New story: The Truth About Heaven (SPN RPS, adult) 1/2
The Truth About Heaven
J2, adult, approx 20,550 wds
Notes and disclaimer are here.
Graphics and art by gottalovev
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
-- T.S. Eliot
I.
At first, when things begin disappearing from the set, Jared thinks nothing of it. Some factor of loss on set is inevitable, the same way people mysteriously lose half their socks in the wash. Bits and leftover pieces from previous episodes go into the ether: one of Sam's bloody jackets, and some random tapes from the box inside Impala #1, including the Motorhead tape Jensen sat on and crushed the very first day of filming.
Reality finally registers with Jared, though, when he's standing there looking at the empty space beside Jensen's chair, the place where his chair had been the day before. Apparently some greedy souvenir-grabber thought he wouldn't need it anymore, and they aren't far wrong. The whole awesome ride is almost over. Things are winding down; there are only a few more weeks until the end.
End of series, end of show. The End.
Jared sighs. The night before, they'd been up shooting in the rain until almost 4 a.m., with Jensen's intermittent sneezes keeping Jared awake. Jared's tired, and his chair is gone, and if he were a lesser man he might throw a full-on hissy fit and demand another one right now. But that's not him. Never has been. No matter what comes next, he promised his momma he'd never be that guy who yells at the PAs and has M&M clauses written into his contracts. He gets paid plenty, and the work makes him happy. And the people. He's going to miss the people; they're like family. All of them.
But especially Jensen.
He's not thinking about that, though. Not now. He's got scenes to get through, and every one of them is going to be rough, from now 'til the day they wrap.
There are walls and poles and cars all around, plenty of crap to lean against, so he props himself up on a rolling cart and sips his coffee in peace. He could go back to his trailer, but he has set call in ten anyway, and he wants to be in the middle of things. He doesn't have much longer to enjoy it.
"Dude, what happened to your chair?" Jensen's fresh from makeup, his hair still quivering a little from Jeannie's vigorous scalp massage, and he's hovering in front of his own chair, like if he sat down he'd be committing some kind of breach of etiquette. Or maybe like it'll disappear out from under him.
"Somebody stole it."
Jensen clutches at his chest. "Is nothing sacred?" When Jared laughs, Jensen touches the amulet he's worn since day one on the set. "Dude, this is out of control. I'm going to start writing my name on stuff I want. Or maybe glue. Glue's good."
"Kim's not gonna like it if you glue down the Impala, man. Those tires are pretty expensive."
"He's got four others to choose from. He can have those. One of them is mine. Speaking of what's mine...." Jensen settles back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, wiggling his ass for effect. Jared looks at the set of his shoulders, the grin on his face, and he's struck by the realization that there won't be much more of this. No more joking around in the wee hours; no more cracking on the day's celebrity gossip, or bitching about the coffee, or throwing candy at each other as they cross the set.
Maybe it shows on his face, because Jensen pauses in the middle of scrolling through his messages and asks, "What's wrong?"
"Nothin'," Jared says. He turns his back and swigs down more of his coffee, and tries to focus on the day, the job, the script. Three more weeks. It'll be gone in a flash.
The day's shooting goes without a hitch, except for how Jensen is starting to look like he's been without sleep for about a year. Jared has this crazy idea that if they filmed one more day without a break - 33 and counting, on the day Jared realizes they've rolled over into a new month - Jensen's head might actually explode. They both put up with a lot of work without complaint, because they really do love their jobs just that much, and it's the last season. They bitch about the little things, to compensate: not having enough hot water in their trailers, or spending seven days in the same Sam-and-Dean clothes while they shoot scenes in the freezing rain. The bitching makes it bearable and gives them teasing material - it keeps them sane.
But then Jensen stops bitching altogether around ten in the morning. He slouches in the makeup chair, getting his touch-ups and staring down into the dark depths of his coffee like it's going to grow into a sucking whirlpool and swallow him up. Jared checks his email and watches Jensen from the corner of his eye; not once does Jensen open his mouth to grouse about the weather or the shooting schedule or about the 4AM call. Not a peep.
They've been going home every night after midnight, grunting goodbye to each other when Jensen slides out of the car in front of his building. Jared goes to his own place and to the bedroom he's come to hate just a little because he never sees it, leaves his clothes strewn across the floor and falls into bed, unconscious before he even hits the pillow.
This is the life they signed on for, but it's getting old, and Jared's ready for it to be over. Some of it, anyway. The long hours, the location shoots, the ever-evolving scripts; those things he'll be glad to see the end of.
Other things, not so much.
**
Four p.m. in Jared's trailer, and they're sprawled across the couch. Jensen's got a handful of Cheetos curled against his belly and a diet Pepsi in the other hand, balanced on his thigh. Steady rain is beating down on the trailer's flat roof. Outside, the lighting guys and DP are trying to make sunshine in place of the real thing, which has taken a powder.
Jared shifts, knocks his knee gently into Jensen's, gets back a sleepy murmur in return. He plucks the soda out of Jensen's hand and sets it on the table.
"Hey," Jensen protests, reaching out his hand, but Jared smacks it.
"Shut up, you're almost asleep."
"I'm not. Was watching." Jensen sits up with effort, spilling Cheetos from his loose grip, and blinks steadily until the fog seems to clear away from his eyes. Jared grins, because he knows it's a losing battle, no matter how hard Jensen fights to stay awake.
One finger pointed at the TV, Jensen says, "Man, Nic Cage would have been a crappy Superman."
Jared nods and snags a stray cheese puff from where it's nestled between the couch cushion and Jensen's ass. "I bet that kid grew up ugly, too."
"Aw, what kind of thing is that to say about a baby?"
"Well, she's not a baby anymore!"
"Nah, she's jailbait now."
That makes Jared laugh, and he tips his head back and looks at the ceiling. Beside him, Jensen's breath evens out again, and he slowly munches his way through the mound of Cheetos. Jared pops his scavenged Cheeto into his mouth and sucks on it until it goes soft and the cheese flavor turns bitter. "It's been raining for hours," he says.
"Years," Jensen says, chuckling. "One thing I will not miss is the damn rain."
There's rain in Texas, but it's summer-warm in Jared's memory, not the freezing damp he's grown used to in Vancouver. The cold didn't bother him the first three years; that seems like a long time ago. "I'm not going to miss constantly staying in hotels, either."
"Or flying everywhere all the time."
"Or the Vancouver airport."
"That, too." Jensen reaches out a hand and deposits a couple more Cheetos on Jared's chest, then proceeds to lick his sticky orange fingers clean. Jared catches himself watching Jensen's tongue loop around each one, fingers disappearing between Jensen's lips, and snaps his head back front and center, because suddenly he's warm from his cheeks down to his chest.
Jensen reaches over and wipes his hand on Jared's shirt.
"You punk," Jared says, turning back to him with an incredulous grin. "Keep your spit to yourself, man!"
"My spit is highly prized in two countries," Jensen says, already maneuvering to get away from Jared, who is slowly reaching for his shoulder to punch him.
"Yeah, not by me." Jared's punch lands somewhere around Jensen's rib, because he's thrown his arm up to protect his laughing face. Jensen kicks over on the couch and throws his legs over Jared, and lays there, looking at him, eyes scrunched up on the tail end of that laugh.
Jared leans back and lets his arm fall over Jensen's knees. "What are you going to miss, really?" he asks, watching Jensen's face.
On the TV screen, credits are rolling by, white on black, inevitable. Jensen stuffs a pillow under his head and scoots down, making himself at home on Jared's couch, with Jared as a footrest. He thumps the heel of his boot gently against Jared's knee.
Jared picks at a string unraveling from one of the many holes in Jensen's jeans. He pulls Jensen's legs in tighter, comfortable with their weight.
**
No matter how hard Jared tries, he can't stop laughing.
Twelve takes, a stern lecture from Kim, and they still can't seem to nail the last scene of the day in the Impala. It's something about the dialogue, the earnest adoration Sam has for Dean; Jared's been singing that song so long that he can barely resist making bad romance novel jokes every time he gets a new script. Today, though, it's Jensen's fault; every time Jared looks at Jensen's face, Jensen wrinkles his nose like he smells something bad and makes Jared lose it completely.
Kim's irritated, Jensen's playing innocent, and Jared wants to save this moment forever - the smell of rain and hot metal in the air, the snickers and giggles of the exhausted crew, and mischief sparkling in Jensen's eyes in spite of it all.
Take thirteen, they hit their mark, Jared gets his hands around the steering wheel and tries to maintain. He gets out one line. Just one. That's when Jensen pops open the glove compartment and pulls something out. "I picked a little something up at the Kwik-E-Mart," he says, brandishing some KY in a white tube. "It's just five hours to Vegas."
Jared's still hunched over the wheel, tears in the corners of his eyes from the non-stop laughing, when Kim calls it over for the day. He sits back in the seat and pulls a hand over his eyes, then clambers out of the car. "Dude," he says, packing the word full of admiration.
The tube of lube hits him in the ear and sets him off again.
Ten minutes later, Jared's peeling an orange by the craft service table as they pack up the hot food. Jensen's retrieved the lube and has it sticking out of his front shirt pocket. He stands next to Jared and rattles some granola into a cup, tipping the cup to his lips for a bite.
They both have places they could go. Jensen has been bitching for weeks about needing a free hour to run errands. Jared thinks about suggesting the gym, then decides against it. He thinks of Sandy's plane, which has probably already landed. If he hurries, he could pick her up at the airport.
He peels another section of the orange and drops it in Jensen's cup. Jensen squashes it down in the granola and bites into the coated slice of orange, juice dribbling down his chin. His tongue catches a bit of it at the corner of his mouth.
"You should come to my place for dinner," Jared says. "Sandy's coming in tonight. She'll cook."
"So, sandwiches?" Jensen says, but his eyes brighten, and Jared likes to see the spark of interest in his eyes, not that dead-tired look he's started to hate.
"Shut up," he answers. "Like you cook."
"I totally cook," Jensen says, like mortal offense has just been given.
"Hot Pockets and popcorn do not count, Jensen, shut up." He turns toward his trailer, shucking off Sam's jacket as he goes. "And bring some good beer, and some wine for my girl."
"Define good," Jensen calls after him.
**
Sandy's waiting for him at his place, looking cute in grey sweats and a tight green t-shirt. "Hey you," he says, picking her up off the couch for a kiss. She smells like fresh apples, and she's laughing into his skin.
"It took you long enough," she says, as he sets her down and flops down beside her.
"Long shoot." Jared's hungry, and the first thing on his mind to say has to do with Jensen coming over, but he knows that won't go over well. Sandy loves Jensen to death, but her time with Jared is supposed to be sacred, and Jared learned a long time ago to respect that.
Might be why he's feeling guilty just now; those unwritten rules get him into trouble sometimes.
Sandy snuggles up under his arm, but she doesn't seem to have much to say, so Jared strokes her hair and thinks about that. Once upon a time, seeing Sandy was like opening the floodgates, everything pouring out of him in hours and hours of talk, water smooth over stones. Now they pass most of their time together in lapses of quiet.
He's a lot less worried about the silence than maybe he should be.
When she turns her face up toward his, he says, "Jensen's coming over tonight," and watches her smile dim. Not so anyone else would notice, but he's been with Sandy a long time now, and that is definitely a few watts off the normal blinding smile. "That okay?" he asks, sure now that it isn't.
For a moment, he's afraid she'll say no, and he's even more afraid of what he might do if she does.
"Sure," she says, smile back up to full intensity. No pout, not even a teasing reprimand. She sits up, stretching the travel-fatigue out.
Next thing Jared knows, she's got her hair pulled back in a ponytail and she's puttering around the kitchen, doing Sandy things: pulling down a glass for some juice; absently checking his dishes to see if he really scrubbed them clean or just rinsed them for show; looking in the fridge to see if he bought actual food for her visit. He did - there are peaches and strawberries and sandwich meat, and her pleased smile makes him grin.
"You didn't think I'd leave you with nothing - did you?" he asks, and her face scrunches up in a smile, part confirmation, part denial.
"I knew better, baby." She climbs him like he's an obstacle, grappling her way up his body, and he folds her up in his arms and kisses her, soft lips pushing at hers until she's giggling against him.
She busies herself with mundane things - making some sandwiches, then cutting up carrots and celery. She's a curve of energy arcing across the room, and he stays out of her way.
