Fic: Stall Out [J2, PG-13]
Title: Stall Out
Author: gospelofus, formerly lardencelover
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural RPS, Jensen/Jared
Rating: PG-13 for drug use and language
Summary: Post-SPN. It's time to move on and Jensen's finding it difficult to leave Vancouver. Or Jared.
A/N: This is my first foray into J2 fic, so I'm pretty nervous. That said, I'd like to thank Amy for her encouragement and both her and Corey for the beta job. Any feedback/concrit is insanely welcome, as I'm concerned about getting them right. Thanks for reading!
Jensen is stupidly drunk at the series wrap party when he realizes that the TV show is a microcosm of life. Painful, exhilarating, character-altering, and long as shit until it’s over in a blink.
He slumps over at a table, breathless from dancing and smoking all in one night, and stares into his glass of Jack Daniels. Through the amber liquid, he can see Jared and Genevieve on the opposite side of the table. They’re twisting and rubbing to the music. Every so often a hip or an arm will brush the table and Jensen’s glass rattles.
Misha’s laughing behind him, and the sound makes him ache. He thinks about how Kripke isn’t here, and that makes him ache, too. He watches Jared lean over to sloppily maul Genevieve’s mouth. It’s like his insides are trying to twist themselves into nonexistence.
Everyone here is excited about sleeping through the next month or two to recover from the last six years - hell, he even bought one of those sleep number beds in preparation and celebration. Everyone is excited to move on to new productions, locations and lifestyles. Everyone is sick as hell of seeing each other’s faces.
It’s an end of an era. It’s fucking epic.
But Jensen isn’t sure where he’s going to live. He’s got a ton of movies and shows lined up for his approval or rejection, but he doesn’t have even an idea of which he will take. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. His mother keeps calling to fret about him like she’s talking to someone else. None of his shit is packed.
Jared’s lanky arm is dead weight across the spread of his shoulders. He gets a strong whiff of beer and vodka when Jared leans in to kiss his temple, to mumble against his face, “I’m going to miss this. I am so shit-faced, and I’m totally gonna miss this. Drink your Goddamn whiskey and dance with us.”
Reluctance isn’t really an option when Jared’s flashing dimples and Genevieve’s pulling the chair out from under him. He lets Jared rope him to the dance floor.
He cuts a damn fine rug. Just dances the pain away.
****
He’s going to kill Jared. He’s so hung over he can’t pry his eyes open, but his cellphone is rattling on the bed stand. The banana-phone song is loud and obnoxious, just like the owner of said ring tone. It takes nearly bringing the lamp down on his head to blindly find the thing and answer it.
“Gonna fuck you in the eyeball when I see you,” Jensen snarls into the phone.
Jared’s laughter is like bells, delighted. “God, I love it when you talk dirty.”
“What in the fucking hell do you want?”
“I want you to come downstairs and eat your breakfast. Which has become your lunch because, dude. One-thirty? Get the fuck up.”
“In the motherfucking eyeball,” is the only answer Jared gets before Jensen is pitching his cellphone at the bed stand. He rolls over.
****
The pain is back.
Not just in the physical sense despite how obvious that is. His head is threatening to cave in, his eyes feel like they’re about to bleed, and he’s pretty sure the walls are pulsing. That pain is relevant; there’s no denying that.
But it’s mostly watching Jared putter around to reheat some pancakes for him that does it. They’ve been roommates almost three years now. Jensen kind of feels like he’s about to get a divorce. Or an annulment.
“I’m Chad Michael Murray. Fuck me,” Jensen says table-ward. He’s yet again slumped over a flat surface, like holding himself up is simply too much.
Jared’s an asshole, so he laughs. “Not unless you woke up next to some nameless woman you didn’t know. Or some nameless dude that you thought was a woman. Did I ever tell you that story?”
Only a million times. Jensen still wants to hear it if only to prolong having to digest food that is currently making his stomach come back up his throat. Possibly because he wants to avoid packing, too. And leaving this place, this spot in time.
And Jared. Maybe a little bit.
“I meant us.”
Jared drops a steaming pile of bacon and pancakes in front of Jensen. Jensen is kind enough to swallow down the bile that immediately works its way up. He picks up a fork to poke one pancake and ignores the syrup Jared thunks down on the table.
“You and I are not like Chad and I,” Jared misinterprets, frowning.
