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This is real:
The two actors carried their sibling relationship off the show's Vancouver set recently when Ackles inadvertently led Padalecki into a real-life bar brawl that left the latter with a broken hand.
"When we walked into the place, there had just been a fight inside the bar, but we didn't know that yet," Padalecki explains. "When we started hearing them talking about the fight, we decided it was best to leave, but when we went back to the front, the guys there thought we were some of the guys they had been fighting with so they basically continued the fight again."
"It was life imitating art," Ackles jokes. "I've just got to play the role of older brother and show this young whippersnapper how they do things in Vancouver."
brought to me by deeablo, the best resource on the net for Tom Welling's penis or gossip about Scientology.
*
When Jensen's agent told him Jared Padalecki was taller than he was, he thought it was a lie. Jensen said he was 6'1” and actually was six one. No one was ever taller than him, except for Tom, but Tom was a freak of nature anyway. Of course this was Hollywood, and the height game was always a weird quirk here. The next thing his agent told him was that Jared was from Texas.
“Well, fuck me blind.” Jensen decided then that Supernatural might finally be the project that broke him, because how could it fail with two tall Texans?
Then he met Jared. Within the first hour Jared had him in a headlock screaming “Say my name, bitch!” Jensen didn’t learn his lesson and still busts out about Jared’s middle name being totally gay whenever he can.
Really, Tristan, who the fuck in Texas names their kid Tristan? No one, thank you!
*
Jensen’s been in Vancouver off and on for years. More years than he wants to think about, because no matter what his mama says--Even gettin’ work as an actor is lucky, baby, your chance’ll come--Jensen knows he’s been chugging towards has-been ever since Dark Angel was cancelled.
“You were a cheerleader?” Jared’s all loose limbs swinging and bow of a pleased smile. He laughs with his head thrown back, delight in every abrupt bark, wagging his head back and forth to demonstrate his pure joy.
“Rosenbaum’s going down.” Jensen stomps off in the direction his trailer.
“Dude, but really!” Jared calls behind him, laughing so hard he chokes. “How gay is that?”
Jensen might be angry enough to hit Mike this time.
*
Tommy runs interference for Mike by calling Jensen after Jensen leaves a message telling Mike he’s going to duct tape his balls.
“There’re pictures on the Net, man.” Tom’s suppressing laughter, eating the giggles.
“How did they get there, Thomas? Because I know for a fact my mom isn’t posting pictures of me to the Internet.” Jensen can’t decide if he’s really angry or not. Sometimes, because anger’s his first impulse most of the time, and it never lasts, he believes he has no ability to be enraged over the long haul. After the adrenaline dies off, he’s left feeling mildly amused and magnanimous. But he’s not going to wuss out, even if he doesn’t really care.
“I assume other people went to your high school besides just you.” The laughter defeats Tom. “It’s sort of cute, really.”
“I’m going to fuck you up,” Jensen grates out.
“Huh, for a second I thought you were going to offer to fuck Tom. He wants it,” Mike cuts in.
In the background there’s some kind of struggle. “Mike!” Jensen hears Tom thundering out.
The line goes dead.
“My ex put pictures of me puking up jell-o shots on a fan board once.”
Jensen turns around to find Jared standing right behind him. His head almost brushes the ceiling of the trailer.
“What’d you do?”
“About it or to deserve it?” His smile’s secretive. He slides his hands into his back pockets.
“Either, both.” Jensen shrugs, unsure why Jared’s dialed-down the mockery and has gone for sharing instead.
“About it, nothing. To deserve it…” He leans down, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. “Something very bad.”
“Huh.” Jensen thinks the worst thing Jared’s ever done is stealing his dad’s condoms or liquor.
Jared pulls back, his hands still in his pockets, tilts around, and swivels on one foot.
“Hey, are you coming with us to watch the game or what?” Jensen calls to Jared’s back. He’s totally not mad any more. But fuck if Mike’s gonna get away with this one.
*
Jensen’s on the phone with him mom when the fucking Three Stooges show up kicking up dust and bringing up his rent.
Mike throws the door open with a reverberation Jensen feels in his teeth. Tom’s practically humping Mike’s back, his arm thrown over Mike’s shoulder, hand open wide on Mike’s upper belly. Jared’s drinking out of a brown bag.
Jensen cups his hand over the phone. “Chill, y’all, my mom!” He raises his eyebrows as he hisses at them.