In the bedroom, he picks out a comfortable pair of jeans and a soft blue t-shirt, and then he steps into the shower. Sandy's shampoo and body wash is already there in the caddy, clear travel-sized bottles that he opens and sniffs. Apple and jasmine, always the fruit and flower scents. He's starting to like the comforting strength of citrus and musk, scents she never wears, but he's not going to mention it; there wouldn't be any point.
While he showers, he thinks about the dozen different ways he could spend his post-Supernatural days. He could take a break and travel; he knows already that's what Sandy wants. Or at least, part of what she wants.
The other part involves rings and cakes and huge guest lists. Jared's not quite on board with that yet, hasn't been at any point since he first asked her out, despite the joint Christmas cards and the togetherness and the almost-marriedness. He thinks he should be there by now, and Sandy thinks so, too, though she's too awesome to come right out and ask him why he's taking so long.
His momma asked him once, last summer, and when Jared shook his head and couldn't look her in the eye, she petted his hair gently like he was a boy again, and then she let it go.
There are projects he could do. His agent has been sending him scripts - good ones, with substantial parts, though none of them are leads. He has no idea what Jensen's been getting. The guy doesn't seem to want to share these days, and the closer they get to zero hour, the more Jared thinks Jensen's separation issues are worse than his own.
He could spend some down time with his family. It's been a while since he's done that. He wants to buy some land near Dallas, stretch out and make room to grow.
Sandy's face crowds into his head again at the notion of family and home, and he puts a hand on the cold tiled wall, sighs. He rubs his ear where the tube of KY nicked it; Jensen has good aim. Good hands.
When the water runs cold, it's a relief.
**
Jensen brings three different kinds of beer and two bags of chips, and Jared sweeps him up into a full-body hug at the door, then passes him off to Sandy. "Where's my sandwich?" Jensen says, and sports a grin and hunched shoulders while he takes his beating from Sandy's tiny fists.
They've done this a hundred times, so there are familiar patterns, predictable. Jared and Jensen team up to rag on Sandy's sandwich skills, but then shower her with praise for feeding them; Jared and Jensen down some beers and argue or tease or insult each other about anything that comes to mind, from the kind of beer Jensen's drinking (Moosehead) to the way he eats carrot sticks (shoving them in the side of his mouth and gnawing with his back teeth like Bug Bunny instead of biting them straight on).
When they reach the part of the evening where Sandy asks Jensen about his love life and Jensen plays coy, things don't play out according to the script. "So who've you been seeing?" she says, like she has a million times before. Most of the time Jared knows the answer and he smirks at Jensen over the top of Sandy's head, brotherhood, solidarity, secrets shared in the fifteen hours a day they spend in each others' pockets. He waits to see what Jensen will say, how much truth he'll give her.
But this time, Jensen says, "Aw, Sandy. Come on."
Jared turns his head, jaw tight, and looks at Jensen's lowered eyes, the smirk he's putting on for show; he hears an entire untold story beneath that smirk. Jared knew all about Joanna, the way she liked to be fucked, the shitty way she treated Jensen when he didn't dress the right way or behave as she'd planned at events. He knew everything about Tania, even saw them off on their first date after the shoot wrapped on Scarecrow. He's heard everything about every girl Jensen's banged from that day to this.
Except for how, apparently, he hasn't.
They're all laughing and drinking and Jared looks at Sandy's pink cheeks and Jensen's flushed neck and something tilts inside him, the happy feeling sliding away and leaving a blank space behind where it used to be. He sits up on the couch, not exactly sure what the hell just happened, but he feels a change in the world around him, just like he knows when winter slides into spring, not the day or the hour but the soft warmth in the air.
Jensen's collar is open and he's wearing a necklace, some kind of dark thread with a round silver charm. It rests in the hollow of his throat. Sandy reaches out for it and tugs it, playful, until Jensen falls forward and hugs her, and Jared's looking at Sandy's small hands on Jensen's chest, and Jensen's hands, not small, curved strong around her hips. He looks at Jensen's mouth, at his smile, and he wants them to stop touching each other. Wants Jensen to leave Sandy alone. Only, that's not how the message gets relayed in his head.
Inside, he hears: get your hands off him. Words he doesn't say; a frown creases his face.
The feeling bubbles up on the heels of the choked-off warning: not yours not yours he's not yours DON'T TOUCH HIM.
He sets his bottle down with a bang, earning a peculiar look from both Sandy and Jensen. The smile he gives them is autopilot, just this side of panic. He's still trying to sort out the replay when Jensen's expression changes, becomes thoughtful, and their eyes meet.
Jared thinks of a thousand things to say, but none of them make any sense at all, everything jumbled up between contradictions and confusion in his heart, and Sandy might as well not be in the room. It's fucked up, but it's real, so real and unexpected it makes his heart contract with fear.
Jensen's his friend. They can't. And it's not like he hasn't had that thought before, but it was years ago on the cusp of starting this show and making a career out of it, before he and Sandy were a hundred percent, before he cared about preserving his friendship with Jensen come hell or high water.
Sandy's right there, right in front of him, but he can't even look at her. His world is tilting slowly, everything going sideways.
Jared takes a breath, holds Jensen's gaze a fraction of a second more, and then the moment passes.
Half an hour later, Jensen gets to his feet and snags his keys from the table. "I'm beat," he says, "Got to hit the road." Jared stands up, searching for something to say that isn't who the hell are you dating or why are you leaving so early or Jensen, what the hell's wrong with me? - and just like that, Jensen throws an arm around his shoulders, a hug to propel him home, and kisses Sandy on the cheek, and he's gone.
Sandy stands there next to Jared while the space reshapes itself to compensate for the quiet vacuum Jensen left behind. Then she starts cleaning up, pulling bottles from the floor and tables.
"Leave it for later," Jared says, making a grab for her hand, but she doesn't meet his eyes, and she shies away.
"I want to be useful," she says, which is no kind of answer at all, and sounds bizarre coming from Sandy, who is always willing to go to bed and cuddle and be. He looks into her eyes and wonders how much of what he didn't say showed itself on his face.
It's no surprise he can't sleep that night; Sandy curls up in the curve of his arm, a quiet weight against his body, and he's careful not to disturb her.
II.
There are a thousand ways to beat insomnia, and Jensen's tried them all, from hot milk to dropping the temperature to soothing music the likes of which he'd cringe at in an elevator, but none of it works. Lately he's taken to curling up in bed and staring out the window, the sheet wound around his legs where he can reach it, if he actually feels himself drifting off.
He tells himself it's just exhaustion, that he's overtired, but he knows damn well that has nothing to do with it. Five years of daily work, of pouring heart and blood and sweat into Dean Winchester, of being defined by the show and the character. He can remember when he thought it'd be a relief to be done with it and move on to greener pastures. Opportunities are out there waiting for him.
The pile of scripts by the bed has gone unread for weeks. He shies away from the idea of making plans; down deep where he can't admit it to anyone, he just wants a break, a space of time to breathe and think and be, and he can't have that if he jumps into the next project right away.
He squirms in the bed and flips over on his stomach, where he can't see the paper tower. The upside to freedom is the ability to choose not to choose, or something philosophical like that, but mostly he wishes he didn't have to think about it anymore. If he's going to get on with having a career he's going to have to be aggressive about it, and his heart isn't in it. His heart is a little confused, what with it making wild leaps and assumptions about various things.
Say, for instance, Jared.
Only he promised himself he wouldn't think about that, so he pushes his arms under the pillow and turns his face down into the fluffy softness, where he can't breathe and it's nice and dark. There's something weird going on with Jared; Jensen's been watching Jared watch him for a couple weeks, and the worst part is, he's been watching Jared back. Not in a weird way, but in an I-can't-help-myself way, and it's freaking him out. He's known the guy for years now, known him so well that he can practically think Jared's thoughts for him.
He's got friends, a life, stuff he wants. Wanted. Whatever. It's not like he and Jared will never see each other again. It just...won't be the same.
He flops onto his side and looks at his cell phone. Behind it, the clock is shining a steady blue reminder of how damned late it is: 2:25.
Jared might still be up. His phone will be on silent if he's in bed, so. Worth a try.
Jensen picks up the phone and thumbs down to Jared's name in his contacts.
When Jared answers, his voice is low. "Dude. Do you know what time it is?"
It's like a ten-ton weight has just disappeared from Jensen's shoulders. He rolls onto his back and grins up at the ceiling. "Shut up. You were totally awake."
"So? And? Is this a test?" Jared's chewing in his ear like a cow mowing through cud.
"What the hell are you eating, man?"
"Ham."
"...just ham?"
"Ham. Out of the little plastic box."
Jensen laughs. "Why not open your mouth and pour the mustard straight in?"
"Don't be jealous because I have food and you're hungry." Jared smacks his lips, then says suspiciously, "Did you just drunk dial me? Is that what this is?"
"Nah, man!" Jensen smiles down at the street below, where red and white lights shimmer in the wet streets. "Just can't sleep."
Jared's tone changes, softens. "Damn, Jensen. Again? I'm startin' to worry about you. I thought if we funned you up you might actually go home and crash."
"Too much shit on my mind. It's weird, you know? Everything winding down."
"Yeah." Jared's stopped chewing and there's random noise on the other end of the phone, rattling and a hissing sound.
Jensen rolls his eyes. "Are you drinking a beer?"
"Yes, Jensen," Jared intones. "Now tell me what you're wearing."
"Pervert." Jensen looks down at his white boxers and white T-shirt. So boring.
On the other end, Jared's making that sound Jensen recognizes as his way of trying not to laugh out loud, and it works the same magic as Jared's regular laugh; tension ebbs from Jensen's shoulders, and he closes his eyes.
They fall silent for a few moments, and then Jared says, "You should just have stayed here and played death match chess with me."
Jensen clears his throat. "Sandy's there."
With a snort, Jared says, "That's never stopped you before. Dude, my couch thinks you own it."
It's true, and Jensen has crashed there drunk, sick, post-breakup, a hundred times in a hundred different states, with or without Sandy there to make breakfast in the morning. He opens his mouth to say it's different now, but he doesn't know why it is, or would be, or what he even thinks about that, and it isn't, really. Except for how it is. He can feel himself trying to pull away, but he's never held on so hard to anything in his life, and the feeling puts the tension right back in his shoulders.
"Is there some reason you're shitting on my hospitality?" Jared's voice gets louder, like he's just leaned into the phone, that gesture he uses when he wants Jensen's attention first-hand. "Because I'll have you know, my hospitality is the shiznit."
That does it. Jensen bursts out laughing, and when he stops, he can practically feel Jared's grin beaming through the phone at him. "Do not ever," Jensen says. "Seriously, ever. Do not. I'm traumatized now."
"Fo shizzle," Jared says, and sets Jensen off again. Something about that damned drawl, which he shares, and the way it catches on the vowels. It's obscene. And stupid.
When he stops laughing, Jared doesn't waste a beat. "Come on over, man. I mean it. You can't sleep anyway, right?"
"Yeah. No." Jensen wavers, then says, "Talking helps."
"So talk."
He can almost picture Jared sprawled out on the couch, one hand on his stomach, head tilted back. Jensen swallows and says, "No, I mean...you talking. It's..." The word soothing just won't quite come out, but Jensen knows Jared gets it, because that's when Jared starts talking, a litany of stuff that's so ridiculous and mundane it's perfect. Jensen listens, and grunts every so often, and the last thing he hears before he drifts off to sleep is something about the shine being off the apple, but by then he's just using Jared's voice for a pillow and whatever it was is lost in a sleepy, Texas-drawl haze.
**
Just before the alarm goes off, Jensen's dreaming of Jared in bright blue swimming trunks, kicked back in a lawn chair beside a huge generic pool, sunglasses over his eyes. Jared lifts the glasses and smiles at Jensen, and that's when Jensen wakes to the sounds of morning radio chatter, his phone mashed beneath his face. He rolls over, sheets bunched up in a hard knot under his ass, and thinks about that image of Jared's face, the look in his eyes, the love and want projected out of his dream. He's half-hard, but he wills his erection down, and then helps it subside with a lukewarm shower and a blast of cold at the end.
He's not going to think about that dream, or Jared's voice, or anything else that could potentially make this day any worse before it's even underway.
