Supernatural RPS: Hearthstone, 1/5 | Jensen/Jared | R

[mollyamory]

:: Master post ::

When the bell above the door at the front of the shop rings, it's the first time Jensen's heard it all day. It's instantly irritating. This is his writing time; the fact that he's spent the past two hours alternating between Minesweeper and MSNBC.com on his laptop has absolutely no bearing on the issue. Writing time is sacred.

The guy with the hair doesn't know that. He comes up to the counter, where Jensen's sitting next to the cash register and a little rack of candy bars, and says, "Is there a bathroom on the premises I could use?" in a very intense voice.

Jensen's about to say no when he notices the guy is bleeding from the head. A tiny part of him freezes up, just for a second, and his hand jerks up to his own hairline, rubbing at a long, white line of a scar that's all but invisible unless you know what to look for. Or unless Jensen's randomly pointing at it for no good reason. He drops his hand casually to the counter and says, "Are you sure you don't need a paramedic more than a bathroom?"

"Just some tissues or something," the guy says. "Some running water. It looks worse than it is."

The cut slants down from his hairline toward his right ear. A steady trickle of blood runs from the gash down to the neck of his t-shirt, which suddenly resolves itself into carnage rather than the bizarro arty design Jensen thought it was at first. Between the shredded edges of flesh, he thinks he can see the guy's brain.

"What happened to you?"

"Hey, I know, let me explain it to you while I bleed all over your counter. I'm sure that will be great for business! Come on, man. Bathroom? Please?"

Not even Jensen can make a case that the sarcasm is unwarranted; it's a bandage first, ask questions later situation. "Sorry. Come on back. I think there's a first aid kit under the sink."

He leads the guy around the end of the counter and into his office. The door to the bathroom is off to the right of Jensen's desk, and there actually is a first aid kit under the sink, though God only knows how old it is. He pulls it out and sets it on the back of the toilet, pulling out a roll of gauze.

"I can handle it, you don't have to--"

"No offense, dude, but you're turning transparent. You should probably sit down."

"It's just a little cut."

"So's the Grand Canyon." Jensen gives the guy the lightest of pushes; he folds down onto the toilet seat like he's been punched in the gut. "Yeah, you're totally on top of this," Jensen says. "Hold still."

He cleans the cut with peroxide and a wad of the gauze, which he very much hopes is sterile. The guy hisses, and lets loose with a moan that would make a zombie's mama proud.

"Sorry, I left the morphine at home." He doesn't actually call the guy a wuss -- because that would be rude -- but he tries to get the point across through tone and exaggerated eye-rolling. From the way the guy straightens up and glares, Jensen's sure he's succeeded.

The cut really isn't as bad as it looked at first. It's ugly, but not particularly deep. No brain showing after all. Jensen cleans it out and pats it dry while his patient hisses at him, then paints the whole thing with a bottle of iodine of indeterminate age and provenance. When he's done, he covers the cut with a pad of gauze and some white tape, washes and dries his hands, and steps back to survey his work.

"I think you'll live."

"I fell off my bike. Out in front of the shop." Red spots stand out on the guy's cheeks. "There was a cat, on the sidewalk, and--"

"You're not really supposed to ride your bike on the sidewalk."

"Yes, I know that, but--"

"You didn't hit the cat, did you?"

"No, I didn't, but--"

"Where's your bike? If you left it outside, I'm sorry to tell you it's probably already been stolen. The kids in this neighborhood are vicious little bastards and they operate outside of any accepted moral framework."

"My name's Jared," the guy blurts out, "I locked my bike to the 'No Parking' sign before I came in, I didn't hit the cat, and I was only on the sidewalk because I nearly got run down by a catering truck in the street. I just moved here and I'm still learning my way around town. I live out on Button Hill Road, the old place on the pond. I like biking," he finishes in a rush, "It's relaxing."

Jensen stares at the guy with the hair, recently downgraded to the guy with the gaping head wound and now upgraded to Jared. "Okay," he says, when he's sure the flood of information has stopped. "I have a spare shirt you can borrow."

Jared says, "Sweet," and smiles up at Jensen. "You don't have to."

"You look like an extra from Saw III," Jensen says, but he can't help but smile back; that's the kind of face Jared has. "Can't have you scaring off all my customers. Just give me a minute." He closes the door to give Jared some privacy, goes back into his office and fishes a t-shirt with the store's logo out of the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. It's deep red, short-sleeved, and it's going to look great on Jared.

When he knocks on the bathroom door, Jared opens it and asks, "Hey, what's your name?" He's naked from the waist up, and looks like an ad for sunshine and clean living.

Jensen's forced to re-evaluate. The shirt is going to look fucking amazing.

Jared doesn't want to go to the ER. In fact, what he wants is to get on his bike and ride back home like nothing happened. Presented with this dangerously insane decision, Jensen finds it hard not to gape.

