J2: Catch My Breath (Let Me Breathe)
So, I'm blaming 27_jaredjensen for this, m'kay? It's all her fault. *nods* I don't even remember why, but she's the one that kept feeding this damned plot bunny chocolate, and I meant for it to be short. And it did this. >.<
Slight modification to the usual posting: Be gentle with the reviews please. *cringes* I know the boys prolly don't sound right, but I'm still new to the whole RPS/RPF thing, 'kay? Especially considering I kept saying I wouldn't do it. :/ Now, I have Asthmatic-Jared and a random J-boy fic on here, and Migraine-Jensen, spider-phobic-Jensen, and a seriously long J2 that I'm tossing back and forth for big-bang next year all sitting on my hard-drive. And I know it kinda ends abruptly...I couldn't make it work better. I may go back in the future and lengthen it, but it's all I have to offer right now.
And of course a most grateful and deeply obliged thank you to audreyava and mayhsgirl93 for pulling my bacon outta the fire with a super-fast beta on this. They did an awesome job, and I seriously owe them for this. Any remaining errors are totally on me, for doing a final tinker before/as I posted.
~~*^*~~
He’s nine the first time his lungs rebel against him. Gym class, playing ball out on the diamond, Texas air thick and sticky. The dog days of summer were in full swing, so Jared hadn’t thought that much of not being able to draw a full breath; had gotten used to the tight, achy pressure in his chest. It’s not until he’s scooping up the ball to fling to second that he realizes how much tighter it’s gotten, and how his fingers are feeling all prickly. He’s making his way to the coach when the rest of the attack slams into him like a freight train. All the air in the Southern states is just gone.
Once he’s older, he’ll be able to dimly remember being taken to the office, seated right in the path of the icy air from the air conditioning unit. He remembers his mom picking him up, closer and quicker than a squad, but doesn’t remember anyone calling her. Jared spends the night on the Pediatrics floor, hooked to a mask for several hours before he can sleep, under the gazes of flamingos and alligators prancing along the walls. They let him leave in the morning with a diagnosis (asthma), warnings (be cautious when exercising, always carry an inhaler, let the school know), and a clunky plastic “rescue inhaler”, which he’s supposed to take at the first sign of “respiratory distress”, but really just solidifies the fact that his life now sucks.
It takes four more trips to the emergency room that fall for Jared’s doctor to prescribe a nebulizer. “Try the rescue inhaler first. If that doesn’t work, then use this. If he’s still not feeling better, head for the hospital,” his doctor says as he scribbles on the blue paper. “It’s sort of like using a BB gun, and then going for the shotgun. It’s got a lot more power and capability than the rescue inhaler.” The pharmacist shows them how to use it, emphasizes on keeping it clean and sterile, and they leave with the bulky, boxy, clunky beige machine that Jared pretty much hates on principle. It screams “wuss” and “weakling” and “frail” even more than the stupid inhaler he keeps trying to lose. But it keeps him out of the ER, and after two and half years, it sits quietly in the linen closet, all but forgotten.
His momma scowls and shoves the nebulizer in the front seat of his car, the first time he moves, and tries to leave it behind. He’s got the damned rescue inhaler; uses it so infrequently the ‘script often expires before the canister empties anymore. But he still remembers the whispered prayers and tears that fell from his momma that first night in the hospital, after she thought he’d fallen asleep. So he buries it in the back of his closets; first thing in, last thing out as he moves from place to place.
By the time he’s signed onto Supernatural, it’s something he’s resigned to but mostly forgotten. The set medics know he’s asthmatic (there’s been a few occasions where they’ve pulled him aside to force him to take a hit, if they’re observant and he’s ignoring the achy tightness), Eric knows, and buried somewhere in his trailer, is his rescue inhaler, as per the fine lines in his various contracts and insurances. It doesn’t really render a mention anymore. When he switched doctors this last time, the new one had made some mentions of how frequently he was using his rescue inhaler and whatnot, and had written out a plan for ‘asthma training’…a guideline of sorts, to condition his lungs to operate better.
Whatever.