By the time he gets to the set, he's uncharacteristically late, and Jared's waiting for him by the makeup trailer with an anxious look on his face. "Man, I thought maybe you were still in bed," he says, half-hopeful. Jensen knows what Jared's seeing, because he caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror that morning and looked away: puffy sleep-starved face and dull eyes, too much stubble. He looks like he's been on a ten day binge. Shannon's going to have a field day bitching him out.
Jensen ignores the pointed looks Jared gives him and pretends to be engrossed in his email. It takes three cups of coffee before he can get his brain started on higher functions. It might have been easier to reach consciousness if he hadn't gone to sleep at all.
There's an email from Paul Kinion, the PA he was friendly with over on the Smallville set, asking if he wants to get together. Paul used to flash his sweet lazy smile on a regular basis, the one that reached his blue eyes, and ask Jensen if he wanted to grab some beers and shoot some pool. Jensen always said no, instinct telling him it wasn't just about beers and pool.
Maybe this is an opportunity. Maybe he should try to get whatever this thing is out of his system.
He types 8pm, Callahans? and waits, and around the time Shannon starts spraying makeup over his pale face, he gets his answer: Hell ya, see u there.
When he deletes the email, he glances over at Jared, who looks away at that exact moment and starts teasing Jeannie about the orangey-sweet smell of his hair product, and Jensen's stomach tightens.
**
Take after take after take, Jensen throws his lines to Jared and Jared nails them. He can feel the chemistry flowing, stronger now than it's ever been, no awkwardness between them; it's as if the words were their own, not random consonants slapped on a page by distant writers. This is what he loves; his sentences end and Jared's begin, timing smooth and perfect, pauses that snap at the right moment and become a conversation of equals. He's in the moment totally, meeting Jared's eyes and responding to his smallest gesture, the way he moves, the cues he sees in Jared's eyes.
This is what it's all about, and this is what he's losing.
Jared steps toward him, takes hold of him, and throws him against the wall as planned, no hesitation at all. Jensen was out of sync just that one fraction of a second and he twists wrong, hits the edge of the table too hard, and then he's kneeling, one hand curled protectively around his left shoulder.
"Shit, Jensen!" Jared says, breaking character completely, and then he's beside Jensen, settling him to the ground and peeling his shirt aside to put a large warm hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Jensen says, the word coming out breathy due to the wind being knocked out of him. But he's okay, really, even if he is a little distracted by the look of absolute panic on Jared's face.
"Please, please tell me you did not break anything with one week left to shoot!" Eric appears out of nowhere and crouches next to Jensen. "You okay, Jen?"
"Fine." He grits his teeth, because he'd lie about this if he had to, just to prevent the same anxiety he saw on Eric's face when Jared broke his hand a few years ago. Nothing is worse for a show in production than an injured star, and he knows he can fake it. "It's just a few more days," he says, but that's the wrong thing to say, or maybe they just know him too well, because concern flashes in Eric's eyes and he gets out of the way of the medic, and then they're fussing over him and he's helpless to do much about it.
Jared stays right there, one hand on his leg, and he says, "Jensen, man, sorry."
"I'm okay," he says, looking up into Jared's face, a little dizzy. "I moved too late. I missed the mark. It's my fault."
"But I threw you too hard," Jared says, his hand tightening on Jensen's knee.
Jensen smirks. "So you're finally admitting you're a freak of nature with abnormal strength?"
Some of the tension leaves Jared's body, but he doesn't let go of Jensen, and whether it's guilt or comfort, Jensen's glad he's still there.
It takes a few more minutes for them to pronounce him unbroken, just bruised, and give him icepacks. Jared lifts him bodily off the floor and hustles him off to his trailer for the lunch break before Jensen can even protest. Not that it would do him much good; there's a parade of nervous PAs and ADs behind them, and so Jensen allows himself the luxury of leaning into Jared, and Jared's arm tightens around him that much more.
The moment the door slams shut behind them, Jensen says, "Ow, FUCK!" and sits down on the couch, no longer trying to keep the pain off his face.
"I knew it," Jared says, opening the door again to stick his face out and say something to the nearest trailing PA. Then he's back with Jensen, one hand on his back. "I had her bring some Vicodin. And you're gonna shut up and take it, Jen, I swear, or I will hold your nose and stuff it down your throat myself."
"And then what?" Jensen sits up, ignoring the shooting pains in his shoulder. "It's not even sprained, Jared. In a couple hours it'll be fine. Pain pills will put me out."
"You need the rest anyway." Jared squints at him, waiting for Jensen to argue, but he's so goddamned tired that he doesn't bother. The knock comes two seconds later, and Jared goes to get it, returning with a pill bottle and a glass of water. "Take them," he says, dishing out two pills. Jensen looks up at him and decides not to fight, seeing as how Jared looks ready to take on an army on this, so he swallows the pills, grumbling under his breath. Token resistance.
Eric sends word that he's not going to resume the shoot until after four, which Jensen figures gives him just enough time to sleep off the stupid pills. He's fuzzy around the edges and it bugs him, makes the world indistinct and weird, but Jared's still there, and he'd almost forgotten that he was supposed to be worried about how he felt about Jared, or whatever.
"Nap," Jensen says, and the next thing he knows he's sacked out on the couch with a blanket over him. Jared's sitting on the floor beside the couch, stroking Jensen's hair. He looks at Jared, and Jared looks back, and when Jensen's eyes close, the only thing he can feel is Jared's hand against his skin, the gentle pull of his fingers in Jensen's hair, soothing him quiet.
**
The rest of the day is better. Jensen wakes up alone, no stiffness in his shoulder, and does some pushups to wipe the skeptical look off Eric's face.
"If you're sure," Eric says. "But I don't want you hurting yourself, Jensen."
"Then talk to the other half of the talent," Jensen says with a grin, pointing across set at Jared, who turns at that moment like he can hear him. Eric rolls his eyes and leaves it alone, and things are back on track.
Jeff shows up on set at 5 p.m., and he stands quietly to one side while they light the scene. Jensen looks up and sees him talking to Kim and Eric, and tugs at Jared's sleeve, and soon there's hugging and laughter and it's like old times, bits of information exchanged that some knew and some didn't, talk of Harley and Sadie and Bisou and various family members, and Jensen feels everything locking into place. This might be the end, but these people are still family, and it wasn't right until just now, with Jeff here.
"It's good to be asked back," Jeff says, shaking Eric's hand.
"It's good you haven't gotten too big for our little show," Eric answers, and they all laugh. Jensen looks at Jeff and thinks about high-flying career paths. Maybe his will follow that trajectory, or maybe he'll end up locked into another series, another cold five years up here in rainy hell.
He glances over at Jared and wonders how he'll ever make it without him, if he could be lucky enough to find another partner like Jared, who made every day a joy. Then he smacks himself mentally, because he sounds like something out of a pink-cover novel, and it's disgusting. They'll move on. They'll get work. So it won't be like this. So what? Life goes on.
They finish up their scenes and Jeff wanders over while they're watching the playback of Kim's last take, puts a hand on Jensen's good shoulder and one on Jared's back. "Drinks, boys? I'm buyin'."
"Hell yeah," Jared says, flashing a huge grin. "If injury-boy can take it, that is. What d'ya say, Jensen?"
"Definitely," Jensen says, thinking of Paul. "I'll meet you guys wherever."
"Got something else to do?" Jeff says, and Jensen is too conscious of Jared's curious look. Nowhere to run.
"Just some errands," he says, and Jared immediately looks away, like the lie is visible. For all Jensen knows, maybe it is.
Their timing is a fraction off the rest of the day, not in a way that would be noticeable to anyone but Jared and Jensen, and Jensen can't fix it. So he doesn't try. He blames it on his shoulder, on his distraction, on wanting to get out of there and hang out with Jeff, but it's all about that look in Jared's eye, and how it seems to accuse him, without Jared saying a single word.
**
He's late to meet Paul, and it's wrong and mean, but there's a part of him hoping Paul will up and disappear before Jensen gets there, especially since he didn't bother to call to say he was going to be late. But Paul's sitting at the bar in a green shirt and black pants, looking just as hot as he ever did, if maybe a little more tense than Jensen remembers. He comes up behind him and tries for easy, one hand on Paul's shoulder, friendly handshake waiting.
Paul turns and sees him, and the smile that brightens his face slams into Jensen like a tidal wave, just before Paul hugs his shoulders. "Jensen, man, I had almost given up on you."
"Long day," Jensen says, wincing when Paul pats his shoulder. "Hurt myself."
"Oh, damn," Paul says, snatching his hand away quick as lightning. "Sorry. You okay?"
"Yeah," Jensen says. "Though this might have to be a short night."
"Okay," Paul says. "Want to get a table?"
Jensen looks around. The place isn't crowded, and there are plenty of places to sit. Figures. "Sure," he says, not able to think of an excuse to go.
They settle in with a couple beers and make small talk for a while. Paul dishes out gossip about Tom and Mike and the rest of the regulars on the Smallville set, and tells him one spectacular story about James Marsters and one of the married key grips. Jensen laughs in spite of himself. He likes Paul; it isn't that. It's just that somewhere on the other side of town, Jared is sitting in a bar with Jeff, and Jensen's not there, and he knows Jared's thinking about him, and wondering where the hell he got off to. For some reason, that bothers him even more than the nagging urge he has to go be wherever Jared is, to take advantage of their dwindling time together.
"You haven't told me how things are with you, now that you're about to be out of a job." Paul pushes his empty mug away. "You going to be sticking around up here, or are you off to LA?"
"LA, I guess." Jensen picks a few peanuts out of the dish on the table and pops them in his mouth. "Haven't thought about it much."
"Aw, come on. You haven't thought about it?" Paul's giving him an interesting look, his eyes narrowed slightly in disbelief, and Jensen chuckles.
"No, I haven't. I've been busy, you know? Got to close this door before I can open another one."
"Yeah. About that," Paul says, sitting forward, and pitching his voice low. Jensen tenses from head to toe. Here it comes. "Listen, Jensen. I love your company, but I think you know I'm gay, right?"
"I knew," Jensen says, then wrinkles his own face at the way he throws it into the past tense, like this isn't happening right here, right now.
Paul nods. "So I think maybe you know I didn't ask you out just to hang out. I get this vibe from you, and I could be wrong, and maybe you don't trust me enough to say, but...you know. I'd be just as happy to leave here right now. If you want." He sits back again, smiles that heartbreaking smile. Damn, but his eyes are blue. "Or we can play some pool and I can kick your ass."
Jensen decides in the time it takes him to look around the bar. There are people watching him curiously - he's not a regular here, and he's not exactly the invisible kind of show star, not even in production-laden Vancouver. This is the edge of the cliff, and everything in him screams back up, what the hell are you doing, so he does.
"One game," he says, closing the door.
Paul nods. "One game." There's disappointment on his face, and Jensen thinks he's right to be, that a few hours before he was leaning toward leaving, but his mind won't take him past the threshold of the bar with Paul, and he can't help it. Doesn't want to.
He checks his watch every five minutes or so through the game - which he wins handily, courtesy of the on-set coaching he got from the guy who used to help Rosenbaum set up Lex Luthor's shots - and still makes time to joke with Paul, because it isn't his fault this whole thing is so stupid. Paul buys him a couple shots and Jensen meets his eyes when he tosses them back, a world of apology in simple gestures.
He even slides an arm around Paul's shoulders and pats him on the back when Paul loses, and likes the way Paul glances up at him, half-knowing, half-wanting. It's power, and he's not exactly immune to it; he's exercised that power with women his whole life, and this isn't much different.
Except for the part about how he's not going to let Paul get him naked.
Yet? his dick says.
Ever, his brain tells it firmly.
He bails out early, because anything else would be weird, and Paul walks him out. Jensen knows he should feel like an asshole, but all he feels is relief.
That's why the pass catches him off guard.
They're side by side in the nearly deserted parking lot when Paul moves suddenly, takes hold of Jensen by the hips and pushes him into the side of his truck - not hard enough to hurt him, Jensen knows that, though Paul's hands are firm, and yeah, maybe enough to bruise him. Enough to make an impression, and Jensen's first thought is that Paul read him better than he realized, which just - no. A world of no.