"How hard did you hit your head, exactly?" He tries to be discreet about checking the dilation of Jared's pupils. They appear to be about the same size, but the only medical experience Jensen has comes from six months in physical therapy, six seasons of Grey's Anatomy, and a CPR course for credit back in high school.

Jared laughs, and it's a little ridiculous. Too many teeth and a flip-top head, like a Pez dispenser. Jensen can't take his eyes off of it. "I'll be fine," Jared says. "It's only a couple of miles."

"It was only a couple of miles here," Jensen points out. "You didn't even have a concussion on the way in, and look how you ended up."

Jared watches Jensen a beat too long to be casual, then leans over the high counter between them, his elbows propping him up. The fabric of the t-shirt (which should have been at least one size larger, not that Jensen's complaining) stretches across wide shoulders. Jared's eyes are bright and interested. "Yeah," he says in a low, satisfied tone that rakes across Jensen's nerves pleasantly. "Look how I ended up."

Jensen's face heats up, and he tries to stop the blush, but it's no good. He's got the wrong kind of skin for it, can't even see somebody else embarrassed without turning prom-dress pink. "Really," he says, ducking his head and trying to hide a grin. "That's what you're going with?"

"No?"

"No."

Jared picks himself up off the counter and sighs. His entire body shifts from come-on to carefree, and the hotness factor dims to a manageable level. "Can't say I didn't try."

Jensen laughs. "If that was trying, man, I'm very sorry for you. You must not get out much."

"Hey! I do all right. You saying you want me to work for it?"

"Please don't. I don't feel right mocking the wounded."

Jared raises both his hands in surrender. "Okay, but I should warn you, you're going to regret it when you get to know me. I'm pretty awesome."

"I'll find some way to go on." Jensen eyes Jared thoughtfully. He kind of saved the guy, and his conscience is starting to ping; he may not be responsible for Jared from here on out, but at the very least, he should try to get him back home in one piece. He thinks longingly of his laptop and the hour he would totally have spent writing amazing stuff if he hadn't been co-opted into paramedic duty, and sighs. "Look, I've got a truck in the lot out back. We can throw your bike in the back, and I'll drive you home."

"Are you sure?" Jared looks around. "I mean, you're the only one here."

"I'm always the only one here." Jensen goes around the counter and flips the 'open' sign on the door to 'closed.' "Unless somebody else comes by bleeding to death, nobody will ever know I was gone. Or here in the first place, for that matter."

"Your boss won't mind you leaving?"

"He'll get over it," Jensen says. "Trust me."

He completely fails at not staring at the long curve of Jared's back as he unlocks the bike, and then fails at not being noticed staring, too. It's not his fault; the man is walking art work, and he knows it. Jared's smile is instant and gleeful, and he practically bounces as he straightens up to his full height, puffing out his chest. Jensen laughs, and takes the bike away from him. "Fine, you're hot, whatever. That's not all it takes."

"I got more." Jared falls into step with him. "I'm just biding my time." He tucks his hands into his pockets and walks closer than he has to, so their arms brush against each other over and over. Jensen wheels the bike closer to the edge of the sidewalk, rolling his eyes. He lets Jared take it back when they reach the truck, so he can unlock the tailgate.

"Nice," Jared says respectfully, and thereby wins himself an instant toehold in Jensen's affections.

Jensen tamps down a flare of smugness. The truck is sleek and black and unashamedly gigantic, the first thing he bought when Loretta made him start spending his money. He pulls a blanket from behind the driver's seat and lays it out over the bed liner, and Jared hoists his bike onto it like it weighs less than nothing. When he catches Jensen watching, he does something alarming with his eyebrows and flexes his biceps in a very meaningful way. It's far more comic book villain than porn star, and Jared's face falls hilariously when Jensen laughs.

"Get in the truck, Fabio," he says, unlocking the doors with the remote on his keychain. "And try not to bust out of that t-shirt in the process. I'm not giving you another."

"It's like you're made of stone," Jared says.

In the summer, every Wednesday at two-thirty, Jensen packs up his stuff, closes up the shop, and goes to the library for an hour. He's been doing it for two years now, ever since Danneel started bugging him to do something, anything, outside of his house or the store or the bar. Jensen thinks the house-store-bar circuit is plenty. It's more than most people do -- a lot of people don't even bother with the bar part. They just go to work and then home, and maybe sometimes to get groceries. That's all his parents do, which makes him a full social set ahead of his genetic predisposition. But Danny is relentless, has been since ninth grade when she plopped herself down at the desk next to him, grabbed his Algebra book and opened it dead center between them. "I'm new," she'd said, "Mind if I share?" That was the first and last time she'd bothered to ask.

So, the library. And he kind of likes it. He likes the beige carpet and the kid-painted murals where everybody's head is too big and their eyes are different sizes and there are lots of footballs and soccer balls and basketballs and flowers. Not a lot of books in the murals, which he's always thought was kind of odd, but you can't really tell kids what to do with paint once they realize you're actually going to let them at the walls.

When he walks up to the desk, the woman behind it says, "Hey, Jen," and reaches out for the books he brought to return.