“No, uh.” Thought process is so very botched right now. He wants a new brain. “I’m leaving. You’re staying for shiny new CW show, and it’s like...” Jensen wants to be coherent, but it’s not happening. He makes a ‘poof’ gesture with his hand instead.
Jared gets it. Which only makes things worse. It’d be easier to leave an inept fuckwad that didn't share space in his head. “You're not allowed to divorce me, dude.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Jensen almost-whines. The pancakes are delicious. It feels like he’s mouthing cotton, but they’re delicious.
It’s annoying how thoroughly un-fazed Jared seems by all of this. “Hey, wanna go play with me and the dogs? I got Sadie this sweet new chew toy that yells ‘ow!’ every time she noms on it.”
“Did you just use ‘nom’ as a verb?” Jensen asks like he’s about to disown Jared for it, even as he’s forcing himself out of his chair to go get dressed.
****
In two weeks, Jensen will be back in L.A. This is probably the reason that Gayle is barraging him with so many scripts that she must own stock in FedEx by now.
He opens the first couple. After that, he gives up entirely, largely in part because he reads all of them looking for the parts that he can cast Jared in with him. None of them seem to fit that criteria, though. He gets bored and plays Guitar Hero instead.
Sadie howls every time they do “Wanted Dead or Alive.” Jensen insists it’s because she associates the song with the sound of Jared dying. Jared tests out the durability of the guitar controller’s neck on Jensen’s head.
Nothing is getting packed. Jensen’s starting to panic a little inside.
****
They’re sitting on the deck behind Jared’s house, sharing a blunt. Leaning on the rail, Jensen remembers vividly helping him build this deck. The first two days they built it while unknowingly having the construction diagrams turned incorrectly. He squints, trying to imagine this wide porch shooting out of the side of the house into the lawn length-wise instead. The idea is funny as hell.
“Imagine if I was trying to sell this place with the porch going like that,” Jared says, reading Jensen’s mind. “Realtors would’ve laughed at me.”
“I would’ve laughed at you,” Jensen admits, then adds, “and actually, I’m pretty sure I did.”
“You’re a dick, so yeah, it’s a given you did.” Jared reaches out to pass him the joint. Their fingers brush in the process. It’s so cliche, but Jensen’s face heats up a little despite that.
“Hey, I meant to ask,” Jensen starts, like he’s asking about the weather. “How come Gen left so soon? Looked like you guys were working on getting it back together at the party.”
“Dude, I was so drunk I would’ve made out with the table.”
“I think you almost did at one point.” Jensen’s memory is hazy - either because he was really drunk then or kind of high right now - but he remembers Jared face-planting on its sticky surface during the course of the night. “You make it sound like she’s diseased, man.”
“No. There’s... nothing wrong with her. She’s awesome. She’s just not...” But Jared shrugs. Apparently expecting that like Jensen’s ‘poof’ gesture, Jensen will just get whatever the hell it is he means.
Jensen is clueless but is not about to let on. “Yeah, right. I get it. That’s cool.”
****
Every time he passes the closet in his room, he can hear his suitcases. Accusatory fuckers, pointing out his failings. They know all the things he’s steadfastly ignoring by refusing to fill them. Maybe it’s a little neurotic of him. Whatever.
But there’s some folded up boxes in there, too. They’re gonna turn on him next. He’s certain of this. It’s only a matter of time-- only he has no time, because he leaves for L.A. in ten days.
It’s probably too early to be having a mid-life crisis.
****
Jensen wakes up to the word “Rosebud.” He’s pissed as hell because he’s managed to sleep through Citizen Kane yet again. For easily a decade, he’s been trying to see this movie. He passes out in the middle every time.
“You have a mental block against Orson Welles,” Jared mumbles sleepily, which is the moment that Jensen notices their position. There’s an expanse of chest and hips and legs against his backside. Jared radiates heat like a furnace. The sofa is too short for him, and his knees are bent up to accommodate his size; Jensen’s legs are similarly bent to let Jared’s fit in behind him.
He wants to be embarrassed, but the partial hard-on he’s got is contradicting him. Penises have no sense of loyalty.
It isn’t clear how Jared knew he was awake from this position. It might have something to do with his breathing. Jensen’s too practical and not sentimental enough to really believe it, though.
“I’m at the point of saying fuck Orson,” Jensen says, voice thick with sleep. His head feels heavy and cloudy. Jared smells insanely good.
Jared exhales against the back of his neck when he speaks, and he feels one large palm splay on the narrow jut of his hip.
“Jared?”