He attempts to continue. “Yeah, mama, I’m goin’ to church.” His mother goes back to prattling on about some raffle.
“NO GAY ORGIES HERE!” Mike screams out. “AND NO JEWS!”
Tom and Jared both helpfully collapse on each other laughing. They’re all so stoned.
“What’s going on there, Jensen Ross Ackles?” His mama lifts her eyebrow at him; he can hear it in her voice, see her do it in his mind.
“Nothing, mama, just rehearsing lines.”
“There’re gay jews on your television program? I thought it was about witches and satanic stuff.” His mother does not watch his show because it’s morally objectable. The Lord does not like t.v. shows about the occult.
Jared pats Mike’s pockets. Mike flings his arms out to the side. “Feel me up, baby!”
“I gotta go, mama. Game’s comin’ on.”
Tom watches as Jared roughs Mike up, twisting him around and bending him.
“If you’re looking for my cigarettes, I’m out. But keep that up.” Mike leers, nudging Tom with his hip. Tom joins in patting down Mike’s pockets.
“Ok, baby, you know mama loves you.” She makes a kissing sound suddenly loud in Jensen’s ear.
“I love you, too, mama. Bye.” He hangs up and kicks Mike right in the ass. “Do not start shit with me, bitch.”
Tom holds Mike still. “Kick him again!”
Mike looks over his shoulder. “Are you going to spank me?” He waggles an eyebrow.
Jared’s face is as red as Tom’s, from the alcohol and feeling Mike up, or whatever. Jensen wishes he’d started drinking earlier. Should have, anyway, to talk to his mother. Fucking church and bullshit about tarot cards being tools of the devil.
Jared offers him his bottle. “Baptist?” he asks. The brown paper crinkles under Jensen’s fingers.
Tom and Mike start wrestling. Why, Jensen has no clue. Doesn’t give a shit, either.
“Yeah, you?” He pulls on the bottle. Almost spits it back out when the burn hits the back of his tongue. He coughs, drags the back of his hand across his mouth, glares through watering eyes.
“No, Catholic,” Jared grins, pleased with himself. “Guess I should have mentioned that was straight vodka.”
“What the fuck?” What the fuck, Jensen thinks.
Jared laughs, voice deep and pleasantly brined from the alcohol and stolen cigarettes. “You East Texas pussies drink wine-coolers, dontya?”
Generally Jared sounds like some meth-head from Cali, but when he puts on the full-Texas drawl Jensen feels it from his navel straight through to the base of his cock.
“Huh,” he says, smiling up at Jared.
*
Jensen’s been in plenty of fights in his life-he’s got a big mouth and a pretty face and he’s fucked a lot of people’s significant others. He never expected to get in a fight over hockey. In Canada.
“Don’t give me that Rangers payroll bullshit.” Mike raises his voice at the guy standing next to him at the bar.
Tom’s nowhere to be seen, and Jensen doesn’t want to get up and stop the inevitable. Jared’s slouched down on the seat next to him, their chair legs competing for space, their legs jiggling against each other, Jensen’s shoulder pressed into Jared’s bicep.
“Rosenbaum’s fixin’ to start some shit.” Jared.
“I done told him a hundred times not to get up in people’s faces when he pays his bills with his own.” Jensen.
They’ve steadily worked the Californian out of each other’s conversation all night. Jared picks up a shot of Cuervo and Jensen does likewise. They click the glasses together without taking their eyes off of Mike.
“Tommy’s made himself scarce.” Jared doesn’t even wince as he takes his shot. Jensen’s learning some things tonight.
“That boy can hold his own. Learned young, fightin’ off people trying to suck his dick or pay him to suck theirs.”
Right on cue Tom shows up to hear that comment, at Jensen’s elbow. He smacks Jensen in the back of the head, but before the banter can kick back in Mike’s dodging a roundhouse and stepping back to take a left hook.
It goes to shit from there.
Jared is the one that knocks over their table and charges in to grab the first guy swinging at Mike. Tom catches Mike around the waist, picking him up from behind and carrying him, limp and cussing away from the fight.
Which is how Jensen and Jared end up fighting Mike’s battle over whether the New York Rangers suck because of or in spite of the fact they buy up players from other teams.
Tom shows up right as Jensen takes a right dead on his cheek, whirling him around slightly. The guy Tom hits hits the floor. Jared suckers a guy in a Nickleback shirt under the chin, then in a fluid movement hits the one who was swinging for Tommy in the eye.
