(no subject)
Title: An Old Wives' Tale.
Author: mijmeraar
Fandom: Supernatural, RPS
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: PG13 [for language]
Summary: Jared plays mother hen.
A/N: There is a lot of fluff here. A lot. Also, posted everywhere, so sorry if it shows up on your flist half a dozen times. Feedback is cake.
Jensen isn’t sick. He feels as if he’s been hit by a big fucking truck, sure, but that’s not sick. That’s mind over matter. Presently, his mind and matter won’t speak to each other long enough for him to get off the bathroom floor and into the shower.
So he’s just lying there on his back, feeling the cold of the tiles sting his bones and listening to the pulse of his headache ring, and ring, and ring. Then he ignores the fact his mobile is singing out in the next room; that there’s somewhere he has to be and he’s not getting any closer writhing around like a lame horse.
Stuck between telling himself he isn’t sick and trying to heave arse off the floor, Jensen manages to crawl up onto hands and knees and just stop there, swaying with the swish of his guts. His groan bounces off the walls, the sound clanging in his ears like some first graders band recital.
“Dude, you started without me?”
Jensen groans again, falls back to the floor, and grumbles words he means to be “Fuck Off.” He doesn’t have to look over to see Jared leaning against the door frame, arms folded, shit-eating grin on his face that clearly says ‘Everybody we know is going to hear about this’. The list of Dumb-Things-I-Won’t-Ever-Do-Again is long in Jensen’s life, but Giving Jared Keys to His Apartment is right up there. Somewhere around Having Sex With His Adulterous Co-Star, no doubt.
“Do you know what time it is?”
Jensen writhes again, pushes onto his knees. It feels like filming Dead in the Water, struggling to swim up and out, pushed down at every angle. He breathes and it rattles and catches in his throat; his cough is thick and wet and probably dislodges a lung. “Not a good fucking time. Get my stuff, I’ll jump in the shower, be a sec.”
Jared laughs and there’s a hand on Jensen’s shoulder, then one on his back and then Jared’s voice is in his ear, breath on his neck, “You’re not going anywhere, Cinderella, you look like shit run over. Twice.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember you in my will. Now just …” Jensen flails his hands about, because it’s not like there’s any dignity left here anyway. “Help me up.”
Jared complies, one hand clenched around Jensen’s armpit, the other across his back. They both make it to their feet, Jensen leaning on Jared like a crutch, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Face white, nose red, hair untamed; it’s comical or pathetic but probably both. Jensen moves to take his shirt off and Jared stops him with a hand laced around Jensen’s own, “I helped you up to help you to bed, genius.”
“Jared-”
“What did you think you were going to do when you showed up on set looking like this? Give the bad guys a cold?” There’s that familiar laugh, one that Jensen would usually find endearing; but right now he just wants to muster enough strength to sucker punch the bastard.
“It’s not a cold!” he protests, not fighting back as Jared leads them both out and back into the bedroom. Reluctantly, Jensen notes how warm and welcoming the bed looks. He sets his feet as firm as he can and Jared, who isn’t pushing very hard, is forced to stop.
“Oh, so sorry. It’s the flu.”
“It’s not the fucking flu, either!” Jensen continues, his anger morphing into another coughing fit, the pressure squeezing at his lungs. He slumps onto the bed, elbows on his knees to support the weight of his torso. Jared’s beside him in moments, tracing patterns on his back with a tender hand, Jensen letting the tension in every muscle liquefy as he draws in a deep, raspy breath.
“Right. Well, whatever this mysterious illness is, Jen, I think you need to go back to bed.”
“Who the hell are you, Mary Poppins?” Jensen looks up at Jared who’s still grinning like the Cheshire cat who got the cream, “We can’t afford to take sick days, you know that.”
“Better than having you ruin the shot. I can’t have you around if you’re just gonna mess up my A game.”
“You’re … Man, get out of my house.”
Jared laughs again and it takes all of Jensen’s resolve not to laugh with him. Being together like this, having Jared fuss over him - it’s all well and good. It would just be better if they didn’t have 15 hours filming ahead of them; the fact that it won’t actually work without them both doesn’t help either.
“Jen, come on, even the almighty Dean Winchester gets sick.”
“With a fucking cold? Please.”
“Aha! So it is a cold.”
“Bitch.”
Jared’s still laughing as he stands, rounds the other side of the bed and readies it for Jensen’s return. It’s becoming obvious to Jensen that he isn’t going to win this fight - he can’t beat Jared at the best of times, a stuffy head and shaky limbs isn’t going to help his cause.
“Come on,” Before Jensen can splutter his protest, Jared hauls him up and across the bed and pulls the covers right up to his neck.
“When I’m outta this bed I’m gonna have your arse on a platter, Padalecki,” Jensen groans, coughing, rolling to his side in defeat and not bothering to look up at Jared because it’s way too far.
“Does that mean you don’t want me to make you up some lemon and honey drinks?" Jared persists, fluffing out the blanket so it's covering every inch of Jensen, right down to the toes, "A hot water bottle, maybe? A lazy tune to help you sleep?”
“Get your arse to work and give my excuses to Eric,” Jensen mumbles, closing his eyes and letting the drowsiness wash through him. There’s a shift and shuffle and soon Jared’s lips against Jensen’s temple, a tender hand through his hair.
“You’re welcome,” he says softly, probably smiling, and Jensen listens to him leave before giving in to slumber.
