Fic: Any Other Day (SPN RPS, JA/JDM)
Title: Any Other Day
Fandom: Supernatural RPS
Pairing: Jensen/Jeffrey Dean Morgan
Rating: NC17
Length: 5300 words
Summary: The great unknown is a bunch of crap, anyway. Jensen’s always preferred the status quo.
Notes: Huge thanks to schneestern and kudra2324 for the amazing betas and to audrarose for general hand holding. :DD *hugs*
Any Other Day by Sori
Jensen sits down and opens his email and, yeah, he was expecting the one from Chris and the two porn links from Rosenbaum, and he wasn’t even surprised by his mom’s email that somehow managed to yell in words and sounded so much like her that traces of Texas swirled around his house, settling into corners and seeking out the three empty beer bottles and the two dirty towels on the bathroom floor.
But in no way was he expecting the last email.
Business is good for dead guys. You should try it sometime.
And Jensen can’t help but snort, thinking of dark hair and a white button down shirt and an Entertainment Weekly interview he caught two weeks ago with the tagline, Death Becomes Him.
Asshole, he types out in his best hunt-and-peck. You know you miss us.
**
The next night Jensen sits down on his couch and pulls his laptop close. His ass hurts and he’s pretty sure he’s going to be black-and-blue tomorrow since the whole ice-skating-down-the-set-walkway really didn’t work out so well. At least it was just his ass, though; Kripke had blown a fuse when he’d seen Jared’s eye.
Jeff’s address shows up on the fourth email down and Jensen doesn’t even bother reading the first three emails, just goes straight for it, opening it up and settling back, and pretending that he hadn’t been waiting for this all day.
Miss you? Yeah. Absolutely. In between takes of kissing Uma Thurman.
Fuck you, Jensen writes and he thinks he sort of means it, too. Picturing Jeff’s mouth and Uma Thurman’s body and the two of them together and, fuck, kissing over and over, and even though kissing for a shoot is pretty much the least sexy thing ever, it’s still got to be at least as fun as parkas with fur collars and having gummy bears constantly flung at his head.
There’s probably something else he should say, a year of weekend beers and occasional emails in the off-season have made them fairly tight, and, seriously, Uma Thurman. Movie shoot or not, that’s still pretty damn huge. But it’s like his brain’s on vacation and he’s still slightly weirded out by the thought of Jeff kissing, and even that’s strange and wrong in almost every way, so instead, he hits send and shuts down the laptop.
But the next day when the ad from Amazon pops up in his inbox, he clicks over and laughs at the title listed first on the discount dvds. Doesn’t take long and Before Sunrise is scheduled for delivery to a Jeffrey Dean Morgan in 5-7 days with the attached note:
Dude, you really want to be the nasty seconds after Ethan Hawke?
**
Really, he’s not all that used to email, he’s GenX, more or less, and he knows email and MySpace and he’s heard of blogs and bookmarking and chat boards. But email’s more of an occasional thing rather than a usual thing, quick links and one line sentences, flight times and travel confirmations.
But Jeff has none of these notions. After the first few emails, Jeff takes email to a whole new level. It’s not one email a day, instead, it’s two or three, and sometimes even more. It’s you’ll never believe what happened and man, you should have seen my birdie at the 12th hole and fuck, you ought to see this wardrobe trailer. Sometimes it’s one line, sometimes paragraphs and paragraphs, and seriously, Jensen thinks they should be the worst fucking emails in the history of email.
Except that they’re not.
Jensen starts checking his email twice a day instead of just once at night. He starts bringing the laptop to work and finds himself on the computer at breaks. And he’s replying, and the replies are getting longer and longer, until his fingers start regularly cramping and he’s rubbing his wrists between takes enough that Jared starts dropping hints about carpal tunnel and old age.
It probably shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does that he finds himself stealing away between scenes, pulling out his phone and sending quick text messages that say nothing worth telling and even less worth repeating, but that still make him feel good and close, like he’s sharing something that should be shared.
It’s mostly Kripke’s got a bug up his ass about something or new caterer today and the food sucks or Christ, I’m getting sick of this car. Maybe he’d feel bad about the constant texts if his phone wasn’t also beeping every few hours with stupid notes, and wise ass remarks, and comments about Uma Thurman’s ass.
Jensen learns that conversation in real time isn’t all that necessary to whatever it is that they’ve become. It definitely doesn’t seem to matter when Jeff texts, fuck, I think I broke my wrist, and Jensen’s suddenly checking flight times and looking up orthopedic surgeons in Greater Los Angeles, feeling like the biggest moron ever to grace the small screen because what’s he going to do? Ride to the rescue?
He doesn’t remember exactly when he’d turned into a twelve-year-old girl with a crush on the movie star but, hey, there were worse things in life.
He just can’t think of them right now.
**
People sometimes miss the fact that Jared’s smart: book smart and common sense smart and people smart, and most definitely Jensen smart. It doesn’t take him long to notice that something’s going on.
“Man, who’s the new girl?” Jared asks casually, lopped back in his chair at makeup, eating gummy bears out of a bowl.
“What?” Jensen pulls out his very best clueless voice and looks blankly up from his cell phone.
Jared pitches a gummy bear at Jensen’s head and nods toward the cell. “You. Acting all weird with the text messaging and the sneaking-behind-trailers thing and always using the laptop in your trailer,” he says, making it sound so incriminating. “Who is she?”
The one thing Jensen can’t stand about Jared is the stupid shit-eating grin he always gets when he thinks he knows something; it’s pretty much exactly like the one he’s wearing right now. It’s big and wide and screams you can’t fool me and it never fails to make Jensen want to throw something at him.
And, really, all Jensen has to do is open his mouth and tell Jared the truth. “Dude, I’ve been texting Jeff. He’s spending his days making out with Uma Thurman.” Jared would totally get that. He’d want all the details and then they’d spend the rest of the day talking smack about Jeff and fondly remembering co-stars of the past. Eventually, they’d end up leaving the set early and heading back to Jensen’s place to drink beer and watch Kill Bill.
Yeah, that’s what Jensen should do.
“It’s nothing. Just…you know, an old friend,” he says instead because however stupid it might be, he doesn’t want to share this with Jared. This is his, which right there tells him his level of fucked.
Jared makes a face, looking like ‘old friend’ is a dirty word. “Man, you could’ve just told me to back off. You don’t have to lie to me.” He sounds hurt, at least until his cell rings and he picks it up, smiling wildly. “Sandy - hey!”