"Hey, Gen," he says, grinning. "Those are overdue, by the way."

"You finish any of them this time?"

"Are you doing something different with your hair? It looks awesome."

"I brushed it," Genevieve says. "Honestly, you didn't finish any of them?"

"They were boring."

"They're classics!"

"Chick lit classics," he says, "which is totally different from being an actual classic." He says it just to rile her up and it works; her dark eyes narrow and she shakes her head at him, flipping back her long black hair.

"Jane Austen is not chick lit! My God, there is something wrong with your brain. Get out of my library, you heathen, I don't want you influencing my kids."

"It's still Narnia today, so the kids will be totally safe with me, I promise."

"They better be." Genevieve pokes him in the shoulder. "I will throw you over for the new guy in a heartbeat if you step out of line."

"What new guy?" Jensen says, just as Jared says, "Jensen? What are you doing here?"

Jensen is already frowning when he turns around. "I do read, thanks."

Jared ignores him in favor of beaming at Genevieve. "This is the guy I was telling you about!"

Her eyebrows go up to an unflattering height. "Jensen is your mysterious knight in shining armor?"

Jensen turns his glare back on her. "That's so unbelievable?"

"You talking to a stranger is kind of unbelievable," she says, "yeah."

"He was bleeding from the head!"

"I was," Jared confirms, pointing. There's a slightly less amateurish bandage over the cut, which now lives on top of an ugly bruise and a bump. Jensen's not sure the overall effect is an improvement. "Now I'm all fixed up. And I brought cookies." He rattles the pink box in his hands, which Jensen hadn't noticed due to inappropriate ogling. "Chocolate chip, chocolate chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, oatmeal chocolate chip, ginger snaps, sugar cookies, and a couple of raspberry tart thingies."

Jensen blinks. "Dude. Did you rob a bakery?"

"Um. Kinda?"

"Are we supposed to be feeding all this to the story hour group? Because their parents are not going to thank us for that."

Jared's face falls, and Jensen immediately feels like a jerk.

"I guess I didn't think of that," Jared says.

"Ignore him," Gen commands, throwing Jensen a disgusted look. "He's bitter and cranky and he doesn't even like Jane Austen. The kids will love these." She grabs the box out of Jared's hands and pats his shoulder comfortingly. She has to reach up really high to do it. "Thank you, Jared." She gives Jensen one last ugly look and takes the cookies over to the juice table that's already set up for the kids.

Jensen hunches his shoulders and looks up at Jared. "I am bitter and cranky," he says, by way of apology, and Jared breaks into a huge smile.

"Yeah," he says. "I noticed. I'm kind of into it." He shakes his head, never taking his eyes off Jensen; it makes Jensen feel like he's standing under a heat lamp.

"I didn't hate the Austen, though. Just don't tell Gen. She'd consider it a victory. I made her read three Stephen King novels last year and I think she still sleeps with a night light." Jensen clears his throat. "Are you, uh. Are you sticking around for the reading?"

"No, I have to get back to work."

"Oh, good," Jensen says, and immediately his face heats up. "I mean, it's good that you took the time to stop by. The kids really will be thrilled."

Jared's eyes narrow. "Wait a minute," he says. "Are you doing the reading?"

"Every Wednesday for two years," Gen says, rejoining them. She's smiling, and she slips an arm around Jensen's waist; apparently, he's forgiven. "The rugrats adore him. Sometimes he brings his guitar and they do sing-alongs. They think he's some kind of rock star."

"Yeah?" Jared says, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, a warm smile making Jensen's breath catch in his throat. "I'm starting to think so, too."

Suddenly there's a lot of Jared, all over town. Jensen sees him at the gas station on the corner of Main and Park, biking down Pond Street while Jensen's driving up to Chris's place, coming out of the Starbucks on Madison. They nod, they smile, they wave, but it's all from a distance; they don't really get a chance to talk. Jensen should be fine with that; he's got everything and everybody he needs in his life, so if this new person that Jensen wasn't looking for and didn't ask for turns out to be just a walk-on player, who cares?

But there's something about the guy -- those hands, and that smile, and that crazy laugh, not that he's made a list or anything -- that just gets to him. It takes more than a pretty face, but Jared seems to have more than a pretty face. Jensen's starting to think it might be okay to let him in a little, assuming he still wants in.

He waffles on it; he thinks about calling Loretta. But that would make it a thing, and it's not a thing. It's just life, and he's supposed to be getting better at that by now. He makes elaborate plans to run into Jared again, accidentally, then holes up his store with the sign flipped over to Closed.

His luck runs out -- or kicks in -- about a week later. Predictably, during sacred writing time.

This time Jensen's got a file open with some words in it. Granted, he wrote them almost four years ago, when he was still living in an apartment over his grandparents' garage and eating Ramen every other night to save up for a monthly bus pass. But they count, and he's going to add more to them. As soon as he hits Grand Wizard level at Alchemy.

Again.

