Fic: Subterranean Homesick Blues 4/?

[vicious_trade]

Title: Subterranean Homesick Blues
Author: vicious_trade 
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. A retelling of the Big Chill.
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.
AN: Totally stole a line from Everybody Loves Raymond in here. I don't even know how it happened.

Part One Part Two Part Three




Present Day

When Jensen comes down the stairs the next morning he’s met with smells and sounds of breakfast cooking - bacon, cutlery clanking together, and his friends in the middle of conversation.

He rounds the corner to a memorable scene - Genevieve stands at the stove with a grin on her face, flipping pancakes and moving one skillet after another to different burners like a dance step. Danneel is at the table in pajamas with her hair in a messy bun, talking animatedly while she stirs the contents of a large mixing bowl. Mike has his head poked inside of the pantry and he’s hemming and hawing, chewing on the end of a pencil and clutching a piece of scrap paper.

Jensen clears his throat. “Good morning,” he announces, feeling a little like a trespasser.

Mike looks up first, smiling at him widely. “Yes! Pay up, ladies.”

He feels like he’s being left out of some kind of inside joke until Genevieve says, “We had bets on who would get up first - you or Misha. Mike said your nicotine craving would kick in a little after ten.” She glances at the clock on the oven, smirking. “Guess he was right.”

He can’t even find it in himself to feel all that offended - or used, for that matter. “You’re welcome,” he says gamely over the snick of his lighter, hitching himself up to sit on the counter. “So where is everybody?” There are a couple very empty-looking chairs at that breakfast table.

“Well, Jay and Tom are out for a run,” Mike says as he carries his task with him to take a seat. “And Chad drove Tiffany to the airport.”

He feels his eyebrows rise. “They’re leaving?” God in Heaven with all his infinite wisdom, could he really be that lucky?

Mike grins at him smugly. “Nope. Chad is staying ‘til Monday like everyone else.” He explains with a shrug, reaching out a hand to snag a piece of bacon fresh from the stovetop before Genevieve gets a chance to slap him away. “He said something about sowing his wild oats or some shit. It’s possible he was speaking in code.”

“Or his own language,” Danneel adds.

Snorting, Jensen’s eyes dart to hers. She’s got an expression on her face like she’s a little startled to have made a joke in Jensen’s repertoire. But then she smiles coyly, and with her freshly washed face and slippered feet resting on an empty chair, she looks pretty adorable. They exchange a small, private smirk before she looks away and offers him some coffee, which he readily accepts

They’re all digging into their first helpings of scrambled eggs, toast, pancakes and the works when Misha wanders down the stairs in a bathrobe, knuckling both eyes and yawning. “Morning.” He moans, sauntering to the cupboard for a mug.

“It lives,” Genevieve declares, but by the looks of him Jensen would say only barely.

Misha mutters something indecipherable and only looks slightly more animated after gulping down caffeine like a man drowning. “I saw a car. Did I miss the Murrays?” he grunts, squinting around the room as if the morning sunlight from the windows will burn his corneas.

“Just Tiffany. Chad dumped Skipper Barbie at the airport.” Jensen supplies around a mouthful of crust.

That sparks some intrigue in Misha’s eyes. “And how does Tiffany feel about that?”

Mike sighs. “Dude, if you’re going to sleep this late, you’re gonna miss out on a few mini-dramas.”

“That’s fine.” Misha drawls, stretching his arms wide over his head as he steals a piece of bacon off of Jensen’s plate. Asshole. “Just as long as you guys wake me for anything really ugly.” He mimes claws and teeth but ends up looking like a deranged badger. “Jay and Welling?” he asks next.

“Running.”

Misha takes a moment to ponder that, looking absently out the window. “Maybe I could go catch up with them.” He thinks aloud.

Jensen shares a dubious look around the table, because there’s no way in hell. Jared is built like a machine and Tom - the guy used to be fucking Superman, for Christ’s sake. Misha must notice the doubtful expressions because he gives a conciliatory shrug. “If they were on their way back.” He relents, and then considers it a moment longer. “And they fell down.”

When Danneel and Genevieve start talking about ‘the old days’, Jensen takes that as his cue to clear the premises. It’s not for the obvious reasons. Jensen knows Danneel isn’t in the home-wrecking business, so she wouldn’t say or do anything stupid. But then again, it probably wouldn’t be anything Gen didn’t already know.