They don’t finish shooting until late into the night and Jensen wants to say that it’s Jared’s fault. They’ve spent hours missing cues and fighting against a low, simmering tension between them; mostly because of Jared and all his issues about honesty and openness and sharing your fucking feelings. And, okay, maybe Jensen sort of knows that this is at least partly his fault, not entirely, but he’s lying by omission, and for no real reason, and yeah, guilt can really screw up his rhythm.
He’s tired, but Jensen manages to grab onto Jared before he can leave. “Hey, beer at my place? I caught the game on TiVo.” Not an apology, and one’s not really required, but it’s still a gesture and that he can do.
Jared nods, because he can do gestures too and they spend the next few hours drinking, and yelling at the Cowboy’s idiot coach. Jared’s smart enough not to keep asking all the wrong questions.
**
It’s one am and Jensen’s having a dream about a boat, an orgy, and a sweet Texas sunset. Pretty much the same dream he’s been having since he was fifteen and hiding his sheets from his mom every morning. Only the details have changed and it’s not Peggy LeBraun’s tiny bikini and perky little tits that have the starring role now, it’s more about that almost painful scrape of beard stubble along his hip and a deep voice that’s whispering dirty words in his ear.
When the phone rings, Jensen’s still mostly asleep and desperately trying to hold on to dark hair and stubble. He grabs the phone and forces some words out.
“W’the fuck?”
“Aren’t you a ray of fucking sunshine. You kiss your mama with that mouth, Ackles?”
“Jeff?” He says, rubbing his hand across his eyes and yawning. “Why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“You don’t want to talk to me?” Jeff whines, and, hell, sometimes Jensen forgets how good of an actor he is because Jeff’s voice has lost the sarcasm and found the hurt, and even though Jensen knows he’s being a fucking smart ass, he can feel the guilt start to roll over him in waves.
“Man. I so hate you right now.” Jensen closes his eyes as Jeff laughs, loud and deep, and he can’t help but think of easy touches and dirty words whispered smoothly in his ear.
“Just calling. It’s been a while, you know?” And it’s easy and earnest, and almost like Jeff had plotted out what to say because it’s casual in the way that casual never really is.
“Yeah, a while. The set’s not the same without you, you know.” Jensen shoves a pile of pillows behind his back and sits up, squishing the phone between ear and neck and reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand. “The intelligence level has gone way up without you around.”
“Fucker,” Jeff says, and Jensen knows exactly how late it is when the word comes out sounding every bit like an endearment.
Jensen smiles, relaxing back into the pillows. He’s completely wiped out and he has five am set call, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He has Jeff’s voice in his ear telling him about Patrick Dempsey getting smashed at a party and screaming about Dr. Rey and nose jobs and how he should have sued, and Jensen’s laughing so hard that he can barely breathe.
Really, who needs to sleep?
**
It doesn’t take long before Jensen starts answering his cell expecting to hear Jeff’s voice: a smart ass reply, a stupid wisecrack that makes him remember all the miles between Vancouver and LA. The calls start to come every few nights, late, like early morning kind of late, and each one lasts longer than Jensen really thinks it probably should.
He hears about Jeff’s sister and listens to a dozen too many stories about Bisou the dog (which explains why Jared and Jeff got along like long-lost brothers from about two seconds into the pilot); he’s heard the Seahawks' stats for the last five years, and then spent 45 minutes pointing out that, seriously, (because football is always serious) they will never win a Superbowl, ever; Uma Thurman’s ass comes up regularly and keeps coming up, even after Jeff painfully admits that kissing her is pretty much overrated.
It wasn’t long ago that his days were defined by work and hanging out with Jared; it was a circle, sort of symbiotic, with everything in his life smooth and easy and fitting mostly into this one space. Occasionally, there’d been a Kane anomaly wandering through, but not all that often considering. It’d been comfortable and good and pretty much everything Jensen always wanted.
Now, the days are marked with phone calls at night and emails in the afternoon and text messages through the day until Jensen finally figures out that most of his day is Jeff, in one way or another.
And it sort of freaks him out, although probably not as much as it usually would. But, really, this is Jeff and he’s sort of harmless, and it’s not like he’s here where Jensen would have to spend the days worrying about staring for a second too long, or reaching out and almost touching, or giving himself away in the thousands of ways possible.
It’s not like Jensen likes to channel his inner girl or anything, but Jeff and Jared are pretty much family, and that’s important enough to him that he doesn’t want to screw it all up. Phone calls and text messages and lame ass emails might not be all that he wants, but it’s more then he’d have if things went horribly, terribly wrong.
The great unknown is a bunch of crap, anyway. Jensen’s always preferred the status quo.
**
Jensen pulls into his driveway and has to wonder at the dark black sedan that’s parked at the curb. He’s starting to think paparazzi (even though, seriously, he’s not that famous) when the door opens and Jeff steps out all big waves and stupid grin that shouldn’t go along with the gray Jensen remembers seeing him sport in his goatee.
“Dude, what the fuck?” He says, even though he’s still stuck thinking Jeff and here and yes.
“What? I’m not welcome? And I thought you were a good Texas boy.” Jeff snorts, reaching into the car and pulling out two duffels.
Jensen just lifts an eyebrow and waits.
“Alright. I had a couple of weeks. Thought I’d stop by and see you assholes.”
“Yeah?” But Jensen knows he’s already smiling stupidly. “Well, get your ass inside then.”
He pushes the door open and holds it for Jeff. “Ladies first,” he says and Jeff rolls his eyes and shoves right past him.
It’s easy, like they never really stopped doing this, Jeff dropping his bags on the floor, heading to Jensen’s kitchen and pulling out two beers while grabbing the stack of menus off the fridge one-handed.
“Pizza?” He walks over to the couch and flops down, popping open the top of his beer and tossing the other bottle to Jensen.
“Christ, Jeff. Make yourself at home why don’t you?” He’s being an ass, he gets that, but as much as this seems the same, it still feels totally different.
“Right-,” Jeff says, sounding unsure and not right and maybe uncomfortable, which is seriously the last thing Jensen wants.
Jeff and Jared had spent more than a few hours at his house over the first year of filming. His couch has the beer stains from Jared jumping up and screaming at the Cowboys; the coffee table’s got two roughed impressions of heels that match up perfectly with the size of Jeff’s boots; they both know where he keeps the beer and the chips and the porn, and they can probably locate more of the actual food items in his kitchen then he can.
So this shouldn’t be weird. Jeff flopped out on his couch, feet on the table, beer bottle on his stomach, but he’s looking at Jensen in a way that’s nothing at all like a few months ago, and Jensen can’t see past the image of Jeff kissing Uma Thurman that’s been stuck on repeat in his brain for at least the last three weeks.