When the bell over the door rings, he slams the lid of the laptop closed, rolls his eyes up toward the ceiling and says, "Seriously? We're closed!"

"Hi!" Jared drops a stuffed paper bag onto the countertop and, a little more carefully, a tray with two paper cups in it. The scent of coffee wafts up from them, appeasing Jensen only a little. "I could see you through the window."

"You're not bleeding again, are you?" he asks, examining Jared's head critically.

"Nope. Not today."

"Okay, look." Jensen reaches for the cup closest to him, and looks at Jared; Jared nods encouragement, so Jensen takes it. "This is really sweet, but --"

"I'm not hitting on you."

Jensen blinks. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, I was the other day. I probably will again in the future. But this right now is just, you know, thank you. For the surgery and the ride."

"Oh. Well, you're welcome."

"It comes with muffins." Jared opens up the bag, and pulls out a couple of paper napkins, two forks, and two of the largest muffins Jensen has ever seen in his life. "Chocolate strawberry," he says. "New recipe. I made them fresh this morning. I'm sorry in advance, in case they suck."

They don't smell like they're going to suck. They smell like they were baked in heaven by the divine hands of the breakfast gods. Jensen's dedication to his imminent literary career wobbles. On the one hand, sacred writing time. On the other...

"Okay," he says, snagging a muffin and a fork, "you can stay," and Jared breaks into a wide, warm smile.

The coffee is pretty good. The muffin is fantastic. It melts on Jensen's tongue and zips through his taste buds straight to the pleasure center of his brain. It's like the platonic ideal of muffins, perfection in a paper liner. Jared watches him take his first bite, and laughs as Jensen's eyes go wide.

"Dude, you made this?" Jensen asks, his mouth still full.

"Yeah. It's what I do. Well, not just muffins, I make other stuff too. Breads, cakes, bagels, pies, brownies. The cookies for the kids at the library. Sometimes a quiche here and there."

"You're a baker?"

Jared's smile dims a little, but from where Jensen's sitting it gets a little more personal. "Yeah, Jensen," he says. "I'm a baker. Is that a problem?"

It is a problem. It's kind of hot. Jensen processes this while inhaling the muffin and checking the bag to see if there might be another. He gets an image in his head, a snapshot -- well, actually it's more like an X-rated YouTube video -- of Jared in a white t-shirt, white apron -- long, tan arms flexing as he kneads and molds a ball of dough with those large, competent hands. It's the first time Jensen's ever envied flour.

He fishes out the last muffin. "A baker," he says, cutting it in two and sliding half over to Jared. "You're one of the guys who bought that place on Derry Road? I live about a mile from there."

"I'm the baking guy. Chad's the business guy."

Jensen thinks about that for a minute while chewing. And then he thinks about how hard and repeatedly Jared had hit on him the week before. He frowns and says, "So you two are--"

"Partners, yeah. Sad to say, but I couldn't do it without him. I just bake."

"Ah." Jensen pushes back from the counter, just far enough to prove to himself that he can, now that he knows he should. "You know, this was awesome, but I have to get back to work."

Jared looks around the empty store. "Seriously?"

"There's accounting stuff," Jensen says. "I don't have a business guy."

"But--"

"Really, thanks for breakfast." Jensen puts as much finality into it as he can and looks pointedly toward the door.

Jared stays where he is. He just looks at Jensen, a thoughtful expression on his face that actually makes him look a little vapid. "You know," he says slowly, "I probably should clarify. Chad's my business partner. I don't have a partner partner. If I did, I wouldn't go around hitting on random mysterious bookshop employees, no matter how hot they were."

Jensen's face heats up; he feels like he got caught flinching from a punch that was never coming. He should probably apologize for overreacting, but an apology might be an overreaction, too. Instead, he says, "Oh," and "Yeah, well," and hunches his shoulders up, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I'm not all that mysterious."

"You are hot, though." Jared leans over the counter, propping himself up with his elbows and toying with a napkin. "Now I'm hitting on you," he says, and the friendly warmth in his eyes makes something in Jensen loosen up.

"Still takes more than you're bringing," Jensen replies, his eyes on Jared's hands.

"More than muffins?"

Jensen loves the bookstore, but even more than that, he loves his house. It's set back from the road, accessible by a long and slightly curving cobblestone driveway. Tall oaks and maples shield most of the property from view, and give the illusion of more privacy than anybody actually gets in a town like Bishop's Landing. Chris and Mike had argued for some kind of security fence; Mike was pushing for something in the electrified line, possibly supplemented with a moat. But the only real danger he was in has long since passed, and Jensen doesn't like to let his nerves have that much traction.

The house itself is big. He likes the bulk of it around him, the feel of the smooth white walls that stretch up to the high ceilings, the hardwood and brick and granite of it all. His own private Fortress of Solitude. He thought he'd have a house full of visitors, thought Danny would crash in one of the wings and bring her leather and her books and her fourteen tons of mascara; he thought Chris would sit on the picnic table by the grill and play guitar. But it's been three years, and the time never seems quite right for a party. Danny seems to like her own apartment, and Chris has a grill of his own. Jensen tries not to mind; he kind of likes the quiet.

