Fic: "it's only words (and words are all I have)", Jared/Jensen, PG-13
Fic title: "it's only words (and words are all I have)"
Author: the_milky_way
Genre: RPS
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4.650
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Beta: Many thanks to parka_girl
Disclaimer: This story is fictional (not real, didn't happen). Not true in any way. I don't own anything.
Summary: Jensen writes because he doesn't really know how to use words in any other way. Only when Jared is there things are different.
Notes: This is for morgentau who prompted me with j² - diary, socks, rush. I don't know if this is what you imagined and I really have no idea where this came from but I hope you like it.
The first time Jensen holds a pen in his hand and actually uses it, he’s two. Scribbles circles, dark blue in white. It’s his own signature, his own letters. It’s all readable in his mind, for his eyes only. His mother smiles and gives him new paper every time he demands it.
He doesn’t let go of his pen for an entire week.
***
When he’s five, he can write his name and several other important words. The scribbles are less chaotic and random and more defined, more logical. He writes whenever he gets the chance to. Plays reporter when Josh lets him be close, tolerates his inane questions and stops making fun of his random letters on the white of his paper.
Josh’s also the one giving him all his old pens and pencils, making it possible for Jensen to draw on every surface in the house. Everything is plastered with white and colored paper, each and every one of them signed with Jensen’s name. Chicken scratches and all.
***
At thirteen, he’s writing for his school’s tiny newspaper, goes over every assignment twice and sometimes actually helps Josh with his. He’s good with words and he knows his parents are proud of him. Only sometimes he wishes he was as good with words when they’re spoken instead of written.
Jensen can’t, won’t really speak to people. He can write articles full of extraordinary words and phrases, sentences long enough to cover a page while still readable and understandable. He can write poems, lyrics and short pieces of fiction. He writes essays for school that are way above his grade level. But when it comes to talking to people, giving presentations or simply asking for something in a store, Jensen’s lost.
His mother’s concerned, he knows that. He also knows that she doesn’t have a solution or even an idea as to how to get her son stop being so shy. So she does the one thing she knows will make Jensen happy, buys him new pens, paper and finally a diary.
Josh mocks him for it for days, sometimes weeks. Says it’s girly and boys don’t do stuff like that. He even calls Jensen queer, which earns him two months of being grounded. Jensen just smirks every time Josh fumes when he’s caught sneaking out the back door and gets an additional week.
Jensen loves his diary even though he has to agree with Josh, he thinks it’s a little girly. But he has a little sister now and can get away with carrying something girly around most of the time. He’s not letting the diary out of his sight. He has it half filled after the first three months and tells his mom that he wants more every year for Christmas and birthday. He gets his wish every single time.
The diary becomes his best friend. The diary makes it possible for him to find words, a life, a friend who listens.
***
When Jensen is sixteen, the diary is the first one he tells his deepest secret. He’s still incredibly shy, insecure as well. He can’t say a word to someone who isn’t friends or family without stumbling.
Writing is what keeps Jensen focused, what makes it possible for him to sort his thoughts, to clear his mind. The diary keeps his secrets, the songs and poems carry part of his soul. He never shows them to anyone. Not until way later, not until he’s secure in himself and with himself to allow those words out into the open. So the white, blank pages of the little dark red book keep things for him he would never dare to speak out loud.
At sixteen, Jensen comes out to the white blank pages in a little dark red book first.
It takes him another two years to tell his best friend - and even longer to tell his family - by then he’s already in Hollywood and on the way to building a life for himself and no one really cares whether he likes girls and boys.
At least not until he has a manager and agent and prospective roles that might mean everything to him and his new career. The diary is there through it all, keeping him grounded through the first few years. Through the drama and the failures, through his successes and the evolution of his life.
It’s there. Until one day it isn’t anymore.
***
At 23, Jensen gets his first bigger role outside the soap world. Nothing big, just a little scifi. But it pays and it’s good experience. There are scripts he laughs about but still manages to handle gracefully. There are people he’s suddenly close to and gets along with.
