Jared’s heart still leaps up right into his throat when he gets nearer. Something about this moment, this place here, tonight, just doesn’t seem to be right; it feels kind of twisted, turned upside down. Like two different stories that don’t quite meet, were never even supposed to brush each other, and can’t possibly lead to a meaningful ending.

Jared takes a deep breath, trying to gain back the courage that he’s sure he had when he left the house a couple of minutes ago, and reaches for the doorknob. Then pauses, again, when he catches his reflection in the glass door.

He’s wearing the light blue shirt that Jensen had picked, a new one that still feels a little unfamiliar and scratchy, and a two shades darker tie that Jensen tied. There’s still this strange, tickling sensation on the inner side of Jared’s wrist where Jensen’s fingers brushed his skin as he slipped the cuff button on his shirt through the hole that was obviously two sizes too small. Jared had spent five whole minutes trying to do it on his own. Then Jensen had walked in, a full laundry basket in his hands and both dogs at his heels, and he rolled his eyes at Jared’s clumsiness and helplessness, “Come here.” He had put the basket on Jared’s unmade bed, on the black sheets that hang partly off the edge and were clean only because they were bought bare three days before, and reached for Jared’s hand, tugging him resolutely nearer.

He was close then, warm and so soothingly known, quiet, the tip of his tongue clasped in between his teeth in concentration, a wrinkled line of frustration etched in between his eyebrows. He smelled like the heavy, damp air of the laundry room, and of their new fresh fabric softener, which had still clung to his hair and the thick curtains of his eyelashes in tiny, almost invisible grains. Jared breathed him in, almost unconsciously, all of a sudden wanting to drag him even nearer, close enough to really feel him, for their bodies to touch. He wanted to know how he feels, his body, so firm and lean, yet muscular, pressed to another. His own. How he looks when he wants, truly, deep inside and not just above, for the camera lens.

He wished he could take Jensen with him out tonight, just him, just the two of them, or stay, and screw the date and the whole day, because watching old movies in worn sweatpants with a box of double cheese pizza in his lap and Jensen beside him, sounded suddenly ten times better. But even more than that, he wished Jensen told him to stay, asked him to stay, right there, with him, and not to go anywhere, because she doesn’t understand anyway, will never do, no matter how much they try. None of that happened, though, because he was scared, suddenly terrified by his own thoughts and impulses that had never been there before. Instead, Jared put on the black sweater that Jensen handed him and grabbed his coat, and walked out the door, leaving Jensen alone with his Valentine’s dejection and several piles of their laundry.

The mirror image that stares at Jared from the coffeehouse door shows a tall guy who looks more than just a bit terrified and uncomfortable, and just as nervous and on edge as Jared actually feels. He thinks that maybe this night is nothing but a mistake. That the whole thing between them is a mistake. That maybe there is no thing at all.

He glances up, finding her petite figure at a small table closest to the counter, a stream of dark red light falling across her face from the love theme adorned ceiling. She’s a tiny blonde thing with big green eyes behind thin-framed glasses and long hair pulled up into a topknot that underlines her soft features. She looks lovely - gorgeous, really - different than when he saw her this morning on the set. A little more real. A little more like something he doesn’t really want.

Sighing, Jared looks down at the single bud of yellow rose in his hand, gently snowed in and touched slightly by the frost, and, not for the first time, asks himself what he’s actually doing here.

He thinks of Jensen back at home, sulking and bitter, watching every horror movie that has the word ‘Valentine’ in title or in its plot, and sabotaging all the classic and popular traditions of this feast and following his own. Because he simply doesn’t like Valentine’s Day. He doesn’t appreciate any of those small and big gestures that make this day what it is, all those stuffed animals with hearts, and paper cards with promises of eternal love and undying passion that seem to be completely everywhere since the beginning of January, replacing Christmas decorations and candy. Jared can’t honestly say that he understands it or that he accepts all of Jensen’s explanations and reasons, but he doesn’t blame him. And, after last year’s Valentine’s escapade, he no longer tries to argue with him, or change the set of his mind.



Jensen’s relationship with Danneel had ended exactly one year ago, quietly and unexpectedly, only one day before the Fourteenth. Jensen had never said much about that night, about the date that was supposed to be the date, no matter how many times Jared had asked. He just hadn’t talked about it, like it had never happened. Avoiding the whole topic like the plague. There had been no why, no explanation, not a single reason that he gave to Jared, and Jared had often wondered if Jensen had been just as puzzled by the whole thing as Jared, or if he had actually known what had driven them apart and just refused to share.

He remembers when Jensen had come back from the date, looking a little pale, and more than a little worn out, his eyes dark and deep, tired, and somehow hollow. He hadn’t said anything, no explanation why he was home three, four hours earlier than Jared had expected, no greeting. He just gave him a small nod of his head when he entered the kitchen where Jared was sitting, going through a new script and sipping hot tea with a bit of ginger for his sore throat. Instead, Jensen took a bottle of tequila from the fridge and placed it resolutely onto the kitchen table. He pulled up a chair and turned it around, sitting down heavily with a sigh, his legs spread and chin popped up onto the backrest, the tails of his black coat catching on his knees. He had been quiet for a long time. He said nothing at all; he just sat there, eyeing alternately the half empty bottle of tequila, Jared and the ticking clock above Jared’s head.

Jared had wanted to ask. His tongue was practically itching, heavy with all those questions he longed to ask, but he knew Jensen. Knew him well enough to know when to question and when to remain silent and not to pour salt into freshly open wounds. So he hadn’t asked anything.

Half an hour, and a countless swigs of tequila, later, Jensen reached into the side pocket of his slacks and pulled out the same engagement ring that he and Jared had spent months picking up. And it hadn’t been exactly easy, because it was supposed to be simple yet beautiful, elegant but not overdone, simply perfect. And it had been. But now it lay in the middle of the kitchen table, thin white gold on a dark polished wood, and casting sparkles from the fluorescent tube above the kitchen counter. Unmoving and silent, but speaking louder than words would, screaming, talking of betrayal and pain, and broken dreams.