Like his life needed one more complication. Yeah, right.
“Fuck. Sorry, man.” He forces the words out, not quick enough to figure out a different answer but feeling somehow desperate to make the hesitation in Jeff’s voice go away. It must have worked because Jeff eases back onto the couch.
“I can get a hotel. Not a problem,” Jeff says, almost sounding like he means it, and maybe only Jensen knows how big of a lie that is.
“Not a problem, my ass.” Jensen snorts, thinking of an obviously drunken email about germs on shower curtains and peeping tom maids and bed spreads that are only changed once a week.
Jensen forgets to keep his distance and flops down on the couch next to Jeff, too close by half, slurping down his beer and laughing at the thought of Jeff dealing with a bed spread with a strange stain.
Jeff’s apparently not in the mood to say much more, he’s gulping down his beer, probably not even tasting it, and Jensen just sits there and watches. And waits. There’s more going on here than just a visit - Jensen is just not that big of an idiot to think that’s the whole truth - but he’s not sure if he should be more worried about being right or being wrong, because this is still Jeff and he can’t just go around fucking things up.
Jeff grabs the remote from the coffee table and crashes back against the cushions. The television’s flipped on and channels are changed until Comedy Central’s blaring across the speakers. And actually it’s sort of relaxing, sitting next to Jeff, legs pressed almost together, close enough that Jensen can feel the heat from Jeff’s body, can feel the soft slide and rustle of denim on the leather sofa. Mindless and good and not exactly what he was expecting.
But Jensen’s good at going with the flow so he leans back, kicks his legs up on the coffee table and settles in for the long haul. Somewhere between The Daily Show and South Park Jensen forgets to watch the TV and the day starts to catch up.
He turns his head and discovers Jeff’s head right there, close enough to touch. His head’s tilted back, hand still loosely clasped around the neck of the beer bottle, asleep and looking way, way younger than usual.
“Hey,” Jensen says, kicking his foot against Jeff’s leg. “Hey, man, wake up. I’ve got a bed with your name on it.”
Jeff’s still snoring, low and easy, a sort of half-smile on his face that makes Jensen grin. “Dumbass.” He reaches out, meaning to shake Jeff’s shoulder, maybe poke him in the arm, but his hand touches the warm fabric and soft skin where neck meets shoulder.
It’s warm skin, a little rough and just the right amount of smooth. He watches, strangely distant, as his thumb moves back and forth, little movements, barely scraping along the skin, from neck to the soft cotton of Jeff’s shirt, and fuck, he shouldn’t be doing this.
Jeff’s eyes open, just enough that Jensen can see how they’re bloodshot and a little glazed. “Jen?” He whispers, voice deep and broken up and not entirely awake.
“Yeah.” Jensen’s fingers are still touching, and Jeff’s not seeming to notice, or not seeming to care, because he’s leaning into the touch just a little, just enough that Jensen feels it happen. “I think it’s time to crash, man. Come on,” he says, forcing his fingers to still enough that he can reach out and grab hold of Jeff’s shoulder.
“Sorry. Wasn’t planning on crashing so early,” Jeff’s saying, standing up and stretching. His shirt rucks up a little and Jensen’s trying not to stare at the line of hair leading down into his pants.
“Don’t worry about it. Just--.” It’s hard to remember what he’s saying when Jeff reaches out and wraps a hand around the back of Jensen’s neck, pulling him up and close, until there’s only a breath of space separating them, close and tight and almost--
Okay, no almost about it. Jeff’s right there and Jensen can’t make himself break the touch, can’t keep himself from reaching out and touching, lying his hand on Jeff’s side, feeling warm fabric and rough denim, and being so close he can taste the air between them.
Jeff leans even closer, and Jensen’s not sure how that’s even possible, his lips brushing against the tip of Jensen’s ear, so quick he maybe imagined the touch. “Night, Jen,” Jeff says, and no imagining here, just stubble and a deep voice and, fuck.
And Jensen’s shocked when Jeff steps back with a last, slow touch to Jensen’s neck, he smiles a small crooked smile and sets off down the hall to the second bedroom, leaving Jensen wanting and hard and needing so bad it hurts.
“Fucking tease,” he hollers at Jeff’s back, completely at a loss at how they got from there to here, and Jeff, being the ass that he is, just lifts a hand and waves a little over his shoulder.
**
Jeff’s standing shirtless next to the coffee pot when Jensen stumbles into the kitchen the next morning. He’s rubbing at his eyes blurrily, one arm draped against the counter top, looking worn out and not quite awake and sort of grumpy in an adorable…well -
Jensen figures it’s probably best to end that thought right there.
“Morning,” Jensen says happily, squeezing between Jeff and the coffee pot and reaching for a cup. Jensen loves mornings: the smell of coffee, the first bright lights of sunshine, the Sports section and some quiet time. Jeff in his kitchen doesn’t hurt his mood either; especially Jeff in low riding sweat pants and no shirt. Definitely makes for a brighter morning all around.
“Shut up,” Jeff growls and he looks so miserable that Jensen can’t help but smile. He reaches out, and okay, maybe he doesn’t really mean to do it, but he finds his hand pressing and squeezing into Jeff’s lower back, rubbing out the muscles, feeling skin and warmth and, Jeff, and Jeff’s moaning low and so quiet that Jensen can barely hear, but it’s that same voice and the same sound that Jensen’s heard dozens of times on the phone, quick and probably meaningless, but still so familiar that Jensen almost aches.
He’s pressing back against Jensen’s hand, moving his back, flexing thee muscles and helping Jensen’s hands hit all the right spots. It’s not until Jensen moves to pull back that Jeff turns and wraps his arms around Jensen’s waist and spins them around until Jensen’s pressed against the kitchen counter. Jeff’s hands reach up and soft fingers trace along Jensen’s neck and across his jaw, and when his lips finally brush across Jensen’s it feels like hot beaches and warm summer sunsets.
It’s slow and easy and Jeff’s kissing like he has all the time in the world. Biting at his lips and sucking at his tongue and exploring all the hidden spots, his hands never stopping, always moving, always touching, on shoulders and arms and up into his hair, and the kiss is so absolutely Jeff, pulling and pushing and dragging Jensen along for the ride.
Jeff’s crowding against him, legs and arms and chests pressed together, rubbing and moving, and Jeff’s licking into his mouth, stealing away his breath. It’s all bright lights and hard touches, and there’s nothing gentle here, but somehow it’s still the best thing ever.