"What the fuck," Jensen says, a little spark of panic in his soul blooming outward into his heart and body. Paul's reading him right, he can see that; Paul's grip eases up, and he's ready to let go instead of kiss him, but the message doesn't reach Jensen's instincts in time and he shoves Paul away, a split second from punching him.
"I'm sorry," Paul says, holding his hands up. He actually looks contrite. "I thought...maybe the soft sell wasn't doing it, and you might be wanting the hard sell...I was wrong. I'm sorry."
"Jesus Christ," Jensen says, still not sure he's given up on the idea of socking Paul in the mouth. This is not what he came out here for. Whatever he was wanting to find, this isn't it. He has no idea what it was, but it's like he has a wall around him now, a barrier Paul sure as fuck isn't getting through, and he can see that finally reach Paul when he lowers his hands.
"I'm sorry," Paul says again.
Jensen nods, unwilling to give him anything more than that, no matter how much he likes the guy. He doesn't move until Paul is in his truck and pulling away, and then he climbs into his truck and sits there, looking out at the harsh lights overhead, the intersecting white lines on their slant across the pavement.
He looks at his watch - 11 p.m. Jared and Jeff are probably hanging out, laughing, having a good time at that dive Jeff loves so much. He can see them clear as day right now - empties scattered across the table ringed by shot glasses, plates scraped clean, laughter and good times, friends catching up on everything important.
It'd be easy to call Jared, ask him to break away from Jeff and come meet him, tell him everything, confess what a lame asshole he is and find out if Jared's in the same headspace.
But maybe he doesn't want to know.
"God damn it," he says, and starts the truck. No way is he going to meet Jeff and Jared now. The phone's been buzzing on and off for a while, probably Jared wanting to know where the hell he is, and that's one conversation he doesn't want to field.
The phone starts buzzing again, and he pulls it out of his pocket. It's not Jared; it's Jeff. He sighs. One or the both of them are likely to come to his place if he doesn't answer. He's not the type to drop off the face of the earth without explanation. Too much polite Texas boy in him. He flips open the phone and says, "Hello?"
"Jensen, what the hell happened to you? Where've you been?"
"Hey, Jeff." He doesn't quite trust himself to say more.
"You missed out. We just left out of there - Jared's on his way home, and I'm going back to the hotel."
"Jeff," Jensen starts, then stops. But maybe he doesn't need to say much more than that, because something in his voice changes Jeff's tone altogether.
"Is something wrong?"
He could still hang up, play it off. "Do you mind if I stop by?"
"Of course not. Are you okay? I want you to answer me."
"Yeah." Jensen takes a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Now why don't I believe you," Jeff says. "I'm going nowhere other than into the shower, so stop by whenever. Sutton Place Hotel, room 1716. Don't make me hunt you down."
"Okay," Jensen says. "I'll...okay."
When he hangs up, he puts both hands on the wheel to stop the shaking.
**
Jensen knocks softly on the door of Jeff's hotel room, half hoping Jeff will actually be asleep and they can pretend later that Jensen changed his mind. It doesn't work that way, though; Jeff opens the door a couple seconds after Jensen taps, looking a little rumpled in his t-shirt and jeans, but wide awake. "Hey," he says, big smile beneath the greeting. "Took your sweet-ass time."
For a second Jensen pictures saying, sorry, man, I'm really too tired to spill my guts. Or just making a break for the elevator. But Jeff would probably pick him up by the scruff and haul him back, so he squares his shoulders and stands his ground.
Jeff steps aside. "You comin' in, or what?"
Jensen smiles and follows him inside. Jeff's suitcase is thrown on the luggage rack, clothes hanging out of it in various stages of being put away. The bedspread is half on the floor, half off, and the script's squarely in the middle of the bed among piled up pillows. It's what all of them do; shuttle between places with clothes and scripts and cell phones in tow, creating spaces for themselves where they won't feel so out of place, but it never works for Jensen. When he's perpetually between locations, he's never home.
Jeff tosses him a bottle of water and eases back on the couch, leaving Jensen with his choice of chairs. "I have to say, my friend, I was worried about you after I saw you on set, and now that I'm getting a good look at you, I think I was right to be."
Red velvet chairs. Jensen sits down on one and finds they're as soft as they look. He shrugs off his jacket and begins picking at the label on the water bottle. He's peeled ninety percent of it off, a shredded pile of blue and white confetti at his feet, when Jeff says softly, "We've known each other a long time, Jensen. Whatever it is - it's okay."
"It's Jared," Jensen says, not looking at Jeff. And then he finds he can't say any more, not because he doesn't want to, but he's not sure what to say.
"I figured," Jeff says.
Now Jensen does look up, because he's curious. "Figured how?"
"Because of how he's lookin' at you lately. How you were lookin' at him today." Jeff pulls off his shoes one at a time, dropping them on the floor, and stuffs his socks inside them. "Wasn't sure I was reading you right. I figured if something was going to happen with you two, it would have run its course long before this."
Jensen slides the water bottle between the cushions and puts his head down in his hands. His head hurts, from tiredness or maybe worry, or the effort of sharing things he hasn't really worked through himself, and now he feels like he has his confusion painted across his forehead or something, where anybody can pick it out across a crowded room. "Nothing's happened," Jensen says. "It's...what you're seeing...I know what you're thinking, but nothing's happened."
"Ah." Jeff gets up and breaks open the mini-bar, rummages around and pulls out a few travel-sized liquor bottles. He slings a bottle of Jack Daniels at Jensen, who snags it out of mid-air. "But you want it to?"
"I have no fucking idea." Jensen opens the bottle and drinks most of it in a few long swallows. Warmth slides across his chest, down to his belly, and it has the desired effect; he sighs and lets the booze start to work its relaxation magic.
"Jensen, no offense, but aren't you a little old to be having this kind of epiphany?"
"It's no epiphany." Every word burns his throat; he doesn't know how he'll get it out, or what Jeff will do when he does. "When I was younger, there was...I was...I knew I had those leanings. But it's just been women for like ten years now. I haven't..."
Jeff waits for him to finish the thought, and when he doesn't, Jeff says, "What about Jared?"
"I don't know. I've only ever seen him with Sandy." That's two lies, right in a row, and Jensen realizes it as the sound of them dies in the air. He does know. He knows because Jared leans toward him anytime he's in a room; he knows because Jared's hands are always on him, and Jared's smiles are different when they are for him, and he's probably always known, always reveled in it and wanted it. It probably makes him a liar and a hypocrite, because every picture of the two of them has shown he's the one thing Sandy couldn't compete with. To her credit, she's never tried.
Then again, Jensen always saw Sandy and Jared as set in stone. He wonders if she sees what Jeff sees. If it bothers her that there's something between them, something they never put a name to. The thought makes him wince. He loves Sandy, and his stomach turns at the idea of hurting her.
Jeff seems as steady as he ever has, like none of this fazes him, like he doesn't care that Jensen just confessed to wanting his best friend and being at least a little gay, and Jensen is so grateful, he actually feels tears of relief in his eyes. Jeff sits down on the corner of the bed, facing Jensen, and tosses back a few swallows of vodka. "So why now? What's changed? Or is it that the show is about to wrap?"
Jensen nods and finishes off the rest of the JD, then slides it in with the water bottle and rubs at his eyes. "I guess."
"You..." Jeff stops, clears his throat, and starts again. "You're sure it's really Jared, and not that you're wanting something Jared is safe to give you?"
Jensen's whole body is trying to answer that question for him, just like it was earlier in the bar, but suddenly it's like it speaks a different language. He's the most confused he's ever been, and it's making him restless. He stands up, jams his hands in his pockets. "What are you asking?"
Jeff looks at him without speaking, long enough that Jensen feels like a bug under a magnifying glass. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough and low like sanded glass. "I'm asking if you want Jared, or you want to be fucked by a man and feel like Jared is the safe choice."
Oh, hey, wow, Jensen's brain says, and enough with the standing up, Jensen's legs agree, and they do their best to buckle under the wave of indignant denial and desire and fear that slams through him. Jeff doesn't catch him, exactly, but he crowds Jensen back against the wall, giving him support to lean against; he puts one hand on Jensen's chest, and waits.
Neither of them move.
One long, deep breath, and Jensen tries to process this - Jeff in front of him, his expression warm and concerned and open - and the question, which has thrown him because he didn't expect it, or the visceral reaction to it. Why Jeff being so close to him doesn't bother him, and why he panicked with Paul. He thinks it's about trust, but mostly it's about Jared, knows it somewhere deep in a place where there aren't explanations to offer. That's why he turned down Paul. Isn't it?
He swallows; his head thumps back against the wall. "I've wondered," he says, which isn't what he meant to say, but he has wondered. About a lot of things. About himself, and Jared, and what it means, and whether Jared represents things he's never had, things he's about to lose, if any of it matters or if his body has been running the show all along. About whether he can ever trust anyone enough to find out what really makes him tick.
Jeff starts to pull away, but Jensen reaches out and snags a handful of his T-shirt, stops him. His pulse throbs against his skin, and when Jeff puts his hand over Jensen's fist, it goes into overdrive.
"Just because I'm handy?" Jeff says, and Jensen takes a shaky breath.
"You aren't exactly ugly," he answers, because they both know that handy is the truth, that there's no way to test it but to do this, that he trusts Jeff not to fuck him up somehow, and Jeff's smile just before he puts his hand on the wall and leans in shoots Jensen's pulse up one more notch.
Jeff kisses him full-out, no tentative half-assed kissing; he pushes Jensen's lips apart, gets inside, gentle licks of tongue that cause Jensen's breath to catch in his throat. Jensen closes his eyes and lets it happen, lets Jeff have full control, from the hand sliding gently under his shirt to brush across skin, to the way his hips push forward when Jeff steps into him, pressing their bodies together.
The feeling that twists through Jensen - a mixture of relief and sadness, soft desire, a wish that this was Jared's hands, Jared's kiss - answers all the questions. His body tries to ignore him, particularly his dick, which is completely interested -- but he's wise to it now.
When Jeff pulls back, Jensen breathes out slowly; Jeff brushes a gentle hand across his face. "Figure it out?"
Jensen's gaze drops to Jeff's lips, and he grins a little. "You don't make it easy."
"Wasn't trying to," Jeff said, his face lighting up with that slow smile that's always put Jensen at ease.
Things sort themselves out pretty quick when Jeff gives him some room. Inclinations confirmed: check. Oh, definitely check. Jared above all others: check. Safe: not the issue. Jeff as the best sounding board in the history of friendship: check.
He says that last part out loud, and Jeff laughs. "You make it sound like it was some kind of hardship, and it wasn't."
"Er." Jensen hasn't blushed in years, but he blushes now, and then he says, "You, uh. Won't say anything to Jared?"
"That's between the two of you." Jeff sits back down on the bed and pulls his legs under him. "You going to do something about this, Jensen? Or are you just going to pine like a teenager while Jared gets on with his life?"
"Don't know," Jensen says, full of truth with Jeff's kiss still stinging his lips.
"Hm," Jeff says. He reaches back for his script and pulls it into his lap. "Your call, but life's too short."
"Maybe, but." Jensen resists the urge to touch his lips. "I've never been as close to anybody as I am to Jared. Good friends are hard to come by. I don't want to fuck it up."
"You want some platitudes? Like, anything worth having is worth taking the risk for? Or if you love something, grab it by the balls and don't let go?" Jeff grins at him. "That helping?"
"Not especially."
"Jensen, you knew what you wanted before you came over here. For some reason, you're trying to talk yourself out of it." Jeff points at the door. "The only thing that's going to help you with this is having a chat with Jared. You just need to decide if you think it's worth it. I think it is."
Jensen's quiet, because he's been talking himself out of it for so long, he doesn't even know how to stop.
Jeff sighs. "Now get out so I can put myself back in a fatherly headspace."
"God," Jensen says, face wrinkling in mock horror.
"Out," Jeff says. He reaches back for his glasses and slides them on, and Jensen wants to laugh with relief, because maybe he doesn't have a plan, or know what to do, exactly, but he knows what not to do. And he knows what he wants. Maybe that's a start.
"See you on set," Jensen says, and Jeff waves him to the door, already flipping pages to get to where he needs to be.
Once the door closes behind him, Jensen stands there a moment, gathering his thoughts. There's a week to go, and then there'll be time for everything, a chance to move this thing out of Vancouver and away from the set, and then they can figure it out.