He has no need to hide anymore, no need to use the pen as a safety line. He doesn’t need to desperately fill the blank pages anymore so that he doesn’t feel too lonely. For the first time in years he feels like writing is just a thing in his life and not his entire life.
Because at 23, Jensen finally learns to talk.
He learns how to use words, accents, and intonation. Not only in front of the camera but behind it as well. He doesn’t need to write things down to understand them, to imagine them, he’s right in the middle of them. He does keep on writing, songs for friends, lyrics for parts of songs, poems he publishes anonymously and even simple stories just to remember things.
The diary gets lost in Jensen’s life, gets shoved into a box where all the other diaries from years long gone by have been stored. Jensen’s never touched any that are already filled with words and sketches and futile attempts at learning how to be someone different.
Once a book was filled it has lost its purpose. Once a book was filled Jensen rushed to put it away, to get away from the things inside, from the words that are only real on paper. From words that are a little too real sometimes.
His last diary suffers the same fate.
The box vanishes among the things Jensen’s not able to buy and keep. Jensen has a life, can talk, use words that aren’t written, aren’t all that permanent. Paper is no use to him anymore, not when it comes to living his life.
***
At 32, Jensen sits on the floor of his bedroom and tries to sort through his closet. He’s looking for boxes of documents that shouldn’t be hidden somewhere among things accumulated over the years. He’s not sure why he started looking here, but something has been drawing him in.
It’s been a rushed couple of weeks. Jensen feels like he’s losing pieces of himself left and right. He doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know why he feels this way. He shouldn’t be sitting here staring at boxes and boxes of things way past their usefulness.
He should hurry, be in a rush to get out and away from what has become his life. Somehow it’s hard to do just that though. Jensen suddenly wants to stay, doesn’t want to rush down to L.A. and be the man people now know.
Suddenly Jensen just wants to stop, wants to calm down and settle. Maybe only for one day, to get his thoughts together again and figure out why Jared’s announcement has left him off-kilter and so very much confused.
Jared.
The one thing Jensen’s never been able to write about. Not really anyway, just about his feelings not about Jared himself. Because Jared is the one person who Jensen can talk to about everything, who listens and makes Jensen use words in a way he never has before. It’s almost like Jensen finally found the right way to communicate, to be social and a nice person without hiding behind a mask or Hollywood’s typical superficial attitude.
Jared makes him speak, formulate words in his head and then actually say them. Jared also makes him incredibly self-conscious about everything he does. Jensen never shows Jared the songs he wrote with Steve or the poems that are plastered along Jason’s home office. Jensen never does, but Jensen’s friends do. And every time Jared says something nice, praises him, tells him he’d never expect to feel such emotions and depths from simple words, Jensen wants to crawl into a hole.
He can’t bear Jared seeing what’s really on his mind, because Jared is the only one that seems to be able to look through all the walls and barriers Jensen’s erected over the years. Jared’s the one making Jensen feel with just one word, one gesture, one look.
Jared’s the one who makes Jensen want to go and buy a new diary, because for the first time in years Jensen feels like the thoughts and words in his head are too much for him to cope with. For the first time in years, Jensen feels the urge to fill blank white pages with everything he feels and thinks because he can’t say it out loud.
So he sits there and stares at boxes. He sits in his closet in Vancouver when he should be on the way to California to meet up with friends and the woman who’s supposed to be his girlfriend. Only, they haven’t talked in weeks, haven’t said what they usually say when the end a phone call in months.
Jensen feels lost. So very lost and unsure whether it’s him or Jared’s last words before he left.
‘I left her. She wasn’t the one. I thought you should know. Oh and Jen? Love you or Leave you is an awesome song.’
It’s been two weeks since Jared said that, since Jared said that and then left for Texas. Jensen’s been a mess ever since or so he tries to reason with himself. Because if he wasn’t a mess, this wouldn’t affect him so much.
He’s been running around like a headless chicken, rushing from one place to aother and never getting things done. And then his mother had called to ask for documents she was sure he had. Right now he thinks it was an intricate ploy to get him into the closet, which doesn’t make sense, not even to his muddle brain, but then he’s not trying to be logical about his thought process anymore.