Jensen’s hands are running up and down Jeff’s back, learning the curves, and memorizing the way the skin stretches across his shoulders, discovering the taste of the sweat at the base of his neck. He’s pressing closer and closer, and Jeff’s reeling him in, taking everything and giving it back, and Jensen’s mumbling, trying to find the words, forcing them out, “Fuck, yes. Come on, come on,” and he’s desperate for more and now.
And he knows that the smart thing would be to stop, to hold up his hand and push Jeff back with, “stop” and “no” and “what the hell are we doing?” because this can go nowhere good. He reaches up, means to put his hand on Jeff’s chest, make him step back, but Jeff grabs his hand and breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Jensen’s and looking at him carefully.
“Jen, just--,” Jeff’s saying, and his voice is rough and broken, and it shatters something loose inside Jensen.
“Bed. Let’s go to bed,” Jensen finds himself whispering, pushing his words into Jeff’s mouth with his tongue, sharing their air and sharing the risk, and the change is easier than Jensen thought possible.
It’s a shuffle-bump down the hall and through the door until they fall onto the bed, tangled together, clothes half-off, and it should be awkward and weird because first times always are. But it’s not. Instead, it’s simple and easy and already familiar: the touch of Jeff’s hands, the sound of his voice, the words spoken against Jensen’s skin, the smile on his lips.
Pushing and thrusting, hips and hands, all big motions and no finesse, and it’s like learning sex all over again. Jensen wants the touch and he pulls Jeff down on top of him, holding his hips and thrusting up, hard and rough and desperate, and Jeff’s pushing down, wrapping hands around Jensen’s shoulder, pulling him closer, growling low, “fuck, yes, Jen,” until he shudders.
“Jeff,” Jensen gasps, and then there’s wetness between them, sticking them together and soaking into the pants that they didn’t manage to get all the way off. And Jeff falls down on top of him, heavy and lax and they’re touching everywhere and God, Jensen doesn’t remember ever feeling this good.
Jeff rolls off of him, and they reach out and pull each other close and Jensen doesn’t say a word, doesn’t want to end up saying, “stay” or “go” or “fuck, what did we do?” because he can’t lie like that, not now, not to Jeff. So instead he says, “Jeff,” and closes his eyes and lets tomorrow take care of tomorrow.
**
Jared calls at five and hollers into the machine, “Dude, pick up the fucking phone. We need to go out tonight.” Jensen’s not paying attention to the phone or to anything outside of Jeff, and the fingers sliding slowly in and out of his body, the mouth teasing along his crease, and up onto his balls, sucking and biting and smiling around Jensen’s dick.
When Jeff climbs up his body and wraps hands and arms and legs everywhere between them and around them, he says, “We should go,” between kisses to Jensen’s neck. “Out with Jared,” he adds, like maybe they both were having problems carrying on a conversation. Like they both weren’t still waiting to have the discussion that Jensen really doesn’t want to have.
Jensen winds his fingers through Jeff’s hair and licks into his mouth, swiping at his lips, and asking and demanding, and trying to make Jeff understand that things aren’t going to be as simple for them outside this bed. But Jeff seems to get what he’s saying because he’s pulling back and biting across Jensen’s shoulder, saying, “Jen,” and “yes,” and “it’s going to be fine,” and Jensen doesn’t really believe him but he’s willing to go along with whatever the hell Jeff wants as long as he can keep touching and feeling and having this.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, we’ll go but--.” Jensen’s trying to say and Jeff’s stopping him with a tongue along his ear and a thrust of his hips and a rough and needy voice saying, “Trust me.”
That’s pretty much the biggest no brainer of them all. This is Jeff, and Jensen’s not sure if he remembers how to not trust him. So he just nods his head and flips Jeff over, kissing down his chest and across his stomach, biting at his hip bones and onto his thighs.
For now, it’s enough.
**
They meet up at AuBar and the minute Jensen walks in the door, he remembers every reason why he completely hates the place: low lighting and elegant seating, sort of chintzy with drinks that are pink and frothy and served in half-sized glasses. It’s definitely more nightclub than bar, and sometimes that’s fine but tonight Jensen wants the comfort of pool halls and pitcher beers, a place where the three of them blend into the backdrop of cheap vinyl seats and dark, hidden corners.
At their booth in the back corner, Jeff pushes past Jared, clapping him hard on the shoulder and sliding in next to Jensen, squeezing him up against the wall, pushing in close until thighs and hips and knees are touching. Jared’s looking at their side of the booth and the way there’s way more space than Jensen and Jeff are using. He raises his eyes a bit and tilts his head to one side, and he’s got that look again, and Jensen can tell the moment he goes from vaguely curious to definitely suspecting.
“How’ve you been, man? Really?” Jared asks Jeff, leaning across the table and staring at Jeff like he’s some sort of puzzle to solve.
And Jeff, being pretty much an idiot, Jensen thinks, doesn’t suspect a thing. “Same old. You know how it is.” Jeff’s acting like he doesn’t notice that he’s practically sitting on Jensen’s lap.
“Yeah?” Jared asks and he leans even farther across the table. He’s getting ready to go in for the kill, waiting to see the white of Jeff’s eyes probably, because Jared’s the biggest war picture dork out there, and he fucking loves that line. “Nothing new going on at all, huh?”
Jensen catches Jared’s eyes across the table, and there is no way that he’s silently begging Jared to shut up, except that he sort of is, and Jared’s ignoring him completely, and it’s pissing him the fuck off. Jensen kicks Jared’s leg under the table hard, and doesn’t feel guilty at the rush when he sees Jared grimace.
“Yeah. Well, maybe a few changes,” Jeff says smooth as always and he gulps back a swallow of beer and then reaches over and wraps his fingers around Jensen’s hand on top of the table. “Really good ones.”
And Jeff doesn’t let go when Jensen tries to pull his hand away, just holds on tighter and lets his thumb rub back and forth across the top of Jensen’s fingers. He sits there and watches as Jared looks at their hands and smiles huge.
“Dude, I knew you were getting laid!” Jared’s laughing loud and calling over the waitress and ordering shots and another round of beers, and Jeff’s holding onto Jensen’s hand tighter, almost desperately, and leaning closer, whispering:
“Told you to trust me.”
It’s not like Jensen can say anything to that. Jeff’s not hiding, and judging by Jared’s grin he thinks this is the best thing ever, and Jensen finally feels the knot in his stomach let loose and he can breathe, smooth and simple, and perfectly at ease, thinking of changes that still end up feeling an awful lot like home.
He spreads his fingers and lets Jeff’s fingers get lost between his own, till it’s just a pile of hands, close and together, lying on a table and, really, it’s not so strange; it’s just like any other day.