It’s more of a self-preservation thing. What Danneel and Gen remember as good times are about ten shades different from how he remembers them - not that they weren’t good, but from his vantage point everything had been a little skewed. A fantastic but selfish facade that went on way too long and somehow ended achingly soon.

Fuck, when did life get so complicated?

Jensen heads out to the long strip of beach below Mike’s property with a pack of cigarettes. Even though the water is freezing cold and the sand not much warmer, he takes off his shoes and socks and walks along the shore, leaving a single trail of sinking footprints in his wake. Even though he tries to ban Jared’s face from his head, it manages to wedge its way back in several times until a gull sounds overhead or the waves lap at his ankles, ending the daydream.

When he’s on his way back, it’s Mike’s voice that snaps him from a trance. “Yo, Daryl Hannah! You still communing with nature, or can you do me a favour?”

Jensen laughs, jogging up the steps to the porch. “Anything for you, chief.”

“So I kind of screwed myself over last night with the whole ‘cooking’ thing,” he whines, using quote-y fingers and a mocking expression. “Turns out I don’t even have enough stuff to make a decent salad. Can you go into town for me?” Mike pleads as they make their way around to the front of the house.

Jensen nods readily. “Sure,” he says, accepting the paper that Mike hands to him, glancing over it briefly. “Three cartons of milk, four dozen eggs...Mike, is this a shopping list, or am I stocking a bomb shelter I should know about?” He’s only half-joking.

Mike ignores the comment. “Look, I’d go, but someone has to stay here and make sure Chad doesn’t try anything stupid. Remember that memorial day when he managed to run over his own foot?”

Jensen laughs gleefully, because of course he does. Shit, it’s one of his fondest memories.

But Mike just gives him a solemn nod. “Yeah. Well, I didn’t think you’d want to babysit him, so...” he shrugs, trailing off. His eyes move to the patio furniture at the side of the house and Jensen follows his gaze, noticing Chad slumped haphazardly across one of the benches.

That sobers him immediately. “Say no more.” He says, pocketing the list hurriedly before anyone has a chance to change their minds.

“Excellent.” Mike grins and leads the way back into the house.

Jensen catches bits and pieces of what Chad is saying as they pass, and notices Misha for the first time, sitting wide-eyed and slightly repulsed in the seat opposite from him. Jensen doesn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for the poor bastard.

“...And I was like, ‘no way, dude. I’m not going to turn down a part just because it calls for a little full-frontal nudity.’ Besides, the naked role will catch up with you at some point in your career, just a fact of life.” Chad sniffs, eyes squinted profoundly while his fingers roll a joint. “It’s not something you can just run away from like a bar tab or a crying baby.”

Something catches his wrist and tugs as Jensen tries to make for the door. He looks down to find Misha staring up at him helplessly. “Please make him stop talking to me,” he begs, not even bothering to lower his voice.

Jensen smirks. “If only I had that power.” Honestly, he doesn’t even feel all that bad when he yanks his hand free and escapes into the house.

As he’s replacing his socks, Genevieve and Danneel are still talking animatedly in the living room, and Jensen hears just enough of that conversation to be glad he’s got an errand to run. When Jared appears from around the corner he’s got a similarly uncomfortable expression on his face. Their eyes meet and then he’s looking down. Again.

Just as Jensen is sighing in frustration, Mike claps his hands together loudly. “Jay! There you are. Jensen is all ready to go, so you guys can head out.”

Both of their heads snap up. “Wait - what?” Jensen stammers, his stomach clenching nervously.

“It’s like you were saying, Jenny. There’s a lot of stuff on that list -definitely a two man job.” Mike explains, nodding zealously. Then he slaps Jensen on the back so hard that it hurts, and clearly chooses not to see the murderous look he’s getting or he’d be running for his life. “You guys wanna take my car?”

Jared gives Mike a long, hard look. “Well, I’m going to go with yes, seeing as mine is still out of commission.” He says pointedly, holding out a hand for the keys.

Mike looks a little ill at ease as he hands over the rights to his precious Beamer, but he does it anyway, and that really can’t be a wise decision. Especially since Jared has a look in his eyes that just screams of crunching metal and busted off fenders. Jensen is instantly relieved that his Maserati is back in LA, safe and sound. “Okay, well...you boys have fun.” Mike exclaims, and all but shoves them out onto the porch.

They exchange a weary glance as they start down the path to the garage. The door to the house swings open once more, and Jensen turns to see Tom struggling to follow them, only to be manhandled back inside. He’s shouting something that vaguely sounds like, “Mike, what the hell did you do? What did we talk about last night?”

