Fic: Subterranean Homesick Blues 1/?
Okay, here we go. I'm really wary of posting this because it isn't complete - far from it. But I've got two or three chapters banged out and I can't take the suspense any longer, I need to know if other people are actually going to enjoy reading this as much as I like writing it.
It's an idea I've had for a loooong time, but didn't know how to start or convinced myself I didn't have the time. The Big Chill is like, my favorite movie of all time, and I just had to do this.
Let me know how I'm doing?
PS, thanks to kasmodia for encouraging me.
Title: Subterranean Homesick Blues
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Set three years in the future. When a friend passes away, Jensen flies to Vancouver for the funeral and somehow gets coerced into spending the weekend with more than a few familiar faces. He's pretty sure that if he can put the past behind them, drink enough beer, and stop himself from killing Chad, it'll be just like the old days. If he could just get Jared out of his head.
Warnings/Spoilers: Set assuming Supernatural ends after the fifth season. F-bombs galore, features some Jensen/Danneel and Tom/Mike. And Chad. Seriously, you've been warned.
September, 2013
He’s driving in his car when he first gets the call.
Jensen bets its Danneel. She arranged for some bamboo-loving, green-friendly contractor to meet them at the house, and he’s running late.
Understanding the finer functions of his cell phone has never been something Jensen excelled at, but somehow he gets the Bluetooth going. “Yeah,” he says to the empty car, ready to plead his case. There’s typical rush hour LA traffic, the meeting with his agent ran long, and he had to stop at a gas station for smokes. They’re always out.
“Jensen? It’s Ian.”
Jensen pauses. He just left the office not ten minutes ago. “Look, man, I appreciate the effort, but I’m really not that desperate. I can’t do that horror bullshit anymore.” He says, trying to convince himself at the same time. Money isn’t exactly tight, it never is, but almost a year is a hell of a long time to go without a project, and he’s getting anxious. Then again, maybe if Danneel would quit going all Extreme Makeover: Home Edition on his ass every six months, things would be a little more financially secure.
Ian hesitates. “What? Oh, no. No, it’s not that.” The tinny voice assures, and Jensen hears restless movement in the background. “I just got passed something a few minute after you left. I need to share it with you.”
Shoulder checking, Jensen tries to make for the exit to the residential streets, but some jackass in a BMW is blocking his lane. He lays on the horn, and earns himself a middle finger for his efforts. “By all means, share away,” he smirks at the formal tone. “You get me a better offer?”
There’s a sigh. “No. Look, Jensen, it’s bad news. Can you pull over for a minute? Maybe come back and meet me for coffee?”
Jensen rolls down the window and lets in a breeze of warm, late-summer air. “No can do, man, I’m late as it is and Danneel is going to curb-stomp me the minute I walk in the door.” He says humourlessly. “What is it?” He asks, suddenly nervous.
A series of possibilities flash through his head: He’s become picky and lazy, so his long-time agent and friend is dropping him. That Ed Norton project he’d been interested him is going with someone else because he’s too old. The only thing he’s good for anymore is yet another convention. Thus, nothing could have prepared him for what came next.
Ian sighs, “Jim Beaver died this morning. Heart attack.”
He has a moment then that will haunt him forever, in which he actually has to think, Jim who? But it’s fleeting and he’s left feeling cold and sick in the aftermath. He has to close his eyes for a moment.
There’s a long silence, and then someone behind him is honking. He’s come to a complete stop at a green light. “Jensen? Jesus, I knew I shouldn’t have told you like this...”
Feeling shaken, Jensen eases onto the gas and slowly winds the corners of their upper-class neighbourhood. “I’m okay,” he assures the other man, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “I, uh, when...?” Jensen trails off, unsure of what he’s even asking, but when someone you know dies there are people you have to talk to, things you have to do.
But at this moment, Jensen has no idea what they are.
Ian doesn’t seem to suffer from that problem. “There’s going to be a funeral on Friday. In Vancouver.”
Of course. Jensen draws in a slow, shaky breath. “Can...”
“I’m e-mailing you the details as we speak,” says Ian. Ian is a good guy.
While the conversation winds down to an end, Jensen somehow manoeuvres the car to the steep, snaking length of their driveway. In the garage he leaves the door up and pats furtively with open palms at his pockets, indescribably grateful that he thought to pick up more Marlboros before going home.
His hands don’t stop shaking even after the first few deep drags, and as he watches the blue smoke twist shapes as it floats out the open car window, he fixes his eyes ahead and tries to picture Jim Beaver’s friendly face.
But all he can think of is Jared.
December, 2008
Jared comes out of the bathroom with a foaming toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. Hands on denim-clad hips, he stands in the doorway with the mother of all disapproving looks on his face.
After taking a moment to enjoy the view from the bed, Jensen lowers his morning paper slightly. “Yes?”
“Uh cahnt beweef woo ahnt cah-hing wiff me.”
Jensen can feel his forehead wrinkling. “One more time, in English. Please.”