Jared hadn’t known what to say, had never known what to say when it really mattered, always unable to come up with the right words of comfort, the right actions. He remained seated, his knee jerking nervously, and watched, more than a little helpless, as something in Jensen’s gaze flickered, faintly, fading slowly to emptiness. Then, finally, anger mingling with sympathy and something else, darker and deeper he couldn’t name, and raging inside of him like waves on an open, stormy sea, Jared pushed his chair back with determination and stood up. He walked over to Jensen, whose eyes were stubbornly, absently fixed on the small piece of expensive metal, and put his arm around his shoulders, pressing his lips against the top of Jensen’s head in what wasn’t a kiss, not quite, “I’m sorry, Jen.”

Jensen had never been one to seek contact. On the contrary, whenever possible, he would pull away from people, took two or three necessary steps back to regain his space, but he wasn’t moving away then. So Jared stayed where he was, bent at an uncomfortable angle and hugging Jensen, a little awkwardly, letting the melted snowflakes on Jensen’s coat soak through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. Jensen felt stiff in his hold, completely rigid and cold. It was as if the chill wasn’t coming off his clothes and damp hair, but right from within, where his heart was beating, bruised and broken.

Jared had spent the night downing one shot of tequila after another, matching Jensen’s rhythm.

The morning after had been bad. Jared’s head had been pounding as if a damn train ran right through it and he was thirsty, throat parched, his voice low. And still he had been in a considerably better condition than Jensen, who had looked like he hadn’t slept not only that night, but for a good couple of days. He had been sick, pale and sweaty, shaking with cold and the nausea storming in his stomach, and Jared seriously doubted the alcohol was the only thing to blame.



Jared thinks of Jensen curled on the large, leather sofa in their living room, in washed out jeans and a threadbare T-shirt, all alone with no one but Jared’s dogs and misery keeping him company, and the oppressive feeling in his stomach sinks a little bit lower, gets a little heavier. He thinks that a date on Saint Valentine’s Day shouldn’t make him feel so miserable.

He doesn’t remember entering the café; he doesn’t recall walking through the door, or the quiet ringing of the bell above. He’s only slowly realizing where he is when he lays the yellow rose on the table in front of her and she looks up from the well-thumbed paperback novel in her hand. He wonders how many pages she’s already managed to read while she waited for him, tonight and all the nights before.

Jared’s voice is low when he speaks up, slightly rough from the cold outside, and something like a headache pulses in his temples from the temperature change, the difference between the freezing air outside and the almost uncomfortable warmth of the Café. He offers the most apologetic smile he can master. “Kathleen, hey, I am so sorry. I’m late… Again.”

She chuckles when she stands up, putting down her book and almost knocking over her glass of soda. In their relationship, she’s definitely the clumsier part, which is a little comforting. “It’s okay. I at least finally finished the last chapter.”

“Light reading?” Jared asks with a hint of playful irony in his tone. The title of the book is really way too long to be anything but funny or entertaining.

“You could say that.”

She leans a little closer, stepping onto her toes to press their lips together, and Jared realizes that he forgot, that he didn’t think about it, not even for a brief moment. Which is really freaking weird. And, just to make the situation even a bit worse and more embarrassing, he catches himself wondering about the flavor of another mouth, a different pair of lips, those without a thick layer of lipstick or lip gloss, just, sometimes, scented with a lip balm, or tears. She tastes sweet… unnatural, though not downright unpleasant, like artificial strawberries and something sharper, plastic. The kiss isn’t bad, but there’s nothing. No sparkle, no tension, no desire to keep it going or push it further.

“You look… good,” she says when she sits down again, long, slender fingers curling around the thin leg of her glass. “Like… really good.”

Jared blushes as he looks down at himself, smiling awkwardly. Jensen said so, too, and, surprisingly enough, it seems to matter more. “You look great,” he said when he pushed the two loose strands of Jared’s hair behind his ears and rearranged the hem of his collar, giving him a reassuring smile that felt just this side of tight and faked.

“Thanks, uh… Jensen helped, he’s… better at that.”

Kathleen tilts her head to the side lightly, in a gesture of surprise, then smiles, giving him the same kind of fond smile that Jared’s mom uses whenever Jensen’s name as much as brushes Jared’s lips. “Is he?”

“You look beautiful.”

~/~

Swallowing another bite of his dessert, Jared sighs, glancing unwillingly at the tiny hands of his watch. They seem to be dragging especially slow tonight. The atmosphere is uncomfortably tense, as if the date - the meaning of this day - was putting some pressure under which they’re grandiosely failing. Their conversation, usually smooth, is nothing but tripping tonight, eventually staggering to zero. Jared’s mind is all over the place, somewhere else and not that far, and his heart’s nowhere to be found. It’s definitely not here, with her, which she would deserve. Somehow, he just can’t push Jensen out of his thoughts. Even the muffins, blueberry with a few drops of melted white chocolate and Jared’s favorite, taste bitter now, flavorless.

It’s less than one hour when Kathleen props the spoon from her macchiato against the saucer and puts her hand on the top of Jared’s, her touch light and warm, her tone a little regretful, honest.

“Jared, if you… You know if you wanna go, go.”

Jared looks up from where he spent the last couple of minutes cutting apart the violet colored pastry, to meet her eyes. “What? No. No, I’m--” He doesn’t know what he is. Besides absolutely confused.

“You wanna sit here for another while, have another coffee and spend another hour in silence, or do you wanna go where you really wanna be? With someone you really want to be with?”

There’s a momentary pause of confusion, even though Jared knows the name, so well. He knows who’s been invading his thoughts for the whole night. “Jensen?” he tries faintly.

She nods, smiles, a little sadly. “Don’t you know? He’s the first thing you talk about. The last thing… You don’t buy popcorn with butter, because Jensen doesn’t like it. Every time we order pizza you take all the red peppers from mine, because Jensen’s allergic to it. Tonight, you ordered me a cup of dark coffee, before you remembered that it’s me, not Jensen. He’s there even when he’s not.”

“Oh, God,” Jared sighs, running his hands over his face, feeling stupid and embarrassed. “God, this is so… I didn’t know. I swear. I honestly didn’t realize… Until just about now.”

“Yeah, I got that much.”

“I’m sorry. I… I really didn’t plan this night like this.”

“I sure hope so,” Kathleen says, with a smile that seems a little faked, a little out of the place. “Look, you tried. Okay? You’ve been trying so hard to make this work, to prove that there really is something, but… It’s not working. And it won’t work, because there’s nothing. I like you, I really do, but it’s not enough… I just hope that you’re not alone in what you feel.”