But Mike just waves to them cheerfully, calling out, “He says to make one of those milks non-fat!”

This time when Jensen risks a glance at Jared, he’s rolling his eyes, tiny smile tugging at his mouth. Jensen decides to give in with one of his own and vows that when they get back to the house he’s going to have to take Rosenbaum down a couple pegs. Because in actuality? He really isn’t the evil-genius that he thinks he is.

April, 2008

Jensen comes home late one night to find Jared splayed across the couch in the living room. He’s wearing his grossest, wipe-your-hands-on-them-instead-of-a-towel sweatpants, a shirt with some sort of brown stain near the collar, and the holiest pair of socks Jensen has ever seen - and not in the biblical sense.

“Hey,” Jared nods to him, shovelling handfuls of popcorn into his mouth so fast it’s amazing he’s able to take a breath in between. “You want?” he generously offers up his snack.

As Jensen flops down onto the couch beside the younger man, he considers it for a moment. But then he watches Jared carefully lick the grease from each of his fingers before stuffing his hand back inside the bowl and finds his nose wrinkling. “I’m good.” Doesn’t matter that they swap bodily fluids on a regular basis - that’s just gross.

“Suit yourself,” Jared grins, turning back to the television screen.

They’re watching something black and white, the kind of old movies where people repeated themselves a lot and had lines like ‘I said good day!” - movies that Jensen easily manages to get sucked into, and Jared knows that because he doesn’t change the channel even though he’s probably itching to.

“Have fun?” Jared asks conversationally.

He shrugs. Mike and Tom had invited people he didn’t know, and then ditched him halfway through the night. Most likely to go make out in some darkened corner.

Jared nods, like that’s enough information for him to paint a fairly vivid picture. They lapse into quiet again, and after several minutes, Jensen finds his hand wandering into the popcorn bowl against his better judgement. They spend a long time in silence, the kind of stillness that’s only that comfortable when you know the other person better than you know yourself, just chewing and watching. Then Jared says, “So I’ve been thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.”

That earns him a swat on the leg. “I was thinking,” Jared starts again, swallowing the food in his mouth before continuing. “That we should get married.”

It should take him by surprise, but it doesn’t. See, it’s not the first time Jared’s said it. It’s a joke they started a long time ago, way back near the end of season one, Jensen thinks, when they were just two guys that got along ridiculously well for a couple of strangers that had been forced together under close quarters for several months at a time. They’d be laughing over something, or Jensen would finish one of Jared’s sentences, and the young man would grin and say something like “We should just tie the knot and get it over with.”

It had gone on like that for a long time, even after they’d started sleeping together - in fact by that point, Jared found it even funnier. They’d have a stupid argument over empty toothpaste or the TV being too loud, and then Jared would gripe about old married couples. Jensen would always follow it up with some sort of mock-serious rebuttal, and they’d laugh it off.

It had been awhile, at least a couple months now since Jared said it last, so Jensen lets himself off the hook for being surprised. He tries to think of a response he hasn’t used yet. “Do you smell toast? Because I think you’ve having a stroke.”

But this time, Jared turns to look at him. “I’m being serious, Jen.” He says, and okay sure, he sounds serious, but still...

“Oh yeah, me too.” Jensen drawls, watching as a guy in a porkpie hat gets gunned down onscreen. “You and me shakin’ up. Little white picket fence and a baby makes three.” He says with a snort and an elbow nudging into Jared’s side.

Then suddenly Jared is sitting up and angling his body towards him, eyes glinting a warm golden-brown in the lamplight. He wets his lips and glances to the side first, and Jesus Christ, if Jensen didn’t know any better he’d say that Jared was nervous. “Look, Jen, I need to say this.” He says, and sure enough, his voice is a little tremulous to boot.

Suddenly his stomach is in his throat. “Okay.” Jensen says, swallowing.

Jared takes a deep breath. “I’m done looking. I’ve got a feeling in my gut telling me that you’re the one - I’ve had it for a long time. A long, long time. We were introduced and you said one thing and I said something else, now it’s three years later and we’re still in the middle of a conversation I never want to end.” He pauses there and studies Jensen’s face for a beat before hurrying on. “Now, you’re looking at me right now like you think I’m crazy, and I probably am. But I’ve been thinking lately that if we don’t do this - this, and do it soon, we’re going to lose one another. Because there’s a lot going on beyond this living room and there’s a good chance that this thing is just going to...pass us by.”