Fingers squeeze his hip, blunt nails biting lightly into denim, fingertips kneading. They’re gone a second later. Jensen’s nearly tipped off the sofa completely when Jared moves to sit up.
“Bedtime, bro.”
Jensen’s too dizzy in the head to argue. Too busy pressing the heel of his hand subtly into his lap in the hopes of making it all go away.
****
The next morning, he’s cradling a cup of steaming coffee and contemplating his closet. The suitcases are open and spread out on the floor. He’s taped some of the boxes together, gaping open off to the side. Right now, he’s sitting on the end of the bed, trying to wake up and decide what needs to go where.
Supernatural forced Jensen into a constant state of organization and awareness. Even on his days off, his schedule was so tight, attempting to fit his entire life into the weekend, that he could never afford to let anything descend into chaos. In a matter of not-even-two-weeks, his room is a mess and he’s forgotten where things are.
In the matter of not-even-three-years, he’s forgotten which half of the stuff in this room is his and which is Jared’s.
Okay, the gnawed up tug-rope in the corner is definitely not his, even if he’s the one that bought it. Harley is so fucking spoiled. And he’s an enabler.
Jared has to clear his throat for Jensen to notice him. He’s got a hip against the door jam and a confused look on his face. His entire outfit consists of a pair of lycra shorts, so he must be about to go take his morning run. Jensen can hear the dogs shuffling restlessly in the hallway.
“What’re you doing, dude?”
Jensen makes a face because it’s fairly obvious what he’s doing. “Packing?”
“Oh. Right.” The puzzled frown isn’t leaving, though. It stays there, hanging, until Jared silently pushes off the doorway and leaves the room.
****
Expecting to get everything packed in one day is unrealistic. Even so, he’s frustrated at the end of four hours. There’s still a shit-ton of stuff left, some of it that he can’t even really pack until the day-of, like his toiletries and some of his clothes and his laptop.
He eventually emerges from his room - Jared’s guest room, rather - to procure a snack. Jared’s at the kitchen table with the newspaper when he gets there. They exchange weary smiles that reach neither of their eyes. Jensen resists an urge to touch Jared’s hair as he passes.
Decides immediately after that his deadline is to be packed by tomorrow afternoon. Self-imposed because he has discipline. Lots of it. The best way to exemplify that is to get the fuck out of here before he does something really, really gay.
When he’s back in the bedroom with an apple and a couple slices of cheddar cheese, he thinks about calling up Danneel and asking what she’s doing next weekend. He can’t even get himself to pick up the phone, though, never mind dial her number.
****
“What the fuck, you prick?”
It comes out of nowhere. Given, it’s part-and-parcel that profane Turrets is one of the hazards associated with being around Jared. Jensen even shares that personality trait with him on occasion. But there’s random and then there’s this.
“What?”
“Is that Fight Club in your hand? Put that the fuck down,” Jared growls, stalking across the living room in a matter of two steps. Long fingers pry the DVD from Jensen’s hand, and an overly large foot is kicking the box away from Jensen’s reach.
“Uh. The hell, dude?”
“What are you doing?” Jared demands. Sadie and Harley start to yap a little because Jared and Jensen never fight seriously. They associate yelling with play-fighting that usually results in them giving up on each other and wrestling the dogs. Jensen’s skin is crawling because the air’s thick. It should be funny, but it’s not. Jared’s genuinely pissed off. He has a red hot temper that flares and dies just as quickly, but Jensen’s never really been on the end of it.
“Fight Club’s mine, man. Sorry. I’ll buy it for your birthday, if you w-”
“Finish that fucking sentence and I swear to God, I will Ed Norton your face.”
“You’ll make me pummel myself?” Jensen asks, lost.
“You-” But Jared’s so mad, he can’t seem to find the words. A thumb jabs Jensen in the chest. He has no idea what to do with that, so he just winces. “You cannot split up our fucking DVD collection,” Jared grits out between his teeth.
“I have to, man. I’m leaving for L.A. in three days.”
The movement’s so quick Jensen doesn’t even have a chance to flinch. One second Jared’s glaring him down and the next second his DVD is bouncing off the wall opposite them. The case cracks open loudly. The disc spins out and ricochets off the coffee table.
Jensen stares at Jared, wide-eyed. Jared’s entire face twitches.
“... You're fucking paying for that.”
Jared's face darkens, like Jensen's just not getting it. “You're a dick,” he says with a snarling finality, shutting down the argument and stalking upstairs before Jensen can even comprehend what just happened to him.