A chair flies towards them. Tom grabs Jared by the back of his shirt and Jensen around his forearm hard enough to leave a perfect handprint bruise. Tommy’s got a huge hand. Thankfully it’s cold as fuck in Vancouver. No one will see it but the make-up girls.
No one tries to stop them from leaving. No cops wait in the parking lot. Mike’s leaning against a railing in the parking lot smoking when the walking-wounded come outside.
“Ain’t this fucking perfect?” Jensen’s face is falling off. His cheek’s ripped on the inside from his teeth and aching on the outside. His knuckles are already swelling. There’s going to be shit to pay on set Monday.
Mike smiles.
Before Jensen even realizes it’s happened, Jared’s gotten in three fierce body blows on Mike, who collapses on his knees, wheezing.
Mike laughs through it.
“JUDAS!” Mike stage-groans and falls on his side. Tom kicks at him playfully.
“You’re a sissy.” Tom straddles Mike, reaching down to pick him up under his arms.
Jensen turns from the buffoonery, watches the neon from the bar blinking pink across Jared’s face. His mouth’s grim, his cheeks rigid with fury.
“Hey, it’s ok, man.” Jensen reaches up and wipes several flecks of blood off of Jared’s cheek.
“I don’t like fighting.” His voice is chewed up. There’s something there that Jensen doesn’t want to get into while standing in the parking lot of a bar. Or while Mike’s around.
He notices that Jared’s cradling his right hand against his body.
“Hand hurt?”
He holds up his own to show off the bruises and cuts.
“Yeah.” It’s all Jared says in response.
So, he’s either got issues or is a morbid drunk. Or he just realized that Mike is a massive pain in the ass.
Jared doesn’t say much in the cab on the way home. He definitely doesn’t complain about his hand hurting.
Jensen’s fucking stunned when Jared shows up with a cast on his hand Monday.
*
Mike calls while Jensen’s trying to eat. “Does Jared hate me?”
“What is this, the fifth grade? Call him yourself.” The veggies are soggy and the meat’s burnt.
“I did. He said it’s all good. About fifteen times. That pretty much indicated to me that nothing is good in any way.”
Earnest Mike is frightening. Jensen has seen this beast very rarely. On each of these occasions Mike fucks everything up way worse than the starting level of fucked-up.
“Fuck off, Rosenbaum. I’ve got better things to do than fix your sorry messes. Like jack off. Bye!” He hangs up. Then sighs.
Jared lives five blocks away. Jensen hoofs it.
*
Jensen lays on the door buzzer.
“Uh, hello? Is this broken?” A tinny facsimile of Jared’s voice issues from the call-box.
“It’s me, baby. Why you always gotta lock me out and shit? I told you I ain’t ever do it again.” Jensen leans his forehead against the wall, almost pressing his mouth against the speaker.
“That’s what you said last time, you dog.”
The door clicks open.
Jared’s building is old, with high ceilings and moldings flowing with curlicues and vines and flowers. The floors have deep, dark red carpet. It would be perfect for filming a period piece. The elevator’s even got a metal accordion gate. Just for looks, behind the real door, but still.
The doorknob turns under Jensen’s fingers when he tries it. Jared always unlocks the front door of his apartment when he hits the button for the foyer door.
The lights are all off, and the living room flickers with long shadows from the bluish grey light of the huge television. Jared sprawls on his back with his good arm behind his head, his feet bare, in a Spurs t-shirt and sweatpants. The couch is huge. So long that Jensen can sit on the end and Jared’s feet just barely rest on his leg.
The television is up full-blast.
“Is this Buffy the Vampire Slayer?” Jensen settles back, snorting.
“This is my favorite episode.” The words sort of melt together, the inflection all jacked up and wrong. Jensen glances over and takes in Jared’s mouth parted slightly and his eyes dazed.
“You take a couple pain pills recently?”
Jared rolls his head so that he can look at Jensen-each inch taking what seems a full minute. “Uh huh. Get me some water?”
“Yeah, anything else, princess?” Jensen pushes Jared’s foot away and slouches into the kitchen.
The place is a total catastrophe with dishes stacked on top of dishes and take-out containers exploding from every inch of the room.
“Little boy, little boy,” Jensen sighs to himself as he pulls the Brita out of the fridge. He finds a stack of red plastic cups on the counter. He runs a finger inside. Nothing sticky. Clean enough. He reopens the fridge and takes out the six pack of Miller Lite.