He obliged, and he had to admit, he was a little impressed. It wasn’t long before he could run with the dogs longer, and his work-outs could get a little more intense before he started aching. He still has the occasional attacks, when the weather is particularly nasty, or he’s more stressed than normal, but for the most part, he can bury the inhaler under a bunch of crap and forget about it.
He completely forgets about the nebulizer when Jensen moves in. It’s upstairs in his own closet, and it’s been years since he’s needed it. So he doesn’t even think twice about the open closet door when Jen come sin, looking for the boots that Sadie has a penchant for stealing and hiding. Green eyes narrow a bit, and his head tilts in the manner Jared’s learned means he’s rolling a thought over in his head, and the hurt that flashes across Jen’s features when Jared slams the closet door shut hard, jaw set and eyes closed off, well…it hurts. But not as much as the thought of Jensen finding out, and being weaker in the older man’s opinion. If it means stepping on his toes metaphorically, well…so be it.
A year later, when everything blows up in his face, and he’s sliding down the wall in the hall, trying frantically to suck in any air he can, he’ll wish he hadn’t been so quick to shut Jen down.
~~*^*~~
Their usual set medics are on vacation this week; new guys that look vaguely uncomfortable just standing around are replacing them for the last few days, which means Jared can ignore the itchy ache in his ribs for a bit longer. He’s not exactly sure where his rescue inhaler is in the trailer, but after this scene, they can go home for the weekend, and he knows exactly where it is there. He pushes aside the nagging voice that murmurs that he didn’t bother to yesterday, when the pollen count was high enough to start triggering it, the voice that sounds suspiciously like his momma. Which reminds him that he hasn’t called her lately; he really needs to, before she starts getting upset about it.
He does later, after he’s done the nightly run with the dogs, fed them, fed themselves, and showered. He can hear Jen singing in his own shower, water a counterpoint to the low noise, and he grins as he listens to the phone ring in his ear. As soon as his momma picks up, voice full of love and home and sticky summer nights rolling across the line, his shoulders drop the tension he’s been carrying. He loves working Supernatural, loves rooming with Jensen, but a part of him always misses the controlled chaos of his childhood home.
He talks with her far longer than he intends to; Jensen headed to bed an hour ago, yawning widely as he stumbled down the hall, and the dogs are passed out on the floor, whimpering and twitching as they dream. They’d talked about the big fish his dad had caught the other day at the lake, and the snake that the cat brought in and dropped on his momma’s lap last week, and how the price of coffee just isn’t what it used to be, and how she’s got a new cheesecake recipe she wants to try next time he comes home, and when exactly would that be? It’s been a very long time, you know.
Eventually the quiet lingers on the line more than the conversation, so he begs off tired, sleepy but smiling and content as he makes his way upstairs, Sadie following to flop across his feet after he curls into the sheets. It’s a little while later, when he wakes up with a low, rasping cough, that he remembers he didn’t take a hit, but it’s very early, or very late, depending on your preference, and Sadie is pressed tight against him. It’s mean to make her move, so he’ll just get some in the morning before their run.
~~*^*~~
He winds up tripping over Harley when his alarm goes off; the giant of a dog had at some point come upstairs and sprawled all over the floor. “Sorry Harls,” he murmurs as he offers an apologetic ear rubbing for a few minutes. Sadie is making a noise that he could easily interpret as laughter if he was so inclined; his kids bicker like siblings most days anyway. He uses the meager light creeping through the bathroom window to do his morning piss, and peer analytically at his hair, trying to get it to some semblance of tame. He gives it up as a lost cause, throws on a grey tank top and scouts for some socks before padding downstairs quietly, the dogs following anxiously. They know the morning routine by now, and stretch excitedly by the door, hoping he’ll forgo coffee to get them outside.
They wish.
He starts the coffeemaker, sitting on the arm of the couch to tug on socks and shoes as it brews, and manages to rapidly sip (gulp) the blistering liquid as the dogs prance anxiously around him. Harley gives low, excited woofs, not quite a bark, while Sadie whines as she shivers when Jared finally makes his way to the entrance hallway. They know better than to bark this early, but he knows it’s tempting for them. He doesn’t dally hooking their collars on before grabbing the leashes. He trusts his dogs, but the squirrels are a temptation Harley has little resistance against, and really, it’s just safer for his kids this way. He pauses a moment in the doorway, the thought to grab his inhaler a bright flash through his mind, before he shrugs it off and steps out into the Vancouver morning. It had rained overnight, and the air is humid, pressing stickily against him. The dogs don’t care though, and he shrugs, settling into a nice and easy rhythm as his mind clears and he enters his zen.