He wants to chalk it up to Jared’s man-crush on Brad Pitt, but it’s unlikely.
****
By the time he’s done with the DVDs and back in the bedroom, Jensen is livid. He spends the next hour throwing all of his belongings into the boxes and suitcases. He wants to throw something of Jared’s. Every time he comes across one of his possessions, though, he ends up just putting it in the hallway. Just outside his door, which he figures is insulting enough. Almost like Indian-giving, only in reverse.
Jensen is a slow-burning-hatred kind of guy. It’s Jared, though. No real hate is involved. Mostly just confusion and frustration. Intrigue, too, if he’s honest. Jared isn’t okay.
It’s horrible. He wants Jared happy because Jared is his best friend (unless Chris is asking), but at the same time... knowing that he isn’t the only one having difficulty with his departure is almost a relief. The security inherent in the knowledge that Jared doesn’t want this comfortable arrangement to end any more than he does is kind of intoxicating.
Probably telling, too, but he decided back on that couch two days ago to not listen to whatever Jared is saying.
Which means this is actually his fault after all.
“Dammit,” Jensen grumbles, struggling to fold up an over-stuffed parka into a box the size of a teakettle. Why the fuck did he even keep this box?
Throat-clearing isn’t necessary this time; he can feel Jared’s gaze on him, hear his breathing, long before Jared leaves the doorway to enter the bedroom, by-passing the pile of his own belongings in the process. The mattress creaks a little under him as he sits. And sits. And watches Jensen settled on the floor, surrounded by boxes in various degrees of fullness.
Jensen almost has the parka in all the way when Jared lets out an explosive sigh. He snatches the box away.
“Jesus fuck, would you stop that?”
“Stop what?” Jensen asks defensively, knowing exactly what.
“Packing. Dividing up our stuff.” The box hits the floor with a muffled thump. “Leaving me.”
“I was kidding when I said the thing about divorce, Jared.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not kidding.” His hands fidget on his knees, fingers flexing around the curves of them. “Don’t go.”
It’s like Jared suddenly learned Chinese while he was sulking in his room. “Don’t... and do what instead, Jared? Stay?” Jensen’s eyes flick to the box at his right elbow. It weighs roughly nine tons from all the scripts jammed in it. “And spend my time with what?”
“I talked to some of the CW reps. They said they could write you into the show. It’s not too late.”
“Your show?”
“Yes, my show. Jackass.” Jared’s feet propel him up. Weaving, he paces between the boxes. His toe bumps one of the boxes and the DVDs inside rattle against each other. “It’s... okay, look. So, I sorta. I mean, it’s kinda obvious, right? And it’s there, and you... you know what I’m saying?”
Jensen nods. Then he glowers. “No, you fucking freak. Speak fucking English. Enunciate.”
It makes Jared smile. Angry as Jensen is, he can appreciate it, from the slant his eyes take to the dimples that bloom across his cheeks.
That’s when he actually does get it. No enunciating necessary. It’s like crystal in front of his face. Clear, fractured, reflective ideas and realizations, bouncing off each other. He wasn’t projecting all this time.
They were. All over each other. Manically and without pause for thought.
“I don’t want to be on your show, dude.”
Jared deflates like a cheap balloon, but Jensen’s the one propelling now. The dots are connecting, and it’s like constellations forming in his head. “I’ll stay, I just... I should probably find my own thing, y’know?”
“You’ll.”
“Stay. Yeah.”
The mattress actually wheezes when Jared drops onto it again. He looks dazed. Surprisingly small, too, like the decision Jensen just made is bigger than him. Which, to be fair, it probably is. Jensen forces himself out of the tangle of boxes to stand. The urge is finally fulfilled, his hand finding Jared’s forehead, his fingers raking through the hair dropping into his eyes. Hazel eyes bore through him the second he does it.
Jared knows. He knows how Jensen was tired of everybody’s mug but his. He knows Jensen’s been stalling like an old car with worn-out tires in the mud. Spinning and sputtering in place, doing fuck all, and not even looking good while doing it. Not only does he know, he’s been doing it, too, rocking denial like a cheap suit. ‘Cause if he pretended Jensen wasn’t leaving, and Jensen stalled out, maybe Jensen wasn’t going anywhere.
“We’re fuckheads,” Jensen says aloud. They’re all awesome analogies, but seriously. They’re morons. He sees this now. It's kind of beautiful, in its stupidity.
“Yeah,” Jared says, smiling.