“What a freak.” Jensen laughs to himself.
Jared tracks him with his eyes when he comes back into the room. Jensen sets the cup on the coffee table-well, on the ESPN magazines obscuring the coffee table-and pours Jared half a glass. He wedges the cup in the V of Jared’s legs, sits down and opens a beer.
“What happens in this episode?” He drinks half the beer in one gulp. Horse piss. He frowns at the watery bitterness.
“Spike kills Robin’s mom.”
Well, that clears that right up.
“She was a slayer. In the seventies.” Jared continues to be the opposite of helpful.
Polishing off his beer, Jensen watches James Marsters with a very bad bleach job deliver witty barbs.
“How stoned are you?” Jensen opens a second beer.
“Fucked up.”
The second beer tastes slightly less shitty.
“So how pissed are you at Mike?”
“Oh.” The tiny syllable vibrates with disappointment.
Jensen glances over, and the look on Jared’s face is unmistakably demolished, crushed. Jensen has no idea what the fuck’s going on.
“What’s wrong?” He grabs Jared’s ankle, and when he does, Jared’s other foot slides further onto his lap.
“Nothing.”
Even if Jensen wasn’t an actor-and therefore an expert on lying-he’d not buy that pathetic excuse for an excuse.
“Tell me, honey.” He bats his eyelashes, makes a kissy face, drops his voice half an octave. Jared smiles, his mouth curling up and toes curling down, and if he was a cartoon his hair would curl up into horns like the Grinch.
Oh. Right. Jared thought this was some kind of booty call.
Jensen watches Jared lick his bottom lip. His brain starts kicking up all the ways this could be fucked up, how bad things could get-he doesn’t know Jared well enough yet, seen him through fucking a co-star-and he doesn’t want to shit where he eats.
The smile that slides onto his face does so without his permission.
Jared’s double-jointed and graceful in his opiate haze. He sits up, his arm coming from behind his head, the fingers curling in the air then uncurling again, long long fingers reaching for Jensen’s face. He knocks the plastic cup out of his crotch on to the carpet with on flick of his wrist.
Jensen scoots up and Jared lays back, and when Jensen’s upper thigh presses down on Jared’s hard-on, neither one of them is surprised. Jensen holds Jared’s bad arm with his hand wrapped around the sinew and bone of his wrist.
Jared’s hair slides through Jensen’s fingers like cornsilk. He smells like grape soda and sleep.
“Don’t be stupid tomorrow,” he mumbles against Jared’s cheek.
“You don’t be stupid.”
They both laugh into the kiss.
Jared parts his mouth, flutters his tongue, kisses like that’s all he wants. One long, slow, drugged kiss sliding into another for the rest of his life. His fingers skip back and forth along the razor-sharp hairline on the back of Jensen’s neck like an unconscious, silent piano recital.
Jensen slides his thigh against Jared’s cock, and Jared’s bad arm tenses, presses up under Jensen’s tightening hand. His head jerks to the side, his mouth widening, his hand on the back of Jensen’s neck holding him in place. Jared’s tongue winding around his, tugging.
Jensen moans and thrusts down, suddenly flushed all over and hoping that what Jared’s just promised is something he can deliver.
The buzzer for the front door screeches.
Jensen flies of the couch, falling on his back on the floor his heart beating in his eyeballs.
“You’re such a Baptist.” Jared’s voice rolls out black and broken and nothing close to amused.
It doesn’t help that he’s right.
“Fuck off.” Jensen claws his way to his feet, stomps to the speaker box. “What?”
“Jenny?” Mike’s collected, unsurprised. Like always. Mr. Been-There-Done-That.
“To answer your question, now I’m really pissed at Mike.” Jared has to struggle to finish the sentence, his voice cutting out on the now with the rest just a whisper.
“Let me in!” Tom.
“Fuck me.”
“I’ll pretend I’m dead.” Jared whisper-speaks, and Jensen lets in the clowns.
**
Omg, Jensen told me that he needs to make out before he fucks Jared to death, ok? Jared’s arm has to get better, too.
Or maybe I’m trying to convince myself that my WB RPS OTP isn’t Tom/Jensen.
Betas be Anna and Dee. Anna hates Jared. Dee thinks I need to be more formal in my spellings. They can both blow me. And by that I mean I LOVE Y’ALL!
1st paragraph partially written by Zahra, who happens to hate both Jensen AND Jared as well as Supernatural. There are friends, and then there are friends.