They’re only a mile into the run when the asthma attack that had been looming in the wings the last several days decides to make its debut. He stops, gasping hard as he hunches over, blinking hard at the wet pavement under his sneakers. The terror of the first attack sneaks back in on him as his lungs seize, but he shakes his head, trying to recapture the calm he’d had only minutes before. Drags in steady breath one after another as he tugs the dogs in the other direction. Again, he has a thought that the dogs are so much more perceptive than a lot of people give them credit for. Neither seems all that anxious for their abandoned walk; instead, they’re pressed close, Sadie’s eyes wide as she furrows her brow, whimpering quietly. “’s okay girl.”
The fuzzy disconnection of oxygen deprivation is settling in as he fumbles for the door handle, the buzzing loud as he starts shaking. He has a dim, distant thought to get his nebulizer; hell, even his inhaler at this point, but the foggy disassociation swamps him quickly as he slides down the wall, hunching on the floor miserably. The last thought he clearly recalls later is the bitter regret at not having told Jensen.
~~*^*~~
Their house has a routine, and Jensen has acclimatized to it very quickly and easily. He wakes up when Jared shuts the front door every morning, taking the dogs on their run. Then he has an hour or so to laze and doze, until they get back. Sadie will slink into his room and curl up against the curve of his knees while her daddy makes coffee. The coffee takes ten minutes, and if he’s not up and out there, Jared will bring a mug in, teasing and mocking, until Jensen accepts the fact that sleep is entirely too far out of his reach.
So for the front door to shut again just fifteen minutes after they left is unusual. It’s enough to have Jensen pushing his way free of the cocoon of blankets, reaching absently for his glasses. He’s thinking one of the dogs got hurt, or maybe Jared sprained an ankle, or that it’s hurricane-downpouring or something. When Sadie busts into the room, collar still on and leash trailing halfheartedly behind her, dark eyes full of worry and concern, he’s already up and pulling on sweats as he stumbles to the door.
Jared never leaves the collars on the dogs. They’re always the first thing off, even before his own shoes or jacket.
He wastes a split second to fumble at the pink collar, unbuckling it quickly and letting it drop to the hardwood floor. The house is quiet outside of his room, and he’s not quite sure where Jared is, but Harley meets him partway rom the door, whining softly as he trails his cobalt leash behind him. Sadie is all but pushing him forward, and as soon as he turns the corner to the front hall, he sees why.
Jared is curled as small as he can, slumped against the wall as he clenches his fingers against the floor. “Shit, Jared.” His knees hurt from where he knelt too quick, but he’s patting Jared down, sure of an injury somewhere, when the gasping finally sinks in. Jared is gasping, eyes bright with fear, silently pleading for Jensen to fix this, skin too cold and nail beds turning a dusky blue, and the acting he’s about to pull off will deserve a fricking Emmy. “Alright, it’s okay. Just sit tight, okay?” He squeezes Jared’s shoulder tightly for moment before scrambling for the stairs, almost breaking his neck over the mess on Jared’s floor as he lunges for the closet.
Buried in the corner, under shoes and discarded shirts and old scripts and a mountain of chew toys, is the beige nebulizer that he saw. He holds his breath in hope as he yanks the cover open, praying that the solution is in there. Jared doesn’t really have time nor the breath for Twenty-Questions if it’s not.