Jared rolls his eyes at him but disappears back into the bathroom. There’s the sound of running water, and then he’s back, Colgate free. “I said, I can’t believe you aren’t going with me.” He repeats, crossing his arms over his chest as if for emphasis.
Returning to his paper, Jensen snuffs a laugh. “Well, believe it, baby. Nothing is going to get me out of this bed until at least, oh,” he glances at the clock on the bedside table, pressing his lips together, “one or two in the afternoon.”
Jared rolls his eyes. “You’re gross.” He mutters, sitting on the end of the bed to pull on a pair of socks.
“Says the man about to spend the day at a mall. A crowded, germ-infested playground of ankle-biters and their pushy, materialistic parents. Have fun elbowing your way through a sea of consumers, eating right out of the hands of industrial America - on a Sunday, no less.” He rattles the paper for dramatic effect, giving Jared a pointed look. “It’s God’s day, Jared.”
From his perch on the edge of the mattress, Jared shoots him a look of mild amusement. “You done?” He asks dryly.
Jensen returns to his paper. “Yep.”
He doesn’t see it, but he can feel Jared rolling his eyes. “Right.” He mutters indulgently, pushing up from the bed and leafing through the closet for a coat. “Well, at least the hippy attitude goes well with that gross neck-beard you’re sporting. And the whole not-bathing thing you’ve got going on,” he says cheekily, catching the older man’s eyes in the mirror.
“Says the vagrant with the David Cassidy haircut.” Jensen shoots back, but surreptitiously sniffs an armpit when Jared’s back is turned. “I’ll shower later.”
Jared approaches the bed, smiling. “I’m glad.” He says, resting his hands in his pockets. “I need to ask you a question, though.”
Jensen puts down his paper. “Shoot.”
“I need to leave soon if I’m going to have any chance whatsoever at getting a parking spot. Now, I know you’ve got a hard on for this bed, but I haven’t gotten a chance to take the dogs out yet, and they’re going to be pretty restless soon.”
Feeling his forehead wrinkle, Jensen pretends to think. “Um, none of those were questions.”
Sighing, Jared puts on his best pleading puppy-dog look...and fuck him, because it’s pretty damn good. “Will you? Please walk them for me?” He asks earnestly. As if on cue, one of them barks from downstairs.
“I suppose.” He says slowly, despairingly.
Jared grins - that wide, brilliant flash of a smile that turns people’s heads and flips some sort of switch in Jensen’s brain that makes everything feel as if it’s happening in slow motion. “Thanks, John.” He says, striding to the hallway and pausing, one hand on the doorframe. “...Lennon. John Lennon. You know, because he stayed in bed for like, a week, and his...”
“If you have to explain it, joke’s not funny.” Jensen taunts him from the bed.
“Whatever. I’ll see you later, asshole.”
Jensen watches him leave, but then - “Hey, wait a second.”
Jared reappears, stepping to the bed distractedly. “Yeah?” He asks, fiddling with his zipper.
Reaching up a hand, Jensen tangles his fingers in the cotton of the younger man’s coat, pulling him down until their lips meet. He kisses him slowly - a deep, unhurried exploration of tongue, like he doesn’t already have Jared’s taste committed to memory, or know exactly just what moves make him sigh softly in the back of his throat. It’s a long kiss, and when Jensen pulls back to study his face, Jared’s eyes are still closed, his cheeks flushed.
“Have a nice day.” Jensen announces, and picks up his newspaper.
There’s a pause, and then Jared clears his throat. “Yeah.” He grumbles, sounding vaguely shell-shocked as he makes his way back to the door. “Try to remember to turn yourself every few hours. Avoid bedsores.” And then he’s gone.
Jensen chuckles, and goes back to the Globe and Mail. It’s after a few moments of silence and reading the same few sentences over and over again that he almost calls Jared back. Maybe the mall won’t be so bad.
Then he remembers to strap his balls back on and focuses on the paper.
Present Day
He waits almost twenty-four hours before telling Danneel. It isn’t really a conscious thing, just that their paths don’t really cross all that much in the day to day, and it didn’t seem like the best time to bring it up while Danny was arguing over ecru or eggshell for the foyer with a flamboyant designer named Skyler.
Jensen had already set up a flight in and out of Vancouver Airport with his travel agent by the time he was sitting across the kitchen island from Danneel, and really, all that was left to do was explain why she wouldn’t be seeing him around the house for a few days.
“...We need to choose a contractor by the end of the week. Look, I’m not stupid, I know you don’t care about this project, Jensen,” she’s saying as she leans across the counter from him. She lowers her gaze and a curtain of auburn hair falls across her eyes as she mumbles the next words under her breath. “I know you don’t seem to care about anything these days.”
He wonders why she does that - says things quietly, like an afterthought, like something he isn’t meant to hear even though she clearly hopes he will.
She sweeps her long bangs behind an ear and levels him with an unwavering gaze. “But this matters to me. Our home matters to me.” The acrylic of her fingernails tap lightly over the tile samples laid out across the table. “If it matters at all to you, you won’t be late this time when we meet with Mark on Friday.”