Jensen feels himself staring, and maybe his jaw is hanging a little slack, but there’s not much he can do about it. He’s a little preoccupied with getting his heart to slow the fuck down.

Jared looks traumatized as well, but he pushes on. “And that - losing what we have, losing you, scares the shit out of me. Because, well, you smell good.” He laughs at himself, shaking his head. “Like home - except no home I’ve ever known. And you make excellent French toast.” He stops talking there and blinks, as if he’s managed to surprise himself. But then he draws in another steadying breath and fixes Jensen with an unwavering look. “And, well. That’s got to count for something.”

Taking a couple moments to calm the staggering onslaught of emotion and shock threatening to choke him, Jensen focuses on looking natural. He wonders just how epically he’s failing. It’s a beat or two later that he clears his throat. “Well,” he begins, eyes flicking to the TV. “I think the prose was pretty decent. If not a little on the purple side. But dude? Proposing in the middle of a tampon commercial?”

Jared’s gaze follows his.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.” Jensen says, pasting on smile and swatting Jared on the stomach.

It takes a moment, but Jared lets out a laugh, looking partly relieved and something else - disappointed? Rejected? But the moment passes soon enough and then they’re pressed closer together, so that Jensen can feel hot breath on his neck. “Different venue. I’ll make a note.” Jared says, chuckling.

“You do that.” Jensen replies patronizingly.

Jared starts kissing behind his ear. “I’m serious, you know.” He says, voice determined.

Jensen sighs, because it’s hard to focus when Jared is doing that. “I know,” he agrees, and what were they just talking about? Because Jared’s hands are pulling his shirt free from his pants, blunt fingernails trailing up his side and making him shiver. Then Jared is on top of him, thigh between Jensen’s legs and rubbing against his cock just the right way and he’s pretty sure he’d agree to anything after that.

Even so, Jensen makes sure Jared wakes up to the smell of French toast the next morning.

Present Day

Mike’s house is in a quiet seaside neighbourhood on the west coast. The nearest grocery store is in the heart of a fisherman’s market a few minutes away, where everyone has kind of a laid-back surfer attitude that Jensen really respects and admires. It also means that they’re less likely to get attacked by fans or paparazzi, so that’s always a plus.

It also means that the store they’re currently wandering in is nothing like the big, obnoxious chain superstores that Jensen has grown accustomed to in LA. This one is small and homey, there’s no one to bump into or mobs of people to talk over. It’s just him and Jared, awkwardly wandering aisles with a shopping cart and not a whole lot to say.

“Okay,” Jensen says, squinting down at the wrinkled list he’d taken ownership of. “We got the tomatoes and the chicken breast and the spaghetti noodles. This next thing is either ‘cumin’ or Mike’s version of a really dirty joke. Can’t be too sure.”

Hunched above the handle of the buggy he’s pushing, Jared cranes his neck to peer over Jensen’s shoulder. “Huh.” He says, frowning. “Let’s go with the spice - even if that small pornographic doodle in the corner is supposed to be a clue.” He reaches out a hand and tips something into the cart.

Jensen looks down at the most recent item on their steadily growing mound of food. He finds himself smiling. “You still like those?”

Jared glances at the bag of gummy worms he’d just grabbed. “Yeah,” he says, blushing slightly. “Besides, this is on Rosie. No need to pace myself.” He pulls out an American Express card from his pocket, waving it smugly.

Throwing his head back with a laugh, Jensen nods in agreement. “We’ve got his car, his money - we should just run away togeth - ”

The moment the words are out of his mouth he wishes he could stuff them back in - because Chad Michael Murray, what the fuck had he been thinking? He feels his jaw open and close uselessly a couple times but no sound comes out, and maybe that’s for the best, because anything to follow up a bitch-ass comment like that would just be like icing on the cake of idiotic.

But God bless him, Jared seems to take pity on him and clears his throat. “You do much cooking back in LA?” he asks as they turn the corner into frozen foods.

Grateful for the segue, Jensen shrugs. “Some. Not a whole lot.” He doesn’t say that Danneel does most of it - hosting dinner parties and wine tastings full of people Jensen either doesn’t know very well or can’t stand. “I still make that casserole thing from time to time.”

Jared glances at him, wrinkling his nose. “Really?”

Surprised but pleased that he even remembers, Jensen pretends to take offence. “I’ve improved on it!” he insists.

“Oh yeah? Now it’s edible?”

He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and Jared smiles to himself quietly. “What about you, asshole?” Jensen asks, nudging him with his elbow.