One more week.
part two
J2, adult, approx 20,550 wds
Notes and disclaimer are here.
Graphics and art by gottalovev
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
-- T.S. Eliot
I.
At first, when things begin disappearing from the set, Jared thinks nothing of it. Some factor of loss on set is inevitable, the same way people mysteriously lose half their socks in the wash. Bits and leftover pieces from previous episodes go into the ether: one of Sam's bloody jackets, and some random tapes from the box inside Impala #1, including the Motorhead tape Jensen sat on and crushed the very first day of filming.
Reality finally registers with Jared, though, when he's standing there looking at the empty space beside Jensen's chair, the place where his chair had been the day before. Apparently some greedy souvenir-grabber thought he wouldn't need it anymore, and they aren't far wrong. The whole awesome ride is almost over. Things are winding down; there are only a few more weeks until the end.
End of series, end of show. The End.
Jared sighs. The night before, they'd been up shooting in the rain until almost 4 a.m., with Jensen's intermittent sneezes keeping Jared awake. Jared's tired, and his chair is gone, and if he were a lesser man he might throw a full-on hissy fit and demand another one right now. But that's not him. Never has been. No matter what comes next, he promised his momma he'd never be that guy who yells at the PAs and has M&M clauses written into his contracts. He gets paid plenty, and the work makes him happy. And the people. He's going to miss the people; they're like family. All of them.
But especially Jensen.
He's not thinking about that, though. Not now. He's got scenes to get through, and every one of them is going to be rough, from now 'til the day they wrap.
There are walls and poles and cars all around, plenty of crap to lean against, so he props himself up on a rolling cart and sips his coffee in peace. He could go back to his trailer, but he has set call in ten anyway, and he wants to be in the middle of things. He doesn't have much longer to enjoy it.
"Dude, what happened to your chair?" Jensen's fresh from makeup, his hair still quivering a little from Jeannie's vigorous scalp massage, and he's hovering in front of his own chair, like if he sat down he'd be committing some kind of breach of etiquette. Or maybe like it'll disappear out from under him.
"Somebody stole it."
Jensen clutches at his chest. "Is nothing sacred?" When Jared laughs, Jensen touches the amulet he's worn since day one on the set. "Dude, this is out of control. I'm going to start writing my name on stuff I want. Or maybe glue. Glue's good."
"Kim's not gonna like it if you glue down the Impala, man. Those tires are pretty expensive."
"He's got four others to choose from. He can have those. One of them is mine. Speaking of what's mine...." Jensen settles back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh, wiggling his ass for effect. Jared looks at the set of his shoulders, the grin on his face, and he's struck by the realization that there won't be much more of this. No more joking around in the wee hours; no more cracking on the day's celebrity gossip, or bitching about the coffee, or throwing candy at each other as they cross the set.
Maybe it shows on his face, because Jensen pauses in the middle of scrolling through his messages and asks, "What's wrong?"
"Nothin'," Jared says. He turns his back and swigs down more of his coffee, and tries to focus on the day, the job, the script. Three more weeks. It'll be gone in a flash.
The day's shooting goes without a hitch, except for how Jensen is starting to look like he's been without sleep for about a year. Jared has this crazy idea that if they filmed one more day without a break - 33 and counting, on the day Jared realizes they've rolled over into a new month - Jensen's head might actually explode. They both put up with a lot of work without complaint, because they really do love their jobs just that much, and it's the last season. They bitch about the little things, to compensate: not having enough hot water in their trailers, or spending seven days in the same Sam-and-Dean clothes while they shoot scenes in the freezing rain. The bitching makes it bearable and gives them teasing material - it keeps them sane.
But then Jensen stops bitching altogether around ten in the morning. He slouches in the makeup chair, getting his touch-ups and staring down into the dark depths of his coffee like it's going to grow into a sucking whirlpool and swallow him up. Jared checks his email and watches Jensen from the corner of his eye; not once does Jensen open his mouth to grouse about the weather or the shooting schedule or about the 4AM call. Not a peep.
They've been going home every night after midnight, grunting goodbye to each other when Jensen slides out of the car in front of his building. Jared goes to his own place and to the bedroom he's come to hate just a little because he never sees it, leaves his clothes strewn across the floor and falls into bed, unconscious before he even hits the pillow.
This is the life they signed on for, but it's getting old, and Jared's ready for it to be over. Some of it, anyway. The long hours, the location shoots, the ever-evolving scripts; those things he'll be glad to see the end of.
Other things, not so much.
**
Four p.m. in Jared's trailer, and they're sprawled across the couch. Jensen's got a handful of Cheetos curled against his belly and a diet Pepsi in the other hand, balanced on his thigh. Steady rain is beating down on the trailer's flat roof. Outside, the lighting guys and DP are trying to make sunshine in place of the real thing, which has taken a powder.
Jared shifts, knocks his knee gently into Jensen's, gets back a sleepy murmur in return. He plucks the soda out of Jensen's hand and sets it on the table.
"Hey," Jensen protests, reaching out his hand, but Jared smacks it.
"Shut up, you're almost asleep."
"I'm not. Was watching." Jensen sits up with effort, spilling Cheetos from his loose grip, and blinks steadily until the fog seems to clear away from his eyes. Jared grins, because he knows it's a losing battle, no matter how hard Jensen fights to stay awake.
One finger pointed at the TV, Jensen says, "Man, Nic Cage would have been a crappy Superman."
Jared nods and snags a stray cheese puff from where it's nestled between the couch cushion and Jensen's ass. "I bet that kid grew up ugly, too."
"Aw, what kind of thing is that to say about a baby?"
"Well, she's not a baby anymore!"
"Nah, she's jailbait now."
That makes Jared laugh, and he tips his head back and looks at the ceiling. Beside him, Jensen's breath evens out again, and he slowly munches his way through the mound of Cheetos. Jared pops his scavenged Cheeto into his mouth and sucks on it until it goes soft and the cheese flavor turns bitter. "It's been raining for hours," he says.
"Years," Jensen says, chuckling. "One thing I will not miss is the damn rain."
There's rain in Texas, but it's summer-warm in Jared's memory, not the freezing damp he's grown used to in Vancouver. The cold didn't bother him the first three years; that seems like a long time ago. "I'm not going to miss constantly staying in hotels, either."
"Or flying everywhere all the time."
"Or the Vancouver airport."
"That, too." Jensen reaches out a hand and deposits a couple more Cheetos on Jared's chest, then proceeds to lick his sticky orange fingers clean. Jared catches himself watching Jensen's tongue loop around each one, fingers disappearing between Jensen's lips, and snaps his head back front and center, because suddenly he's warm from his cheeks down to his chest.
Jensen reaches over and wipes his hand on Jared's shirt.
"You punk," Jared says, turning back to him with an incredulous grin. "Keep your spit to yourself, man!"
"My spit is highly prized in two countries," Jensen says, already maneuvering to get away from Jared, who is slowly reaching for his shoulder to punch him.
"Yeah, not by me." Jared's punch lands somewhere around Jensen's rib, because he's thrown his arm up to protect his laughing face. Jensen kicks over on the couch and throws his legs over Jared, and lays there, looking at him, eyes scrunched up on the tail end of that laugh.
Jared leans back and lets his arm fall over Jensen's knees. "What are you going to miss, really?" he asks, watching Jensen's face.
On the TV screen, credits are rolling by, white on black, inevitable. Jensen stuffs a pillow under his head and scoots down, making himself at home on Jared's couch, with Jared as a footrest. He thumps the heel of his boot gently against Jared's knee.
Jared picks at a string unraveling from one of the many holes in Jensen's jeans. He pulls Jensen's legs in tighter, comfortable with their weight.
**
No matter how hard Jared tries, he can't stop laughing.
Twelve takes, a stern lecture from Kim, and they still can't seem to nail the last scene of the day in the Impala. It's something about the dialogue, the earnest adoration Sam has for Dean; Jared's been singing that song so long that he can barely resist making bad romance novel jokes every time he gets a new script. Today, though, it's Jensen's fault; every time Jared looks at Jensen's face, Jensen wrinkles his nose like he smells something bad and makes Jared lose it completely.
Kim's irritated, Jensen's playing innocent, and Jared wants to save this moment forever - the smell of rain and hot metal in the air, the snickers and giggles of the exhausted crew, and mischief sparkling in Jensen's eyes in spite of it all.
Take thirteen, they hit their mark, Jared gets his hands around the steering wheel and tries to maintain. He gets out one line. Just one. That's when Jensen pops open the glove compartment and pulls something out. "I picked a little something up at the Kwik-E-Mart," he says, brandishing some KY in a white tube. "It's just five hours to Vegas."
Jared's still hunched over the wheel, tears in the corners of his eyes from the non-stop laughing, when Kim calls it over for the day. He sits back in the seat and pulls a hand over his eyes, then clambers out of the car. "Dude," he says, packing the word full of admiration.
The tube of lube hits him in the ear and sets him off again.
Ten minutes later, Jared's peeling an orange by the craft service table as they pack up the hot food. Jensen's retrieved the lube and has it sticking out of his front shirt pocket. He stands next to Jared and rattles some granola into a cup, tipping the cup to his lips for a bite.
They both have places they could go. Jensen has been bitching for weeks about needing a free hour to run errands. Jared thinks about suggesting the gym, then decides against it. He thinks of Sandy's plane, which has probably already landed. If he hurries, he could pick her up at the airport.
He peels another section of the orange and drops it in Jensen's cup. Jensen squashes it down in the granola and bites into the coated slice of orange, juice dribbling down his chin. His tongue catches a bit of it at the corner of his mouth.
"You should come to my place for dinner," Jared says. "Sandy's coming in tonight. She'll cook."
"So, sandwiches?" Jensen says, but his eyes brighten, and Jared likes to see the spark of interest in his eyes, not that dead-tired look he's started to hate.
"Shut up," he answers. "Like you cook."
"I totally cook," Jensen says, like mortal offense has just been given.
"Hot Pockets and popcorn do not count, Jensen, shut up." He turns toward his trailer, shucking off Sam's jacket as he goes. "And bring some good beer, and some wine for my girl."
"Define good," Jensen calls after him.
**
Sandy's waiting for him at his place, looking cute in grey sweats and a tight green t-shirt. "Hey you," he says, picking her up off the couch for a kiss. She smells like fresh apples, and she's laughing into his skin.
"It took you long enough," she says, as he sets her down and flops down beside her.
"Long shoot." Jared's hungry, and the first thing on his mind to say has to do with Jensen coming over, but he knows that won't go over well. Sandy loves Jensen to death, but her time with Jared is supposed to be sacred, and Jared learned a long time ago to respect that.
Might be why he's feeling guilty just now; those unwritten rules get him into trouble sometimes.
Sandy snuggles up under his arm, but she doesn't seem to have much to say, so Jared strokes her hair and thinks about that. Once upon a time, seeing Sandy was like opening the floodgates, everything pouring out of him in hours and hours of talk, water smooth over stones. Now they pass most of their time together in lapses of quiet.
He's a lot less worried about the silence than maybe he should be.
When she turns her face up toward his, he says, "Jensen's coming over tonight," and watches her smile dim. Not so anyone else would notice, but he's been with Sandy a long time now, and that is definitely a few watts off the normal blinding smile. "That okay?" he asks, sure now that it isn't.
For a moment, he's afraid she'll say no, and he's even more afraid of what he might do if she does.
"Sure," she says, smile back up to full intensity. No pout, not even a teasing reprimand. She sits up, stretching the travel-fatigue out.
Next thing Jared knows, she's got her hair pulled back in a ponytail and she's puttering around the kitchen, doing Sandy things: pulling down a glass for some juice; absently checking his dishes to see if he really scrubbed them clean or just rinsed them for show; looking in the fridge to see if he bought actual food for her visit. He did - there are peaches and strawberries and sandwich meat, and her pleased smile makes him grin.
"You didn't think I'd leave you with nothing - did you?" he asks, and her face scrunches up in a smile, part confirmation, part denial.
"I knew better, baby." She climbs him like he's an obstacle, grappling her way up his body, and he folds her up in his arms and kisses her, soft lips pushing at hers until she's giggling against him.
She busies herself with mundane things - making some sandwiches, then cutting up carrots and celery. She's a curve of energy arcing across the room, and he stays out of her way.