Jared nods with a snort. He wants to laugh, but he feels a little like crying. Because Jensen’s been nothing but a mystery to him for the last couple of months; so hard to read, wholly impossible to predict. He’s hot, then straightaway cold, intimate and open one minute, withdrawn and secretive in the next. Sometimes it feels like they’re already together, like they have been, for two years, or ten; so intimate Jared could just reach out and touch him, kiss him and it wouldn’t be weird, because he’s done it so many times before. Sometimes, especially lately, Jared feels like he barely knows him at all. And how could he even suspect how Jensen feels about him, about them, when, just a moment ago, he had no idea he should actually wonder about that? That maybe he wants him to feel some way? That particular way?



The house is dark when Jared arrives, completely dim save the faint light of the bulb on the porch. Jensen’s truck is standing in the driveway, barely visible or even recognizable under a fresh layer of snow, so powdered it looks like it’s been waiting there for the whole winter, not just from this morning when they went grocery shopping. A new layer of snow crunches beneath the wheels of Jared’s car, thicker and higher now when he turned off the main road, and big, light snowflakes keep on falling onto the windshield, not melting. It’s only a while after nine, half an hour at the most, but the street is completely empty, silent, as it usually is around midnight.

Throwing his keys into the unused ashtray on the shoe cabinet, Jared pushes the front door closed, and takes off his coat and sweater, hanging them on the wooden hanger in the corner. Sadie walks up to him, slow and lazy, and still half asleep, one leg mingling under the other, tiredness prevailing. She licks his palm when he crouches to her, pushing her head into his lap and looking up at him, giving him the full on ‘miss you’ look like he’s been gone for years. Harley doesn’t bother with standing up. Sprawled on the floor in the corridor, from wall to wall, he only rolls over onto his back and puts his paws in the air, wiggling his tail that makes dull noises on the floating floor, and begging for a belly scratch. Apparently tonight, for once, are the dogs more tired than the rest of the pack. Jared doesn’t blame them. They spent practically the whole day outside, chasing each other in the snow and ruining the snow barriers that he and Jensen had shoveled along the driveway, or barking on ice cycles. Eventually destroying Jensen’s precious snowman. Jared’s glad they’re so calm, he doesn’t feel like playing right now.

The quietness of the house and the pitch dark, broken only by the faint spotlights on the wall of the hallway make Jared think that Jensen’s not even home. He hadn’t said anything about going out and there aren’t any of his friends in Vancouver today, but Jensen is a responsible adult, and it’s not like he has to inform Jared about everything he does. But then Jared catches a sound, a quiet strumming of a guitar… slow and captivating, engaging. It’s an unknown melody, or just one that Jared doesn’t immediately recognize, but the gentle, haunting pace of it gives him the chills, makes all the short hairs on his arms stand up at once.

Jared can play guitar; he knows how to do it, theoretically and in practice, but he can’t play it the way real musicians do, the way Jensen does. Not just the systematic strumming; strings pressed down to the wood, thumb or all fingers relaxed and light, but striking, but also with his heart, his soul, to actually feel the music, guide it, let it flow on its own and tame it in time to make it sound right. Jared is lacking this kind of ability. The talent.

Jared follows the music, frowning a little in confusion when he realizes where it’s coming from. From the other end of the hall, near the back porch, right where the laundry room is. It looks like Jensen hasn’t spent the last two hours enjoying his bloody Valentine’s celebrations, but watching over the washing machine, which is a really unpredictable and headstrong bitch. It’s been broken six times, in the last year only, always starting with those almost earthquake like, metallic noises and rhythmical, systematic jerks back and forth, and ending up with spilling dirty, tepid water all over the floor. It really is about time they bought a new one.

Jensen’s sitting on the floor there, his back leaned against the closed, wooden door leading to the porch and his knees bent, canted slightly to the left to make room for the guitar in his lap.

Jared pauses a little, briefly at the sight of him, and his heart skips a beat, only to start anew, faster. It’s not that he hasn’t seen him before, he has, logically, a million times, in every kind of state he can possibly imagine, but one probably, that one, but it’s like he’s seeing him at a different angle, in a different light. Like he’s finally seeing him. And, jesuschrist, someone should tell him that it’s really unfair and inappropriate to look so damn hot and vulnerable at the same time.

Jensen’s head is bowed over the strings, his lashes dipping onto his cheeks, casting those thick shadows onto his cheekbones, which always make him look so young, almost fragile. It’s something he’s given even to Dean, for moments when Dean’s security is down, when he’s hurt, wounded inside, and bared to the audience. Eyes down and a frown on his forehead, between his eyebrows; a simple gesture that shows how harmless he can be, how human in despite of all the jokes and dead monsters, blue steel faces and sonofabitches. There are so many elements of Dean in Jensen; it’s actually scary sometimes.

Now, though… now it’s only Jensen. Jensen’s fingers running over the strings in sure, firm strokes, his other hand pressing them strongly to the fingerboard. Jensen’s knuckles, convulsive, paled, and almost white from the pressure. He’s got a pencil tugged behind his ear, and an open notepad on the floor beside him, the page nearly full, covered in his quick but somehow still neat handwriting, and a few thick, violent strikes. There’s a glass of wine, at a safe distance from his arms, and a half empty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Jared knows, for sure, that the bottle hasn’t been full for a long time.

Jensen doesn’t hear the first steps Jared takes towards him, Jared’s thick socks and the sound of the guitar diming the noise, he only looks up when Jared gets closer and his shadow falls to Jensen’s bare feet. For a moment, the shortest second, he looks scared, undoubtedly startled. His fingers slide down the strings, interrupting the melody abruptly and creating a sound that is loud and false, even to Jared’s partly deaf ears.

He recovers quickly, however, and tilts his head to the side, his eyebrow rising up in surprise and confusion, but he doesn’t ask, doesn’t say anything. He just silently watches Jared moving closer. And Jared’s thankful that there are no questions or comments, because he doesn’t know what to say anyway. Maybe something like, ‘So this girl I went out with today? She thinks I’m in love with you. Which is funny, because… it’s you, you know? I mean, it’s us, and we’re friends, right? Nothing more, no matter what all the fans say. Only… I think she’s actually right. And I think I had known, even before she told me. All the damn time.’

“Comfortable?” he asks instead with a soft smile, pushing his fingers beneath the silk ribbon of his tie to loosen it a bit. He feels slightly choked, but he’s not that sure he can really blame his clothes for that.