His fingers twitch. The urge for a pen, some paper, it’s there and growing stronger with every day that goes by. Every day Jensen doesn’t use to sort things out. He’s supposed to work, use the hiatus to find roles, scripts, future plans. Except all he can think of is how he’ll handle weeks without seeing Jared, how he’ll handle seeing Danneel when there’s nothing he’d want to do more than to tell he it’s not working.
He should write a letter.
Jensen gets up, goes into the living room and wonders why he ever moved out of Jared’s house. Then he remembers the plans they all made last year, the engagement and everything following that.
Jensen writes a letter. One he should have written weeks ago.
***
At 32 and four months, Jensen sits on the floor in front of his closet, staring at boxes again. He still needs to find the documents. He feels lighter, like a burden’s been taken from him. The words are out of his head, on paper, permanent and readable for everyone who wants to. He knows they’ll only reach one other pair of eyes and he still doesn’t really know how to feel about that.
His hand aches a little from where he grabbed the pen too hard, held onto it like it was a lifeline again, a safety blanket that he got rid of years ago because he didn’t need it anymore.
It’s not the same right now, though. Writing isn’t threatening to take over his life, it’s just a means to an end, a way to get things said, to get them done. His written words are composed into paragraphs that explain more than he could have ever said out loud. Still, Jensen also knows he’d been able to say them if necessary, if forced to.
He scrambles half way up to his knees when one of the boxes on the top shelf in the closet starts sliding forward. He’d yanked sheets of papers out from under it several minutes ago and had been sitting there staring at the box since then. Now he has to move, has to act.
Only he’s a little too slow, a little too late. The box tumbles down, taking three others with it. They shower Jensen in old socks and boxers, things he thought he’d thrown away when he moved out of Jared’s place. Apparently not.
He’s hit by socks, paired, even matched, mismatched and multi-colored, old and new (joke gifts from Jared that Jensen’s never worn). Then he just sits and looks at the piles of socks surrounding him. He snorts, giggles and then outright laughs. Jensen sits there and laughs until he sees it.
The diary. The last one he ever dared to touch, to open, to write in. The one that was supposed to stay locked away and be forgotten but had somehow managed to entice Jensen again. He knows what’s in there, knows that the last time he’d written down his thoughts had been exactly one year after he’d met Jared.
The last date is the day Jensen realized how screwed he really was. Once again, the diary had been the only way to say it, to admit it, to confess. The diary had been his only confidant in that matter and Jensen hopes, prays, that it’ll stay like that.
And yet that wasn’t even true. Because Jensen also hoped and pray for things to happen, things that he’d written down and lost control over the second he shut the diary and put it away again. His thoughts are in there, his emotions and confused realizations, his freak out and calm down. Everything.
Everything he’s ever felt for Jared is in there.
Jensen doesn’t know how, but suddenly he’s sitting there amongst hundreds of pairs of socks and has the diary in his hands. The smooth black leather surface feels cool under his fingers, and also familiar. He wants to open it, wants to see if it’s still all in there.
He can’t.
“What, you gonna read your socks a story now?”
Jensen flinches so hard that he’s sure he pulls a muscle in his neck. It hurts like a bitch and his heart’s in his throat when he whips around to glare at Jared.
“Jesus Fucking Christ, Padalecki. You wanna kill me or something?” Jensen knows he’s scowling hard and looking annoyed as fuck, but right now, in his state of mind, he can’t deal with everything all at once. He concentrates on being pissed at Jared.
Jared actually looks chagrined, smiles a slow, sheepish smile and shrugs.
“’M sorry man. But ... you know you could actually answer your phone and tell me where you are. You just vanished, Jensen. Just ... Danneel called me to ask if you where with me. No one knew until your mom said you were still here. So I came back. To check. I was a little freaked, you know. Why are you still here?”
This is so Jared, acting on instinct, talking the same way. Just out with the words and never holding back when he doesn’t think it’s necessary. Jensen’s sometimes a little jealous of that ability, wishes he could do it, could just say what he thinks, what he wants to know.