He settles down on the sofa in the living room, digs out his phone and calls Chris, which is pretty much what he does every day except Fridays, when he's going to see Chris in person.

"Hey, man. You get those papers I sent you?"

"Haven't checked my email yet," Jensen lies. He checked it; he just hasn't bothered to open it.

"You sit around online all day, but you can't take two minutes to open your fucking email? What is wrong with you, man?"

"Sacred writing time," Jensen says, turning on the TV. The screen is as big as a windshield, about half the size of the one he's got set up in the basement, and he loves it more than he loves any of his friends. Especially more than he loves Chris. He mutes the sound, and flips through the channels while Chris bitches about him to Steve and Steve points out Jensen can hear him and Chris points out he doesn't give a fuck.

"I'm just sayin', there's only so much Popcap one guy can play."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Jensen says. "If there was a limit, I definitely would have hit it by now. But I wasn't just screwing around today. That guy came back."

There's a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Or maybe a Moment of Silence, given Chris's opinion of Jensen's social life. A memorial moment, to remember the fallen. "The hot guy with the head wound and the cookies? He came back?"

"Yeah."

"How hard did he hit his head, exactly?" Chris asks, and Jensen laughs.

"Pretty hard, apparently. He brought me coffee and muffins."

"Christ."

"Shut up," Jensen says. "It was just a thank you, for not letting him bleed out on my floor."

"A thank you is thank you for that. Breakfast is thank you, and my don't you look fetching in that ridiculous Jedi t-shirt."

Jensen frowns. "That is a deeply cool t-shirt, and I look deeply cool in it."

"Have you explained to him yet how you're a professional recluse?"

"Shut up, and no. He put it out there, I turned him down..."

"And?"

Jensen scratches at the back of his neck, and grins a little to himself. "He didn't seem all that put off by it."

There's a pause, in which Jensen can hear Chris's hackles rising. "Charmingly-persistent-not-put-off, or restraining-order-and-I-punch-his-ticket-for-him-not-put-off?"

"So far, the former. Anyway, I doubt he's serious about it. Nobody plays that hard without being a player."

Chris snorts. "Right. And because if he's just a player, you don't have to do anything about it. So I gotta ask again: What is wrong with you?"

"We just met ten minutes ago," Jensen says, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, "and it's not a thing. But hey, seriously, thanks for the feedback."

"Whatever. Send him around, I want to check him out. But you come, too. If you're not into him, you can flirt with my bartender all night, problem solved. But if it turns out you are, that's no bad thing, dude."

"Thanks," Jensen says, and he means it; Chris never changed, even when everything else did. "You know I--"

"Don't go home with my bartender," Chris says, shutting down the moment. "I have to find a new one, I warn you now: It will be you."

Jensen lets out a shaky breath. "Like I need your money, asshole," he says, and Chris laughs.

Jared doesn't come by for a while. Which is fine. Jensen just met the guy; it's not like they're suddenly soul mates. A little harmless flirting doesn't actually obligate Jared to follow up on it. He's new in town, he's probably meeting tons of people. Actually, he's probably forgotten about Jensen altogether by now. Guys with arms like that generally don't have a lot going on in the way of brain power; it's just as well Jared hasn't been around to speed along Jensen's inevitable disappointment in him.

A few weeks later, Chris has stopped asking about him, and Jensen has stopped making excuses. The guy's gone. Not from the town, maybe, but definitely from the parts of it Jensen hangs out in -- all three of them. It sucks, because the play Jared was running was actually working. Over three years since Aaron, and maybe Jensen hasn't been exactly celibate the whole time, but he sure as hell hasn't let anybody else in. With Jared, he was starting to think about it.

Friday morning, to kick off sacred writing time, Jensen opens up his laptop, flexes his fingers, and starts typing. It's an email to his parents with pictures and diagrams showing them how to hook up their TiVo to the plasma screen he had shipped to them last week, but it's words on a page, so he counts it as a win. He's so wrapped up in how much good he's doing himself and everybody else by being a grown-up about Jared's complete lack of interest that Jared's actual appearance in front of him takes Jensen by surprise.

He stares up at Jared with wide eyes, his heart pounding in his chest, and for once it's not from awkward thwarted crushing. This time it's because the guy's a ninja.

"Jesus," Jensen says, "you scared the fuck out of me!"

"There's a bell over the door, dude."

"I didn't think you were coming back," Jensen says, and immediately cringes from his own lack of smooth. "I mean. I hadn't seen you around, so I didn't know if --"

"I've been stuck at work about thirty hours a day, getting everything ready for the grand opening." Jared unloads the tray, pushes coffee at Jensen, and pelts him with little packets of sugar. "I'm exhausted. I haven't slept since the last time I saw you. Here, drink up. You aren't really good with mornings, are you?"

