Fic :: CWRPS :: I wandered lonely as a cloud
I wandered lonely as a cloud
Fandom: CWRPS
Rating: PG
Summary: Jared is a poet. Jensen is unimpressed.
Posting date: February 2009
*
“When this is all over,” Jared says, “I’m gonna be a poet.”
Jensen doesn’t turn to stare him at like he really wants to- thanks to Jeannie’s stubborn grip on his face and her murmured “Don’t move, I’m creating perfection”- but his eyebrows shoot right up and he feels his mouth drop open.
“Ow,” he says, as Jeannie smacks the side of his head. Then, “What?”
Jeannie’s right up in Jensen’s face with a cotton ball and a fierce expression, and Jensen’s going kinda cross-eyed. He chances a flicker of a glance to the side; all he can see is Jared’s shiny, grinning teeth on his peripheral vision, like some weird Cheshire Cat-Hulk crossbreed.
“Yup,” says Jared. “Poet. Me. Imma commune with nature and write about trees.”
“What,” says Jensen.
Jeannie releases her deathgrip on his face with a satisfied nod, and Jensen whips his head around to stare at Jared. He’s grinning brightly into the mirror as Shannon slicks up his hair- apparently the eviller Sam gets the more his hair needs a wash- and the grin just gets brighter when he sees Jensen’s looking.
“I was talking to Misha yesterday,” Jared says, with a wave of his hand. “In between trying to kill him with my brain. He said some pretty cool things. Not,” he adds, “about the communing with nature. That’s all me. But I think he’d appreciate the idea.”
“But,” Jensen says. He trails off. It’s barely six am, and there just plain isn’t enough coffee in the world for this shit. “But you’re scared of bears.”
“Please. I can commune with nature from behind an electric fence,” Jared says, airily. It’s pretty impressive coming from a guy with a five o’clock shadow spray-painted on and a vat of oil in his hair.
Not enough coffee.
In the world.
Jensen loves this show, he really does. It’s the best gig he’s ever had, even with the hellish long hours and the particular brand of crazy the fans have been gifted with. But when Eric decides he wants to tear the brothers apart so he can fix them back together again next season, he really means tear the brothers apart.
Jensen’s face has been stuck on suspicious glare for weeks. Sometimes he gets to shout or cry too, to shake things up a bit. His face aches.
He places his container of stroganoff carefully down on the table and then collapses into the seat opposite Jared. Jared waves at him, chewing like it’s going out of style.
“My face aches,” says Jensen, mournfully.
Jared drops his fork onto the table and swallows his mouthful of mashed potato. It looks painful. He frowns, and that looks pretty painful, too.
“I like lakes,” he says.
Jensen blinks. “What?”
“Cot,” says Jared, with a grin.
“Are you. You’re-” Realisation hits mid-sentence and Jensen trails off into a groan, sliding his stroganoff away so he can drop his head onto the table. “You’re rhyming.”
“Bells chiming,” Jared agrees.
“I hate you,” Jensen tells the tabletop inches from his face.
There’s a pause. “I have shoe,” Jared says, eventually. His hand settles on the back of Jensen’s head and ruffles his hair.
“Thanks,” Jensen mutters.
“Spanks,” Jared whispers back.
Another day over. Another day of glaring and shouting and crying to look forward to tomorrow. It’s going to be a great episode, though. Jensen thinks it just might be the best of the season. Yeah.
Jensen’s kinda having trouble keeping his eyes open.
He hears the car door open and the upholstery squeak noisily as Jared clambers in, Clif murmuring a greeting from up front. The door snaps shut again, the engine starts up, they pull out of the parking lot. Jensen will crack an eye open any moment now.
Any moment.
“Clif,” says Jared. “There once was a driver called Clif.”
“Oh Jesus,” Jensen says, eyes snapping open.
Jared throws him a sleepy smile. “There once was a driver called Clif, who really liked to sniff…”
“Cars?” Clif suggests, without batting an eyelid.
“The smell of new cars!” Jared exclaims. He’s really getting into it now, sleepiness be damned. “And smoky bars! And anything else he could whiff!”