Author: gospelofus, formerly lardencelover
Fandom/Pairing: Supernatural RPS, Jensen/Jared
Rating: PG-13 for drug use and language
Summary: Post-SPN. It's time to move on and Jensen's finding it difficult to leave Vancouver. Or Jared.
A/N: This is my first foray into J2 fic, so I'm pretty nervous. That said, I'd like to thank Amy for her encouragement and both her and Corey for the beta job. Any feedback/concrit is insanely welcome, as I'm concerned about getting them right. Thanks for reading!
Jensen is stupidly drunk at the series wrap party when he realizes that the TV show is a microcosm of life. Painful, exhilarating, character-altering, and long as shit until it’s over in a blink.
He slumps over at a table, breathless from dancing and smoking all in one night, and stares into his glass of Jack Daniels. Through the amber liquid, he can see Jared and Genevieve on the opposite side of the table. They’re twisting and rubbing to the music. Every so often a hip or an arm will brush the table and Jensen’s glass rattles.
Misha’s laughing behind him, and the sound makes him ache. He thinks about how Kripke isn’t here, and that makes him ache, too. He watches Jared lean over to sloppily maul Genevieve’s mouth. It’s like his insides are trying to twist themselves into nonexistence.
Everyone here is excited about sleeping through the next month or two to recover from the last six years - hell, he even bought one of those sleep number beds in preparation and celebration. Everyone is excited to move on to new productions, locations and lifestyles. Everyone is sick as hell of seeing each other’s faces.
It’s an end of an era. It’s fucking epic.
But Jensen isn’t sure where he’s going to live. He’s got a ton of movies and shows lined up for his approval or rejection, but he doesn’t have even an idea of which he will take. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. His mother keeps calling to fret about him like she’s talking to someone else. None of his shit is packed.
Jared’s lanky arm is dead weight across the spread of his shoulders. He gets a strong whiff of beer and vodka when Jared leans in to kiss his temple, to mumble against his face, “I’m going to miss this. I am so shit-faced, and I’m totally gonna miss this. Drink your Goddamn whiskey and dance with us.”
Reluctance isn’t really an option when Jared’s flashing dimples and Genevieve’s pulling the chair out from under him. He lets Jared rope him to the dance floor.
He cuts a damn fine rug. Just dances the pain away.
****
He’s going to kill Jared. He’s so hung over he can’t pry his eyes open, but his cellphone is rattling on the bed stand. The banana-phone song is loud and obnoxious, just like the owner of said ring tone. It takes nearly bringing the lamp down on his head to blindly find the thing and answer it.
“Gonna fuck you in the eyeball when I see you,” Jensen snarls into the phone.
Jared’s laughter is like bells, delighted. “God, I love it when you talk dirty.”
“What in the fucking hell do you want?”
“I want you to come downstairs and eat your breakfast. Which has become your lunch because, dude. One-thirty? Get the fuck up.”
“In the motherfucking eyeball,” is the only answer Jared gets before Jensen is pitching his cellphone at the bed stand. He rolls over.
****
The pain is back.
Not just in the physical sense despite how obvious that is. His head is threatening to cave in, his eyes feel like they’re about to bleed, and he’s pretty sure the walls are pulsing. That pain is relevant; there’s no denying that.
But it’s mostly watching Jared putter around to reheat some pancakes for him that does it. They’ve been roommates almost three years now. Jensen kind of feels like he’s about to get a divorce. Or an annulment.
“I’m Chad Michael Murray. Fuck me,” Jensen says table-ward. He’s yet again slumped over a flat surface, like holding himself up is simply too much.
Jared’s an asshole, so he laughs. “Not unless you woke up next to some nameless woman you didn’t know. Or some nameless dude that you thought was a woman. Did I ever tell you that story?”
Only a million times. Jensen still wants to hear it if only to prolong having to digest food that is currently making his stomach come back up his throat. Possibly because he wants to avoid packing, too. And leaving this place, this spot in time.
And Jared. Maybe a little bit.
“I meant us.”
Jared drops a steaming pile of bacon and pancakes in front of Jensen. Jensen is kind enough to swallow down the bile that immediately works its way up. He picks up a fork to poke one pancake and ignores the syrup Jared thunks down on the table.
“You and I are not like Chad and I,” Jared misinterprets, frowning.
“No, uh.” Thought process is so very botched right now. He wants a new brain. “I’m leaving. You’re staying for shiny new CW show, and it’s like...” Jensen wants to be coherent, but it’s not happening. He makes a ‘poof’ gesture with his hand instead.