Jared does look a little white around the eyes, and his smile isn't quite the epic golden beam Jensen's soft-lens memory made it out to be. Still, it's pretty nice, and it doesn't appear to be trying to let Jensen down easy. A wave of relief, totally out of proportion to the extent of their interaction so far, takes Jensen not at all by surprise.

"I'm not an addict," Jensen says, hugging his cup close to his chest and inhaling the steam rising up from it. It's not clear to him if he's talking about the coffee, or Jared. His smile gets away from him when he meets Jared's eyes, and he feels so much better about life, he doesn't even care. "What's in the bag?"

"Raspberry chocolate croissants."

"I'm embarrassed to tell you, I can be had for less."

Jared's face goes a little pink, and he becomes suddenly absorbed in managing his own cup and laying out breakfast. "You go all slutty at the sight of pastry. Noted. Did I mention I own a bakery?"

Jensen laughs. "Yeah, I think you did."

He doesn't have a lot to say for a while after that, what with his mouth being stuffed full of croissant. Jared is in much the same condition, but doesn't let it prevent him from talking, which is the grossest and cutest and most hilarious thing Jensen's ever seen. From the smug look on Jared's face after he swallows, Jensen's pretty sure Jared knows exactly what he's doing.

"So," Jared says finally, wiping a trace of raspberry from the corner of his mouth. He props himself up on his elbows on the counter, his coffee cup looking like a kid's toy between his large, square hands. "This place. It's yours, right?"

Jensen isn't expecting the question; he straightens up, looking around the store defensively. It's not that he doesn't know it's a little weird; it's just that everybody he knows already knows everything about him. "I -- yeah," Jensen says finally, hunching his shoulders. "Basically."

"I can't help but notice you don't have any customers. Like, ever. I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but maybe you should think about hiring someone a little more skilled in the customer relations department."

"Hey!"

Jared leans in a little closer, and drops his voice to a whisper. "Come on, Jensen. You can tell me. Mafia front, right? I've seen your truck, too, it's sweet. What are you, like, the long lost Soprano or something?"

"Got it in one. Jensen's actually a traditional mob name. It means 'shut up about my store or I'll kick your ass, even if it is two feet higher than the asses of normal-sized people.'"

"Wow. It's like your mom could see the future!"

Jared hits him with a smile bright enough to black out the Eastern seaboard, and Jensen can't help but laugh. He shoves at Jared's shoulder and says, "Don't talk about my mom, dude," but Jared doesn't seem to care at all about Jensen's mom. He just looks at Jensen like he'd rather be touching him instead, and it makes Jensen's head spin. That's how good it is to have somebody look at him like that.

To have Jared, specifically, looking at him like that.

"Here's the thing," Jared says finally. "The only friend I have in this town is Chad. And Chad is like -- you know, you want him around if your house has been robbed or your heart's been broken, or if you wrecked your car or pissed off your sister. He's great in a crunch. But the rest of the time...."

"Yeah?"

Jared pushes the bag with the last croissant in it slowly across the counter, until it nudges up against Jensen's hand. "Do you maybe want to have breakfast with me? Like, a lot?"

"Yeah." Jensen curls his hand around his coffee cup, a little embarrassed at how fast that came out. "But we're going to have to talk about sacred writing time."

Jared agrees to avoid the bookstore when Jensen's trying to write, and Jensen agrees to start trying to write after Jared comes around with breakfast. It's a workable solution, and it holds steady for the next couple of weeks. Jared spends a lot of mornings trying out strange new muffins on Jensen and complaining about the contractor renovating the bakery's kitchen, while Jensen spends a lot of time appreciating Jared's hands, his pastry skills, and his ability to speak in complete sentences after getting up before dawn to bake. More or less in that order.

"A while back, I almost joined the Peace Corps," Jensen tells Jared over a newspaper and coffee a week later. It's donuts this time, glazed and chocolate and jelly filled, and a couple of bagels.

It's not something he could tell anybody who already knows him. Half his friends would laugh, and the other half would laugh and then yell at him. But he did think about it; he filled out the application and everything. He's been thinking a lot about his life lately, and he wants to do something. Especially since he's been hanging out with Jared, who seems so ridiculously self-actualized he could be a self-help commercial.

He just can't figure out his thing. Writing is the only thing he's ever really been good at, and he hasn't been good at that in a really long time. He wants that thing that Jared has, that sense of doing the thing he was meant to do, being the person he was meant to be. When Jared's around, Jensen almost feels like he could have it.

To his credit, Jared doesn't even twitch at the non sequitur. "Yeah?"

"I looked into it. Talked to some people. Found out I was completely unprepared. Everybody was really nice about it, but I was just going to end up fetching water and coffee for people who actually knew what they were doing."

"Somebody has to do that stuff, though, right?"

Jensen doesn't look up from the article he's reading, but there's a warm tug in the pit of his stomach, a visceral response to the concern he can hear in Jared's voice. "Yeah. But I wanted to feel like I was doing something, making a difference somewhere. Bottom line, I wanted to go for myself. There are people who are really serious about it, committed to it, you know? I was just gonna be in the way." He sent a check instead, because he's pretty good at that part of it. He just wishes he could be good at something better.