Lady Luck is with him today; the vials lay on top of the coiled tubing, and he slams it shut as he stumbles his way back down the stairs, pulling on Dean’s cool confidence as he sets it on the low coffee table. The cord stretches to the outlet with a little slack, and he follows the almost idiot-proof instructions. Tubing to the port, the bottom of the cup to the tubing. Connect the top of the cup the mask, since he has no doubt Jared’s not really conscious enough to try using the mouthpiece. Three seconds, almost fifteen since he left his friend, and he’s kneeling beside the Sasquatch, looping an arm around his shoulders. “Come on Jare, up and at ‘em. Just a few steps, okay?” He teases and cajoles and banters and threatens the sixteen steps it takes to get Jared sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, legs stretched out underneath as he slumps against the couch, looking like a puppet with cut strings.
He sits on the couch behind Jared, cracking open a pink vial and dumping the contents into the cup before closing it, and flipping on the machine. Jared startles at the harsh buzzing, knee bashing against the underside of the table, and Harley starts growling at it, low and menacing.
“Harley, shush. Go to your bed.” The mastiff quiets, but doesn’t leave, and Jensen takes the defiance as a win right now. He settles the mask on Jared, catching one of his hands when the younger man groans and tries to twist away from it. “Nu-uh. Leave it Jared. Come on, just lean back, deep breaths. You gotta know this, man.”
It takes a little manhandling, but Jared eventually relaxes in the vee of Jensen’s legs, eyes lazily drifting closed as he pants in the mist. Jensen has his hand spread across Jared’s chest, thumb and ring finger on the collarbone, the first two fingers resting lightly on the galloping pulse jittering under the skin. The pulse never really slows down, but the rasping inhalations start to spread out a little, slower and longer between.
By the time the machine is sputtering the last of the mist, Jared has started shaking and coughing. He’s obviously not over the worst of it, but he’s no longer turning into a smurf, so Jensen waits a few minutes, scrubbing his hand roughly over his face. His friend looks so small and heartbreakingly young; he’s resting against Jensen’s leg, eyes closed, shaking like a washing machine on the spin cycle, and it’s almost more than he can take. He knows how seriously wrong this can all go. He’s been there, and the child in him is in screaming hysterics that there’s not an ambulance on its way. He also knows how petrified Jared gets in the hospital, the ordeal of his broken wrist seasons ago still vivid in his mind.
If he’s right, he can get Jared settled quietly for the night, and dodge a big bullet.
If he’s wrong, it’s gonna cost him a helluva lot.
He rubs his hand over the stubble one more time, sighs, and leans forward, squeezing Jared’s neck gently. “Hey big guy.” He waits until hazel eyes crack open, peering at him blearily. “I got an idea. You trust me?”
Jared snorts, gaze warm and so open that it makes Jensen’s own breath catch in his throat, and it’s almost enough to change his mind. “Alright then. Sit tight, I’ll be right back, okay?” Jared nods sluggishly, eyes slipping closed again as he burrows fingers into Sadie’s fur where she’s pressed against his thigh.
He cranks the air conditioning down low as he passes, and snags what he needs from under the bathroom sink. It’s a few minutes to rinse out the parts to the nebulizer and reconnect it, and he shrugs, all Dean Winchester, when Jared raises an eyebrow curiously as he dumps in a heavy pinch of Epsom salts to the albuterol solution. “Trust me man. Something I read about.”
It works.
Ten minutes later, Jensen is all but sitting on Jared, trying to keep the taller man from wrestling off the mask. The reaction to the doctored mist was quick and marked; he’s more alert than he has been all morning, growling in irritation at the mask and the fuss. It actually kinda sounds funny through the mask, and Jensen bites back a laugh. Oh, he’s still pissed as hell that Jared let it go this far, let it get this bad, but the relief is making him a little giddy.
When the machine finally spatters empty this time, Jared doesn’t waste much time in ripping off the mask, getting to his unsteady feet. He watches Jensen for a minute, eyes a mixed combination of embarrassment, regret and gratitude. He points a wobbly finger at Jensen, voice wrecked and harsh like gravel when he mutters “We’re gonna talk about this.” He makes his way down the hall towards the bathroom, Sadie pressed tight to one side, the wall a steadying influence on the other.
Oh, they’ll talk alright. And Jared will hear every last thought Jensen has on the subject, from going running when the air quality is absolute shit, to letting him learn how to use a nebulizer off of Google, for fuck’s sake. Jared will sit quietly and acknowledge how worried and fucking petrified he made Jensen, and if he’s not willing to spill, well…. Jensen knows the phone number of one Mrs. Padalecki, and he’s not above blackmail.