In the bedroom, he picks out a comfortable pair of jeans and a soft blue t-shirt, and then he steps into the shower. Sandy's shampoo and body wash is already there in the caddy, clear travel-sized bottles that he opens and sniffs. Apple and jasmine, always the fruit and flower scents. He's starting to like the comforting strength of citrus and musk, scents she never wears, but he's not going to mention it; there wouldn't be any point.
While he showers, he thinks about the dozen different ways he could spend his post-Supernatural days. He could take a break and travel; he knows already that's what Sandy wants. Or at least, part of what she wants.
The other part involves rings and cakes and huge guest lists. Jared's not quite on board with that yet, hasn't been at any point since he first asked her out, despite the joint Christmas cards and the togetherness and the almost-marriedness. He thinks he should be there by now, and Sandy thinks so, too, though she's too awesome to come right out and ask him why he's taking so long.
His momma asked him once, last summer, and when Jared shook his head and couldn't look her in the eye, she petted his hair gently like he was a boy again, and then she let it go.
There are projects he could do. His agent has been sending him scripts - good ones, with substantial parts, though none of them are leads. He has no idea what Jensen's been getting. The guy doesn't seem to want to share these days, and the closer they get to zero hour, the more Jared thinks Jensen's separation issues are worse than his own.
He could spend some down time with his family. It's been a while since he's done that. He wants to buy some land near Dallas, stretch out and make room to grow.
Sandy's face crowds into his head again at the notion of family and home, and he puts a hand on the cold tiled wall, sighs. He rubs his ear where the tube of KY nicked it; Jensen has good aim. Good hands.
When the water runs cold, it's a relief.
**
Jensen brings three different kinds of beer and two bags of chips, and Jared sweeps him up into a full-body hug at the door, then passes him off to Sandy. "Where's my sandwich?" Jensen says, and sports a grin and hunched shoulders while he takes his beating from Sandy's tiny fists.
They've done this a hundred times, so there are familiar patterns, predictable. Jared and Jensen team up to rag on Sandy's sandwich skills, but then shower her with praise for feeding them; Jared and Jensen down some beers and argue or tease or insult each other about anything that comes to mind, from the kind of beer Jensen's drinking (Moosehead) to the way he eats carrot sticks (shoving them in the side of his mouth and gnawing with his back teeth like Bug Bunny instead of biting them straight on).
When they reach the part of the evening where Sandy asks Jensen about his love life and Jensen plays coy, things don't play out according to the script. "So who've you been seeing?" she says, like she has a million times before. Most of the time Jared knows the answer and he smirks at Jensen over the top of Sandy's head, brotherhood, solidarity, secrets shared in the fifteen hours a day they spend in each others' pockets. He waits to see what Jensen will say, how much truth he'll give her.
But this time, Jensen says, "Aw, Sandy. Come on."
Jared turns his head, jaw tight, and looks at Jensen's lowered eyes, the smirk he's putting on for show; he hears an entire untold story beneath that smirk. Jared knew all about Joanna, the way she liked to be fucked, the shitty way she treated Jensen when he didn't dress the right way or behave as she'd planned at events. He knew everything about Tania, even saw them off on their first date after the shoot wrapped on Scarecrow. He's heard everything about every girl Jensen's banged from that day to this.
Except for how, apparently, he hasn't.
They're all laughing and drinking and Jared looks at Sandy's pink cheeks and Jensen's flushed neck and something tilts inside him, the happy feeling sliding away and leaving a blank space behind where it used to be. He sits up on the couch, not exactly sure what the hell just happened, but he feels a change in the world around him, just like he knows when winter slides into spring, not the day or the hour but the soft warmth in the air.
Jensen's collar is open and he's wearing a necklace, some kind of dark thread with a round silver charm. It rests in the hollow of his throat. Sandy reaches out for it and tugs it, playful, until Jensen falls forward and hugs her, and Jared's looking at Sandy's small hands on Jensen's chest, and Jensen's hands, not small, curved strong around her hips. He looks at Jensen's mouth, at his smile, and he wants them to stop touching each other. Wants Jensen to leave Sandy alone. Only, that's not how the message gets relayed in his head.
Inside, he hears: get your hands off him. Words he doesn't say; a frown creases his face.
The feeling bubbles up on the heels of the choked-off warning: not yours not yours he's not yours DON'T TOUCH HIM.
He sets his bottle down with a bang, earning a peculiar look from both Sandy and Jensen. The smile he gives them is autopilot, just this side of panic. He's still trying to sort out the replay when Jensen's expression changes, becomes thoughtful, and their eyes meet.
Jared thinks of a thousand things to say, but none of them make any sense at all, everything jumbled up between contradictions and confusion in his heart, and Sandy might as well not be in the room. It's fucked up, but it's real, so real and unexpected it makes his heart contract with fear.
Jensen's his friend. They can't. And it's not like he hasn't had that thought before, but it was years ago on the cusp of starting this show and making a career out of it, before he and Sandy were a hundred percent, before he cared about preserving his friendship with Jensen come hell or high water.
Sandy's right there, right in front of him, but he can't even look at her. His world is tilting slowly, everything going sideways.
Jared takes a breath, holds Jensen's gaze a fraction of a second more, and then the moment passes.
Half an hour later, Jensen gets to his feet and snags his keys from the table. "I'm beat," he says, "Got to hit the road." Jared stands up, searching for something to say that isn't who the hell are you dating or why are you leaving so early or Jensen, what the hell's wrong with me? - and just like that, Jensen throws an arm around his shoulders, a hug to propel him home, and kisses Sandy on the cheek, and he's gone.
Sandy stands there next to Jared while the space reshapes itself to compensate for the quiet vacuum Jensen left behind. Then she starts cleaning up, pulling bottles from the floor and tables.
"Leave it for later," Jared says, making a grab for her hand, but she doesn't meet his eyes, and she shies away.
"I want to be useful," she says, which is no kind of answer at all, and sounds bizarre coming from Sandy, who is always willing to go to bed and cuddle and be. He looks into her eyes and wonders how much of what he didn't say showed itself on his face.
It's no surprise he can't sleep that night; Sandy curls up in the curve of his arm, a quiet weight against his body, and he's careful not to disturb her.
II.
There are a thousand ways to beat insomnia, and Jensen's tried them all, from hot milk to dropping the temperature to soothing music the likes of which he'd cringe at in an elevator, but none of it works. Lately he's taken to curling up in bed and staring out the window, the sheet wound around his legs where he can reach it, if he actually feels himself drifting off.
He tells himself it's just exhaustion, that he's overtired, but he knows damn well that has nothing to do with it. Five years of daily work, of pouring heart and blood and sweat into Dean Winchester, of being defined by the show and the character. He can remember when he thought it'd be a relief to be done with it and move on to greener pastures. Opportunities are out there waiting for him.
The pile of scripts by the bed has gone unread for weeks. He shies away from the idea of making plans; down deep where he can't admit it to anyone, he just wants a break, a space of time to breathe and think and be, and he can't have that if he jumps into the next project right away.
He squirms in the bed and flips over on his stomach, where he can't see the paper tower. The upside to freedom is the ability to choose not to choose, or something philosophical like that, but mostly he wishes he didn't have to think about it anymore. If he's going to get on with having a career he's going to have to be aggressive about it, and his heart isn't in it. His heart is a little confused, what with it making wild leaps and assumptions about various things.
Say, for instance, Jared.
Only he promised himself he wouldn't think about that, so he pushes his arms under the pillow and turns his face down into the fluffy softness, where he can't breathe and it's nice and dark. There's something weird going on with Jared; Jensen's been watching Jared watch him for a couple weeks, and the worst part is, he's been watching Jared back. Not in a weird way, but in an I-can't-help-myself way, and it's freaking him out. He's known the guy for years now, known him so well that he can practically think Jared's thoughts for him.
He's got friends, a life, stuff he wants. Wanted. Whatever. It's not like he and Jared will never see each other again. It just...won't be the same.
He flops onto his side and looks at his cell phone. Behind it, the clock is shining a steady blue reminder of how damned late it is: 2:25.
Jared might still be up. His phone will be on silent if he's in bed, so. Worth a try.
Jensen picks up the phone and thumbs down to Jared's name in his contacts.
When Jared answers, his voice is low. "Dude. Do you know what time it is?"
It's like a ten-ton weight has just disappeared from Jensen's shoulders. He rolls onto his back and grins up at the ceiling. "Shut up. You were totally awake."
"So? And? Is this a test?" Jared's chewing in his ear like a cow mowing through cud.
"What the hell are you eating, man?"
"Ham."
"...just ham?"
"Ham. Out of the little plastic box."
Jensen laughs. "Why not open your mouth and pour the mustard straight in?"
"Don't be jealous because I have food and you're hungry." Jared smacks his lips, then says suspiciously, "Did you just drunk dial me? Is that what this is?"
"Nah, man!" Jensen smiles down at the street below, where red and white lights shimmer in the wet streets. "Just can't sleep."
Jared's tone changes, softens. "Damn, Jensen. Again? I'm startin' to worry about you. I thought if we funned you up you might actually go home and crash."
"Too much shit on my mind. It's weird, you know? Everything winding down."
"Yeah." Jared's stopped chewing and there's random noise on the other end of the phone, rattling and a hissing sound.
Jensen rolls his eyes. "Are you drinking a beer?"
"Yes, Jensen," Jared intones. "Now tell me what you're wearing."
"Pervert." Jensen looks down at his white boxers and white T-shirt. So boring.
On the other end, Jared's making that sound Jensen recognizes as his way of trying not to laugh out loud, and it works the same magic as Jared's regular laugh; tension ebbs from Jensen's shoulders, and he closes his eyes.
They fall silent for a few moments, and then Jared says, "You should just have stayed here and played death match chess with me."
Jensen clears his throat. "Sandy's there."
With a snort, Jared says, "That's never stopped you before. Dude, my couch thinks you own it."
It's true, and Jensen has crashed there drunk, sick, post-breakup, a hundred times in a hundred different states, with or without Sandy there to make breakfast in the morning. He opens his mouth to say it's different now, but he doesn't know why it is, or would be, or what he even thinks about that, and it isn't, really. Except for how it is. He can feel himself trying to pull away, but he's never held on so hard to anything in his life, and the feeling puts the tension right back in his shoulders.
"Is there some reason you're shitting on my hospitality?" Jared's voice gets louder, like he's just leaned into the phone, that gesture he uses when he wants Jensen's attention first-hand. "Because I'll have you know, my hospitality is the shiznit."
That does it. Jensen bursts out laughing, and when he stops, he can practically feel Jared's grin beaming through the phone at him. "Do not ever," Jensen says. "Seriously, ever. Do not. I'm traumatized now."
"Fo shizzle," Jared says, and sets Jensen off again. Something about that damned drawl, which he shares, and the way it catches on the vowels. It's obscene. And stupid.
When he stops laughing, Jared doesn't waste a beat. "Come on over, man. I mean it. You can't sleep anyway, right?"
"Yeah. No." Jensen wavers, then says, "Talking helps."
"So talk."
He can almost picture Jared sprawled out on the couch, one hand on his stomach, head tilted back. Jensen swallows and says, "No, I mean...you talking. It's..." The word soothing just won't quite come out, but Jensen knows Jared gets it, because that's when Jared starts talking, a litany of stuff that's so ridiculous and mundane it's perfect. Jensen listens, and grunts every so often, and the last thing he hears before he drifts off to sleep is something about the shine being off the apple, but by then he's just using Jared's voice for a pillow and whatever it was is lost in a sleepy, Texas-drawl haze.
**
Just before the alarm goes off, Jensen's dreaming of Jared in bright blue swimming trunks, kicked back in a lawn chair beside a huge generic pool, sunglasses over his eyes. Jared lifts the glasses and smiles at Jensen, and that's when Jensen wakes to the sounds of morning radio chatter, his phone mashed beneath his face. He rolls over, sheets bunched up in a hard knot under his ass, and thinks about that image of Jared's face, the look in his eyes, the love and want projected out of his dream. He's half-hard, but he wills his erection down, and then helps it subside with a lukewarm shower and a blast of cold at the end.
He's not going to think about that dream, or Jared's voice, or anything else that could potentially make this day any worse before it's even underway.