Jared dumps another packet of sugar into his coffee and stirs. Jensen waits it out, letting him think. "I think it says something good, though. That you wanted to do something."

"I still want to do something," Jensen says. Signing checks is doing something, but it doesn't feel like a valid life plan.

"I have a new theory," Jared says after a while, around an entire donut.

Jensen looks at Jared over the top of the paper. "A theory about what?"

"All this." Jared waves a hand, and Jensen understands it to mean the store, and Jensen, and everything. "You have a secret identity."

"I thought we already did that one. Or do you mean... like Bruce Wayne?" Jensen can get behind that one; he can definitely see himself as a masked crusader for justice by night, manic-depressive businessman by day.

But Jared's expression, half amusement and half disgust, puts that idea in the ground. "I'm thinking some famous writer who churns out a best-seller a year," he says. "Sells the movie rights, makes a summer blockbuster, makes a bundle, right? But a recluse. Doesn't want the fame, just the fortune. Like Stephen King, or Neil Gaiman."

Jensen laughs. "I hate to disillusion you, Jared, but Stephen King definitely wants the fame."

"Like them," Jared explains patiently. "Not actually them."

"I know, I'm just saying. Wrong and wrong. Feel free to keep guessing, though. I don't have anywhere to be."

"No cross-cultural journeys of self-discovery in your immediate future?" Jared's not looking at him, but there's color in his cheeks, and he's listening like the answer really matters.

"I think it's best I leave the on-the-ground stuff to people with actual skills."

"Good," Jared says firmly. "I like you here. Here is good."

Jensen keeps his eyes on his screen, biting back a pleased grin, and starts an email to Loretta; until he figures himself out, bankrolling dedicated people is the least he can do.

"Sacred writing time?" Jared asks, watching him type madly away.

"My summer blockbuster," Jensen says.

It takes a while to build up to hauling Jared off to Kane's. Partly because Jensen's not really comfortable with what his friends might feel drunkenly compelled to spill about him, but mostly because the next move Jensen's waiting for never quite happens. Jared does a lot of looking, especially when he thinks Jensen's not paying attention, and he does a lot of teasing, but he doesn't put himself out there again. Jensen has just about convinced himself that Jared never really meant anything by it; he was only being friendly, in his bizarrely cute and suggestive way. He probably come-hithers everybody he knows like that. It's fine; friendship is a good thing, and Jensen can work with it. Friendship is easy.

Kane's is on what passes for the main drag of Bishop's Landing, and it's the main hangout for the post-college slacker crowd, which most of Jensen's friends belong to. It's always crowded on Friday nights, but the big press doesn't start till around ten. Jensen and Jared get there just past eight, while there are still open tables here and there. Jensen steers them through the crowd and up to the bar, orders a couple of beers, and gazes a little longer than necessary at Tom's shoulders as he hands them over. He figures that will send the right kind of message: I'm absolutely chill, Jared, see? Not pining at all. Not even a little.

Tom is, beyond question, the most classically handsome person Jensen has ever seen in real life. He's got the blue eyes and the square jaw and the cinematic ideal of a smile, and he's not all that bad below the neck, either. He's calm and centered and wiser than his years, and by all rights Jensen should be head over heels for him. But he's never had even a flicker of interest in Tom, and Tom knows it, so when Jensen's eyes linger on him, Tom's eyes flick over to Jared.

"I'm not your decoy, Ackles," he says, and slams the bottles down on the bar with more force than is strictly required. "And you can tell Chris to go fuck himself for even suggesting it."

Jensen's head falls forward and his shoulders slump. The other thing Tom is, is really fucking smart.

"Tom Welling," Tom says to Jared, stretching a hand out over the bar. "You must be the new guy." They shake hands, smiling at each other from their ridiculously attractive faces, and for a second there's a hot spark of jealousy in Jensen's chest.

"Jensen brought me here to scare me off," Jared says cheerfully, and the tiny spark gutters mercifully and dies.

"How's that working out for him?"

Jared smiles down at Jensen, his eyes warm and amused. "Not really all that well."

Jensen grabs both bottles and points a warning finger at Tom, who grins and zips it instead of saying whatever unfriendly, un-back-having thing he was about to say. There's a table in the corner by the window, not too far from the bar; it's the same table Jensen always takes, and he drops into the same chair he always does, waving at Jared to sit wherever he likes.

Jared likes the chair next to Jensen's, and he likes it closer than is really necessary. When he takes his beer, his arm brushes up against Jensen's, and he gives Jensen a long, smoky look that lets him know Jared did it on purpose.

"I see what taking my time gets me," Jared says darkly, knocking Jensen's friendship theory off the table.

"We'll have company in a few," Jensen says, looking out at the street. This early in summer, twilight comes a little later every day. The evening has gone pale blue out there, cool and shadowy under a slowly darkening sky. "You call Chad?"