Jared gets it. Which only makes things worse. It’d be easier to leave an inept fuckwad that didn't share space in his head. “You're not allowed to divorce me, dude.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Jensen almost-whines. The pancakes are delicious. It feels like he’s mouthing cotton, but they’re delicious.
It’s annoying how thoroughly un-fazed Jared seems by all of this. “Hey, wanna go play with me and the dogs? I got Sadie this sweet new chew toy that yells ‘ow!’ every time she noms on it.”
“Did you just use ‘nom’ as a verb?” Jensen asks like he’s about to disown Jared for it, even as he’s forcing himself out of his chair to go get dressed.
****
In two weeks, Jensen will be back in L.A. This is probably the reason that Gayle is barraging him with so many scripts that she must own stock in FedEx by now.
He opens the first couple. After that, he gives up entirely, largely in part because he reads all of them looking for the parts that he can cast Jared in with him. None of them seem to fit that criteria, though. He gets bored and plays Guitar Hero instead.
Sadie howls every time they do “Wanted Dead or Alive.” Jensen insists it’s because she associates the song with the sound of Jared dying. Jared tests out the durability of the guitar controller’s neck on Jensen’s head.
Nothing is getting packed. Jensen’s starting to panic a little inside.
****
They’re sitting on the deck behind Jared’s house, sharing a blunt. Leaning on the rail, Jensen remembers vividly helping him build this deck. The first two days they built it while unknowingly having the construction diagrams turned incorrectly. He squints, trying to imagine this wide porch shooting out of the side of the house into the lawn length-wise instead. The idea is funny as hell.
“Imagine if I was trying to sell this place with the porch going like that,” Jared says, reading Jensen’s mind. “Realtors would’ve laughed at me.”
“I would’ve laughed at you,” Jensen admits, then adds, “and actually, I’m pretty sure I did.”
“You’re a dick, so yeah, it’s a given you did.” Jared reaches out to pass him the joint. Their fingers brush in the process. It’s so cliche, but Jensen’s face heats up a little despite that.
“Hey, I meant to ask,” Jensen starts, like he’s asking about the weather. “How come Gen left so soon? Looked like you guys were working on getting it back together at the party.”
“Dude, I was so drunk I would’ve made out with the table.”
“I think you almost did at one point.” Jensen’s memory is hazy - either because he was really drunk then or kind of high right now - but he remembers Jared face-planting on its sticky surface during the course of the night. “You make it sound like she’s diseased, man.”
“No. There’s... nothing wrong with her. She’s awesome. She’s just not...” But Jared shrugs. Apparently expecting that like Jensen’s ‘poof’ gesture, Jensen will just get whatever the hell it is he means.
Jensen is clueless but is not about to let on. “Yeah, right. I get it. That’s cool.”
****
Every time he passes the closet in his room, he can hear his suitcases. Accusatory fuckers, pointing out his failings. They know all the things he’s steadfastly ignoring by refusing to fill them. Maybe it’s a little neurotic of him. Whatever.
But there’s some folded up boxes in there, too. They’re gonna turn on him next. He’s certain of this. It’s only a matter of time-- only he has no time, because he leaves for L.A. in ten days.
It’s probably too early to be having a mid-life crisis.
****
Jensen wakes up to the word “Rosebud.” He’s pissed as hell because he’s managed to sleep through Citizen Kane yet again. For easily a decade, he’s been trying to see this movie. He passes out in the middle every time.
“You have a mental block against Orson Welles,” Jared mumbles sleepily, which is the moment that Jensen notices their position. There’s an expanse of chest and hips and legs against his backside. Jared radiates heat like a furnace. The sofa is too short for him, and his knees are bent up to accommodate his size; Jensen’s legs are similarly bent to let Jared’s fit in behind him.
He wants to be embarrassed, but the partial hard-on he’s got is contradicting him. Penises have no sense of loyalty.
It isn’t clear how Jared knew he was awake from this position. It might have something to do with his breathing. Jensen’s too practical and not sentimental enough to really believe it, though.
“I’m at the point of saying fuck Orson,” Jensen says, voice thick with sleep. His head feels heavy and cloudy. Jared smells insanely good.
Jared exhales against the back of his neck when he speaks, and he feels one large palm splay on the narrow jut of his hip.
“Jared?”