The two actors carried their sibling relationship off the show's Vancouver set recently when Ackles inadvertently led Padalecki into a real-life bar brawl that left the latter with a broken hand.
"When we walked into the place, there had just been a fight inside the bar, but we didn't know that yet," Padalecki explains. "When we started hearing them talking about the fight, we decided it was best to leave, but when we went back to the front, the guys there thought we were some of the guys they had been fighting with so they basically continued the fight again."
"It was life imitating art," Ackles jokes. "I've just got to play the role of older brother and show this young whippersnapper how they do things in Vancouver."
brought to me by deeablo, the best resource on the net for Tom Welling's penis or gossip about Scientology.
*
When Jensen's agent told him Jared Padalecki was taller than he was, he thought it was a lie. Jensen said he was 6'1” and actually was six one. No one was ever taller than him, except for Tom, but Tom was a freak of nature anyway. Of course this was Hollywood, and the height game was always a weird quirk here. The next thing his agent told him was that Jared was from Texas.
“Well, fuck me blind.” Jensen decided then that Supernatural might finally be the project that broke him, because how could it fail with two tall Texans?
Then he met Jared. Within the first hour Jared had him in a headlock screaming “Say my name, bitch!” Jensen didn’t learn his lesson and still busts out about Jared’s middle name being totally gay whenever he can.
Really, Tristan, who the fuck in Texas names their kid Tristan? No one, thank you!
*
Jensen’s been in Vancouver off and on for years. More years than he wants to think about, because no matter what his mama says--Even gettin’ work as an actor is lucky, baby, your chance’ll come--Jensen knows he’s been chugging towards has-been ever since Dark Angel was cancelled.
“You were a cheerleader?” Jared’s all loose limbs swinging and bow of a pleased smile. He laughs with his head thrown back, delight in every abrupt bark, wagging his head back and forth to demonstrate his pure joy.
“Rosenbaum’s going down.” Jensen stomps off in the direction his trailer.
“Dude, but really!” Jared calls behind him, laughing so hard he chokes. “How gay is that?”
Jensen might be angry enough to hit Mike this time.
*
Tommy runs interference for Mike by calling Jensen after Jensen leaves a message telling Mike he’s going to duct tape his balls.
“There’re pictures on the Net, man.” Tom’s suppressing laughter, eating the giggles.
“How did they get there, Thomas? Because I know for a fact my mom isn’t posting pictures of me to the Internet.” Jensen can’t decide if he’s really angry or not. Sometimes, because anger’s his first impulse most of the time, and it never lasts, he believes he has no ability to be enraged over the long haul. After the adrenaline dies off, he’s left feeling mildly amused and magnanimous. But he’s not going to wuss out, even if he doesn’t really care.
“I assume other people went to your high school besides just you.” The laughter defeats Tom. “It’s sort of cute, really.”
“I’m going to fuck you up,” Jensen grates out.
“Huh, for a second I thought you were going to offer to fuck Tom. He wants it,” Mike cuts in.
In the background there’s some kind of struggle. “Mike!” Jensen hears Tom thundering out.
The line goes dead.
“My ex put pictures of me puking up jell-o shots on a fan board once.”
Jensen turns around to find Jared standing right behind him. His head almost brushes the ceiling of the trailer.
“What’d you do?”
“About it or to deserve it?” His smile’s secretive. He slides his hands into his back pockets.
“Either, both.” Jensen shrugs, unsure why Jared’s dialed-down the mockery and has gone for sharing instead.
“About it, nothing. To deserve it…” He leans down, eyelashes brushing his cheeks. “Something very bad.”
“Huh.” Jensen thinks the worst thing Jared’s ever done is stealing his dad’s condoms or liquor.
Jared pulls back, his hands still in his pockets, tilts around, and swivels on one foot.
“Hey, are you coming with us to watch the game or what?” Jensen calls to Jared’s back. He’s totally not mad any more. But fuck if Mike’s gonna get away with this one.
*
Jensen’s on the phone with him mom when the fucking Three Stooges show up kicking up dust and bringing up his rent.
Mike throws the door open with a reverberation Jensen feels in his teeth. Tom’s practically humping Mike’s back, his arm thrown over Mike’s shoulder, hand open wide on Mike’s upper belly. Jared’s drinking out of a brown bag.
Jensen cups his hand over the phone. “Chill, y’all, my mom!” He raises his eyebrows as he hisses at them.