Clif cheers, slapping the steering wheel. Jensen closes his eyes again and concentrates on willing himself out of existence. And he’s so close to it, he swears, when an elbow nudges him in the ribs. And then it does it again.
“Whiff isn’t really a verb,” Jared says, once he’s certain he’s got Jensen’s attention, “but I figure it’s poetic license. What with me being a poet and all.”
“Your momma will be so proud,” Jensen mutters.
Jared nudges him again. “You’re just lucky nothing rhymes with Jensen,” he says. He catches hold of Jensen’s wrist and tugs, pulling until Jensen’s slid sideways with his face pressed into Jared’s shoulder, into the faint scent of sweat and soap and laundry detergent. Jared huffs out a satisfied breath.
“So, there once a fella called Jenny…” he begins.
Jensen throws leftover takeout into the microwave, yawning wide with the dogs swarming around his feet like a pair of furry, four-legged bodyguards. If bodyguards licked your toes, anyway. Hey, you never know in this business.
He crouches down to perform petting and ear-scratching duties, gets a few friendly licks in return, and then the microwave beeps. He unloads the cartons of reheated pad thai and stir-fry with a pang of homesickness for his mom’s cooking- quickly suppressed; he’s in his thirties, for Christ’s sake- then shuffles out of the kitchen.
Jared’s sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed and mouth hanging open.
“Food,” Jensen says, dropping the stir-fry onto Jared’s chest. He tugs Jared’s feet off the end of the couch, but the second he sits down they’ve found their way into his lap. He’s too tired to fight the invasion.
Jared groans, heaving himself up until he’s propped up against the armrest, takeout balancing precariously on his stomach. He blinks down at it, frowning like maybe if he looks hard enough it’ll transport itself into his mouth.
“Eat,” Jensen adds. He drops a fork into Jared’s lap.
“Roses are red…” Jared says around a yawn. He pokes at his food with a vacant expression. “Roses are red, violets are blue, stir-fry is awesome, I really love you.”
Jensen snorts. He chews a mouthful of pad thai, swallows it with Jared’s toes curling into his thigh.
“Jared,” he says, solemnly. “That was beautiful.”
Jared grins. “See?” he says. “I’m a poet.”
*
Fandom: CWRPS
Rating: PG
Summary: Jared is a poet. Jensen is unimpressed.
Posting date: February 2009
*
“When this is all over,” Jared says, “I’m gonna be a poet.”
Jensen doesn’t turn to stare him at like he really wants to- thanks to Jeannie’s stubborn grip on his face and her murmured “Don’t move, I’m creating perfection”- but his eyebrows shoot right up and he feels his mouth drop open.
“Ow,” he says, as Jeannie smacks the side of his head. Then, “What?”
Jeannie’s right up in Jensen’s face with a cotton ball and a fierce expression, and Jensen’s going kinda cross-eyed. He chances a flicker of a glance to the side; all he can see is Jared’s shiny, grinning teeth on his peripheral vision, like some weird Cheshire Cat-Hulk crossbreed.
“Yup,” says Jared. “Poet. Me. Imma commune with nature and write about trees.”
“What,” says Jensen.
Jeannie releases her deathgrip on his face with a satisfied nod, and Jensen whips his head around to stare at Jared. He’s grinning brightly into the mirror as Shannon slicks up his hair- apparently the eviller Sam gets the more his hair needs a wash- and the grin just gets brighter when he sees Jensen’s looking.
“I was talking to Misha yesterday,” Jared says, with a wave of his hand. “In between trying to kill him with my brain. He said some pretty cool things. Not,” he adds, “about the communing with nature. That’s all me. But I think he’d appreciate the idea.”
“But,” Jensen says. He trails off. It’s barely six am, and there just plain isn’t enough coffee in the world for this shit. “But you’re scared of bears.”
“Please. I can commune with nature from behind an electric fence,” Jared says, airily. It’s pretty impressive coming from a guy with a five o’clock shadow spray-painted on and a vat of oil in his hair.
Not enough coffee.
In the world.
Jensen loves this show, he really does. It’s the best gig he’s ever had, even with the hellish long hours and the particular brand of crazy the fans have been gifted with. But when Eric decides he wants to tear the brothers apart so he can fix them back together again next season, he really means tear the brothers apart.