Fingers squeeze his hip, blunt nails biting lightly into denim, fingertips kneading. They’re gone a second later. Jensen’s nearly tipped off the sofa completely when Jared moves to sit up.
“Bedtime, bro.”
Jensen’s too dizzy in the head to argue. Too busy pressing the heel of his hand subtly into his lap in the hopes of making it all go away.
****
The next morning, he’s cradling a cup of steaming coffee and contemplating his closet. The suitcases are open and spread out on the floor. He’s taped some of the boxes together, gaping open off to the side. Right now, he’s sitting on the end of the bed, trying to wake up and decide what needs to go where.
Supernatural forced Jensen into a constant state of organization and awareness. Even on his days off, his schedule was so tight, attempting to fit his entire life into the weekend, that he could never afford to let anything descend into chaos. In a matter of not-even-two-weeks, his room is a mess and he’s forgotten where things are.
In the matter of not-even-three-years, he’s forgotten which half of the stuff in this room is his and which is Jared’s.
Okay, the gnawed up tug-rope in the corner is definitely not his, even if he’s the one that bought it. Harley is so fucking spoiled. And he’s an enabler.
Jared has to clear his throat for Jensen to notice him. He’s got a hip against the door jam and a confused look on his face. His entire outfit consists of a pair of lycra shorts, so he must be about to go take his morning run. Jensen can hear the dogs shuffling restlessly in the hallway.
“What’re you doing, dude?”
Jensen makes a face because it’s fairly obvious what he’s doing. “Packing?”
“Oh. Right.” The puzzled frown isn’t leaving, though. It stays there, hanging, until Jared silently pushes off the doorway and leaves the room.
****
Expecting to get everything packed in one day is unrealistic. Even so, he’s frustrated at the end of four hours. There’s still a shit-ton of stuff left, some of it that he can’t even really pack until the day-of, like his toiletries and some of his clothes and his laptop.
He eventually emerges from his room - Jared’s guest room, rather - to procure a snack. Jared’s at the kitchen table with the newspaper when he gets there. They exchange weary smiles that reach neither of their eyes. Jensen resists an urge to touch Jared’s hair as he passes.
Decides immediately after that his deadline is to be packed by tomorrow afternoon. Self-imposed because he has discipline. Lots of it. The best way to exemplify that is to get the fuck out of here before he does something really, really gay.
When he’s back in the bedroom with an apple and a couple slices of cheddar cheese, he thinks about calling up Danneel and asking what she’s doing next weekend. He can’t even get himself to pick up the phone, though, never mind dial her number.
****
“What the fuck, you prick?”
It comes out of nowhere. Given, it’s part-and-parcel that profane Turrets is one of the hazards associated with being around Jared. Jensen even shares that personality trait with him on occasion. But there’s random and then there’s this.
“What?”
“Is that Fight Club in your hand? Put that the fuck down,” Jared growls, stalking across the living room in a matter of two steps. Long fingers pry the DVD from Jensen’s hand, and an overly large foot is kicking the box away from Jensen’s reach.
“Uh. The hell, dude?”
“What are you doing?” Jared demands. Sadie and Harley start to yap a little because Jared and Jensen never fight seriously. They associate yelling with play-fighting that usually results in them giving up on each other and wrestling the dogs. Jensen’s skin is crawling because the air’s thick. It should be funny, but it’s not. Jared’s genuinely pissed off. He has a red hot temper that flares and dies just as quickly, but Jensen’s never really been on the end of it.
“Fight Club’s mine, man. Sorry. I’ll buy it for your birthday, if you w-”
“Finish that fucking sentence and I swear to God, I will Ed Norton your face.”
“You’ll make me pummel myself?” Jensen asks, lost.
“You-” But Jared’s so mad, he can’t seem to find the words. A thumb jabs Jensen in the chest. He has no idea what to do with that, so he just winces. “You cannot split up our fucking DVD collection,” Jared grits out between his teeth.
“I have to, man. I’m leaving for L.A. in three days.”
The movement’s so quick Jensen doesn’t even have a chance to flinch. One second Jared’s glaring him down and the next second his DVD is bouncing off the wall opposite them. The case cracks open loudly. The disc spins out and ricochets off the coffee table.
Jensen stares at Jared, wide-eyed. Jared’s entire face twitches.
“... You're fucking paying for that.”
Jared's face darkens, like Jensen's just not getting it. “You're a dick,” he says with a snarling finality, shutting down the argument and stalking upstairs before Jensen can even comprehend what just happened to him.