He attempts to continue. “Yeah, mama, I’m goin’ to church.” His mother goes back to prattling on about some raffle.
“NO GAY ORGIES HERE!” Mike screams out. “AND NO JEWS!”
Tom and Jared both helpfully collapse on each other laughing. They’re all so stoned.
“What’s going on there, Jensen Ross Ackles?” His mama lifts her eyebrow at him; he can hear it in her voice, see her do it in his mind.
“Nothing, mama, just rehearsing lines.”
“There’re gay jews on your television program? I thought it was about witches and satanic stuff.” His mother does not watch his show because it’s morally objectable. The Lord does not like t.v. shows about the occult.
Jared pats Mike’s pockets. Mike flings his arms out to the side. “Feel me up, baby!”
“I gotta go, mama. Game’s comin’ on.”
Tom watches as Jared roughs Mike up, twisting him around and bending him.
“If you’re looking for my cigarettes, I’m out. But keep that up.” Mike leers, nudging Tom with his hip. Tom joins in patting down Mike’s pockets.
“Ok, baby, you know mama loves you.” She makes a kissing sound suddenly loud in Jensen’s ear.
“I love you, too, mama. Bye.” He hangs up and kicks Mike right in the ass. “Do not start shit with me, bitch.”
Tom holds Mike still. “Kick him again!”
Mike looks over his shoulder. “Are you going to spank me?” He waggles an eyebrow.
Jared’s face is as red as Tom’s, from the alcohol and feeling Mike up, or whatever. Jensen wishes he’d started drinking earlier. Should have, anyway, to talk to his mother. Fucking church and bullshit about tarot cards being tools of the devil.
Jared offers him his bottle. “Baptist?” he asks. The brown paper crinkles under Jensen’s fingers.
Tom and Mike start wrestling. Why, Jensen has no clue. Doesn’t give a shit, either.
“Yeah, you?” He pulls on the bottle. Almost spits it back out when the burn hits the back of his tongue. He coughs, drags the back of his hand across his mouth, glares through watering eyes.
“No, Catholic,” Jared grins, pleased with himself. “Guess I should have mentioned that was straight vodka.”
“What the fuck?” What the fuck, Jensen thinks.
Jared laughs, voice deep and pleasantly brined from the alcohol and stolen cigarettes. “You East Texas pussies drink wine-coolers, dontya?”
Generally Jared sounds like some meth-head from Cali, but when he puts on the full-Texas drawl Jensen feels it from his navel straight through to the base of his cock.
“Huh,” he says, smiling up at Jared.
*
Jensen’s been in plenty of fights in his life-he’s got a big mouth and a pretty face and he’s fucked a lot of people’s significant others. He never expected to get in a fight over hockey. In Canada.
“Don’t give me that Rangers payroll bullshit.” Mike raises his voice at the guy standing next to him at the bar.
Tom’s nowhere to be seen, and Jensen doesn’t want to get up and stop the inevitable. Jared’s slouched down on the seat next to him, their chair legs competing for space, their legs jiggling against each other, Jensen’s shoulder pressed into Jared’s bicep.
“Rosenbaum’s fixin’ to start some shit.” Jared.
“I done told him a hundred times not to get up in people’s faces when he pays his bills with his own.” Jensen.
They’ve steadily worked the Californian out of each other’s conversation all night. Jared picks up a shot of Cuervo and Jensen does likewise. They click the glasses together without taking their eyes off of Mike.
“Tommy’s made himself scarce.” Jared doesn’t even wince as he takes his shot. Jensen’s learning some things tonight.
“That boy can hold his own. Learned young, fightin’ off people trying to suck his dick or pay him to suck theirs.”
Right on cue Tom shows up to hear that comment, at Jensen’s elbow. He smacks Jensen in the back of the head, but before the banter can kick back in Mike’s dodging a roundhouse and stepping back to take a left hook.
It goes to shit from there.
Jared is the one that knocks over their table and charges in to grab the first guy swinging at Mike. Tom catches Mike around the waist, picking him up from behind and carrying him, limp and cussing away from the fight.
Which is how Jensen and Jared end up fighting Mike’s battle over whether the New York Rangers suck because of or in spite of the fact they buy up players from other teams.
Tom shows up right as Jensen takes a right dead on his cheek, whirling him around slightly. The guy Tom hits hits the floor. Jared suckers a guy in a Nickleback shirt under the chin, then in a fluid movement hits the one who was swinging for Tommy in the eye.