By the time he gets to the set, he's uncharacteristically late, and Jared's waiting for him by the makeup trailer with an anxious look on his face. "Man, I thought maybe you were still in bed," he says, half-hopeful. Jensen knows what Jared's seeing, because he caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror that morning and looked away: puffy sleep-starved face and dull eyes, too much stubble. He looks like he's been on a ten day binge. Shannon's going to have a field day bitching him out.
Jensen ignores the pointed looks Jared gives him and pretends to be engrossed in his email. It takes three cups of coffee before he can get his brain started on higher functions. It might have been easier to reach consciousness if he hadn't gone to sleep at all.
There's an email from Paul Kinion, the PA he was friendly with over on the Smallville set, asking if he wants to get together. Paul used to flash his sweet lazy smile on a regular basis, the one that reached his blue eyes, and ask Jensen if he wanted to grab some beers and shoot some pool. Jensen always said no, instinct telling him it wasn't just about beers and pool.
Maybe this is an opportunity. Maybe he should try to get whatever this thing is out of his system.
He types 8pm, Callahans? and waits, and around the time Shannon starts spraying makeup over his pale face, he gets his answer: Hell ya, see u there.
When he deletes the email, he glances over at Jared, who looks away at that exact moment and starts teasing Jeannie about the orangey-sweet smell of his hair product, and Jensen's stomach tightens.
**
Take after take after take, Jensen throws his lines to Jared and Jared nails them. He can feel the chemistry flowing, stronger now than it's ever been, no awkwardness between them; it's as if the words were their own, not random consonants slapped on a page by distant writers. This is what he loves; his sentences end and Jared's begin, timing smooth and perfect, pauses that snap at the right moment and become a conversation of equals. He's in the moment totally, meeting Jared's eyes and responding to his smallest gesture, the way he moves, the cues he sees in Jared's eyes.
This is what it's all about, and this is what he's losing.
Jared steps toward him, takes hold of him, and throws him against the wall as planned, no hesitation at all. Jensen was out of sync just that one fraction of a second and he twists wrong, hits the edge of the table too hard, and then he's kneeling, one hand curled protectively around his left shoulder.
"Shit, Jensen!" Jared says, breaking character completely, and then he's beside Jensen, settling him to the ground and peeling his shirt aside to put a large warm hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Jensen says, the word coming out breathy due to the wind being knocked out of him. But he's okay, really, even if he is a little distracted by the look of absolute panic on Jared's face.
"Please, please tell me you did not break anything with one week left to shoot!" Eric appears out of nowhere and crouches next to Jensen. "You okay, Jen?"
"Fine." He grits his teeth, because he'd lie about this if he had to, just to prevent the same anxiety he saw on Eric's face when Jared broke his hand a few years ago. Nothing is worse for a show in production than an injured star, and he knows he can fake it. "It's just a few more days," he says, but that's the wrong thing to say, or maybe they just know him too well, because concern flashes in Eric's eyes and he gets out of the way of the medic, and then they're fussing over him and he's helpless to do much about it.
Jared stays right there, one hand on his leg, and he says, "Jensen, man, sorry."
"I'm okay," he says, looking up into Jared's face, a little dizzy. "I moved too late. I missed the mark. It's my fault."
"But I threw you too hard," Jared says, his hand tightening on Jensen's knee.
Jensen smirks. "So you're finally admitting you're a freak of nature with abnormal strength?"
Some of the tension leaves Jared's body, but he doesn't let go of Jensen, and whether it's guilt or comfort, Jensen's glad he's still there.
It takes a few more minutes for them to pronounce him unbroken, just bruised, and give him icepacks. Jared lifts him bodily off the floor and hustles him off to his trailer for the lunch break before Jensen can even protest. Not that it would do him much good; there's a parade of nervous PAs and ADs behind them, and so Jensen allows himself the luxury of leaning into Jared, and Jared's arm tightens around him that much more.
The moment the door slams shut behind them, Jensen says, "Ow, FUCK!" and sits down on the couch, no longer trying to keep the pain off his face.
"I knew it," Jared says, opening the door again to stick his face out and say something to the nearest trailing PA. Then he's back with Jensen, one hand on his back. "I had her bring some Vicodin. And you're gonna shut up and take it, Jen, I swear, or I will hold your nose and stuff it down your throat myself."
"And then what?" Jensen sits up, ignoring the shooting pains in his shoulder. "It's not even sprained, Jared. In a couple hours it'll be fine. Pain pills will put me out."
"You need the rest anyway." Jared squints at him, waiting for Jensen to argue, but he's so goddamned tired that he doesn't bother. The knock comes two seconds later, and Jared goes to get it, returning with a pill bottle and a glass of water. "Take them," he says, dishing out two pills. Jensen looks up at him and decides not to fight, seeing as how Jared looks ready to take on an army on this, so he swallows the pills, grumbling under his breath. Token resistance.
Eric sends word that he's not going to resume the shoot until after four, which Jensen figures gives him just enough time to sleep off the stupid pills. He's fuzzy around the edges and it bugs him, makes the world indistinct and weird, but Jared's still there, and he'd almost forgotten that he was supposed to be worried about how he felt about Jared, or whatever.
"Nap," Jensen says, and the next thing he knows he's sacked out on the couch with a blanket over him. Jared's sitting on the floor beside the couch, stroking Jensen's hair. He looks at Jared, and Jared looks back, and when Jensen's eyes close, the only thing he can feel is Jared's hand against his skin, the gentle pull of his fingers in Jensen's hair, soothing him quiet.
**
The rest of the day is better. Jensen wakes up alone, no stiffness in his shoulder, and does some pushups to wipe the skeptical look off Eric's face.
"If you're sure," Eric says. "But I don't want you hurting yourself, Jensen."
"Then talk to the other half of the talent," Jensen says with a grin, pointing across set at Jared, who turns at that moment like he can hear him. Eric rolls his eyes and leaves it alone, and things are back on track.
Jeff shows up on set at 5 p.m., and he stands quietly to one side while they light the scene. Jensen looks up and sees him talking to Kim and Eric, and tugs at Jared's sleeve, and soon there's hugging and laughter and it's like old times, bits of information exchanged that some knew and some didn't, talk of Harley and Sadie and Bisou and various family members, and Jensen feels everything locking into place. This might be the end, but these people are still family, and it wasn't right until just now, with Jeff here.
"It's good to be asked back," Jeff says, shaking Eric's hand.
"It's good you haven't gotten too big for our little show," Eric answers, and they all laugh. Jensen looks at Jeff and thinks about high-flying career paths. Maybe his will follow that trajectory, or maybe he'll end up locked into another series, another cold five years up here in rainy hell.
He glances over at Jared and wonders how he'll ever make it without him, if he could be lucky enough to find another partner like Jared, who made every day a joy. Then he smacks himself mentally, because he sounds like something out of a pink-cover novel, and it's disgusting. They'll move on. They'll get work. So it won't be like this. So what? Life goes on.
They finish up their scenes and Jeff wanders over while they're watching the playback of Kim's last take, puts a hand on Jensen's good shoulder and one on Jared's back. "Drinks, boys? I'm buyin'."
"Hell yeah," Jared says, flashing a huge grin. "If injury-boy can take it, that is. What d'ya say, Jensen?"
"Definitely," Jensen says, thinking of Paul. "I'll meet you guys wherever."
"Got something else to do?" Jeff says, and Jensen is too conscious of Jared's curious look. Nowhere to run.
"Just some errands," he says, and Jared immediately looks away, like the lie is visible. For all Jensen knows, maybe it is.
Their timing is a fraction off the rest of the day, not in a way that would be noticeable to anyone but Jared and Jensen, and Jensen can't fix it. So he doesn't try. He blames it on his shoulder, on his distraction, on wanting to get out of there and hang out with Jeff, but it's all about that look in Jared's eye, and how it seems to accuse him, without Jared saying a single word.
**
He's late to meet Paul, and it's wrong and mean, but there's a part of him hoping Paul will up and disappear before Jensen gets there, especially since he didn't bother to call to say he was going to be late. But Paul's sitting at the bar in a green shirt and black pants, looking just as hot as he ever did, if maybe a little more tense than Jensen remembers. He comes up behind him and tries for easy, one hand on Paul's shoulder, friendly handshake waiting.
Paul turns and sees him, and the smile that brightens his face slams into Jensen like a tidal wave, just before Paul hugs his shoulders. "Jensen, man, I had almost given up on you."
"Long day," Jensen says, wincing when Paul pats his shoulder. "Hurt myself."
"Oh, damn," Paul says, snatching his hand away quick as lightning. "Sorry. You okay?"
"Yeah," Jensen says. "Though this might have to be a short night."
"Okay," Paul says. "Want to get a table?"
Jensen looks around. The place isn't crowded, and there are plenty of places to sit. Figures. "Sure," he says, not able to think of an excuse to go.
They settle in with a couple beers and make small talk for a while. Paul dishes out gossip about Tom and Mike and the rest of the regulars on the Smallville set, and tells him one spectacular story about James Marsters and one of the married key grips. Jensen laughs in spite of himself. He likes Paul; it isn't that. It's just that somewhere on the other side of town, Jared is sitting in a bar with Jeff, and Jensen's not there, and he knows Jared's thinking about him, and wondering where the hell he got off to. For some reason, that bothers him even more than the nagging urge he has to go be wherever Jared is, to take advantage of their dwindling time together.
"You haven't told me how things are with you, now that you're about to be out of a job." Paul pushes his empty mug away. "You going to be sticking around up here, or are you off to LA?"
"LA, I guess." Jensen picks a few peanuts out of the dish on the table and pops them in his mouth. "Haven't thought about it much."
"Aw, come on. You haven't thought about it?" Paul's giving him an interesting look, his eyes narrowed slightly in disbelief, and Jensen chuckles.
"No, I haven't. I've been busy, you know? Got to close this door before I can open another one."
"Yeah. About that," Paul says, sitting forward, and pitching his voice low. Jensen tenses from head to toe. Here it comes. "Listen, Jensen. I love your company, but I think you know I'm gay, right?"
"I knew," Jensen says, then wrinkles his own face at the way he throws it into the past tense, like this isn't happening right here, right now.
Paul nods. "So I think maybe you know I didn't ask you out just to hang out. I get this vibe from you, and I could be wrong, and maybe you don't trust me enough to say, but...you know. I'd be just as happy to leave here right now. If you want." He sits back again, smiles that heartbreaking smile. Damn, but his eyes are blue. "Or we can play some pool and I can kick your ass."
Jensen decides in the time it takes him to look around the bar. There are people watching him curiously - he's not a regular here, and he's not exactly the invisible kind of show star, not even in production-laden Vancouver. This is the edge of the cliff, and everything in him screams back up, what the hell are you doing, so he does.
"One game," he says, closing the door.
Paul nods. "One game." There's disappointment on his face, and Jensen thinks he's right to be, that a few hours before he was leaning toward leaving, but his mind won't take him past the threshold of the bar with Paul, and he can't help it. Doesn't want to.
He checks his watch every five minutes or so through the game - which he wins handily, courtesy of the on-set coaching he got from the guy who used to help Rosenbaum set up Lex Luthor's shots - and still makes time to joke with Paul, because it isn't his fault this whole thing is so stupid. Paul buys him a couple shots and Jensen meets his eyes when he tosses them back, a world of apology in simple gestures.
He even slides an arm around Paul's shoulders and pats him on the back when Paul loses, and likes the way Paul glances up at him, half-knowing, half-wanting. It's power, and he's not exactly immune to it; he's exercised that power with women his whole life, and this isn't much different.
Except for the part about how he's not going to let Paul get him naked.
Yet? his dick says.
Ever, his brain tells it firmly.
He bails out early, because anything else would be weird, and Paul walks him out. Jensen knows he should feel like an asshole, but all he feels is relief.
That's why the pass catches him off guard.
They're side by side in the nearly deserted parking lot when Paul moves suddenly, takes hold of Jensen by the hips and pushes him into the side of his truck - not hard enough to hurt him, Jensen knows that, though Paul's hands are firm, and yeah, maybe enough to bruise him. Enough to make an impression, and Jensen's first thought is that Paul read him better than he realized, which just - no. A world of no.
"What the fuck," Jensen says, a little spark of panic in his soul blooming outward into his heart and body. Paul's reading him right, he can see that; Paul's grip eases up, and he's ready to let go instead of kiss him, but the message doesn't reach Jensen's instincts in time and he shoves Paul away, a split second from punching him.