Jensen shrugs, keeping his eyes on Jared even as he puts his hands back on the guitar and its strings, picking up where he left off. The quiet, unknown melody starts again, vibrating something deep inside of Jared, quivering it to ache.

Sighing, Jared tugs at the legs of his pants, pulling them up, and follows Jensen’s lead, sliding down the wall right to the floor, across from Jensen.

Jensen eyes him for a moment more, measuring him intently with a deep, penetrating gaze, which is both uncomfortable and strangely electrifying, then breaks the song again and reaches for the Cabernet. He hands Jared the bottle wordlessly, giving him a little smile that seems to be saying, ‘Whatever it is, it’ll get better’.

Jared takes it with a nod, agreeing with whatever Jensen’s not saying. There’s probably some etiquette that strictly forbids drinking wine right from the bottle, but, right now, Jared couldn’t care less. And he’s fairly sure the red liquid tastes the same, whether it’s drunk from a cut glass or a labeled bottle.

They stay like that for a while, maybe a half-hour, maybe more. Jensen’s playing songs that Jared finally recognizes, like those from Chris and Steve’s repertoire, and melodies he’s sure he never heard before, and Jared listens. He sips on the wine, watching the slow or quicker dance of Jensen’s slender fingers upon the strings, and his eyes, when they exceptionally linger on his own. Jared’s got this strange feeling that Jensen’s actually trying to purposely avoid his gaze.

When Jensen puts his guitar aside, leaning it against the wall and grabs his notepad, pulling himself up to his feet, Jared stands up, too. He picks up both the bottle of wine, too close to empty now, and Jensen’s glass.

“You write?” he asks, gesturing towards the papers in Jensen’s hand. Because, of course, Jensen’s multitalented. As if acting both in front of the camera and on stage, playing guitar, singing, and all the other many things Jensen can do wasn’t enough, Jensen can also write songs. Though Jensen still insists that he’s not writing, just suggesting, adding words to where there are gaps.

Jensen follows his gaze, lifts his hand unconsciously to glance at the notepad, like he’s forgotten he even holds it, then lets his hand fall again, and hides the notepad behind his back partly. “It’s… It’s nothing,” he says, flushing a little. His voice is low, slightly raspy as though he’s been quiet for way too long. He clears his throat, tries again, speaking a bit louder now. “Steve asked me to help with some lyrics… But this doesn’t seem to be the right time.”

“Why is that?”

Jensen shrugs, waves his hand, evidently dismissing the real reasons as unimportant. “You could call it a little… crisis of creativity, I guess. And lack of belief.”



Turning off the light on the back porch, Jared heads after Harley and Sadie into the corridor, following the wet, snowy traces they’ve left on the floor, making him wonder why he’s ever bothered with moping. He can see Jensen in the kitchen, through the small crack in the slightly ajar door, and he can’t help pausing for a moment, watching him when Jensen’s unaware, when he doesn’t know he’s being observed. They’re rare, these moments, Jensen’s always so careful, so guarded, even at home, before Jared. Maybe, lately, especially before Jared.

Jensen’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, one hand buried in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a cellphone to his ear. He doesn’t seem to hear Jared or the dogs shuffling around Jared’s feet, but he doesn’t look like he’s really listening to whatever the person at the other end of the line is saying either. Jared’s got the feeling that Jensen’s not even listening to himself, that he doesn’t really concentrate on what he’s answering, replying automatically, nodding even though the caller can’t see him.

Jared isn’t spying, eavesdropping, he can’t even put the dialog together, hears only scraps of Jensen’s replies, words like, ’Kenzie and Richardson. Snow and Hiatus. Yeah. No. Sure, and he doesn’t try to assemble them together. He just watches.

Jensen’s beautiful, and Jared’s always known that. He couldn’t miss it, through all the comments from fans, co-stars, his sister and mom. And still it hits him like he’s seeing him for the first time, like the moment he did see him for the first time. Because as great as Jensen looks on the show, at official events or panels, on stage, he’s even prettier and sexier when he’s at home, casual and comfortable, when he’s not Jensen Ackles, the actor, or the great, invincible Dean Winchester. When he’s just Jensen. The guy Jared had met a couple of years ago, thinking, ‘we could be friends’ and ‘let’s get insane up here in the North together’. The guy he’s fallen in love with. Because he hasn’t fallen in love with a TV star or a soap opera actor, or with the disguise Jensen puts on in the public, before fans, hiding fears and stage fright behind jokes and slightly tight smiles. He’s fallen for a Texas boy who prefers a medium rare steak to caviar and a baseball game to ice hockey. Who might come late for a Magazine interview appointment, but who never forgets to call his mom. Who hates early morning calls and switches from a political debate to a millionth re-run of The Simpsons. All things considered, Jared is actually lucky, it could have been so much worse.

Jensen’s wearing a pair of blue, washed out jeans, and a creamy shirt with a dark silhouette of Batman on the front, which Jared gave him for his last birthday. The same shirt that Jensen swore he’d never wear, would never even touch again, and that is worn and faded now and ends up in the laundry at least three times a month.

There’s fairly nothing special about what he wears or what he’s doing, except the fact that it’s Jensen, so there’s always something unique there. Like the way he stands, tall and muscular, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist; beautiful, and absolutely perfect, but like he doesn’t believe it, like he’s trying to hide, to withdraw into himself. His feet are bare, partly hidden by the crumpled fabric of the jeans that are a bit longer and ride real low, and it makes him look younger, almost small. There’s no smile on his lips, not even a hint of the grin he had put on when Jared was getting ready for his date, there are just shadows now, on his face, in his eyes. Suggestions of sadness and disappointment, loneliness. And something heavy, sharp, and edgy like a rock settles on Jared’s heart. He wonders if Jensen is really such a good actor, acting even when there are no scripted lines to follow, no camera, so terrific he had fooled even Jared, or if Jared hadn’t seen any of this before simply because he wasn’t looking. If Jensen’s maybe just too tired to try and keep his poker face on.

“You wanna talk about it?” Jensen asks, tearing Jared out of his thoughts, and looking at him with a little, sympathetic smile. His voice is soft and quiet, but Jared still startles; he’s been so immersed into watching Jensen that he hasn’t noticed he’s been watched, too. “Wanna tell me what happened?” Jensen shoves his cellphone into the back pocket of his jeans and runs his fingers through his hair, mindlessly, ruffling the messy, crumpled spikes even a bit more.