With a wry shake of his head, Jensen studies his hands. “Well, that’s not going to be possible.”
Danneel’s eyes narrow. “Of course not. Because what’s important to me has no significance to you, does it?” She asks rhetorically, bitter amusement in her voice. Never sad, or even all that surprised. “Maybe if we were married that would be different.”
That old chestnut.
She plays with the swatches at her fingertips for a few long moments, putting two or three together before sliding them apart, switching them up. “But we both know that boat sailed long ago.” She looks up again, her gaze distant. “Right?” He’s not meant to answer, he never is.
Jensen looks at her. “Jim Beaver died.” He says, and he has to clear his throat afterwards because it feels like he hasn’t spoken in years. “And I’m going to the funeral on Friday.”
There’s a long moment afterwards where Danneel looks at him vacantly, but Jensen doesn’t blame her. Then her features soften and she looks at him in a way that Jensen can’t remember seeing in a long, long time, and sadness creeps up on him without warning. “Oh,” she says softly.
Jensen swallows. “Yeah.”
She takes in a deep breath and suddenly she’s walking around the counter, coming to stand beside him. “When do we leave?”
Taken aback, Jensen blinks up at her in confusion. “We?” he repeats dumbly.
Danneel looks hurt for a moment before visibly repressing it, gently resting her hand on his arm. “I’m going with you, Jensen.” She says, like it’s obvious, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it would be, if Jensen hadn’t been sleeping in the guest room for the past six months, or if Danneel wasn’t blatantly fucking the asshole jock that lived in the next McMansion over.
“Uh, Friday morning.” He tells her numbly.
Nodding, Danneel gives his arm a final pat and fishes her Blackberry from her purse on the tabletop. “Okay. I’ll move the meeting to next week. And forward all the calls to my cell phone while we’re gone. I’ll have to let Skyler know...” and she’s off, talking and walking as she disappears from the kitchen with a clack of high-heels.
Jensen scrubs a hand through his hair, blowing out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yeah,” he says to the empty room, and closes his eyes.
Jensen is nervous. Three airplane-issue mini-bottles of vodka and too-little orange juice nervous, and none of it even seems to help.
For whatever reason, Danneel doesn’t seem to be holding up much better. She’d fidgeted the entire flight and had stood beside him rigidly at the baggage carousel, fiddling restlessly with her cell phone while Jensen had stood silently beside her, struggling to focus on recognizing which pieces of black, non-descript luggage were theirs.
It was hard, because his mind kept trying to stray and go elsewhere. It really didn’t help that the arrivals gate of the Vancouver airport hadn’t changed in the four years he’d been away. He remembered standing in that very spot with Jared, often so tired they had to lean against one another to stay vertical.
He remembered kissing him in the men’s room, pushing him up against one of the stall doors because he couldn’t wait until they got home, or even into the safety of the car. Back when being away from one another for a week was too fucking long.
“Jensen. We’re here.”
Head snapping up, Jensen looks to find Danneel staring at him expectantly, smoothing out wrinkles in her black pencil skirt. “Right. Sorry.” He mumbles, getting his bearings back as he looks out a rain-slicked window while Danneel pays the cab driver.
They’re at the church, somewhere in the heart of downtown, and it looks vaguely familiar. Jensen can’t help but snort quietly to himself, because why shouldn’t it? Shooting Supernatural had meant they’d filmed on location at nearly every single church on the west coast - at least twice.
Danneel’s throat clears. “Any time now, Jen.”
“Right.” Jensen repeats, and heaves in a deep breath. Then they’re out on the sidewalk, mixing into the sea of black umbrellas as they make their way to the double doors.
Just as Jensen is reaching into his trench coat pocket and opening his mouth to speak, Danneel stops a few meters away from the entrance. “I’m going to need a smoke first.” She mutters, almost uncomfortably, as she flips open her purse.
“I could go for one.” Jensen admits, reaching for his lighter.
Just as he’s got a hand over the flame, someone is touching his shoulder. “Jenny?”
He recognizes the voice first, and he’s smiling even before he turns around. Sure enough, Mike Rosenbaum is standing behind him. “Mike!” he reacts, and they’re laughing and hugging before remembering themselves and their surroundings, pulling back with solemn expressions.
“This is really shitty, but fuck, if I’m not glad to see you.” Mike says, shaking his head, hands still holding on to Jensen’s arms.
“You too, man.” He says, clearing his throat to rid the rough quality in his voice.
Danneel flicks ash to the wet ground. “Hi, Mike.”
Mike’s expression changes, almost as if he seems surprised when his eyes fall to Danneel, but he schools it quickly and they share a brief hug. “Hey, Danny.”
Danneel smirks slightly, pointing the end of her cigarette at the other man’s head. “I can’t help but notice you’ve got all your hair back.” She comments teasingly. “Getting off the small screen agrees with you?”
“Oh yeah,” Mike nods emphatically, running a hand across his light brown locks. “I’m living the dream.”