Slight modification to the usual posting: Be gentle with the reviews please. *cringes* I know the boys prolly don't sound right, but I'm still new to the whole RPS/RPF thing, 'kay? Especially considering I kept saying I wouldn't do it. :/ Now, I have Asthmatic-Jared and a random J-boy fic on here, and Migraine-Jensen, spider-phobic-Jensen, and a seriously long J2 that I'm tossing back and forth for big-bang next year all sitting on my hard-drive. And I know it kinda ends abruptly...I couldn't make it work better. I may go back in the future and lengthen it, but it's all I have to offer right now.
And of course a most grateful and deeply obliged thank you to audreyava and mayhsgirl93 for pulling my bacon outta the fire with a super-fast beta on this. They did an awesome job, and I seriously owe them for this. Any remaining errors are totally on me, for doing a final tinker before/as I posted.
~~*^*~~
He’s nine the first time his lungs rebel against him. Gym class, playing ball out on the diamond, Texas air thick and sticky. The dog days of summer were in full swing, so Jared hadn’t thought that much of not being able to draw a full breath; had gotten used to the tight, achy pressure in his chest. It’s not until he’s scooping up the ball to fling to second that he realizes how much tighter it’s gotten, and how his fingers are feeling all prickly. He’s making his way to the coach when the rest of the attack slams into him like a freight train. All the air in the Southern states is just gone.
Once he’s older, he’ll be able to dimly remember being taken to the office, seated right in the path of the icy air from the air conditioning unit. He remembers his mom picking him up, closer and quicker than a squad, but doesn’t remember anyone calling her. Jared spends the night on the Pediatrics floor, hooked to a mask for several hours before he can sleep, under the gazes of flamingos and alligators prancing along the walls. They let him leave in the morning with a diagnosis (asthma), warnings (be cautious when exercising, always carry an inhaler, let the school know), and a clunky plastic “rescue inhaler”, which he’s supposed to take at the first sign of “respiratory distress”, but really just solidifies the fact that his life now sucks.
It takes four more trips to the emergency room that fall for Jared’s doctor to prescribe a nebulizer. “Try the rescue inhaler first. If that doesn’t work, then use this. If he’s still not feeling better, head for the hospital,” his doctor says as he scribbles on the blue paper. “It’s sort of like using a BB gun, and then going for the shotgun. It’s got a lot more power and capability than the rescue inhaler.” The pharmacist shows them how to use it, emphasizes on keeping it clean and sterile, and they leave with the bulky, boxy, clunky beige machine that Jared pretty much hates on principle. It screams “wuss” and “weakling” and “frail” even more than the stupid inhaler he keeps trying to lose. But it keeps him out of the ER, and after two and half years, it sits quietly in the linen closet, all but forgotten.
His momma scowls and shoves the nebulizer in the front seat of his car, the first time he moves, and tries to leave it behind. He’s got the damned rescue inhaler; uses it so infrequently the ‘script often expires before the canister empties anymore. But he still remembers the whispered prayers and tears that fell from his momma that first night in the hospital, after she thought he’d fallen asleep. So he buries it in the back of his closets; first thing in, last thing out as he moves from place to place.
By the time he’s signed onto Supernatural, it’s something he’s resigned to but mostly forgotten. The set medics know he’s asthmatic (there’s been a few occasions where they’ve pulled him aside to force him to take a hit, if they’re observant and he’s ignoring the achy tightness), Eric knows, and buried somewhere in his trailer, is his rescue inhaler, as per the fine lines in his various contracts and insurances. It doesn’t really render a mention anymore. When he switched doctors this last time, the new one had made some mentions of how frequently he was using his rescue inhaler and whatnot, and had written out a plan for ‘asthma training’…a guideline of sorts, to condition his lungs to operate better.
Whatever.
He obliged, and he had to admit, he was a little impressed. It wasn’t long before he could run with the dogs longer, and his work-outs could get a little more intense before he started aching. He still has the occasional attacks, when the weather is particularly nasty, or he’s more stressed than normal, but for the most part, he can bury the inhaler under a bunch of crap and forget about it.