Jared pulls from the door frame with a sigh and shakes his head. “I don’t… I’m not sure I know,” he says, shrugging. It’s not true, not entirely, but Jared rather chooses a partial lie than complete honesty right now. “It’s… kinda complicated.”

Jensen chuckles, but it’s humorless, nearly dark. “Isn’t it always?” he asks as he pulls himself up onto the kitchen counter, one knee peeking out of the many holes that decorate his jeans, his bare heels kicking into the door of one of the drawers. He leans across the counter to pick a peach from the wire fruit basket at the other end, and Jared watches, captivated, how his shirt rides up a little, exposing a stripe of soft, pale skin and the protruding swell of Jensen’s hipbone. Jared knows that Jensen’s lost a lot of weight during the elapsed twelve months, and it shows. It might be just a couple of pounds, ten tops, and Jensen’s always been everything but fat, but now he looks especially lean, downright thin. Jared’s afraid that the break up isn’t the only thing that is dragging Jensen down, and he just hopes that it’s nothing serious, that Jensen’s just as healthy as he’s always been.

Jensen clears his throat significantly and Jared looks up, meeting Jensen’s confused eyes and a pointedly raised eyebrow. For the second time tonight, he’s been caught at staring. Jared blushes, looking away. A minute later, however, maybe even less, his gaze is back on Jensen.

“Jensen, is… Is everything alright?” he asks.

Jensen pauses, his hand hovering a few inches from his mouth, a half-eaten peach held in his fingers, the juice dripping from the fresh, full fruit and sliding down along his knuckles. He looks caught by surprise, worried, like he thinks that Jared already knows that something is up. “Yeah,” he says, but it doesn’t sound really convincing. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Jared shrugs eloquently. “Just… a feeling, I guess.”

Jensen smiles and it seems almost real, honest. Almost. He puts the peach into his mouth, white teeth sinking into the thin peal firmly to keep it from falling, and jumps off the counter to wash his hands in the sink. When he walks around Jared, he pats his chest in a friendly, wordless gesture. That touch, so random and chaste, sends a thrill down Jared’s spine, a tickling, warming sensation. There’s no “nothing” like with Kathleen, there’s a sparkle, there’s electricity, there’s a freaking fire that Jared feels flickering between them, through the bare contact. Jensen’s fingers are wet but warm, the heat seeps through the thin material of Jared’s shirt, making him remember the dream he had a couple of weeks ago, and practically forgotten. And yet he remembers it now, certain parts of it anyway, remembers how he couldn’t meet Jensen’s eyes, look at him properly, for the next following day without flushing or stuttering, yearning for something he hadn’t been before.

Jensen walks out the door, and Jared follows him down the corridor with his eyes, noticing how Jensen’s hips gently sway as he walks, how the bow of his legs, so damn sexy and cute, is barely noticeable in the loose jeans. How goddamn beautiful that guy is, so full and complete, so perfect with all his bigger and smaller imperfections.

Both terrified and brave, Jared pulls from the fridge. “Jensen,” he calls after him, towering in the open door of the kitchen. “Can I ask you something?”

Jensen doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down, he just shrugs. But his reply is hesitant, as though he already knows what’s coming and doesn’t like it. “I suppose.”

“What happened between you and Danneel? Why did it end? Jen, why did she say no?”

Jensen pauses in his walk, abruptly, and sighs, his shoulders visibly sinking. “God, Jay, not that again.” He turns around to face Jared, his eyes empty, tired. “Why can’t you just let it go?”

It’s not the first time Jared asks, hardly the fifth, not even the tenth, probably, but he still hopes that one day he’ll get a better answer than Jensen’s worn down, ‘Sometimes it just ends, you know?’

Jared withdraws from the doorframe and takes a few steps towards Jensen. “Because I just can’t. Because I know you. Because I can’t imagine one reason why she’d do that. I thought… I thought you two were happy.”

“Call Dani,” Jensen says, smirking bitterly, before he turns round again, showing Jared his back. “She’ll give you a million of reasons.”

“One will be enough,” Jared replies, quiet but insistent. “Just one… From you.”

For a moment, several heartbeats, Jensen is just like a statue; beautiful and mute, completely still and unmoving, and then, when Jared thinks that he’ll finally get some coherent answer, Jensen shakes his head. It’s like the real reason is something he really doesn’t wanna say, like it’s something Jared’s not supposed to know. And the more Jared wants to know.

“Has she really scarred you that much?”

Jensen snorts, “Scarred me?” he echoes as he turns around, confused, amused. “I am not scarred. I am… Maybe I’m happy alone,” he suggests then, but his words fall flat, because his voice is unconvincing, full of something that wants to be strong and firm, but staggers instead, fails. “You ever thought about that? Maybe it’s easier this way. Maybe it’s more… comfortable.”

“And maybe you’re lying,” Jared brings up, his tone just that little bit of caustic.

“I’m not.”

Jared steps closer, “I don’t believe you.”

“Jared,” Jensen tries weakly, regarding Jared as he moves towards him, and looking nearly scared. And not just because Jared’s a few inches taller.

“I know you. We work together, we live together. I see you basically every hour of every day and I know that you’re not happy. You’re sad. You barely smile… Jen, it’s been a year and yet you’re still alone. You don’t even try not to be… That isn’t alright.”

Jensen snorts, audibly not entertained, and it sounds scarily bitter, dark. “You’re worried about me because I’m not getting laid?” he asks, measuring Jared with a gaze that is all of a sudden different, disturbingly penetrating, daring.

Jared feels himself blush with a sudden wave of embarrassment and even anger when he imagines someone else touching Jensen, someone else’s hands mapping his freckles and gentle wrinkles, the curves and dips of his lean form. Someone else’s body covering Jensen’s. “That’s… not quite how I mean it,” he replies, scratching nervously, unwillingly on his eyebrow, nearly reopening the scratch he earned on the set a few days ago. “But you know what? Yes, actually. That, too.” He moves forward still, so close he can distinguish the spatters of darker freckles on the bridge of Jensen’s nose, but not close enough to endanger his personal space, make him move back. “I mean… Don’t you miss it sometimes?”

Jensen’s eyes grow a little wider, wilder, and he stammers, “M-miss wh-what?”