Unable to hide his smile, Jensen pats the other man on the back. “Tommy here, too?” he asks curiously, feeling his brow crease in confusion. Okay, so he was thrilled to see Mike, and yes, everyone in the CW community had known one another to a certain extent, but he never really would have expected to see them here. In fact, the only face he’d expected (hoped) to recognize was the one that he had yet to see.
“Yeah, he’s around here somewhere,” Mike says, casting a glance or two at the dozens of faces outside of the church. He turns back and clears his throat. “So, are you guys sticking around after this thing?”
Jensen hesitates. “Uh, well...” he glances sideways at Danneel, but her expression is hard to read.
“Because I’m hosting a bit of a gathering back at my place. Figured after something like this we’re all going to need to get shit-faced. What do you say?” He hedges, eyebrows climbing into his hairline.
What he thinks is that it sounds like a scene that’s all too familiar. A page out of a book he finished and packed away a long time ago because he thought that part of his life was over and done with. But of course, that’s not what he says. All that comes out is a couple of awkward, throaty noises.
“Sweet.” With one last smile, Mike waves a hand at the air in front of his face. “Look, I love you guys, but I quit those things a year ago, and if I don’t walk away right this second, I might French kiss the both of you to suck the smoke out of your lungs. So if you’ll excuse me,” he steps away. “I’ll see you guys in there.”
They watch him go, and once alone, Danneel breaks the silence. “Well,” she begins, finishing her cigarette and dropping it to the ground. “That guy...”
“Hasn’t changed a bit.” Jensen agrees with a low chuckle. “I know.”
They’re just about to turn and head into the church when something - or rather someone - catches Jensen’s eye and he does a double take. He squints. It’s gotta be the rain or maybe something is fucking with his contact lenses because surely that can’t be who he thinks it is.
“Turn around.” Jensen mutters to Danneel, nudging her elbow and trying to get her moving.
“What?” She asks, atomically lowering her voice to match his.
“Turn. Around.” Jensen repeats through clenched teeth.
“Hey, Fagmo!”
Fuck, it’s too late. For a brief moment, Jensen calculates the possibility of making a run for it and ducking inside, but the thirty-five year old inside of him will hear none of it. With a withering sigh, he slowly turns around to face the music.
Chad Michael Murray is striding towards them, arm slung around some waif-thin blonde that looks too young to be behind the wheel of a car let alone sporting the gigantic rock on her left hand. “Oh, shit.” Chad says, having the decency to look mildly ashamed. “Sorry Danneel. I shouldn’t have said Fagmo. Didn’t see you there.”
Danneel looks about as pained as Jensen feels. “Hi, Chad.”
Chad grabs her in a one-sided hug. “How you been, babe?” He asks, tossing a withering glance and a nod in Jensen’s direction. “You still bearding for this waste of space?”
Jensen feels anger flare up in his gut and something dangerous flashes across Danneel’s face. But when their eyes meet she crosses her arms and looks down, like she’s trying to disappear into the stonework on the outside of the building. “Chad...” Jensen begins, because people are staring and this is a funeral, for Christ’s sake.
“Hey, lighten up, guy.” Chad says and pops him one on the shoulder. “I’m just kidding around. Right Danny?”
Danneel doesn’t say anything.
“What are you even doing here?” Jensen asks, because seriously. “You couldn’t stand being left out, like usual?”
Jensen has known Chad for years - not by choice, mind you. And in that time, he’d seen the guy serious only about a handful of occasions, one of which caused by too much weed and a prank involving a fake statutory rape accusation that got a little out of hand. Regardless, for a brief moment his expression is the exact same as it was back then. “I was invited.” Chad says pointedly, like the words are weighty and filled with obscurity. “What’s your excuse?”
He decides to stare him down. “I worked with Jim for five years. We were friends.”
Chad shrugs. “So? I knew Jim, too.”
Jensen’s eyes narrow. “What was his character’s name on the show?” he challenges, feeling vaguely like a fifth-grader on the playground.
Chad starts laughing, and Jensen becomes reacquainted with a feeling he’d nearly forgotten - the desire to punch Chad Michael Murray. “What makes you think I even watched that shit, man?”
With a start, Danneel’s arms uncross themselves as her hands make cutting motions at the air in front of her “Jesus! Whip your dicks out already and let’s measure so we can get this over with!” She hisses, and okay, point taken because this is getting fairly ridiculous.
“Fuckin’ rain.” Chad grumbles, cinching the blonde in his arms tighter to his side. “Let’s go inside, baby.”
The nymphette, who has yet to make a sound, nods and they disappear.
Jensen is just blowing out a breath as the mob of people dressed in black around them start to slowly filter past him into the doors of the church. Exchanging a quick look with Danneel, they turn to follow just as a hand lands on Jensen’s shoulder.
“Hey. You alright, man?” Mike asks as he reappears at his side.
Jensen nods acerbically. “Just...feel like I’m on an episode of the Twilight Zone, or something.” He grumbles, checking over his shoulders nervously, just waiting for the next nightmare to present itself. “That or This Is Your Life.”