He completely forgets about the nebulizer when Jensen moves in. It’s upstairs in his own closet, and it’s been years since he’s needed it. So he doesn’t even think twice about the open closet door when Jen come sin, looking for the boots that Sadie has a penchant for stealing and hiding. Green eyes narrow a bit, and his head tilts in the manner Jared’s learned means he’s rolling a thought over in his head, and the hurt that flashes across Jen’s features when Jared slams the closet door shut hard, jaw set and eyes closed off, well…it hurts. But not as much as the thought of Jensen finding out, and being weaker in the older man’s opinion. If it means stepping on his toes metaphorically, well…so be it.
A year later, when everything blows up in his face, and he’s sliding down the wall in the hall, trying frantically to suck in any air he can, he’ll wish he hadn’t been so quick to shut Jen down.
~~*^*~~
Their usual set medics are on vacation this week; new guys that look vaguely uncomfortable just standing around are replacing them for the last few days, which means Jared can ignore the itchy ache in his ribs for a bit longer. He’s not exactly sure where his rescue inhaler is in the trailer, but after this scene, they can go home for the weekend, and he knows exactly where it is there. He pushes aside the nagging voice that murmurs that he didn’t bother to yesterday, when the pollen count was high enough to start triggering it, the voice that sounds suspiciously like his momma. Which reminds him that he hasn’t called her lately; he really needs to, before she starts getting upset about it.
He does later, after he’s done the nightly run with the dogs, fed them, fed themselves, and showered. He can hear Jen singing in his own shower, water a counterpoint to the low noise, and he grins as he listens to the phone ring in his ear. As soon as his momma picks up, voice full of love and home and sticky summer nights rolling across the line, his shoulders drop the tension he’s been carrying. He loves working Supernatural, loves rooming with Jensen, but a part of him always misses the controlled chaos of his childhood home.
He talks with her far longer than he intends to; Jensen headed to bed an hour ago, yawning widely as he stumbled down the hall, and the dogs are passed out on the floor, whimpering and twitching as they dream. They’d talked about the big fish his dad had caught the other day at the lake, and the snake that the cat brought in and dropped on his momma’s lap last week, and how the price of coffee just isn’t what it used to be, and how she’s got a new cheesecake recipe she wants to try next time he comes home, and when exactly would that be? It’s been a very long time, you know.
Eventually the quiet lingers on the line more than the conversation, so he begs off tired, sleepy but smiling and content as he makes his way upstairs, Sadie following to flop across his feet after he curls into the sheets. It’s a little while later, when he wakes up with a low, rasping cough, that he remembers he didn’t take a hit, but it’s very early, or very late, depending on your preference, and Sadie is pressed tight against him. It’s mean to make her move, so he’ll just get some in the morning before their run.
~~*^*~~
He winds up tripping over Harley when his alarm goes off; the giant of a dog had at some point come upstairs and sprawled all over the floor. “Sorry Harls,” he murmurs as he offers an apologetic ear rubbing for a few minutes. Sadie is making a noise that he could easily interpret as laughter if he was so inclined; his kids bicker like siblings most days anyway. He uses the meager light creeping through the bathroom window to do his morning piss, and peer analytically at his hair, trying to get it to some semblance of tame. He gives it up as a lost cause, throws on a grey tank top and scouts for some socks before padding downstairs quietly, the dogs following anxiously. They know the morning routine by now, and stretch excitedly by the door, hoping he’ll forgo coffee to get them outside.
They wish.
He starts the coffeemaker, sitting on the arm of the couch to tug on socks and shoes as it brews, and manages to rapidly sip (gulp) the blistering liquid as the dogs prance anxiously around him. Harley gives low, excited woofs, not quite a bark, while Sadie whines as she shivers when Jared finally makes his way to the entrance hallway. They know better than to bark this early, but he knows it’s tempting for them. He doesn’t dally hooking their collars on before grabbing the leashes. He trusts his dogs, but the squirrels are a temptation Harley has little resistance against, and really, it’s just safer for his kids this way. He pauses a moment in the doorway, the thought to grab his inhaler a bright flash through his mind, before he shrugs it off and steps out into the Vancouver morning. It had rained overnight, and the air is humid, pressing stickily against him. The dogs don’t care though, and he shrugs, settling into a nice and easy rhythm as his mind clears and he enters his zen.