Only better.
Fandom: Supernatural RPS
Pairing: Jensen/Jeffrey Dean Morgan
Rating: NC17
Length: 5300 words
Summary: The great unknown is a bunch of crap, anyway. Jensen’s always preferred the status quo.
Notes: Huge thanks to schneestern and kudra2324 for the amazing betas and to audrarose for general hand holding. :DD *hugs*
Any Other Day by Sori
Jensen sits down and opens his email and, yeah, he was expecting the one from Chris and the two porn links from Rosenbaum, and he wasn’t even surprised by his mom’s email that somehow managed to yell in words and sounded so much like her that traces of Texas swirled around his house, settling into corners and seeking out the three empty beer bottles and the two dirty towels on the bathroom floor.
But in no way was he expecting the last email.
Business is good for dead guys. You should try it sometime.
And Jensen can’t help but snort, thinking of dark hair and a white button down shirt and an Entertainment Weekly interview he caught two weeks ago with the tagline, Death Becomes Him.
Asshole, he types out in his best hunt-and-peck. You know you miss us.
**
The next night Jensen sits down on his couch and pulls his laptop close. His ass hurts and he’s pretty sure he’s going to be black-and-blue tomorrow since the whole ice-skating-down-the-set-walkway really didn’t work out so well. At least it was just his ass, though; Kripke had blown a fuse when he’d seen Jared’s eye.
Jeff’s address shows up on the fourth email down and Jensen doesn’t even bother reading the first three emails, just goes straight for it, opening it up and settling back, and pretending that he hadn’t been waiting for this all day.
Miss you? Yeah. Absolutely. In between takes of kissing Uma Thurman.
Fuck you, Jensen writes and he thinks he sort of means it, too. Picturing Jeff’s mouth and Uma Thurman’s body and the two of them together and, fuck, kissing over and over, and even though kissing for a shoot is pretty much the least sexy thing ever, it’s still got to be at least as fun as parkas with fur collars and having gummy bears constantly flung at his head.
There’s probably something else he should say, a year of weekend beers and occasional emails in the off-season have made them fairly tight, and, seriously, Uma Thurman. Movie shoot or not, that’s still pretty damn huge. But it’s like his brain’s on vacation and he’s still slightly weirded out by the thought of Jeff kissing, and even that’s strange and wrong in almost every way, so instead, he hits send and shuts down the laptop.
But the next day when the ad from Amazon pops up in his inbox, he clicks over and laughs at the title listed first on the discount dvds. Doesn’t take long and Before Sunrise is scheduled for delivery to a Jeffrey Dean Morgan in 5-7 days with the attached note:
Dude, you really want to be the nasty seconds after Ethan Hawke?
**
Really, he’s not all that used to email, he’s GenX, more or less, and he knows email and MySpace and he’s heard of blogs and bookmarking and chat boards. But email’s more of an occasional thing rather than a usual thing, quick links and one line sentences, flight times and travel confirmations.
But Jeff has none of these notions. After the first few emails, Jeff takes email to a whole new level. It’s not one email a day, instead, it’s two or three, and sometimes even more. It’s you’ll never believe what happened and man, you should have seen my birdie at the 12th hole and fuck, you ought to see this wardrobe trailer. Sometimes it’s one line, sometimes paragraphs and paragraphs, and seriously, Jensen thinks they should be the worst fucking emails in the history of email.
Except that they’re not.
Jensen starts checking his email twice a day instead of just once at night. He starts bringing the laptop to work and finds himself on the computer at breaks. And he’s replying, and the replies are getting longer and longer, until his fingers start regularly cramping and he’s rubbing his wrists between takes enough that Jared starts dropping hints about carpal tunnel and old age.
It probably shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does that he finds himself stealing away between scenes, pulling out his phone and sending quick text messages that say nothing worth telling and even less worth repeating, but that still make him feel good and close, like he’s sharing something that should be shared.
It’s mostly Kripke’s got a bug up his ass about something or new caterer today and the food sucks or Christ, I’m getting sick of this car. Maybe he’d feel bad about the constant texts if his phone wasn’t also beeping every few hours with stupid notes, and wise ass remarks, and comments about Uma Thurman’s ass.
Jensen learns that conversation in real time isn’t all that necessary to whatever it is that they’ve become. It definitely doesn’t seem to matter when Jeff texts, fuck, I think I broke my wrist, and Jensen’s suddenly checking flight times and looking up orthopedic surgeons in Greater Los Angeles, feeling like the biggest moron ever to grace the small screen because what’s he going to do? Ride to the rescue?
He doesn’t remember exactly when he’d turned into a twelve-year-old girl with a crush on the movie star but, hey, there were worse things in life.
He just can’t think of them right now.
**
People sometimes miss the fact that Jared’s smart: book smart and common sense smart and people smart, and most definitely Jensen smart. It doesn’t take him long to notice that something’s going on.
“Man, who’s the new girl?” Jared asks casually, lopped back in his chair at makeup, eating gummy bears out of a bowl.
“What?” Jensen pulls out his very best clueless voice and looks blankly up from his cell phone.
Jared pitches a gummy bear at Jensen’s head and nods toward the cell. “You. Acting all weird with the text messaging and the sneaking-behind-trailers thing and always using the laptop in your trailer,” he says, making it sound so incriminating. “Who is she?”
The one thing Jensen can’t stand about Jared is the stupid shit-eating grin he always gets when he thinks he knows something; it’s pretty much exactly like the one he’s wearing right now. It’s big and wide and screams you can’t fool me and it never fails to make Jensen want to throw something at him.
And, really, all Jensen has to do is open his mouth and tell Jared the truth. “Dude, I’ve been texting Jeff. He’s spending his days making out with Uma Thurman.” Jared would totally get that. He’d want all the details and then they’d spend the rest of the day talking smack about Jeff and fondly remembering co-stars of the past. Eventually, they’d end up leaving the set early and heading back to Jensen’s place to drink beer and watch Kill Bill.
Yeah, that’s what Jensen should do.
“It’s nothing. Just…you know, an old friend,” he says instead because however stupid it might be, he doesn’t want to share this with Jared. This is his, which right there tells him his level of fucked.
Jared makes a face, looking like ‘old friend’ is a dirty word. “Man, you could’ve just told me to back off. You don’t have to lie to me.” He sounds hurt, at least until his cell rings and he picks it up, smiling wildly. “Sandy - hey!”