“Sex,” Jared specifies calmly even though his heart jumps slightly, beating now fast enough, impetuously, to echo in his ears, his temples. He’s almost scared of the urgent deluge of lust that floods his veins, his whole body. The want. “Having someone that close.” He takes another few steps forward, slow, small ones, one step for each sentence. “The heat. The want. The connection. The crazy need you just can’t control that consumes every inch of your body, every pore. Makes you think that you’ll die if you-- Don’t you miss the bare proximity of someone?” He reaches out, touching Jensen’s elbow lightly, running his knuckles up Jensen’s bare arm and pebbling his skin with goose pimples. He follows the movement with his eyes, then glances up to meet Jensen’s gaze. “The touch of someone else? Jensen… you really don’t miss any of that?”

Jensen’s breath comes out in short, quick puffs, and there’s blush high in his cheeks. His dark eyes roam Jared’s face in a rapid, skittish pace. He opens his mouth but no words come out, just some hushed, breathless noise. He swallows with certain difficulties and looks away, glancing down at the half-eaten peach forgotten in his hand. “It’s not that simple,” he says quietly, shaking off Jared’s touch. He throws the peach into the garden trash bin they keep inside during winter and wipes his hands onto his jeans, then steps away.

“Could be,” Jared says, making Jensen pause a mid-movement and look at him over the distance of half of the corridor. “You could have anyone. Every girl you look at. If you just let them.”

“Right,” Jensen chuckles ironically.

“You could,” Jared insists, knowing that it is one of the biggest problems Jensen has when it comes to other people, to strangers. He doesn’t let anyone to get close to him easily. He doesn’t trust, he keeps distance. He might feel reserved, cold, but he’s not like that, he’s just careful and hesitant. It took Jared months, years, to get where he is now, where they are, from co-workers and co-stars to best friends. “Because you’re amazing. You’re smart and funny… You’re beautiful and so… sexy.” Jensen laughs at that, he always does, because he doesn’t believe it. Because he’s heard those words too many times before, spoken in ways and tones that had made them lose their weight and meaning. “You can have everyone. So why don’t you?”

Jensen’s sour laughter dies, fast, and he suddenly looks nothing but tired - exhausted even, and resigned. Sad. He doesn’t say anything for a moment or two, just watches Jared, vigilantly, guarded. His gaze is intent, but giving nothing out. “Maybe simply because your ‘everyone’ doesn’t really involve ‘everyone’.”

“Wha-what does that mean?”

Jensen shakes his head and something vulnerable flickers in his eyes, something fragile that mirrors even in his stance, makes him look younger, smaller. “Nothing,” he says, in a voice so significantly low it actually denies the sense of the word in its very core. “Forget it.” He turns his back to Jared and reaches for the door handle of the laundry room, but Jared’s next words stop him anew.

“I wouldn’t let you go like she did.”

Bowing his head, Jensen lets his hand slip off the handle and hisses a heavy breath through his teeth, defeated. The way he stands there, in the shadows of the hallway, in torn jeans and a faded shirt that only poorly hides the protruding line of his spine, Jared thinks that he looks unbelievably alone, so lonely there. Slowly, Jensen turns back to look at Jared, confused, questioning, and waiting for him to go on.

Jared walks up to him, close enough so his socked toes touch Jensen’s bare feet, so he can feel his heat, the nervous vibes he oozes. He raises his hand to Jensen’s cheek, presses his palm to the slightly stubbled skin and runs the pad of his thumb over Jensen’s cheekbone, down to the jut of his jaw. Jensen’s eyelashes flutter behind his glasses, his eyes sliding closed, and he leans his head almost unnoticeably into Jared’s touch, like he can’t really help himself. “I would never let you go. “

“Jared.” It’s probably supposed to be a question, but it sounds like a warning.

Jared looks down at Jensen’s shirt, at the faded figure of the bat warrior and the way the soft fabric is stretched across Jensen’s chest, over the taut, hard muscles that weren’t there before, only to fall loose on flat stomach and narrow hips. He barely realizes that his hand is moving, too, following the same, invisible path his eyes have taken, doesn’t know until it settles on Jensen’s belly, his fingers spread over a thin line of warm skin where the hem of the shirt don’t quite meet with the waistband of Jensen’s jeans. He would swear that he can feel Jensen’s heart beating hollowly beneath his touch, fast and skittish thump thumps that pretty much match his own.

“You’re wearing the shirt you don’t like,” he notes, a little off topic, finding his voice oddly rough and scraped.

Jensen’s eyes, unfocused and dark, sweep up to Jared’s and he blinks, momentarily puzzled. “It’s… not that bad,” he says then, almost breathless and stammering a little. “It’s. It’s quite comfortable, a-actually.”

Jared smiles at that. “Yeah?”

His gaze locked on Jared, wide and startled, Jensen nods, slow and kind of stiff.

“I wanna kiss you,” Jared tells him, suddenly serious and terrified, but strangely convinced that this is the moment the whole night was heading to. That his whole year was leading to this. To Jensen.

“Wha--at?” Jensen sounds like a record that comes to a sudden, screeching end, and he blinks, again, perplexed. “You… You wanna kiss me because I’m wearing the Batman shirt you gave me?”

“Yeah, it’s… not quite that simple. I almost wish it was. But you can add it to the long list of whys in my head.”

“You have a list?”

Jared nods. “A long one,” he clarifies.

Shaking his head vehemently, Jensen takes a step back, pulling away from Jared and pushing cold into his hands instead. “Jared, I’m… I’m really sorry that your date didn’t work out, but… This. No. You can’t, you… can’t.”

“I can’t kiss you, because you’re straight,” Jared guesses as he moves ahead again, taking only as many steps forward as Jensen tries to put in between them. Until Jensen suddenly, unexpectedly stops, colliding with the wall behind him, and one of the black and white photographs he’s taken on the set and got framed, and put up in despite of Jared’s vehement protests.

It’s a photo of Jared, actually, one of the very few that he likes. Because it’s natural, his own self with no posing and pressing, no make-up or artificial lighting. Because it was Jensen who took it, saying, “Jay”, and no annoying and insistent, ‘Look here, right into the camera. Tilt your head up, now a little to the left. Hold still. Don’t move. Don’t wink.’ There was none of those, just that quiet, languid, “Jay’. And because Jensen’s in that photo, too, kind of, a little like a ghost, just the contour of his silhouette reflected in the glass door behind Jared.