“Me? Nah,” Jared says, eyes straight ahead once again as he pushes the cart leisurely down through the store. Over the sounds of the squeaky wheels and tinny elevator music playing quietly through the speakers, Jensen wonders if the other man is just going to clam up again. But then licks his lips and says, “Gen cooks for me sometimes.”

That shuts him up, too. “Yeah?” Jensen forces himself to ask, even though he prays that Jared won’t elaborate.

Jared doesn’t disappoint. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

They lapse into silence again until Jensen clears his throat, picking up the shopping list and holding it a couple inches from his face, hoping that will do some good. “Okay. Looks like the final thing we need is...” he trails off, squinting harder. “Vagabond soil?” he tries, frowning.

“Let me see that,” Jared demands, snatching the already mangled paper from Jensen’s hands before he has a chance to protest. But after several seconds of trying, Jared just sighs and crumples it into his fist. “This is bullshit. Someone needs to teach Mike how to write without serial killer tendencies.”

Jensen feels a smirk growing on his face. “You think you’re one to talk?” He asks incredulously. “You, with the Charles Manson chicken scratch, think you can take a position?”

After a beat Jared’s head turns and he levels him with a glare. “My handwriting is perfect, thank you very much.”

“Perfect,” Jensen parrots, trying the word out on his tongue. “Perfect. Sure. Left is right, up is down. It’s raining weasels and wood is now a drink.” Jensen tells him seriously, and takes great pleasure in Jared’s scowl, even though he has to dodge the front end of the shopping cart that tries to ram into his heels on the way to the checkout.

When they get back, Jensen is too busy walking on air to notice the looks that they’re getting as they pull into the driveway.

“...and I still don’t see why it’s such a big deal.” Jared says as he steps out from behind the steering wheel and reaches into the back, carefully repacking a stray onion that has rolled onto the floor mat.

Jensen moves to open the opposite door and shoots Jared a look of disgust from across the bench seat, managing to fit three or four bags into each hand. “Because it’s gross! You never eat anything from the pocket of a car door,” he says, grimacing as he walks around the BMW to Jared’s side, shaking his head. “Especially when the vehicle is not your own. That’s - ugh.”

Jared rolls his eyes. “But I’m hungry! And who knows when dinner will be - or if it will be edible.” He whines, like eating random, possibly archaic candy is a regular, day-to-day activity. “Besides, I like scotch mints.”

“Bet it tasted real good, too.” Jensen grimaces, feeling vaguely nauseated at the thought alone.

Mouth twitching, Jared pauses to consider it. “A little like pennies.” He relents with a small grimace.

“That’s just wrong, man.” Jensen chuckles as they make it to the porch. He’s holding the door open when he finally notices Chad and Misha still sitting out on the veranda, now joined by Mike. All are watching them with openly curious stares. “Hey,” Jensen begins, feeling awkward.

“There you are!” Mike cries cheerfully as he pushes up from a plastic chair. “You boys get everything on my list?” He asks, rubbing his hands together as he peers into the bags in their hands.

“No thanks to you,” Jared mutters, walking inside.

Mike laughs like he just told a joke, then turns to Jensen. “Have a good time?” He asks, wagging his eyebrows. He looks like one of those creepy old men that sit on park benches and watch young people kiss. “Don’t say I never did nothin’ for ya,” he whispers, sounding like a disturbed farmer with a hint of a Jamaican accent thrown in for good measure.

Jensen frowns at him so hard that it almost physically hurts. Mike gets the picture and darts inside. Just as he’s adjusting his hold on the bags and moving to follow he stops, because he can’t ignore the death glare Chad’s aiming in his direction any longer. “What?”

“I know what you’re doing,” Chad says as he stands up, and it’s weird, because he doesn’t even blink. Jensen has to stop himself from blowing in his eyes just to see what happens. “I’m not letting it happen. I just thought I’d tell you in advance.”

Rolling his eyes, Jensen holds his ground as the blonde moves to stand directly in front of him in a staring contest, of all things. “Chad, now is so not the time to be yourself.” Jensen tells him mock-seriously, and waits until the other man deems himself the winner or gets bored. Either way, Chad gives him one last hit of curled lip and follows the others into the house.

Jensen catches sight of Misha still sitting on the porch swing, blatantly watching with a poorly-concealed grin. “You enjoying yourself over there?” he asks with a smirk.

Misha gives a contented little shrug. “I’m just jazzed about being a part of all this drama, man.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jensen mutters, and goes to take the rest of the food indoors.

Part Four