A chair flies towards them. Tom grabs Jared by the back of his shirt and Jensen around his forearm hard enough to leave a perfect handprint bruise. Tommy’s got a huge hand. Thankfully it’s cold as fuck in Vancouver. No one will see it but the make-up girls.
No one tries to stop them from leaving. No cops wait in the parking lot. Mike’s leaning against a railing in the parking lot smoking when the walking-wounded come outside.
“Ain’t this fucking perfect?” Jensen’s face is falling off. His cheek’s ripped on the inside from his teeth and aching on the outside. His knuckles are already swelling. There’s going to be shit to pay on set Monday.
Mike smiles.
Before Jensen even realizes it’s happened, Jared’s gotten in three fierce body blows on Mike, who collapses on his knees, wheezing.
Mike laughs through it.
“JUDAS!” Mike stage-groans and falls on his side. Tom kicks at him playfully.
“You’re a sissy.” Tom straddles Mike, reaching down to pick him up under his arms.
Jensen turns from the buffoonery, watches the neon from the bar blinking pink across Jared’s face. His mouth’s grim, his cheeks rigid with fury.
“Hey, it’s ok, man.” Jensen reaches up and wipes several flecks of blood off of Jared’s cheek.
“I don’t like fighting.” His voice is chewed up. There’s something there that Jensen doesn’t want to get into while standing in the parking lot of a bar. Or while Mike’s around.
He notices that Jared’s cradling his right hand against his body.
“Hand hurt?”
He holds up his own to show off the bruises and cuts.
“Yeah.” It’s all Jared says in response.
So, he’s either got issues or is a morbid drunk. Or he just realized that Mike is a massive pain in the ass.
Jared doesn’t say much in the cab on the way home. He definitely doesn’t complain about his hand hurting.
Jensen’s fucking stunned when Jared shows up with a cast on his hand Monday.
*
Mike calls while Jensen’s trying to eat. “Does Jared hate me?”
“What is this, the fifth grade? Call him yourself.” The veggies are soggy and the meat’s burnt.
“I did. He said it’s all good. About fifteen times. That pretty much indicated to me that nothing is good in any way.”
Earnest Mike is frightening. Jensen has seen this beast very rarely. On each of these occasions Mike fucks everything up way worse than the starting level of fucked-up.
“Fuck off, Rosenbaum. I’ve got better things to do than fix your sorry messes. Like jack off. Bye!” He hangs up. Then sighs.
Jared lives five blocks away. Jensen hoofs it.
*
Jensen lays on the door buzzer.
“Uh, hello? Is this broken?” A tinny facsimile of Jared’s voice issues from the call-box.
“It’s me, baby. Why you always gotta lock me out and shit? I told you I ain’t ever do it again.” Jensen leans his forehead against the wall, almost pressing his mouth against the speaker.
“That’s what you said last time, you dog.”
The door clicks open.
Jared’s building is old, with high ceilings and moldings flowing with curlicues and vines and flowers. The floors have deep, dark red carpet. It would be perfect for filming a period piece. The elevator’s even got a metal accordion gate. Just for looks, behind the real door, but still.
The doorknob turns under Jensen’s fingers when he tries it. Jared always unlocks the front door of his apartment when he hits the button for the foyer door.
The lights are all off, and the living room flickers with long shadows from the bluish grey light of the huge television. Jared sprawls on his back with his good arm behind his head, his feet bare, in a Spurs t-shirt and sweatpants. The couch is huge. So long that Jensen can sit on the end and Jared’s feet just barely rest on his leg.
The television is up full-blast.
“Is this Buffy the Vampire Slayer?” Jensen settles back, snorting.
“This is my favorite episode.” The words sort of melt together, the inflection all jacked up and wrong. Jensen glances over and takes in Jared’s mouth parted slightly and his eyes dazed.
“You take a couple pain pills recently?”
Jared rolls his head so that he can look at Jensen-each inch taking what seems a full minute. “Uh huh. Get me some water?”
“Yeah, anything else, princess?” Jensen pushes Jared’s foot away and slouches into the kitchen.
The place is a total catastrophe with dishes stacked on top of dishes and take-out containers exploding from every inch of the room.
“Little boy, little boy,” Jensen sighs to himself as he pulls the Brita out of the fridge. He finds a stack of red plastic cups on the counter. He runs a finger inside. Nothing sticky. Clean enough. He reopens the fridge and takes out the six pack of Miller Lite.