It was a couple of months ago, six or seven, one of the days that really got long and tiring, because it lasted through the whole night. Just another of the many moments that made Jared question the purpose of this whole thing, the so-called function of his profession. Jared remembers it was just a few hours after dawn, in August or July, and the entire horizon was bathed in a whole palette of white and light blue and pink; sleepy, the sun no more than a fiery red, burning ball behind Jensen’s head. It gave him a strange, mysterious flare, made his hair appear blonde, almost golden. Angelic. And really, where did Jensen get the energy to run around with his camera, taking photos of the half taken down set, of the tired crew and sleeping actors, and the sunlit neighborhood, when Jared was done, totally caput? He was slouched on the stairs of one of the houses that played a major part in that particular episode, falling asleep; Sam’s plaid shirt and dirty jeans, Sam’s slowly fading fears and Jared’s complete exhaustion. Jensen was wearing Dean’s black slacks and white shirt, worn and crumpled and pulled out of his pants, with the collar open and the tie, loosened, but still tied around his neck. And though visibly tired, he looked like he just stepped out of a commercial for Calvin Klein or Axe.

Jared’s smile in that photo is natural, unforced, brought up by Jensen and his own grin, by the sparkle in his eyes.



“I can’t kiss you because you feel nothing,” Jared goes on, pushing all those little, unimportant memories away. “Because we’re friends and it would be weird… I can’t kiss you, because you don’t want me to.”

Jensen’s silence is only slightly disturbed by his heavy breaths, the quick rise and fall of his chest, the hot puffs of his breath that caress Jared’s face. Finally, he puts his hand on Jared’s chest, fingers splayed and trembling slightly, keeping Jared at safe distance. “You can’t kiss me because I can’t be a substitute for your failed date.”

“That’s not-“ Jared protests, “I mean, what? Jensen, you’re not. You could never--”

Jensen lets his hand fall, hides both of them in the back pockets of his jeans instead, and Jared immediately feels the loss of his touch, his warmth. “You can’t do that,” he repeats. His tone is so soft, so harmless as he glances up, briefly, meeting Jared’s eyes. “Because… Because it’s you.”

“Because it’s me?” Jared echoes, completely baffled. “Because… Because what’s me?”

“Because it’s you,” Jensen says again, so quietly that Jared can barely hear him. Jared could never hear him if he wasn’t standing that close. “You always wanted to know the reason why Danneel and I broke up,” he reminds. “Well… it was you. You were the reason.”

Something inside of Jared rattles audibly; it might be his heart beating painfully, wildly against his ribcage. “M-me?” he questions, confused and surprised. Naïve and desperately hopeful.

“You.” Jensen lifts his head to meet Jared’s eyes again and, right then, Jared sees something he’s never seen in Jensen’s gaze before, definitely not directed at him. Something warm, innocent, and painful at the same time. Something brittle, dangerously close to love. Even if Jensen suddenly decided to take his previous words back and lie, his eyes would betray him and would speak of truth. Jensen sighs and shakes his head. “She told me that she loves me, but that she can’t stay in a relationship with someone who’s in love with someone else. She was sure that there was someone else. I was… sure that she was wrong. That she was seeing things. Imagining things. You know, all the distance and… everything.” He shrugs as if trying to shake off something or deny it. “She wasn’t wrong. I love…” He pauses like he has run out of breath, like he’s literally choking on the simple, so innocent word. “You.” Jensen sounds and looks so vulnerable, so completely naked to Jared and his thoughts, unarmed against his opinions, and scared of them, too, that it makes Jared feel guilty. For what, he’s not entirely sure. “So, no, you can’t kiss me when you don’t mean it the way I want you to.” He looks away, his eyes strangely glistening, and bites his lip, chewing on the tender skin hard enough to bruise it. He appears so helpless.

Jared is so surprised and completely perplexed by Jensen’s confession that he not only doesn’t know what to say and how to react, he feels like he’s completely lost the ability to create sound, let alone words. It takes a moment before it sinks in, before Jensen’s words really penetrate Jared’s brain, and even longer before he’s able to reply. Somehow, he even forgets to be surprised by the fact that Jensen openly admits that he’s gay, in love with a man, although he had told Jared, not that long ago, that he’s not even bi. He’s simply too stunned of the information that Jensen - his beautiful, amazing Jensen, who can have everyone he looks at - is in love with him.

“Oh, man,” he says eventually as he leans his back against the wall and slides down, right to the floor, the words flat and unintended, but obviously the only ones he can push through his clenched throat.

“Yeah, that’s… quite the reaction I was expecting.” Jensen turns around but he doesn’t head for the laundry room as before; instead he walks towards his bedroom. It almost looks like he’s actually running.

Jared feels cold all of a sudden, chilled to the bone, and like something’s breaking, shattering, something between them. “I love you, too,” he all but whispers, staring at the wall in front of him, at the muddy smudge Sadie had left there a couple of days ago. His voice is too soft to be heard, impossible to understand.

The sound of Jensen’s feet fade, just about the second the threshold creaks slightly beneath his weight. A few seconds pass before he asks, “Sorry?”

Sighing, Jared stands up and takes a few steps in Jensen’s direction. He feels like he wasn’t doing anything else than just that tonight; following Jensen, catching up with him and trying to erase the gaps between them. And yet, possibly, making them only deeper, larger. His legs feel wobbly like they’re made of rubber, and his hands shake, the reality of what he’s just said, the fact that it is nothing but true, hitting his nerves suddenly. “I said… I love you, too,” he repeats, louder and more confident.

Jensen stares at him for a moment, his expression completely blank, just a bare hint of surprise and mistrust mirroring in his eyes. “No, you don’t,” he says then.

“I don’t?” Jared echoes, confused.

“No, because you’re-you’re with Kathleen,” he reminds, so disconcerted that he starts faltering again. He does it surprisingly often, especially when he tries to prove something, to get his point across. “You… you were with Kathleen tonight. So why would you--? That… That doesn’t make sense.”

Jared nods, because Jensen’s right. Theoretically. “It was a mistake,” he says softly. “Tonight. The night before. Kathleen was a mistake. You. I’m, uh… I like you. I didn’t know, I… didn’t realize. But tonight. You were the only thing I could think about. I couldn’t. I wanted to be with you.”

