lucky (j2 rps au)
title: lucky
rating: nc-17
words: ~1300
warnings/spoilers: second person pov
summary: days like today, jared thinks he's the luckiest man alive.
notes: timestamp fic for my bigbang. you might have to read that first, but if you haven't, all you really need to know is jared and jensen (and chad and chris) spent a year and a half robbing banks, during the course of which jared was shot in the arm. the gang split up in may of 1934, and now jared and jensen live somewhere in the southwest where they're honest and hardworking citizens and don't take their shotguns into the bank.
Somewhere in the southwest
Summer 1937
Some days you cannot believe how lucky you are.
Days like today, when you come up the drive with a box of groceries and two cans of motor oil in the back seat of your car, and you see the house you fixed up with your own hands, the house and the garden next to it, and somewhere in the back there's a barn, and north and west of the house, beyond the barn and the garden, are all the acres you bought with your ill-gotten gains, acres of land on which to raise crops and graze horses and hopefully turn a profit and provide for yourselves. As you park the car in front of the house you can hear dogs barking somewhere and a man's voice yelling at them to shut up.
And these are the things that sometimes make you the luckiest man who ever drove a Ford home from town - the house, the garden, the barn, the crops and the horses, the dogs, and above all of them the man whose voice you can hear indistinctly from somewhere you can't see.
You carry your box of groceries inside, drop it in the kitchen, keep going through the house to the back yard, where he has stopped yelling at the dogs - the dogs have apparently run off - and is standing in his undershirt dunking his head in the rain barrel by the barn. You call his name and he lifts his head, shakes water out of his hair, grins at you.
"Did you get everything?" he asks, as you come closer.
"Yeah," you tell him, "plus some motor oil." But you're not thinking about what you bought - you're just thinking about him.
His eyes are very green in this light and his wet hair sticks up in every direction when he runs his fingers through it. His freckles are nearly invisible under his tan but this close you can see them, can even count them. (You tried, once. You were drunk, you had an excuse. He laughed and said it was a pointless endeavor, but still cute.) You want to count them again. You want to kiss his mouth and yank his pants down and fuck him like a mad dog in heat.
But not out here, not in this sun. You can hear the dogs barking somewhere, chasing each other or maybe a jackrabbit.
You take his wet face in your dry hands and kiss him, because you can and because four and a half years on, you still remember sitting next to him on a front step, wanting to kiss him and not knowing how it would be received, and not even really knowing why you wanted it so badly. You have tried to take advantage of every opportunity since.
His hands come to rest on your waist as he kisses you back and this, his easily returned desire, is another of the many pieces of luck the universe has bestowed upon you.
You pull away, take his wrist, lead him into the barn, just inside the open door and around to face the wall. He knows what you want and he puts his hands flat against the wood, looks over his shoulder at you as you undo his pants and yours, as you press your face against the back of his still-damp neck and breathe in the scent of his skin.
You have never wanted another human being as badly and as often as you want him. You know, because he has told you and more importantly because he has shown you, that he feels the same.
His body is tight and welcoming, his panting breaths encouraging, and even though you want to draw this out, you are too caught up in the clench of his muscles and the sound of his breathing and the lingering heat from outside and the knowledge that you have your own place to be together, that you can do what you want, when you want, and in whatever way best pleases you both.
You finish quicker than you wanted, and when you have caught your breath you press your lips to his neck, his shoulder, his face as he turns his head. You reach around and get him off as fast as you did yourself, and when you finally pull out, he stands up straight, turns around, and kisses you hard. His hands travel up and down your arms, fingers stopping almost unconsciously over the puckered scar on your bicep, the one visible reminder of your days as wanted men.
(He told you once that the most frightened he has ever been in his entire life was for the length of time between the minute you realized you'd been shot and the minute Chad pulled into the driveway where Danneel was house-sitting. He has never said anything like that again. You do not mind. You didn't know how to tell him that you were scared as well but not as much as he was, because you were with him, and you knew he would take care of you.)
"I wanted to go longer," you say apologetically, after you pull apart. He just shrugs.
"There's always tonight," he says.
"And tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow morning...."
He laughs, kisses you again, pulls up his pants, and heads out of the barn towards the house, calling "We should put the groceries away" over his shoulder as he goes.
You follow, as you have been following him for four and a half years, as you plan to follow for the rest of your life. Follow and sometimes lead, because you know he hates having to make all the decisions all the time.
Your life is not always easy, and you do not always see your luck. The two of you live together as men live with their wives, and you both know how badly this can be received outside the safe little bubble made by your house and your garden and your barn. You do not always turn a profit on your land and your horses. Sometimes you think you will always be in debt. You have survived storms and drought and crop failure and bugs and burst pipes and lame horses and wolves and the car breaking down and people in town whispering about you behind their hands and snubbing you to your face. You have only had reliable electricity in your house for a year and a half and a phone for not much longer than that.
But you have a giant bed that you had to mail-order because of its size, and you have running water and a cast iron bathtub, and you have learned how to can and how to bake and how to feed yourselves, and you can break a wild horse and mend a fence and run electricity into the barn and plant and harvest garden crops. Sometimes you work part time at a garage in town, fixing other people's cars and listening to their gossip. You spin tall tales about your former life, or at least they sound like tall tales, because who would believe that you once carried rifles and shotguns into small town banks and used your not-inconsiderable size to cow the tellers and convince them to give up the money they were paid to safeguard?
And so with all its ups and downs you have made a life here, with your own house and your own land and with him, the man you love who sleeps next to you in your giant bed in your whitewashed bedroom in the house the two of you rebuilt with your own hands, this man who is now laughing at you as he unpacks your box of groceries and sees the ridiculous things you bought.