They don’t finish shooting until late into the night and Jensen wants to say that it’s Jared’s fault. They’ve spent hours missing cues and fighting against a low, simmering tension between them; mostly because of Jared and all his issues about honesty and openness and sharing your fucking feelings. And, okay, maybe Jensen sort of knows that this is at least partly his fault, not entirely, but he’s lying by omission, and for no real reason, and yeah, guilt can really screw up his rhythm.
He’s tired, but Jensen manages to grab onto Jared before he can leave. “Hey, beer at my place? I caught the game on TiVo.” Not an apology, and one’s not really required, but it’s still a gesture and that he can do.
Jared nods, because he can do gestures too and they spend the next few hours drinking, and yelling at the Cowboy’s idiot coach. Jared’s smart enough not to keep asking all the wrong questions.
**
It’s one am and Jensen’s having a dream about a boat, an orgy, and a sweet Texas sunset. Pretty much the same dream he’s been having since he was fifteen and hiding his sheets from his mom every morning. Only the details have changed and it’s not Peggy LeBraun’s tiny bikini and perky little tits that have the starring role now, it’s more about that almost painful scrape of beard stubble along his hip and a deep voice that’s whispering dirty words in his ear.
When the phone rings, Jensen’s still mostly asleep and desperately trying to hold on to dark hair and stubble. He grabs the phone and forces some words out.
“W’the fuck?”
“Aren’t you a ray of fucking sunshine. You kiss your mama with that mouth, Ackles?”
“Jeff?” He says, rubbing his hand across his eyes and yawning. “Why the hell are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“You don’t want to talk to me?” Jeff whines, and, hell, sometimes Jensen forgets how good of an actor he is because Jeff’s voice has lost the sarcasm and found the hurt, and even though Jensen knows he’s being a fucking smart ass, he can feel the guilt start to roll over him in waves.
“Man. I so hate you right now.” Jensen closes his eyes as Jeff laughs, loud and deep, and he can’t help but think of easy touches and dirty words whispered smoothly in his ear.
“Just calling. It’s been a while, you know?” And it’s easy and earnest, and almost like Jeff had plotted out what to say because it’s casual in the way that casual never really is.
“Yeah, a while. The set’s not the same without you, you know.” Jensen shoves a pile of pillows behind his back and sits up, squishing the phone between ear and neck and reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand. “The intelligence level has gone way up without you around.”
“Fucker,” Jeff says, and Jensen knows exactly how late it is when the word comes out sounding every bit like an endearment.
Jensen smiles, relaxing back into the pillows. He’s completely wiped out and he has five am set call, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He has Jeff’s voice in his ear telling him about Patrick Dempsey getting smashed at a party and screaming about Dr. Rey and nose jobs and how he should have sued, and Jensen’s laughing so hard that he can barely breathe.
Really, who needs to sleep?
**
It doesn’t take long before Jensen starts answering his cell expecting to hear Jeff’s voice: a smart ass reply, a stupid wisecrack that makes him remember all the miles between Vancouver and LA. The calls start to come every few nights, late, like early morning kind of late, and each one lasts longer than Jensen really thinks it probably should.
He hears about Jeff’s sister and listens to a dozen too many stories about Bisou the dog (which explains why Jared and Jeff got along like long-lost brothers from about two seconds into the pilot); he’s heard the Seahawks' stats for the last five years, and then spent 45 minutes pointing out that, seriously, (because football is always serious) they will never win a Superbowl, ever; Uma Thurman’s ass comes up regularly and keeps coming up, even after Jeff painfully admits that kissing her is pretty much overrated.
It wasn’t long ago that his days were defined by work and hanging out with Jared; it was a circle, sort of symbiotic, with everything in his life smooth and easy and fitting mostly into this one space. Occasionally, there’d been a Kane anomaly wandering through, but not all that often considering. It’d been comfortable and good and pretty much everything Jensen always wanted.
Now, the days are marked with phone calls at night and emails in the afternoon and text messages through the day until Jensen finally figures out that most of his day is Jeff, in one way or another.
And it sort of freaks him out, although probably not as much as it usually would. But, really, this is Jeff and he’s sort of harmless, and it’s not like he’s here where Jensen would have to spend the days worrying about staring for a second too long, or reaching out and almost touching, or giving himself away in the thousands of ways possible.
It’s not like Jensen likes to channel his inner girl or anything, but Jeff and Jared are pretty much family, and that’s important enough to him that he doesn’t want to screw it all up. Phone calls and text messages and lame ass emails might not be all that he wants, but it’s more then he’d have if things went horribly, terribly wrong.
The great unknown is a bunch of crap, anyway. Jensen’s always preferred the status quo.
**
Jensen pulls into his driveway and has to wonder at the dark black sedan that’s parked at the curb. He’s starting to think paparazzi (even though, seriously, he’s not that famous) when the door opens and Jeff steps out all big waves and stupid grin that shouldn’t go along with the gray Jensen remembers seeing him sport in his goatee.
“Dude, what the fuck?” He says, even though he’s still stuck thinking Jeff and here and yes.
“What? I’m not welcome? And I thought you were a good Texas boy.” Jeff snorts, reaching into the car and pulling out two duffels.
Jensen just lifts an eyebrow and waits.
“Alright. I had a couple of weeks. Thought I’d stop by and see you assholes.”
“Yeah?” But Jensen knows he’s already smiling stupidly. “Well, get your ass inside then.”
He pushes the door open and holds it for Jeff. “Ladies first,” he says and Jeff rolls his eyes and shoves right past him.
It’s easy, like they never really stopped doing this, Jeff dropping his bags on the floor, heading to Jensen’s kitchen and pulling out two beers while grabbing the stack of menus off the fridge one-handed.
“Pizza?” He walks over to the couch and flops down, popping open the top of his beer and tossing the other bottle to Jensen.
“Christ, Jeff. Make yourself at home why don’t you?” He’s being an ass, he gets that, but as much as this seems the same, it still feels totally different.
“Right-,” Jeff says, sounding unsure and not right and maybe uncomfortable, which is seriously the last thing Jensen wants.
Jeff and Jared had spent more than a few hours at his house over the first year of filming. His couch has the beer stains from Jared jumping up and screaming at the Cowboys; the coffee table’s got two roughed impressions of heels that match up perfectly with the size of Jeff’s boots; they both know where he keeps the beer and the chips and the porn, and they can probably locate more of the actual food items in his kitchen then he can.
So this shouldn’t be weird. Jeff flopped out on his couch, feet on the table, beer bottle on his stomach, but he’s looking at Jensen in a way that’s nothing at all like a few months ago, and Jensen can’t see past the image of Jeff kissing Uma Thurman that’s been stuck on repeat in his brain for at least the last three weeks.