Author: mijmeraar
Fandom: Supernatural, RPS
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: PG13 [for language]
Summary: Jared plays mother hen.
A/N: There is a lot of fluff here. A lot. Also, posted everywhere, so sorry if it shows up on your flist half a dozen times. Feedback is cake.
Jensen isn’t sick. He feels as if he’s been hit by a big fucking truck, sure, but that’s not sick. That’s mind over matter. Presently, his mind and matter won’t speak to each other long enough for him to get off the bathroom floor and into the shower.
So he’s just lying there on his back, feeling the cold of the tiles sting his bones and listening to the pulse of his headache ring, and ring, and ring. Then he ignores the fact his mobile is singing out in the next room; that there’s somewhere he has to be and he’s not getting any closer writhing around like a lame horse.
Stuck between telling himself he isn’t sick and trying to heave arse off the floor, Jensen manages to crawl up onto hands and knees and just stop there, swaying with the swish of his guts. His groan bounces off the walls, the sound clanging in his ears like some first graders band recital.
“Dude, you started without me?”
Jensen groans again, falls back to the floor, and grumbles words he means to be “Fuck Off.” He doesn’t have to look over to see Jared leaning against the door frame, arms folded, shit-eating grin on his face that clearly says ‘Everybody we know is going to hear about this’. The list of Dumb-Things-I-Won’t-Ever-Do-Again is long in Jensen’s life, but Giving Jared Keys to His Apartment is right up there. Somewhere around Having Sex With His Adulterous Co-Star, no doubt.
“Do you know what time it is?”
Jensen writhes again, pushes onto his knees. It feels like filming Dead in the Water, struggling to swim up and out, pushed down at every angle. He breathes and it rattles and catches in his throat; his cough is thick and wet and probably dislodges a lung. “Not a good fucking time. Get my stuff, I’ll jump in the shower, be a sec.”
Jared laughs and there’s a hand on Jensen’s shoulder, then one on his back and then Jared’s voice is in his ear, breath on his neck, “You’re not going anywhere, Cinderella, you look like shit run over. Twice.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember you in my will. Now just …” Jensen flails his hands about, because it’s not like there’s any dignity left here anyway. “Help me up.”
Jared complies, one hand clenched around Jensen’s armpit, the other across his back. They both make it to their feet, Jensen leaning on Jared like a crutch, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Face white, nose red, hair untamed; it’s comical or pathetic but probably both. Jensen moves to take his shirt off and Jared stops him with a hand laced around Jensen’s own, “I helped you up to help you to bed, genius.”
“Jared-”
“What did you think you were going to do when you showed up on set looking like this? Give the bad guys a cold?” There’s that familiar laugh, one that Jensen would usually find endearing; but right now he just wants to muster enough strength to sucker punch the bastard.
“It’s not a cold!” he protests, not fighting back as Jared leads them both out and back into the bedroom. Reluctantly, Jensen notes how warm and welcoming the bed looks. He sets his feet as firm as he can and Jared, who isn’t pushing very hard, is forced to stop.
“Oh, so sorry. It’s the flu.”
“It’s not the fucking flu, either!” Jensen continues, his anger morphing into another coughing fit, the pressure squeezing at his lungs. He slumps onto the bed, elbows on his knees to support the weight of his torso. Jared’s beside him in moments, tracing patterns on his back with a tender hand, Jensen letting the tension in every muscle liquefy as he draws in a deep, raspy breath.
“Right. Well, whatever this mysterious illness is, Jen, I think you need to go back to bed.”
“Who the hell are you, Mary Poppins?” Jensen looks up at Jared who’s still grinning like the Cheshire cat who got the cream, “We can’t afford to take sick days, you know that.”
“Better than having you ruin the shot. I can’t have you around if you’re just gonna mess up my A game.”
“You’re … Man, get out of my house.”
Jared laughs again and it takes all of Jensen’s resolve not to laugh with him. Being together like this, having Jared fuss over him - it’s all well and good. It would just be better if they didn’t have 15 hours filming ahead of them; the fact that it won’t actually work without them both doesn’t help either.
“Jen, come on, even the almighty Dean Winchester gets sick.”
“With a fucking cold? Please.”
“Aha! So it is a cold.”
“Bitch.”
Jared’s still laughing as he stands, rounds the other side of the bed and readies it for Jensen’s return. It’s becoming obvious to Jensen that he isn’t going to win this fight - he can’t beat Jared at the best of times, a stuffy head and shaky limbs isn’t going to help his cause.
“Come on,” Before Jensen can splutter his protest, Jared hauls him up and across the bed and pulls the covers right up to his neck.
“When I’m outta this bed I’m gonna have your arse on a platter, Padalecki,” Jensen groans, coughing, rolling to his side in defeat and not bothering to look up at Jared because it’s way too far.
“Does that mean you don’t want me to make you up some lemon and honey drinks?" Jared persists, fluffing out the blanket so it's covering every inch of Jensen, right down to the toes, "A hot water bottle, maybe? A lazy tune to help you sleep?”
“Get your arse to work and give my excuses to Eric,” Jensen mumbles, closing his eyes and letting the drowsiness wash through him. There’s a shift and shuffle and soon Jared’s lips against Jensen’s temple, a tender hand through his hair.
“You’re welcome,” he says softly, probably smiling, and Jensen listens to him leave before giving in to slumber.