"No." Jared ducks his head and laughs. "I, uh. I don't really bring him along for first impressions."

"That's cold. Does he know you ditched him?"

"It was his idea! He knows what he's like, he just can't help it. Once your friends are crazy about me, I'll bring him in to meet everybody. They'll love him by proxy. Or at least tolerate him, which is good enough for me, and more than he gets from most people."

"I have a friend like that. We should probably keep them apart for the safety of the town."

"Chad with a partner in crime," Jared says thoughtfully. "That's going to give me nightmares."

"You don't know the half of it." Jensen leans back in his chair and waves toward the crowd with his beer. "You're about to, though. I don't hide mine in the attic."

Jensen likes Mike the way some people like Shark Week on the Discovery channel. He's awesome, as long as he's somewhere else. He's not somewhere else right now, though; he's pushing his way through people and tables and lounging to a stop directly across from Jensen. "Oh, Christ," he says, "seriously? I thought you were supposed to be on hiatus."

"Jared," Jensen says, "ignore everything this man says. He's a soulless liar and an enemy to children and small animals."

It doesn't work. Jared's already on his feet, reaching out to shake Mike's hand. "Jared Padalecki. Hiatus from what?"

Mike looks from Jared to Jensen without letting go of Jared's hand, then sighs and rolls his eyes at the same time. "Life," he says, and Jensen releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "Jensen's a shut-in."

"Fuck you," Jensen says. "I get out. I make friends."

"With children and small animals," Mike says drily, but his smile loses some of its sharp edges. He looks Jared over with a speculative gleam in his eyes. "Mike Rosenbaum. At your service."

Jared tugs his hand out of Mike's. "Uh. Thanks."

Mike pulls out a chair and falls into it, hooking an arm over the back, turning his torso into a long smooth arch. When Jared fails to look impressed, Mike arches an eyebrow at Jensen. "Hiatus, my ass," he says.

"Tom's watching," Jensen says, toying innocently with his napkin.

The change is instantaneous; a blush rises in Mike's cheeks, his smile melts away, and he leans in over the table, his shoulders hunched up around his ears. "Did he--"

"See you slobbering over the new guy?" Jensen grins. "No. Lucky for you, he's distracted by that cute little thing with the pony tail."

Mike's head whips around; and there's Tom, cleaning a glass and chatting comfortably with Chris. Mike turns back, his eyes glittering with cheerful malice. "You are an evil son of a bitch, Jensen."

Jensen nods, and tips his beer in Mike's direction. "And don't you forget it."

Jared leans back, draping his wrist over the back of Jensen's chair. If he flexed his fingers he could touch Jensen's shoulder, and Jensen wants him to; he really, really does. That's how Chris finds them.

"Jenny," he says, clapping Jensen on the shoulder Jared isn't almost touching. "Look at you, you made a friend! Hang on a sec while I alert the media."

"Ass." Jensen leans back; for a second, Jared's hand is warm against his shoulder blade. Then it's gone, Jared on his feet again, shaking hands with Chris and introducing himself.

"Ass is just a title," Chris says. "I go by Chris Kane."

"So this is your place."

"Mine and Jensen's, yeah. He put up for half of it, not that he does a lick of work around here. Too busy with his rich and famous lifestyle to put in an honest day with the middle class."

Jared's eyebrows go up and he tilts his head at Jensen, like he's checking for dollar sign tattoos that he somehow overlooked before. Jensen gives Chris a rude shove, glaring at him so he doesn't have to meet Jared's eyes. He's used to people just knowing his financial status; hell, a few years back it was on CNN. It's been a while since he met anybody who might need cluing in, and he has no idea how to go about it. If he just comes out with it, it feels like oversharing; if he lets Chris ramble on, he'll come off like some kind of Hiltonesque freak. Chris means well, and that's about all Jensen can say for him some days.

"Don't listen to him," he tells Jared, trying to blow it all off. It's becoming kind of a theme. "He's just mad because I don't have time to be bothered with his boozery. I'm a silent partner. Very very silent."

"Like a mime," Chris agrees. He gives Jensen a pointed look, but lets it go at that, and turns to focus on Jared. "For instance, he never once told me his mystery patient was hot as hell and the size of a small tree."

"I object to the small part," Jared says. "Hot, though?" He lays a hand over his heart, and turns sad eyes on Jensen. "You didn't tell them I was hot? That hurts me, man."

"I didn't write your name in my Trapper Keeper, either," Jensen says. Some of his tension bleeds off under Jared's warm gaze, and he picks at the label of his bottle, trying not to smile. "Anyway, they have eyes, don't they?"

"Aww." Jared smiles, quick and genuine, and leans in close to Jensen. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," he says, low enough that only Jensen can hear.

"Don't get used to it," Jensen says, just as quiet. But his cheeks are warmer than the crowded bar can account for, and when Jared's hand moves to the back of his chair again, Jensen leans into it.

:: Part 2 of 5 :: :: Master post ::