Mike laughs. “Gonna be okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Jensen says quietly as they make their way to a pew and finally sit. “Nothing a bottle of Jack and a straight razor can’t fix.”
Part Two
It's an idea I've had for a loooong time, but didn't know how to start or convinced myself I didn't have the time. The Big Chill is like, my favorite movie of all time, and I just had to do this.
Let me know how I'm doing?
PS, thanks to kasmodia for encouraging me.
Title: Subterranean Homesick Blues
Pairing: Jensen/Jared
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Set three years in the future. When a friend passes away, Jensen flies to Vancouver for the funeral and somehow gets coerced into spending the weekend with more than a few familiar faces. He's pretty sure that if he can put the past behind them, drink enough beer, and stop himself from killing Chad, it'll be just like the old days. If he could just get Jared out of his head.
Warnings/Spoilers: Set assuming Supernatural ends after the fifth season. F-bombs galore, features some Jensen/Danneel and Tom/Mike. And Chad. Seriously, you've been warned.
September, 2013
He’s driving in his car when he first gets the call.
Jensen bets its Danneel. She arranged for some bamboo-loving, green-friendly contractor to meet them at the house, and he’s running late.
Understanding the finer functions of his cell phone has never been something Jensen excelled at, but somehow he gets the Bluetooth going. “Yeah,” he says to the empty car, ready to plead his case. There’s typical rush hour LA traffic, the meeting with his agent ran long, and he had to stop at a gas station for smokes. They’re always out.
“Jensen? It’s Ian.”
Jensen pauses. He just left the office not ten minutes ago. “Look, man, I appreciate the effort, but I’m really not that desperate. I can’t do that horror bullshit anymore.” He says, trying to convince himself at the same time. Money isn’t exactly tight, it never is, but almost a year is a hell of a long time to go without a project, and he’s getting anxious. Then again, maybe if Danneel would quit going all Extreme Makeover: Home Edition on his ass every six months, things would be a little more financially secure.
Ian hesitates. “What? Oh, no. No, it’s not that.” The tinny voice assures, and Jensen hears restless movement in the background. “I just got passed something a few minute after you left. I need to share it with you.”
Shoulder checking, Jensen tries to make for the exit to the residential streets, but some jackass in a BMW is blocking his lane. He lays on the horn, and earns himself a middle finger for his efforts. “By all means, share away,” he smirks at the formal tone. “You get me a better offer?”
There’s a sigh. “No. Look, Jensen, it’s bad news. Can you pull over for a minute? Maybe come back and meet me for coffee?”
Jensen rolls down the window and lets in a breeze of warm, late-summer air. “No can do, man, I’m late as it is and Danneel is going to curb-stomp me the minute I walk in the door.” He says humourlessly. “What is it?” He asks, suddenly nervous.
A series of possibilities flash through his head: He’s become picky and lazy, so his long-time agent and friend is dropping him. That Ed Norton project he’d been interested him is going with someone else because he’s too old. The only thing he’s good for anymore is yet another convention. Thus, nothing could have prepared him for what came next.
Ian sighs, “Jim Beaver died this morning. Heart attack.”
He has a moment then that will haunt him forever, in which he actually has to think, Jim who? But it’s fleeting and he’s left feeling cold and sick in the aftermath. He has to close his eyes for a moment.
There’s a long silence, and then someone behind him is honking. He’s come to a complete stop at a green light. “Jensen? Jesus, I knew I shouldn’t have told you like this...”
Feeling shaken, Jensen eases onto the gas and slowly winds the corners of their upper-class neighbourhood. “I’m okay,” he assures the other man, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. “I, uh, when...?” Jensen trails off, unsure of what he’s even asking, but when someone you know dies there are people you have to talk to, things you have to do.
But at this moment, Jensen has no idea what they are.
Ian doesn’t seem to suffer from that problem. “There’s going to be a funeral on Friday. In Vancouver.”
Of course. Jensen draws in a slow, shaky breath. “Can...”
“I’m e-mailing you the details as we speak,” says Ian. Ian is a good guy.
While the conversation winds down to an end, Jensen somehow manoeuvres the car to the steep, snaking length of their driveway. In the garage he leaves the door up and pats furtively with open palms at his pockets, indescribably grateful that he thought to pick up more Marlboros before going home.
His hands don’t stop shaking even after the first few deep drags, and as he watches the blue smoke twist shapes as it floats out the open car window, he fixes his eyes ahead and tries to picture Jim Beaver’s friendly face.
But all he can think of is Jared.
December, 2008
Jared comes out of the bathroom with a foaming toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. Hands on denim-clad hips, he stands in the doorway with the mother of all disapproving looks on his face.
After taking a moment to enjoy the view from the bed, Jensen lowers his morning paper slightly. “Yes?”
“Uh cahnt beweef woo ahnt cah-hing wiff me.”
Jensen can feel his forehead wrinkling. “One more time, in English. Please.”
Jared rolls his eyes at him but disappears back into the bathroom. There’s the sound of running water, and then he’s back, Colgate free. “I said, I can’t believe you aren’t going with me.” He repeats, crossing his arms over his chest as if for emphasis.