And you think that yes, you are indeed lucky, at this very moment perhaps the luckiest human being on earth.
rating: nc-17
words: ~1300
warnings/spoilers: second person pov
summary: days like today, jared thinks he's the luckiest man alive.
notes: timestamp fic for my bigbang. you might have to read that first, but if you haven't, all you really need to know is jared and jensen (and chad and chris) spent a year and a half robbing banks, during the course of which jared was shot in the arm. the gang split up in may of 1934, and now jared and jensen live somewhere in the southwest where they're honest and hardworking citizens and don't take their shotguns into the bank.
Somewhere in the southwest
Summer 1937
Some days you cannot believe how lucky you are.
Days like today, when you come up the drive with a box of groceries and two cans of motor oil in the back seat of your car, and you see the house you fixed up with your own hands, the house and the garden next to it, and somewhere in the back there's a barn, and north and west of the house, beyond the barn and the garden, are all the acres you bought with your ill-gotten gains, acres of land on which to raise crops and graze horses and hopefully turn a profit and provide for yourselves. As you park the car in front of the house you can hear dogs barking somewhere and a man's voice yelling at them to shut up.
And these are the things that sometimes make you the luckiest man who ever drove a Ford home from town - the house, the garden, the barn, the crops and the horses, the dogs, and above all of them the man whose voice you can hear indistinctly from somewhere you can't see.
You carry your box of groceries inside, drop it in the kitchen, keep going through the house to the back yard, where he has stopped yelling at the dogs - the dogs have apparently run off - and is standing in his undershirt dunking his head in the rain barrel by the barn. You call his name and he lifts his head, shakes water out of his hair, grins at you.
"Did you get everything?" he asks, as you come closer.
"Yeah," you tell him, "plus some motor oil." But you're not thinking about what you bought - you're just thinking about him.
His eyes are very green in this light and his wet hair sticks up in every direction when he runs his fingers through it. His freckles are nearly invisible under his tan but this close you can see them, can even count them. (You tried, once. You were drunk, you had an excuse. He laughed and said it was a pointless endeavor, but still cute.) You want to count them again. You want to kiss his mouth and yank his pants down and fuck him like a mad dog in heat.
But not out here, not in this sun. You can hear the dogs barking somewhere, chasing each other or maybe a jackrabbit.
You take his wet face in your dry hands and kiss him, because you can and because four and a half years on, you still remember sitting next to him on a front step, wanting to kiss him and not knowing how it would be received, and not even really knowing why you wanted it so badly. You have tried to take advantage of every opportunity since.
His hands come to rest on your waist as he kisses you back and this, his easily returned desire, is another of the many pieces of luck the universe has bestowed upon you.
You pull away, take his wrist, lead him into the barn, just inside the open door and around to face the wall. He knows what you want and he puts his hands flat against the wood, looks over his shoulder at you as you undo his pants and yours, as you press your face against the back of his still-damp neck and breathe in the scent of his skin.
You have never wanted another human being as badly and as often as you want him. You know, because he has told you and more importantly because he has shown you, that he feels the same.
His body is tight and welcoming, his panting breaths encouraging, and even though you want to draw this out, you are too caught up in the clench of his muscles and the sound of his breathing and the lingering heat from outside and the knowledge that you have your own place to be together, that you can do what you want, when you want, and in whatever way best pleases you both.
You finish quicker than you wanted, and when you have caught your breath you press your lips to his neck, his shoulder, his face as he turns his head. You reach around and get him off as fast as you did yourself, and when you finally pull out, he stands up straight, turns around, and kisses you hard. His hands travel up and down your arms, fingers stopping almost unconsciously over the puckered scar on your bicep, the one visible reminder of your days as wanted men.
(He told you once that the most frightened he has ever been in his entire life was for the length of time between the minute you realized you'd been shot and the minute Chad pulled into the driveway where Danneel was house-sitting. He has never said anything like that again. You do not mind. You didn't know how to tell him that you were scared as well but not as much as he was, because you were with him, and you knew he would take care of you.)
"I wanted to go longer," you say apologetically, after you pull apart. He just shrugs.
"There's always tonight," he says.
"And tomorrow. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow morning...."
He laughs, kisses you again, pulls up his pants, and heads out of the barn towards the house, calling "We should put the groceries away" over his shoulder as he goes.
You follow, as you have been following him for four and a half years, as you plan to follow for the rest of your life. Follow and sometimes lead, because you know he hates having to make all the decisions all the time.
Your life is not always easy, and you do not always see your luck. The two of you live together as men live with their wives, and you both know how badly this can be received outside the safe little bubble made by your house and your garden and your barn. You do not always turn a profit on your land and your horses. Sometimes you think you will always be in debt. You have survived storms and drought and crop failure and bugs and burst pipes and lame horses and wolves and the car breaking down and people in town whispering about you behind their hands and snubbing you to your face. You have only had reliable electricity in your house for a year and a half and a phone for not much longer than that.
But you have a giant bed that you had to mail-order because of its size, and you have running water and a cast iron bathtub, and you have learned how to can and how to bake and how to feed yourselves, and you can break a wild horse and mend a fence and run electricity into the barn and plant and harvest garden crops. Sometimes you work part time at a garage in town, fixing other people's cars and listening to their gossip. You spin tall tales about your former life, or at least they sound like tall tales, because who would believe that you once carried rifles and shotguns into small town banks and used your not-inconsiderable size to cow the tellers and convince them to give up the money they were paid to safeguard?
And so with all its ups and downs you have made a life here, with your own house and your own land and with him, the man you love who sleeps next to you in your giant bed in your whitewashed bedroom in the house the two of you rebuilt with your own hands, this man who is now laughing at you as he unpacks your box of groceries and sees the ridiculous things you bought.
And you think that yes, you are indeed lucky, at this very moment perhaps the luckiest human being on earth.