Jensen’s face has been stuck on suspicious glare for weeks. Sometimes he gets to shout or cry too, to shake things up a bit. His face aches.
He places his container of stroganoff carefully down on the table and then collapses into the seat opposite Jared. Jared waves at him, chewing like it’s going out of style.
“My face aches,” says Jensen, mournfully.
Jared drops his fork onto the table and swallows his mouthful of mashed potato. It looks painful. He frowns, and that looks pretty painful, too.
“I like lakes,” he says.
Jensen blinks. “What?”
“Cot,” says Jared, with a grin.
“Are you. You’re-” Realisation hits mid-sentence and Jensen trails off into a groan, sliding his stroganoff away so he can drop his head onto the table. “You’re rhyming.”
“Bells chiming,” Jared agrees.
“I hate you,” Jensen tells the tabletop inches from his face.
There’s a pause. “I have shoe,” Jared says, eventually. His hand settles on the back of Jensen’s head and ruffles his hair.
“Thanks,” Jensen mutters.
“Spanks,” Jared whispers back.
Another day over. Another day of glaring and shouting and crying to look forward to tomorrow. It’s going to be a great episode, though. Jensen thinks it just might be the best of the season. Yeah.
Jensen’s kinda having trouble keeping his eyes open.
He hears the car door open and the upholstery squeak noisily as Jared clambers in, Clif murmuring a greeting from up front. The door snaps shut again, the engine starts up, they pull out of the parking lot. Jensen will crack an eye open any moment now.
Any moment.
“Clif,” says Jared. “There once was a driver called Clif.”
“Oh Jesus,” Jensen says, eyes snapping open.
Jared throws him a sleepy smile. “There once was a driver called Clif, who really liked to sniff…”
“Cars?” Clif suggests, without batting an eyelid.
“The smell of new cars!” Jared exclaims. He’s really getting into it now, sleepiness be damned. “And smoky bars! And anything else he could whiff!”
Clif cheers, slapping the steering wheel. Jensen closes his eyes again and concentrates on willing himself out of existence. And he’s so close to it, he swears, when an elbow nudges him in the ribs. And then it does it again.
“Whiff isn’t really a verb,” Jared says, once he’s certain he’s got Jensen’s attention, “but I figure it’s poetic license. What with me being a poet and all.”
“Your momma will be so proud,” Jensen mutters.
Jared nudges him again. “You’re just lucky nothing rhymes with Jensen,” he says. He catches hold of Jensen’s wrist and tugs, pulling until Jensen’s slid sideways with his face pressed into Jared’s shoulder, into the faint scent of sweat and soap and laundry detergent. Jared huffs out a satisfied breath.
“So, there once a fella called Jenny…” he begins.
Jensen throws leftover takeout into the microwave, yawning wide with the dogs swarming around his feet like a pair of furry, four-legged bodyguards. If bodyguards licked your toes, anyway. Hey, you never know in this business.
He crouches down to perform petting and ear-scratching duties, gets a few friendly licks in return, and then the microwave beeps. He unloads the cartons of reheated pad thai and stir-fry with a pang of homesickness for his mom’s cooking- quickly suppressed; he’s in his thirties, for Christ’s sake- then shuffles out of the kitchen.
Jared’s sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed and mouth hanging open.
“Food,” Jensen says, dropping the stir-fry onto Jared’s chest. He tugs Jared’s feet off the end of the couch, but the second he sits down they’ve found their way into his lap. He’s too tired to fight the invasion.
Jared groans, heaving himself up until he’s propped up against the armrest, takeout balancing precariously on his stomach. He blinks down at it, frowning like maybe if he looks hard enough it’ll transport itself into his mouth.
“Eat,” Jensen adds. He drops a fork into Jared’s lap.
“Roses are red…” Jared says around a yawn. He pokes at his food with a vacant expression. “Roses are red, violets are blue, stir-fry is awesome, I really love you.”
Jensen snorts. He chews a mouthful of pad thai, swallows it with Jared’s toes curling into his thigh.
“Jared,” he says, solemnly. “That was beautiful.”
Jared grins. “See?” he says. “I’m a poet.”
*