Like his life needed one more complication. Yeah, right.
“Fuck. Sorry, man.” He forces the words out, not quick enough to figure out a different answer but feeling somehow desperate to make the hesitation in Jeff’s voice go away. It must have worked because Jeff eases back onto the couch.
“I can get a hotel. Not a problem,” Jeff says, almost sounding like he means it, and maybe only Jensen knows how big of a lie that is.
“Not a problem, my ass.” Jensen snorts, thinking of an obviously drunken email about germs on shower curtains and peeping tom maids and bed spreads that are only changed once a week.
Jensen forgets to keep his distance and flops down on the couch next to Jeff, too close by half, slurping down his beer and laughing at the thought of Jeff dealing with a bed spread with a strange stain.
Jeff’s apparently not in the mood to say much more, he’s gulping down his beer, probably not even tasting it, and Jensen just sits there and watches. And waits. There’s more going on here than just a visit - Jensen is just not that big of an idiot to think that’s the whole truth - but he’s not sure if he should be more worried about being right or being wrong, because this is still Jeff and he can’t just go around fucking things up.
Jeff grabs the remote from the coffee table and crashes back against the cushions. The television’s flipped on and channels are changed until Comedy Central’s blaring across the speakers. And actually it’s sort of relaxing, sitting next to Jeff, legs pressed almost together, close enough that Jensen can feel the heat from Jeff’s body, can feel the soft slide and rustle of denim on the leather sofa. Mindless and good and not exactly what he was expecting.
But Jensen’s good at going with the flow so he leans back, kicks his legs up on the coffee table and settles in for the long haul. Somewhere between The Daily Show and South Park Jensen forgets to watch the TV and the day starts to catch up.
He turns his head and discovers Jeff’s head right there, close enough to touch. His head’s tilted back, hand still loosely clasped around the neck of the beer bottle, asleep and looking way, way younger than usual.
“Hey,” Jensen says, kicking his foot against Jeff’s leg. “Hey, man, wake up. I’ve got a bed with your name on it.”
Jeff’s still snoring, low and easy, a sort of half-smile on his face that makes Jensen grin. “Dumbass.” He reaches out, meaning to shake Jeff’s shoulder, maybe poke him in the arm, but his hand touches the warm fabric and soft skin where neck meets shoulder.
It’s warm skin, a little rough and just the right amount of smooth. He watches, strangely distant, as his thumb moves back and forth, little movements, barely scraping along the skin, from neck to the soft cotton of Jeff’s shirt, and fuck, he shouldn’t be doing this.
Jeff’s eyes open, just enough that Jensen can see how they’re bloodshot and a little glazed. “Jen?” He whispers, voice deep and broken up and not entirely awake.
“Yeah.” Jensen’s fingers are still touching, and Jeff’s not seeming to notice, or not seeming to care, because he’s leaning into the touch just a little, just enough that Jensen feels it happen. “I think it’s time to crash, man. Come on,” he says, forcing his fingers to still enough that he can reach out and grab hold of Jeff’s shoulder.
“Sorry. Wasn’t planning on crashing so early,” Jeff’s saying, standing up and stretching. His shirt rucks up a little and Jensen’s trying not to stare at the line of hair leading down into his pants.
“Don’t worry about it. Just--.” It’s hard to remember what he’s saying when Jeff reaches out and wraps a hand around the back of Jensen’s neck, pulling him up and close, until there’s only a breath of space separating them, close and tight and almost--
Okay, no almost about it. Jeff’s right there and Jensen can’t make himself break the touch, can’t keep himself from reaching out and touching, lying his hand on Jeff’s side, feeling warm fabric and rough denim, and being so close he can taste the air between them.
Jeff leans even closer, and Jensen’s not sure how that’s even possible, his lips brushing against the tip of Jensen’s ear, so quick he maybe imagined the touch. “Night, Jen,” Jeff says, and no imagining here, just stubble and a deep voice and, fuck.
And Jensen’s shocked when Jeff steps back with a last, slow touch to Jensen’s neck, he smiles a small crooked smile and sets off down the hall to the second bedroom, leaving Jensen wanting and hard and needing so bad it hurts.
“Fucking tease,” he hollers at Jeff’s back, completely at a loss at how they got from there to here, and Jeff, being the ass that he is, just lifts a hand and waves a little over his shoulder.
**
Jeff’s standing shirtless next to the coffee pot when Jensen stumbles into the kitchen the next morning. He’s rubbing at his eyes blurrily, one arm draped against the counter top, looking worn out and not quite awake and sort of grumpy in an adorable…well -
Jensen figures it’s probably best to end that thought right there.
“Morning,” Jensen says happily, squeezing between Jeff and the coffee pot and reaching for a cup. Jensen loves mornings: the smell of coffee, the first bright lights of sunshine, the Sports section and some quiet time. Jeff in his kitchen doesn’t hurt his mood either; especially Jeff in low riding sweat pants and no shirt. Definitely makes for a brighter morning all around.
“Shut up,” Jeff growls and he looks so miserable that Jensen can’t help but smile. He reaches out, and okay, maybe he doesn’t really mean to do it, but he finds his hand pressing and squeezing into Jeff’s lower back, rubbing out the muscles, feeling skin and warmth and, Jeff, and Jeff’s moaning low and so quiet that Jensen can barely hear, but it’s that same voice and the same sound that Jensen’s heard dozens of times on the phone, quick and probably meaningless, but still so familiar that Jensen almost aches.
He’s pressing back against Jensen’s hand, moving his back, flexing thee muscles and helping Jensen’s hands hit all the right spots. It’s not until Jensen moves to pull back that Jeff turns and wraps his arms around Jensen’s waist and spins them around until Jensen’s pressed against the kitchen counter. Jeff’s hands reach up and soft fingers trace along Jensen’s neck and across his jaw, and when his lips finally brush across Jensen’s it feels like hot beaches and warm summer sunsets.
It’s slow and easy and Jeff’s kissing like he has all the time in the world. Biting at his lips and sucking at his tongue and exploring all the hidden spots, his hands never stopping, always moving, always touching, on shoulders and arms and up into his hair, and the kiss is so absolutely Jeff, pulling and pushing and dragging Jensen along for the ride.
Jeff’s crowding against him, legs and arms and chests pressed together, rubbing and moving, and Jeff’s licking into his mouth, stealing away his breath. It’s all bright lights and hard touches, and there’s nothing gentle here, but somehow it’s still the best thing ever.