Returning to his paper, Jensen snuffs a laugh. “Well, believe it, baby. Nothing is going to get me out of this bed until at least, oh,” he glances at the clock on the bedside table, pressing his lips together, “one or two in the afternoon.”
Jared rolls his eyes. “You’re gross.” He mutters, sitting on the end of the bed to pull on a pair of socks.
“Says the man about to spend the day at a mall. A crowded, germ-infested playground of ankle-biters and their pushy, materialistic parents. Have fun elbowing your way through a sea of consumers, eating right out of the hands of industrial America - on a Sunday, no less.” He rattles the paper for dramatic effect, giving Jared a pointed look. “It’s God’s day, Jared.”
From his perch on the edge of the mattress, Jared shoots him a look of mild amusement. “You done?” He asks dryly.
Jensen returns to his paper. “Yep.”
He doesn’t see it, but he can feel Jared rolling his eyes. “Right.” He mutters indulgently, pushing up from the bed and leafing through the closet for a coat. “Well, at least the hippy attitude goes well with that gross neck-beard you’re sporting. And the whole not-bathing thing you’ve got going on,” he says cheekily, catching the older man’s eyes in the mirror.
“Says the vagrant with the David Cassidy haircut.” Jensen shoots back, but surreptitiously sniffs an armpit when Jared’s back is turned. “I’ll shower later.”
Jared approaches the bed, smiling. “I’m glad.” He says, resting his hands in his pockets. “I need to ask you a question, though.”
Jensen puts down his paper. “Shoot.”
“I need to leave soon if I’m going to have any chance whatsoever at getting a parking spot. Now, I know you’ve got a hard on for this bed, but I haven’t gotten a chance to take the dogs out yet, and they’re going to be pretty restless soon.”
Feeling his forehead wrinkle, Jensen pretends to think. “Um, none of those were questions.”
Sighing, Jared puts on his best pleading puppy-dog look...and fuck him, because it’s pretty damn good. “Will you? Please walk them for me?” He asks earnestly. As if on cue, one of them barks from downstairs.
“I suppose.” He says slowly, despairingly.
Jared grins - that wide, brilliant flash of a smile that turns people’s heads and flips some sort of switch in Jensen’s brain that makes everything feel as if it’s happening in slow motion. “Thanks, John.” He says, striding to the hallway and pausing, one hand on the doorframe. “...Lennon. John Lennon. You know, because he stayed in bed for like, a week, and his...”
“If you have to explain it, joke’s not funny.” Jensen taunts him from the bed.
“Whatever. I’ll see you later, asshole.”
Jensen watches him leave, but then - “Hey, wait a second.”
Jared reappears, stepping to the bed distractedly. “Yeah?” He asks, fiddling with his zipper.
Reaching up a hand, Jensen tangles his fingers in the cotton of the younger man’s coat, pulling him down until their lips meet. He kisses him slowly - a deep, unhurried exploration of tongue, like he doesn’t already have Jared’s taste committed to memory, or know exactly just what moves make him sigh softly in the back of his throat. It’s a long kiss, and when Jensen pulls back to study his face, Jared’s eyes are still closed, his cheeks flushed.
“Have a nice day.” Jensen announces, and picks up his newspaper.
There’s a pause, and then Jared clears his throat. “Yeah.” He grumbles, sounding vaguely shell-shocked as he makes his way back to the door. “Try to remember to turn yourself every few hours. Avoid bedsores.” And then he’s gone.
Jensen chuckles, and goes back to the Globe and Mail. It’s after a few moments of silence and reading the same few sentences over and over again that he almost calls Jared back. Maybe the mall won’t be so bad.
Then he remembers to strap his balls back on and focuses on the paper.
Present Day
He waits almost twenty-four hours before telling Danneel. It isn’t really a conscious thing, just that their paths don’t really cross all that much in the day to day, and it didn’t seem like the best time to bring it up while Danny was arguing over ecru or eggshell for the foyer with a flamboyant designer named Skyler.
Jensen had already set up a flight in and out of Vancouver Airport with his travel agent by the time he was sitting across the kitchen island from Danneel, and really, all that was left to do was explain why she wouldn’t be seeing him around the house for a few days.
“...We need to choose a contractor by the end of the week. Look, I’m not stupid, I know you don’t care about this project, Jensen,” she’s saying as she leans across the counter from him. She lowers her gaze and a curtain of auburn hair falls across her eyes as she mumbles the next words under her breath. “I know you don’t seem to care about anything these days.”
He wonders why she does that - says things quietly, like an afterthought, like something he isn’t meant to hear even though she clearly hopes he will.
She sweeps her long bangs behind an ear and levels him with an unwavering gaze. “But this matters to me. Our home matters to me.” The acrylic of her fingernails tap lightly over the tile samples laid out across the table. “If it matters at all to you, you won’t be late this time when we meet with Mark on Friday.”
With a wry shake of his head, Jensen studies his hands. “Well, that’s not going to be possible.”