“What a freak.” Jensen laughs to himself.
Jared tracks him with his eyes when he comes back into the room. Jensen sets the cup on the coffee table-well, on the ESPN magazines obscuring the coffee table-and pours Jared half a glass. He wedges the cup in the V of Jared’s legs, sits down and opens a beer.
“What happens in this episode?” He drinks half the beer in one gulp. Horse piss. He frowns at the watery bitterness.
“Spike kills Robin’s mom.”
Well, that clears that right up.
“She was a slayer. In the seventies.” Jared continues to be the opposite of helpful.
Polishing off his beer, Jensen watches James Marsters with a very bad bleach job deliver witty barbs.
“How stoned are you?” Jensen opens a second beer.
“Fucked up.”
The second beer tastes slightly less shitty.
“So how pissed are you at Mike?”
“Oh.” The tiny syllable vibrates with disappointment.
Jensen glances over, and the look on Jared’s face is unmistakably demolished, crushed. Jensen has no idea what the fuck’s going on.
“What’s wrong?” He grabs Jared’s ankle, and when he does, Jared’s other foot slides further onto his lap.
“Nothing.”
Even if Jensen wasn’t an actor-and therefore an expert on lying-he’d not buy that pathetic excuse for an excuse.
“Tell me, honey.” He bats his eyelashes, makes a kissy face, drops his voice half an octave. Jared smiles, his mouth curling up and toes curling down, and if he was a cartoon his hair would curl up into horns like the Grinch.
Oh. Right. Jared thought this was some kind of booty call.
Jensen watches Jared lick his bottom lip. His brain starts kicking up all the ways this could be fucked up, how bad things could get-he doesn’t know Jared well enough yet, seen him through fucking a co-star-and he doesn’t want to shit where he eats.
The smile that slides onto his face does so without his permission.
Jared’s double-jointed and graceful in his opiate haze. He sits up, his arm coming from behind his head, the fingers curling in the air then uncurling again, long long fingers reaching for Jensen’s face. He knocks the plastic cup out of his crotch on to the carpet with on flick of his wrist.
Jensen scoots up and Jared lays back, and when Jensen’s upper thigh presses down on Jared’s hard-on, neither one of them is surprised. Jensen holds Jared’s bad arm with his hand wrapped around the sinew and bone of his wrist.
Jared’s hair slides through Jensen’s fingers like cornsilk. He smells like grape soda and sleep.
“Don’t be stupid tomorrow,” he mumbles against Jared’s cheek.
“You don’t be stupid.”
They both laugh into the kiss.
Jared parts his mouth, flutters his tongue, kisses like that’s all he wants. One long, slow, drugged kiss sliding into another for the rest of his life. His fingers skip back and forth along the razor-sharp hairline on the back of Jensen’s neck like an unconscious, silent piano recital.
Jensen slides his thigh against Jared’s cock, and Jared’s bad arm tenses, presses up under Jensen’s tightening hand. His head jerks to the side, his mouth widening, his hand on the back of Jensen’s neck holding him in place. Jared’s tongue winding around his, tugging.
Jensen moans and thrusts down, suddenly flushed all over and hoping that what Jared’s just promised is something he can deliver.
The buzzer for the front door screeches.
Jensen flies of the couch, falling on his back on the floor his heart beating in his eyeballs.
“You’re such a Baptist.” Jared’s voice rolls out black and broken and nothing close to amused.
It doesn’t help that he’s right.
“Fuck off.” Jensen claws his way to his feet, stomps to the speaker box. “What?”
“Jenny?” Mike’s collected, unsurprised. Like always. Mr. Been-There-Done-That.
“To answer your question, now I’m really pissed at Mike.” Jared has to struggle to finish the sentence, his voice cutting out on the now with the rest just a whisper.
“Let me in!” Tom.
“Fuck me.”
“I’ll pretend I’m dead.” Jared whisper-speaks, and Jensen lets in the clowns.
**
Omg, Jensen told me that he needs to make out before he fucks Jared to death, ok? Jared’s arm has to get better, too.
Or maybe I’m trying to convince myself that my WB RPS OTP isn’t Tom/Jensen.
Betas be Anna and Dee. Anna hates Jared. Dee thinks I need to be more formal in my spellings. They can both blow me. And by that I mean I LOVE Y’ALL!
1st paragraph partially written by Zahra, who happens to hate both Jensen AND Jared as well as Supernatural. There are friends, and then there are friends.