Jensen’s hands are running up and down Jeff’s back, learning the curves, and memorizing the way the skin stretches across his shoulders, discovering the taste of the sweat at the base of his neck. He’s pressing closer and closer, and Jeff’s reeling him in, taking everything and giving it back, and Jensen’s mumbling, trying to find the words, forcing them out, “Fuck, yes. Come on, come on,” and he’s desperate for more and now.
And he knows that the smart thing would be to stop, to hold up his hand and push Jeff back with, “stop” and “no” and “what the hell are we doing?” because this can go nowhere good. He reaches up, means to put his hand on Jeff’s chest, make him step back, but Jeff grabs his hand and breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Jensen’s and looking at him carefully.
“Jen, just--,” Jeff’s saying, and his voice is rough and broken, and it shatters something loose inside Jensen.
“Bed. Let’s go to bed,” Jensen finds himself whispering, pushing his words into Jeff’s mouth with his tongue, sharing their air and sharing the risk, and the change is easier than Jensen thought possible.
It’s a shuffle-bump down the hall and through the door until they fall onto the bed, tangled together, clothes half-off, and it should be awkward and weird because first times always are. But it’s not. Instead, it’s simple and easy and already familiar: the touch of Jeff’s hands, the sound of his voice, the words spoken against Jensen’s skin, the smile on his lips.
Pushing and thrusting, hips and hands, all big motions and no finesse, and it’s like learning sex all over again. Jensen wants the touch and he pulls Jeff down on top of him, holding his hips and thrusting up, hard and rough and desperate, and Jeff’s pushing down, wrapping hands around Jensen’s shoulder, pulling him closer, growling low, “fuck, yes, Jen,” until he shudders.
“Jeff,” Jensen gasps, and then there’s wetness between them, sticking them together and soaking into the pants that they didn’t manage to get all the way off. And Jeff falls down on top of him, heavy and lax and they’re touching everywhere and God, Jensen doesn’t remember ever feeling this good.
Jeff rolls off of him, and they reach out and pull each other close and Jensen doesn’t say a word, doesn’t want to end up saying, “stay” or “go” or “fuck, what did we do?” because he can’t lie like that, not now, not to Jeff. So instead he says, “Jeff,” and closes his eyes and lets tomorrow take care of tomorrow.
**
Jared calls at five and hollers into the machine, “Dude, pick up the fucking phone. We need to go out tonight.” Jensen’s not paying attention to the phone or to anything outside of Jeff, and the fingers sliding slowly in and out of his body, the mouth teasing along his crease, and up onto his balls, sucking and biting and smiling around Jensen’s dick.
When Jeff climbs up his body and wraps hands and arms and legs everywhere between them and around them, he says, “We should go,” between kisses to Jensen’s neck. “Out with Jared,” he adds, like maybe they both were having problems carrying on a conversation. Like they both weren’t still waiting to have the discussion that Jensen really doesn’t want to have.
Jensen winds his fingers through Jeff’s hair and licks into his mouth, swiping at his lips, and asking and demanding, and trying to make Jeff understand that things aren’t going to be as simple for them outside this bed. But Jeff seems to get what he’s saying because he’s pulling back and biting across Jensen’s shoulder, saying, “Jen,” and “yes,” and “it’s going to be fine,” and Jensen doesn’t really believe him but he’s willing to go along with whatever the hell Jeff wants as long as he can keep touching and feeling and having this.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, we’ll go but--.” Jensen’s trying to say and Jeff’s stopping him with a tongue along his ear and a thrust of his hips and a rough and needy voice saying, “Trust me.”
That’s pretty much the biggest no brainer of them all. This is Jeff, and Jensen’s not sure if he remembers how to not trust him. So he just nods his head and flips Jeff over, kissing down his chest and across his stomach, biting at his hip bones and onto his thighs.
For now, it’s enough.
**
They meet up at AuBar and the minute Jensen walks in the door, he remembers every reason why he completely hates the place: low lighting and elegant seating, sort of chintzy with drinks that are pink and frothy and served in half-sized glasses. It’s definitely more nightclub than bar, and sometimes that’s fine but tonight Jensen wants the comfort of pool halls and pitcher beers, a place where the three of them blend into the backdrop of cheap vinyl seats and dark, hidden corners.
At their booth in the back corner, Jeff pushes past Jared, clapping him hard on the shoulder and sliding in next to Jensen, squeezing him up against the wall, pushing in close until thighs and hips and knees are touching. Jared’s looking at their side of the booth and the way there’s way more space than Jensen and Jeff are using. He raises his eyes a bit and tilts his head to one side, and he’s got that look again, and Jensen can tell the moment he goes from vaguely curious to definitely suspecting.
“How’ve you been, man? Really?” Jared asks Jeff, leaning across the table and staring at Jeff like he’s some sort of puzzle to solve.
And Jeff, being pretty much an idiot, Jensen thinks, doesn’t suspect a thing. “Same old. You know how it is.” Jeff’s acting like he doesn’t notice that he’s practically sitting on Jensen’s lap.
“Yeah?” Jared asks and he leans even farther across the table. He’s getting ready to go in for the kill, waiting to see the white of Jeff’s eyes probably, because Jared’s the biggest war picture dork out there, and he fucking loves that line. “Nothing new going on at all, huh?”
Jensen catches Jared’s eyes across the table, and there is no way that he’s silently begging Jared to shut up, except that he sort of is, and Jared’s ignoring him completely, and it’s pissing him the fuck off. Jensen kicks Jared’s leg under the table hard, and doesn’t feel guilty at the rush when he sees Jared grimace.
“Yeah. Well, maybe a few changes,” Jeff says smooth as always and he gulps back a swallow of beer and then reaches over and wraps his fingers around Jensen’s hand on top of the table. “Really good ones.”
And Jeff doesn’t let go when Jensen tries to pull his hand away, just holds on tighter and lets his thumb rub back and forth across the top of Jensen’s fingers. He sits there and watches as Jared looks at their hands and smiles huge.
“Dude, I knew you were getting laid!” Jared’s laughing loud and calling over the waitress and ordering shots and another round of beers, and Jeff’s holding onto Jensen’s hand tighter, almost desperately, and leaning closer, whispering:
“Told you to trust me.”
It’s not like Jensen can say anything to that. Jeff’s not hiding, and judging by Jared’s grin he thinks this is the best thing ever, and Jensen finally feels the knot in his stomach let loose and he can breathe, smooth and simple, and perfectly at ease, thinking of changes that still end up feeling an awful lot like home.
He spreads his fingers and lets Jeff’s fingers get lost between his own, till it’s just a pile of hands, close and together, lying on a table and, really, it’s not so strange; it’s just like any other day.
Only better.