They’re only a mile into the run when the asthma attack that had been looming in the wings the last several days decides to make its debut. He stops, gasping hard as he hunches over, blinking hard at the wet pavement under his sneakers. The terror of the first attack sneaks back in on him as his lungs seize, but he shakes his head, trying to recapture the calm he’d had only minutes before. Drags in steady breath one after another as he tugs the dogs in the other direction. Again, he has a thought that the dogs are so much more perceptive than a lot of people give them credit for. Neither seems all that anxious for their abandoned walk; instead, they’re pressed close, Sadie’s eyes wide as she furrows her brow, whimpering quietly. “’s okay girl.”
The fuzzy disconnection of oxygen deprivation is settling in as he fumbles for the door handle, the buzzing loud as he starts shaking. He has a dim, distant thought to get his nebulizer; hell, even his inhaler at this point, but the foggy disassociation swamps him quickly as he slides down the wall, hunching on the floor miserably. The last thought he clearly recalls later is the bitter regret at not having told Jensen.
~~*^*~~
Their house has a routine, and Jensen has acclimatized to it very quickly and easily. He wakes up when Jared shuts the front door every morning, taking the dogs on their run. Then he has an hour or so to laze and doze, until they get back. Sadie will slink into his room and curl up against the curve of his knees while her daddy makes coffee. The coffee takes ten minutes, and if he’s not up and out there, Jared will bring a mug in, teasing and mocking, until Jensen accepts the fact that sleep is entirely too far out of his reach.
So for the front door to shut again just fifteen minutes after they left is unusual. It’s enough to have Jensen pushing his way free of the cocoon of blankets, reaching absently for his glasses. He’s thinking one of the dogs got hurt, or maybe Jared sprained an ankle, or that it’s hurricane-downpouring or something. When Sadie busts into the room, collar still on and leash trailing halfheartedly behind her, dark eyes full of worry and concern, he’s already up and pulling on sweats as he stumbles to the door.
Jared never leaves the collars on the dogs. They’re always the first thing off, even before his own shoes or jacket.
He wastes a split second to fumble at the pink collar, unbuckling it quickly and letting it drop to the hardwood floor. The house is quiet outside of his room, and he’s not quite sure where Jared is, but Harley meets him partway rom the door, whining softly as he trails his cobalt leash behind him. Sadie is all but pushing him forward, and as soon as he turns the corner to the front hall, he sees why.
Jared is curled as small as he can, slumped against the wall as he clenches his fingers against the floor. “Shit, Jared.” His knees hurt from where he knelt too quick, but he’s patting Jared down, sure of an injury somewhere, when the gasping finally sinks in. Jared is gasping, eyes bright with fear, silently pleading for Jensen to fix this, skin too cold and nail beds turning a dusky blue, and the acting he’s about to pull off will deserve a fricking Emmy. “Alright, it’s okay. Just sit tight, okay?” He squeezes Jared’s shoulder tightly for moment before scrambling for the stairs, almost breaking his neck over the mess on Jared’s floor as he lunges for the closet.
Buried in the corner, under shoes and discarded shirts and old scripts and a mountain of chew toys, is the beige nebulizer that he saw. He holds his breath in hope as he yanks the cover open, praying that the solution is in there. Jared doesn’t really have time nor the breath for Twenty-Questions if it’s not.
Lady Luck is with him today; the vials lay on top of the coiled tubing, and he slams it shut as he stumbles his way back down the stairs, pulling on Dean’s cool confidence as he sets it on the low coffee table. The cord stretches to the outlet with a little slack, and he follows the almost idiot-proof instructions. Tubing to the port, the bottom of the cup to the tubing. Connect the top of the cup the mask, since he has no doubt Jared’s not really conscious enough to try using the mouthpiece. Three seconds, almost fifteen since he left his friend, and he’s kneeling beside the Sasquatch, looping an arm around his shoulders. “Come on Jare, up and at ‘em. Just a few steps, okay?” He teases and cajoles and banters and threatens the sixteen steps it takes to get Jared sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, legs stretched out underneath as he slumps against the couch, looking like a puppet with cut strings.