Danneel’s eyes narrow. “Of course not. Because what’s important to me has no significance to you, does it?” She asks rhetorically, bitter amusement in her voice. Never sad, or even all that surprised. “Maybe if we were married that would be different.”
That old chestnut.
She plays with the swatches at her fingertips for a few long moments, putting two or three together before sliding them apart, switching them up. “But we both know that boat sailed long ago.” She looks up again, her gaze distant. “Right?” He’s not meant to answer, he never is.
Jensen looks at her. “Jim Beaver died.” He says, and he has to clear his throat afterwards because it feels like he hasn’t spoken in years. “And I’m going to the funeral on Friday.”
There’s a long moment afterwards where Danneel looks at him vacantly, but Jensen doesn’t blame her. Then her features soften and she looks at him in a way that Jensen can’t remember seeing in a long, long time, and sadness creeps up on him without warning. “Oh,” she says softly.
Jensen swallows. “Yeah.”
She takes in a deep breath and suddenly she’s walking around the counter, coming to stand beside him. “When do we leave?”
Taken aback, Jensen blinks up at her in confusion. “We?” he repeats dumbly.
Danneel looks hurt for a moment before visibly repressing it, gently resting her hand on his arm. “I’m going with you, Jensen.” She says, like it’s obvious, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it would be, if Jensen hadn’t been sleeping in the guest room for the past six months, or if Danneel wasn’t blatantly fucking the asshole jock that lived in the next McMansion over.
“Uh, Friday morning.” He tells her numbly.
Nodding, Danneel gives his arm a final pat and fishes her Blackberry from her purse on the tabletop. “Okay. I’ll move the meeting to next week. And forward all the calls to my cell phone while we’re gone. I’ll have to let Skyler know...” and she’s off, talking and walking as she disappears from the kitchen with a clack of high-heels.
Jensen scrubs a hand through his hair, blowing out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Yeah,” he says to the empty room, and closes his eyes.
Jensen is nervous. Three airplane-issue mini-bottles of vodka and too-little orange juice nervous, and none of it even seems to help.
For whatever reason, Danneel doesn’t seem to be holding up much better. She’d fidgeted the entire flight and had stood beside him rigidly at the baggage carousel, fiddling restlessly with her cell phone while Jensen had stood silently beside her, struggling to focus on recognizing which pieces of black, non-descript luggage were theirs.
It was hard, because his mind kept trying to stray and go elsewhere. It really didn’t help that the arrivals gate of the Vancouver airport hadn’t changed in the four years he’d been away. He remembered standing in that very spot with Jared, often so tired they had to lean against one another to stay vertical.
He remembered kissing him in the men’s room, pushing him up against one of the stall doors because he couldn’t wait until they got home, or even into the safety of the car. Back when being away from one another for a week was too fucking long.
“Jensen. We’re here.”
Head snapping up, Jensen looks to find Danneel staring at him expectantly, smoothing out wrinkles in her black pencil skirt. “Right. Sorry.” He mumbles, getting his bearings back as he looks out a rain-slicked window while Danneel pays the cab driver.
They’re at the church, somewhere in the heart of downtown, and it looks vaguely familiar. Jensen can’t help but snort quietly to himself, because why shouldn’t it? Shooting Supernatural had meant they’d filmed on location at nearly every single church on the west coast - at least twice.
Danneel’s throat clears. “Any time now, Jen.”
“Right.” Jensen repeats, and heaves in a deep breath. Then they’re out on the sidewalk, mixing into the sea of black umbrellas as they make their way to the double doors.
Just as Jensen is reaching into his trench coat pocket and opening his mouth to speak, Danneel stops a few meters away from the entrance. “I’m going to need a smoke first.” She mutters, almost uncomfortably, as she flips open her purse.
“I could go for one.” Jensen admits, reaching for his lighter.
Just as he’s got a hand over the flame, someone is touching his shoulder. “Jenny?”
He recognizes the voice first, and he’s smiling even before he turns around. Sure enough, Mike Rosenbaum is standing behind him. “Mike!” he reacts, and they’re laughing and hugging before remembering themselves and their surroundings, pulling back with solemn expressions.
“This is really shitty, but fuck, if I’m not glad to see you.” Mike says, shaking his head, hands still holding on to Jensen’s arms.
“You too, man.” He says, clearing his throat to rid the rough quality in his voice.
Danneel flicks ash to the wet ground. “Hi, Mike.”
Mike’s expression changes, almost as if he seems surprised when his eyes fall to Danneel, but he schools it quickly and they share a brief hug. “Hey, Danny.”
Danneel smirks slightly, pointing the end of her cigarette at the other man’s head. “I can’t help but notice you’ve got all your hair back.” She comments teasingly. “Getting off the small screen agrees with you?”
“Oh yeah,” Mike nods emphatically, running a hand across his light brown locks. “I’m living the dream.”
Unable to hide his smile, Jensen pats the other man on the back. “Tommy here, too?” he asks curiously, feeling his brow crease in confusion. Okay, so he was thrilled to see Mike, and yes, everyone in the CW community had known one another to a certain extent, but he never really would have expected to see them here. In fact, the only face he’d expected (hoped) to recognize was the one that he had yet to see.