He wants to chalk it up to Jared’s man-crush on Brad Pitt, but it’s unlikely.
****
By the time he’s done with the DVDs and back in the bedroom, Jensen is livid. He spends the next hour throwing all of his belongings into the boxes and suitcases. He wants to throw something of Jared’s. Every time he comes across one of his possessions, though, he ends up just putting it in the hallway. Just outside his door, which he figures is insulting enough. Almost like Indian-giving, only in reverse.
Jensen is a slow-burning-hatred kind of guy. It’s Jared, though. No real hate is involved. Mostly just confusion and frustration. Intrigue, too, if he’s honest. Jared isn’t okay.
It’s horrible. He wants Jared happy because Jared is his best friend (unless Chris is asking), but at the same time... knowing that he isn’t the only one having difficulty with his departure is almost a relief. The security inherent in the knowledge that Jared doesn’t want this comfortable arrangement to end any more than he does is kind of intoxicating.
Probably telling, too, but he decided back on that couch two days ago to not listen to whatever Jared is saying.
Which means this is actually his fault after all.
“Dammit,” Jensen grumbles, struggling to fold up an over-stuffed parka into a box the size of a teakettle. Why the fuck did he even keep this box?
Throat-clearing isn’t necessary this time; he can feel Jared’s gaze on him, hear his breathing, long before Jared leaves the doorway to enter the bedroom, by-passing the pile of his own belongings in the process. The mattress creaks a little under him as he sits. And sits. And watches Jensen settled on the floor, surrounded by boxes in various degrees of fullness.
Jensen almost has the parka in all the way when Jared lets out an explosive sigh. He snatches the box away.
“Jesus fuck, would you stop that?”
“Stop what?” Jensen asks defensively, knowing exactly what.
“Packing. Dividing up our stuff.” The box hits the floor with a muffled thump. “Leaving me.”
“I was kidding when I said the thing about divorce, Jared.”
“Yeah, well. I’m not kidding.” His hands fidget on his knees, fingers flexing around the curves of them. “Don’t go.”
It’s like Jared suddenly learned Chinese while he was sulking in his room. “Don’t... and do what instead, Jared? Stay?” Jensen’s eyes flick to the box at his right elbow. It weighs roughly nine tons from all the scripts jammed in it. “And spend my time with what?”
“I talked to some of the CW reps. They said they could write you into the show. It’s not too late.”
“Your show?”
“Yes, my show. Jackass.” Jared’s feet propel him up. Weaving, he paces between the boxes. His toe bumps one of the boxes and the DVDs inside rattle against each other. “It’s... okay, look. So, I sorta. I mean, it’s kinda obvious, right? And it’s there, and you... you know what I’m saying?”
Jensen nods. Then he glowers. “No, you fucking freak. Speak fucking English. Enunciate.”
It makes Jared smile. Angry as Jensen is, he can appreciate it, from the slant his eyes take to the dimples that bloom across his cheeks.
That’s when he actually does get it. No enunciating necessary. It’s like crystal in front of his face. Clear, fractured, reflective ideas and realizations, bouncing off each other. He wasn’t projecting all this time.
They were. All over each other. Manically and without pause for thought.
“I don’t want to be on your show, dude.”
Jared deflates like a cheap balloon, but Jensen’s the one propelling now. The dots are connecting, and it’s like constellations forming in his head. “I’ll stay, I just... I should probably find my own thing, y’know?”
“You’ll.”
“Stay. Yeah.”
The mattress actually wheezes when Jared drops onto it again. He looks dazed. Surprisingly small, too, like the decision Jensen just made is bigger than him. Which, to be fair, it probably is. Jensen forces himself out of the tangle of boxes to stand. The urge is finally fulfilled, his hand finding Jared’s forehead, his fingers raking through the hair dropping into his eyes. Hazel eyes bore through him the second he does it.
Jared knows. He knows how Jensen was tired of everybody’s mug but his. He knows Jensen’s been stalling like an old car with worn-out tires in the mud. Spinning and sputtering in place, doing fuck all, and not even looking good while doing it. Not only does he know, he’s been doing it, too, rocking denial like a cheap suit. ‘Cause if he pretended Jensen wasn’t leaving, and Jensen stalled out, maybe Jensen wasn’t going anywhere.
“We’re fuckheads,” Jensen says aloud. They’re all awesome analogies, but seriously. They’re morons. He sees this now. It's kind of beautiful, in its stupidity.
“Yeah,” Jared says, smiling.