He sits on the couch behind Jared, cracking open a pink vial and dumping the contents into the cup before closing it, and flipping on the machine. Jared startles at the harsh buzzing, knee bashing against the underside of the table, and Harley starts growling at it, low and menacing.
“Harley, shush. Go to your bed.” The mastiff quiets, but doesn’t leave, and Jensen takes the defiance as a win right now. He settles the mask on Jared, catching one of his hands when the younger man groans and tries to twist away from it. “Nu-uh. Leave it Jared. Come on, just lean back, deep breaths. You gotta know this, man.”
It takes a little manhandling, but Jared eventually relaxes in the vee of Jensen’s legs, eyes lazily drifting closed as he pants in the mist. Jensen has his hand spread across Jared’s chest, thumb and ring finger on the collarbone, the first two fingers resting lightly on the galloping pulse jittering under the skin. The pulse never really slows down, but the rasping inhalations start to spread out a little, slower and longer between.
By the time the machine is sputtering the last of the mist, Jared has started shaking and coughing. He’s obviously not over the worst of it, but he’s no longer turning into a smurf, so Jensen waits a few minutes, scrubbing his hand roughly over his face. His friend looks so small and heartbreakingly young; he’s resting against Jensen’s leg, eyes closed, shaking like a washing machine on the spin cycle, and it’s almost more than he can take. He knows how seriously wrong this can all go. He’s been there, and the child in him is in screaming hysterics that there’s not an ambulance on its way. He also knows how petrified Jared gets in the hospital, the ordeal of his broken wrist seasons ago still vivid in his mind.
If he’s right, he can get Jared settled quietly for the night, and dodge a big bullet.
If he’s wrong, it’s gonna cost him a helluva lot.
He rubs his hand over the stubble one more time, sighs, and leans forward, squeezing Jared’s neck gently. “Hey big guy.” He waits until hazel eyes crack open, peering at him blearily. “I got an idea. You trust me?”
Jared snorts, gaze warm and so open that it makes Jensen’s own breath catch in his throat, and it’s almost enough to change his mind. “Alright then. Sit tight, I’ll be right back, okay?” Jared nods sluggishly, eyes slipping closed again as he burrows fingers into Sadie’s fur where she’s pressed against his thigh.
He cranks the air conditioning down low as he passes, and snags what he needs from under the bathroom sink. It’s a few minutes to rinse out the parts to the nebulizer and reconnect it, and he shrugs, all Dean Winchester, when Jared raises an eyebrow curiously as he dumps in a heavy pinch of Epsom salts to the albuterol solution. “Trust me man. Something I read about.”
It works.
Ten minutes later, Jensen is all but sitting on Jared, trying to keep the taller man from wrestling off the mask. The reaction to the doctored mist was quick and marked; he’s more alert than he has been all morning, growling in irritation at the mask and the fuss. It actually kinda sounds funny through the mask, and Jensen bites back a laugh. Oh, he’s still pissed as hell that Jared let it go this far, let it get this bad, but the relief is making him a little giddy.
When the machine finally spatters empty this time, Jared doesn’t waste much time in ripping off the mask, getting to his unsteady feet. He watches Jensen for a minute, eyes a mixed combination of embarrassment, regret and gratitude. He points a wobbly finger at Jensen, voice wrecked and harsh like gravel when he mutters “We’re gonna talk about this.” He makes his way down the hall towards the bathroom, Sadie pressed tight to one side, the wall a steadying influence on the other.
Oh, they’ll talk alright. And Jared will hear every last thought Jensen has on the subject, from going running when the air quality is absolute shit, to letting him learn how to use a nebulizer off of Google, for fuck’s sake. Jared will sit quietly and acknowledge how worried and fucking petrified he made Jensen, and if he’s not willing to spill, well…. Jensen knows the phone number of one Mrs. Padalecki, and he’s not above blackmail.