“Yeah, he’s around here somewhere,” Mike says, casting a glance or two at the dozens of faces outside of the church. He turns back and clears his throat. “So, are you guys sticking around after this thing?”
Jensen hesitates. “Uh, well...” he glances sideways at Danneel, but her expression is hard to read.
“Because I’m hosting a bit of a gathering back at my place. Figured after something like this we’re all going to need to get shit-faced. What do you say?” He hedges, eyebrows climbing into his hairline.
What he thinks is that it sounds like a scene that’s all too familiar. A page out of a book he finished and packed away a long time ago because he thought that part of his life was over and done with. But of course, that’s not what he says. All that comes out is a couple of awkward, throaty noises.
“Sweet.” With one last smile, Mike waves a hand at the air in front of his face. “Look, I love you guys, but I quit those things a year ago, and if I don’t walk away right this second, I might French kiss the both of you to suck the smoke out of your lungs. So if you’ll excuse me,” he steps away. “I’ll see you guys in there.”
They watch him go, and once alone, Danneel breaks the silence. “Well,” she begins, finishing her cigarette and dropping it to the ground. “That guy...”
“Hasn’t changed a bit.” Jensen agrees with a low chuckle. “I know.”
They’re just about to turn and head into the church when something - or rather someone - catches Jensen’s eye and he does a double take. He squints. It’s gotta be the rain or maybe something is fucking with his contact lenses because surely that can’t be who he thinks it is.
“Turn around.” Jensen mutters to Danneel, nudging her elbow and trying to get her moving.
“What?” She asks, atomically lowering her voice to match his.
“Turn. Around.” Jensen repeats through clenched teeth.
“Hey, Fagmo!”
Fuck, it’s too late. For a brief moment, Jensen calculates the possibility of making a run for it and ducking inside, but the thirty-five year old inside of him will hear none of it. With a withering sigh, he slowly turns around to face the music.
Chad Michael Murray is striding towards them, arm slung around some waif-thin blonde that looks too young to be behind the wheel of a car let alone sporting the gigantic rock on her left hand. “Oh, shit.” Chad says, having the decency to look mildly ashamed. “Sorry Danneel. I shouldn’t have said Fagmo. Didn’t see you there.”
Danneel looks about as pained as Jensen feels. “Hi, Chad.”
Chad grabs her in a one-sided hug. “How you been, babe?” He asks, tossing a withering glance and a nod in Jensen’s direction. “You still bearding for this waste of space?”
Jensen feels anger flare up in his gut and something dangerous flashes across Danneel’s face. But when their eyes meet she crosses her arms and looks down, like she’s trying to disappear into the stonework on the outside of the building. “Chad...” Jensen begins, because people are staring and this is a funeral, for Christ’s sake.
“Hey, lighten up, guy.” Chad says and pops him one on the shoulder. “I’m just kidding around. Right Danny?”
Danneel doesn’t say anything.
“What are you even doing here?” Jensen asks, because seriously. “You couldn’t stand being left out, like usual?”
Jensen has known Chad for years - not by choice, mind you. And in that time, he’d seen the guy serious only about a handful of occasions, one of which caused by too much weed and a prank involving a fake statutory rape accusation that got a little out of hand. Regardless, for a brief moment his expression is the exact same as it was back then. “I was invited.” Chad says pointedly, like the words are weighty and filled with obscurity. “What’s your excuse?”
He decides to stare him down. “I worked with Jim for five years. We were friends.”
Chad shrugs. “So? I knew Jim, too.”
Jensen’s eyes narrow. “What was his character’s name on the show?” he challenges, feeling vaguely like a fifth-grader on the playground.
Chad starts laughing, and Jensen becomes reacquainted with a feeling he’d nearly forgotten - the desire to punch Chad Michael Murray. “What makes you think I even watched that shit, man?”
With a start, Danneel’s arms uncross themselves as her hands make cutting motions at the air in front of her “Jesus! Whip your dicks out already and let’s measure so we can get this over with!” She hisses, and okay, point taken because this is getting fairly ridiculous.
“Fuckin’ rain.” Chad grumbles, cinching the blonde in his arms tighter to his side. “Let’s go inside, baby.”
The nymphette, who has yet to make a sound, nods and they disappear.
Jensen is just blowing out a breath as the mob of people dressed in black around them start to slowly filter past him into the doors of the church. Exchanging a quick look with Danneel, they turn to follow just as a hand lands on Jensen’s shoulder.
“Hey. You alright, man?” Mike asks as he reappears at his side.
Jensen nods acerbically. “Just...feel like I’m on an episode of the Twilight Zone, or something.” He grumbles, checking over his shoulders nervously, just waiting for the next nightmare to present itself. “That or This Is Your Life.”
Mike laughs. “Gonna be okay?”
“Oh yeah,” Jensen says quietly as they make their way to a pew and finally sit. “Nothing a bottle of Jack and a straight razor can’t fix.”
Part Two