Jensen lets out a quiet breath and leans against the doorframe of his bedroom, sinks against the hard wood, and shakes his head. “You’re… You’re not making fun of me. A-are you, Jare?” His voice is small, so weak, and his eyes measure Jared, his face, as though he’s trying to find answers for more than just that one question, see deeper. “Because if you are. Jared, if you are…”

“You really think I would do that?” Jared questions, trying not to sound as offended by Jensen’s distrust as he feels. He can’t really blame Jensen for not believing him, not when everything that Jensen said is true. But he was still hoping that Jensen knows him better, that there are things that even Jared would never make fun of. “To you, Jen?”

“I. No. I… guess. I hope not.”

“I like you. Why don’t you want to believe it?” He puts his hand on Jensen’s arm, curling his fingers around the hard, sharp bone of his elbow, keeping him from jerking away again. Jensen’s skin is hot, but it immediately pebbles with goose bumps that spread from Jared’s touch higher and down, all the way to Jensen’s wrist.

“Because I spent way too much time wishing for just that.”

Jared smiles. “Wishes can happen, you know? Sometimes.” He presses his forehead against Jensen’s, staring down at him through the curtains of his bangs. Jensen’s eyes are really big from this close, and startlingly deep, a unique shade of golden green. He glances at Jensen’s lips, just a tiny bit open and full, sinfully tempting, and then forgets to look away. He wonders if Jensen’s mouth is really as soft as it looks, how it feels when his lips part, letting someone’s tongue in for a touch, a taste. As if on cue, Jensen’s tongue flickers out, just a brief flash of the pink tip that sneaks out to wet his lower lip in that unconscious, innocent habit of his, setting the low warmth in Jared’s belly right on fire. Blinking rapidly, he forces his eyes up to Jensen’s again. He moves his hand up and over Jensen’s chest, trailing his fingers over the ball chain partly hidden beneath the hem of Jensen’s shirt. He pulls the necklace out, hooking his finger between the two pendants of the patrons Jensen believes in and tugs, urging him closer. “Can I kiss you? Please.”

Jensen’s response is a nod, hesitant and nearly unnoticeable, and a tiny smile that greets his lips. He takes a deep breath, for courage obviously, and tips his chin up, his intent gaze locked on Jared’s.

Jared leans down, that one inch that’s left, close enough to feel the heat of Jensen’s mouth, the taste of his breath, sweet like peaches and wine, and slightly sour. He can practically feel Jensen’s lips against his own, when Jensen, unexpectedly, pulls back. He looks away, his teeth sinking into the bruised flesh of his lip.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” Jared says. “I promise. I just really… wanna kiss you. Nothing more.” Oh, but he does want more. A lot more. Possibly everything. Everything Jensen’s willing to give.

“No,” Jensen peeps, blushing slightly with embarrassment and ducking his head. “I know. I mean, I didn’t… think. Sorry, I’m just.” He laughs a little, an unexpected, startling bark of laughter, choked and full of restlessness. “Kinda nervous.”

“Don’t be,” Jared whispers. “It’s just me. It’s only us.”

“But… But what if it’s not good? What if… it won’t be right? Jare, what if it won’t work?”

“I’m not gonna lie and say that it can’t happen,” Jared starts, unsure of where he’s actually planning to go with this. He puts his hands on Jensen’s hips, running his thumbs mindlessly up and down over his hipbones, scrunching up the fabric of Jensen’s shirt, until he finally meets bare skin. Jensen feels so good like this, so close. “Because it can. I am also scared… I really don’t wanna lose what we have now. I don’t wanna lose you - my best friend, my co-star, the chemistry we gave to the brothers, but… I don’t want to give up on what we could have either. It could be good.”

“Or it could fuck up everything we have. Everything we--”

Jared decides to quit their argument and dilemma by simply silencing the other, doubtful side. He kisses him.

Jensen stops talking practically immediately, the second Jared’s lips touch his own, and his breath audibly hitches, catching in his throat with surprise. In the corner of his eye, Jared can see Jensen’s hand moving up, pausing, hovering in the air close to Jared’s upper arm, almost touching, before he lets it fall to his side again.

Jensen’s lips are smooth, even a bit more than they seemed, plushy, and hot, and they give in easily when Jared pushes a bit, parting slightly under his touch. Jared sighs, whimpers at the feeling, and a bolt of want, a sizzling, aching sensation slides down his spine, nonfading and insistent. He inches closer, shielding Jensen’s body with his own, pushing him against the closest wall, desperate for that proximity, the contact. He clutches Jensen’s hips hard enough to bruise, pressing the whole length of his body into Jensen.

Jensen moans quietly, like it hurts, but he widens his stance, fitting their groins flush together, and it feels good, really good, but still not quite enough. Jared wants closer, in, submerge into Jensen, and possibly drown. Tilting his head to the side, he slip-slides his lips over Jensen’s, just feeling them at first, tasting their fullness and shape for a moment, before he flicks his tongue out, seeking Jensen’s. It’s only when Jensen’s mouth opens up to Jared, letting his tongue in and brushing it with his own, soft and hot and slick, that he touches Jared, his fingers shifting, undecided, over his arms and shoulders, before one of his hands anchors in Jared’s wild hair and the other at the nape of his neck. He pulls himself up to his toes, the weight of his body resting almost fully on Jared, and sighs, kissing Jared deep and hard, and making his stomach twist and turn, coil with lust.

Jared knows that Jensen had never kissed a man before, thinks that he can believe him, because Jensen had no reason to lie when he had said it, but none of that project into his kiss. There’s no shyness or uncertainty, no fear to show what he is and what he feels. He maps Jared’s mouth like he’s trying to memorize all the hollows and ridges, strokes his soft palate and the uneven line of his teeth, sucks onto his tongue, only to pull back and force Jared to follow him, chasing his lips and flavor.

By the time they pull away, lips bruised and glistening with spit, Jared’s breathless. And hard. His erection presses into Jensen’s thigh, hot and pleading, but Jensen isn’t doing much better. He’s flushed and breathing heavily, all of the freckles on his nose and cheeks like highlighted with a sharpie, and tiny droplets of sweat pearl on his forehead and in the hollow of his throat. He looks a little crumpled. And ridiculously beautiful.

Jared draws in a ragged breath and drops his head, rubbing his clean shaved cheek against Jensen’s Dean’s two days stubble. “Damn,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against Jensen’s ear earlobe. “I should have done this earlier. So much, much earlier.”

He can feel the soft chuckle that escapes Jensen’s lips, vibrating where their chests are still touching, warm and infectious. “But that wouldn’t be you,” Jensen says with a smile clearly audible in his voice. “That wouldn’t be us then.”

Part II