"I'm sorry," Paul says, holding his hands up. He actually looks contrite. "I thought...maybe the soft sell wasn't doing it, and you might be wanting the hard sell...I was wrong. I'm sorry."
"Jesus Christ," Jensen says, still not sure he's given up on the idea of socking Paul in the mouth. This is not what he came out here for. Whatever he was wanting to find, this isn't it. He has no idea what it was, but it's like he has a wall around him now, a barrier Paul sure as fuck isn't getting through, and he can see that finally reach Paul when he lowers his hands.
"I'm sorry," Paul says again.
Jensen nods, unwilling to give him anything more than that, no matter how much he likes the guy. He doesn't move until Paul is in his truck and pulling away, and then he climbs into his truck and sits there, looking out at the harsh lights overhead, the intersecting white lines on their slant across the pavement.
He looks at his watch - 11 p.m. Jared and Jeff are probably hanging out, laughing, having a good time at that dive Jeff loves so much. He can see them clear as day right now - empties scattered across the table ringed by shot glasses, plates scraped clean, laughter and good times, friends catching up on everything important.
It'd be easy to call Jared, ask him to break away from Jeff and come meet him, tell him everything, confess what a lame asshole he is and find out if Jared's in the same headspace.
But maybe he doesn't want to know.
"God damn it," he says, and starts the truck. No way is he going to meet Jeff and Jared now. The phone's been buzzing on and off for a while, probably Jared wanting to know where the hell he is, and that's one conversation he doesn't want to field.
The phone starts buzzing again, and he pulls it out of his pocket. It's not Jared; it's Jeff. He sighs. One or the both of them are likely to come to his place if he doesn't answer. He's not the type to drop off the face of the earth without explanation. Too much polite Texas boy in him. He flips open the phone and says, "Hello?"
"Jensen, what the hell happened to you? Where've you been?"
"Hey, Jeff." He doesn't quite trust himself to say more.
"You missed out. We just left out of there - Jared's on his way home, and I'm going back to the hotel."
"Jeff," Jensen starts, then stops. But maybe he doesn't need to say much more than that, because something in his voice changes Jeff's tone altogether.
"Is something wrong?"
He could still hang up, play it off. "Do you mind if I stop by?"
"Of course not. Are you okay? I want you to answer me."
"Yeah." Jensen takes a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm okay."
"Now why don't I believe you," Jeff says. "I'm going nowhere other than into the shower, so stop by whenever. Sutton Place Hotel, room 1716. Don't make me hunt you down."
"Okay," Jensen says. "I'll...okay."
When he hangs up, he puts both hands on the wheel to stop the shaking.
**
Jensen knocks softly on the door of Jeff's hotel room, half hoping Jeff will actually be asleep and they can pretend later that Jensen changed his mind. It doesn't work that way, though; Jeff opens the door a couple seconds after Jensen taps, looking a little rumpled in his t-shirt and jeans, but wide awake. "Hey," he says, big smile beneath the greeting. "Took your sweet-ass time."
For a second Jensen pictures saying, sorry, man, I'm really too tired to spill my guts. Or just making a break for the elevator. But Jeff would probably pick him up by the scruff and haul him back, so he squares his shoulders and stands his ground.
Jeff steps aside. "You comin' in, or what?"
Jensen smiles and follows him inside. Jeff's suitcase is thrown on the luggage rack, clothes hanging out of it in various stages of being put away. The bedspread is half on the floor, half off, and the script's squarely in the middle of the bed among piled up pillows. It's what all of them do; shuttle between places with clothes and scripts and cell phones in tow, creating spaces for themselves where they won't feel so out of place, but it never works for Jensen. When he's perpetually between locations, he's never home.
Jeff tosses him a bottle of water and eases back on the couch, leaving Jensen with his choice of chairs. "I have to say, my friend, I was worried about you after I saw you on set, and now that I'm getting a good look at you, I think I was right to be."
Red velvet chairs. Jensen sits down on one and finds they're as soft as they look. He shrugs off his jacket and begins picking at the label on the water bottle. He's peeled ninety percent of it off, a shredded pile of blue and white confetti at his feet, when Jeff says softly, "We've known each other a long time, Jensen. Whatever it is - it's okay."
"It's Jared," Jensen says, not looking at Jeff. And then he finds he can't say any more, not because he doesn't want to, but he's not sure what to say.
"I figured," Jeff says.
Now Jensen does look up, because he's curious. "Figured how?"
"Because of how he's lookin' at you lately. How you were lookin' at him today." Jeff pulls off his shoes one at a time, dropping them on the floor, and stuffs his socks inside them. "Wasn't sure I was reading you right. I figured if something was going to happen with you two, it would have run its course long before this."
Jensen slides the water bottle between the cushions and puts his head down in his hands. His head hurts, from tiredness or maybe worry, or the effort of sharing things he hasn't really worked through himself, and now he feels like he has his confusion painted across his forehead or something, where anybody can pick it out across a crowded room. "Nothing's happened," Jensen says. "It's...what you're seeing...I know what you're thinking, but nothing's happened."
"Ah." Jeff gets up and breaks open the mini-bar, rummages around and pulls out a few travel-sized liquor bottles. He slings a bottle of Jack Daniels at Jensen, who snags it out of mid-air. "But you want it to?"
"I have no fucking idea." Jensen opens the bottle and drinks most of it in a few long swallows. Warmth slides across his chest, down to his belly, and it has the desired effect; he sighs and lets the booze start to work its relaxation magic.
"Jensen, no offense, but aren't you a little old to be having this kind of epiphany?"
"It's no epiphany." Every word burns his throat; he doesn't know how he'll get it out, or what Jeff will do when he does. "When I was younger, there was...I was...I knew I had those leanings. But it's just been women for like ten years now. I haven't..."
Jeff waits for him to finish the thought, and when he doesn't, Jeff says, "What about Jared?"
"I don't know. I've only ever seen him with Sandy." That's two lies, right in a row, and Jensen realizes it as the sound of them dies in the air. He does know. He knows because Jared leans toward him anytime he's in a room; he knows because Jared's hands are always on him, and Jared's smiles are different when they are for him, and he's probably always known, always reveled in it and wanted it. It probably makes him a liar and a hypocrite, because every picture of the two of them has shown he's the one thing Sandy couldn't compete with. To her credit, she's never tried.
Then again, Jensen always saw Sandy and Jared as set in stone. He wonders if she sees what Jeff sees. If it bothers her that there's something between them, something they never put a name to. The thought makes him wince. He loves Sandy, and his stomach turns at the idea of hurting her.
Jeff seems as steady as he ever has, like none of this fazes him, like he doesn't care that Jensen just confessed to wanting his best friend and being at least a little gay, and Jensen is so grateful, he actually feels tears of relief in his eyes. Jeff sits down on the corner of the bed, facing Jensen, and tosses back a few swallows of vodka. "So why now? What's changed? Or is it that the show is about to wrap?"
Jensen nods and finishes off the rest of the JD, then slides it in with the water bottle and rubs at his eyes. "I guess."
"You..." Jeff stops, clears his throat, and starts again. "You're sure it's really Jared, and not that you're wanting something Jared is safe to give you?"
Jensen's whole body is trying to answer that question for him, just like it was earlier in the bar, but suddenly it's like it speaks a different language. He's the most confused he's ever been, and it's making him restless. He stands up, jams his hands in his pockets. "What are you asking?"
Jeff looks at him without speaking, long enough that Jensen feels like a bug under a magnifying glass. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough and low like sanded glass. "I'm asking if you want Jared, or you want to be fucked by a man and feel like Jared is the safe choice."
Oh, hey, wow, Jensen's brain says, and enough with the standing up, Jensen's legs agree, and they do their best to buckle under the wave of indignant denial and desire and fear that slams through him. Jeff doesn't catch him, exactly, but he crowds Jensen back against the wall, giving him support to lean against; he puts one hand on Jensen's chest, and waits.
Neither of them move.
One long, deep breath, and Jensen tries to process this - Jeff in front of him, his expression warm and concerned and open - and the question, which has thrown him because he didn't expect it, or the visceral reaction to it. Why Jeff being so close to him doesn't bother him, and why he panicked with Paul. He thinks it's about trust, but mostly it's about Jared, knows it somewhere deep in a place where there aren't explanations to offer. That's why he turned down Paul. Isn't it?
He swallows; his head thumps back against the wall. "I've wondered," he says, which isn't what he meant to say, but he has wondered. About a lot of things. About himself, and Jared, and what it means, and whether Jared represents things he's never had, things he's about to lose, if any of it matters or if his body has been running the show all along. About whether he can ever trust anyone enough to find out what really makes him tick.
Jeff starts to pull away, but Jensen reaches out and snags a handful of his T-shirt, stops him. His pulse throbs against his skin, and when Jeff puts his hand over Jensen's fist, it goes into overdrive.
"Just because I'm handy?" Jeff says, and Jensen takes a shaky breath.
"You aren't exactly ugly," he answers, because they both know that handy is the truth, that there's no way to test it but to do this, that he trusts Jeff not to fuck him up somehow, and Jeff's smile just before he puts his hand on the wall and leans in shoots Jensen's pulse up one more notch.
Jeff kisses him full-out, no tentative half-assed kissing; he pushes Jensen's lips apart, gets inside, gentle licks of tongue that cause Jensen's breath to catch in his throat. Jensen closes his eyes and lets it happen, lets Jeff have full control, from the hand sliding gently under his shirt to brush across skin, to the way his hips push forward when Jeff steps into him, pressing their bodies together.
The feeling that twists through Jensen - a mixture of relief and sadness, soft desire, a wish that this was Jared's hands, Jared's kiss - answers all the questions. His body tries to ignore him, particularly his dick, which is completely interested -- but he's wise to it now.
When Jeff pulls back, Jensen breathes out slowly; Jeff brushes a gentle hand across his face. "Figure it out?"
Jensen's gaze drops to Jeff's lips, and he grins a little. "You don't make it easy."
"Wasn't trying to," Jeff said, his face lighting up with that slow smile that's always put Jensen at ease.
Things sort themselves out pretty quick when Jeff gives him some room. Inclinations confirmed: check. Oh, definitely check. Jared above all others: check. Safe: not the issue. Jeff as the best sounding board in the history of friendship: check.
He says that last part out loud, and Jeff laughs. "You make it sound like it was some kind of hardship, and it wasn't."
"Er." Jensen hasn't blushed in years, but he blushes now, and then he says, "You, uh. Won't say anything to Jared?"
"That's between the two of you." Jeff sits back down on the bed and pulls his legs under him. "You going to do something about this, Jensen? Or are you just going to pine like a teenager while Jared gets on with his life?"
"Don't know," Jensen says, full of truth with Jeff's kiss still stinging his lips.
"Hm," Jeff says. He reaches back for his script and pulls it into his lap. "Your call, but life's too short."
"Maybe, but." Jensen resists the urge to touch his lips. "I've never been as close to anybody as I am to Jared. Good friends are hard to come by. I don't want to fuck it up."
"You want some platitudes? Like, anything worth having is worth taking the risk for? Or if you love something, grab it by the balls and don't let go?" Jeff grins at him. "That helping?"
"Not especially."
"Jensen, you knew what you wanted before you came over here. For some reason, you're trying to talk yourself out of it." Jeff points at the door. "The only thing that's going to help you with this is having a chat with Jared. You just need to decide if you think it's worth it. I think it is."
Jensen's quiet, because he's been talking himself out of it for so long, he doesn't even know how to stop.
Jeff sighs. "Now get out so I can put myself back in a fatherly headspace."
"God," Jensen says, face wrinkling in mock horror.
"Out," Jeff says. He reaches back for his glasses and slides them on, and Jensen wants to laugh with relief, because maybe he doesn't have a plan, or know what to do, exactly, but he knows what not to do. And he knows what he wants. Maybe that's a start.
"See you on set," Jensen says, and Jeff waves him to the door, already flipping pages to get to where he needs to be.
Once the door closes behind him, Jensen stands there a moment, gathering his thoughts. There's a week to go, and then there'll be time for everything, a chance to move this thing out of Vancouver and away from the set, and then they can figure it out.
One more week.
part two