the last, sequinned shred of my sanity
So whilst I'm typing up the Ash/Impala and weeping over what I've become, here's a snippet of that J2 Eurovision AU I kind of wrote a bit back in the day (back in the day when Eurovision was on, would you believe it):
“I still don’t know where Azerbaijan is. Sat next to them all fuckin’ night, and still-- you could shove an atlas under my nose, and I wouldn’t have a fuckin’ clue where to start.”
“The glossary?” Jensen suggests, tone aiming for dry and landing on drunk. It’s okay; Jared’s drunker. He lets out a giggle- Jared goddamn Padalecki lets out a giggle, and slides his head a little further down Jensen’s shoulder.
“I swear, man, I’ve been waiting all week for someone to tear up my citizenship and kick me out,” he mumbles somewhere into Jensen’s solar plexus, and Jensen kinda has to swallow heavily before he can speak again. It’s just ‘cause he’s drunk.
“That’d go against the spirit of this whole competition,” he says eventually. “It’s not about where you grew up, it’s about how good you look in leather pants.”
“That’s beautiful. It’s.” Jared shakes his head in an awkward roll that just presses his face further into Jensen’s chest, squinting up at him with suspiciously shiny eyes. “You’re beautiful. Can’t even spell the name of this city. Everyone’s eating, I dunno, stroganoff, and wearing hats, and here you are.”
“Here I am,” Jensen agrees. He needs another drink.
“D’you know,” Jared moans, “d’you know, they tried to give me an accent. Hired a voice coach ‘n’everything. Kept forgettin’ and saying ‘y’all’. Can’t believe they didn’t tear up my citizenship.”
“Leather pants,” Jensen reminds him. Wise. He’s aiming for wise, and he’s got Jared freaking Padalecki breathing slow and damp and vodka-y into the hollow of his throat.
Two hours ago is when this thing began, when the world stopped making sense. And that’s saying something, when you’re at Eurovision. Two hours ago is when Jensen’s life just gave up and let go of that last, sequinned shred of sanity.
I DON'T KNOW.
(That's a lie. I have the whole ridiculous thing plotted out somewhere. Jared was a technically Polish Eurovision entrant (in sequinned leather pants); Jensen was an incredibly homosexual Eurovision enthusiast; sex would eventually have happened. I worry myself.)
“I still don’t know where Azerbaijan is. Sat next to them all fuckin’ night, and still-- you could shove an atlas under my nose, and I wouldn’t have a fuckin’ clue where to start.”
“The glossary?” Jensen suggests, tone aiming for dry and landing on drunk. It’s okay; Jared’s drunker. He lets out a giggle- Jared goddamn Padalecki lets out a giggle, and slides his head a little further down Jensen’s shoulder.
“I swear, man, I’ve been waiting all week for someone to tear up my citizenship and kick me out,” he mumbles somewhere into Jensen’s solar plexus, and Jensen kinda has to swallow heavily before he can speak again. It’s just ‘cause he’s drunk.
“That’d go against the spirit of this whole competition,” he says eventually. “It’s not about where you grew up, it’s about how good you look in leather pants.”
“That’s beautiful. It’s.” Jared shakes his head in an awkward roll that just presses his face further into Jensen’s chest, squinting up at him with suspiciously shiny eyes. “You’re beautiful. Can’t even spell the name of this city. Everyone’s eating, I dunno, stroganoff, and wearing hats, and here you are.”
“Here I am,” Jensen agrees. He needs another drink.
“D’you know,” Jared moans, “d’you know, they tried to give me an accent. Hired a voice coach ‘n’everything. Kept forgettin’ and saying ‘y’all’. Can’t believe they didn’t tear up my citizenship.”
“Leather pants,” Jensen reminds him. Wise. He’s aiming for wise, and he’s got Jared freaking Padalecki breathing slow and damp and vodka-y into the hollow of his throat.
Two hours ago is when this thing began, when the world stopped making sense. And that’s saying something, when you’re at Eurovision. Two hours ago is when Jensen’s life just gave up and let go of that last, sequinned shred of sanity.
I DON'T KNOW.
(That's a lie. I have the whole ridiculous thing plotted out somewhere. Jared was a technically Polish Eurovision entrant (in sequinned leather pants); Jensen was an incredibly homosexual Eurovision enthusiast; sex would eventually have happened. I worry myself.)