His heart calms down while he sits there and looks at everything and nothing. His eyes skip to Jared a few times, taking in how exhausted he looks, how tired and worried. Jensen frowns but can’t find the words to express his thoughts. He’s stuck at being 13 or 14 again, shy and introverted, not used to speaking what’s on his mind. It never happened with Jared before. It scares him that it’s happening now.
***
The coffee is fresh, hot on his tongue and it wakes him up a little more. Jensen doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so tired, why he feels worn and drained. But Jared’s there, Jared’s sitting on the couch right next to him, sipping his own cup, talking about how things ended with her and how he just had to go home for a while to think.
Jensen knows what he means. Only, Jensen didn’t go home, Jensen stayed right where he was and if he’s honest, he didn’t really do a lot of actual thinking. He just mulled, played with ideas, created words and sentences in his head that fit the situation, fit his feelings. But he didn’t really think about the meaning of them or why he was thinking them in the first place.
Except it’s all happening now. Jensen thinks, about Jared being there, being worried. About the letter he wrote and wonders when it’ll reach its destination. About how easy it would be to just start talking, to just tell Jared what’s on his mind, to tell him how confusing everything is right now. He wants to tell Jared that it was unfair of him to say what he did and then leave, taking the chance away from Jensen to answer, to think, and to realize that maybe, maybe he isn’t alone in this.
But Jensen’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and even the coffee can’t take away the block that’s suddenly there between his brain and his mouth. Something that usually wasn’t the problem between Jared and him. Never before.
Jensen’s fingers twitch again. He needs a pen, needs paper and a quite corner. But he can’t run out on Jared like this, can’t just disappear.
“So, you were reading to your socks?” Jared sounds amused but Jensen can hear the underlying concerning, the worry swinging along the words.
“Nah.. was looking for something for mom. I ... just ... I didn’t feel like going home. Needed time to think. And she called, wanted documents. I dunno why I started looking there. Socks kinda attacked me. Found the box with my diaries though.”
He’s never told Jared about them. Only ever said that he used to write a lot when he was younger because he wasn’t so good with talking. Jared knows about that, just not about the diaries. Jensen feels just a tiny bit pathetic then.
“Diaries? This where you put your thoughts? Figure it would be books. You like books.” Jared sounds interested and unsure, like he doesn’t know what’s going on either. Jensen feels relieved for reasons he can’t comprehend just yet.
“Yeah. I ... They were there. Places to put my words in. Words I could never say. Haven’t touched them in years. Didn’t need them. I just ... it was strange to see them there. Because right now I think I could use a blank page and a pen.”
Jared stays silent for a long time. So long that Jensen starts to fidget, starts to think he shouldn’t have said anything. Because Jared, after all, is the one person who can see through him. Jared’s the only one who knows what Jensen’s thinking because he’s always listening so very carefully, like he might miss something hidden, something not said out loud.
When he speaks again, Jensen tries not to jump, tries not to let on how nervous he suddenly is. There’s no reason to be but Jensen is.
“It’s me, right? I made you want to write instead of talk. What I said, how I left. I’m sorry. I.. I shouldn’t have,” Jared sounds broken then, lost and small. And it’s something Jensen can’t stand, never could.
It’s the first time in ages that he doesn’t take writing over talking, instead he just acts. He pulls Jared closer and just sort of melts into him, into the embrace, into Jared’s arms that come up around him.
Jensen gaze falls on the black leather cover of the book in the coffee table. He’s not sure why he brought it in with him, probably just a reflex. He had it in his hands when Jared dragged him out of the closet and yes Jensen is fully aware of the irony, even though he isn’t really sure if that’s what is happening here.
“Not really you. Just ... the situation? I … I wrote a letter. To Danneel.”
Jared’s chest hitches under Jensen’s cheek. Jensen didn’t even realize that he slumped down this much.
“To whom?”
“Danneel. I … should have done it earlier. Should have talked but ....”
“But the words where missing? Stuck in your head and not coming out?”
“Yes.”
Sometimes Jensen really wonders if Jared’s reading his mind and if he should be freaked out by how well Jared knows him. But then it works the other way round as well.
“What’s happening here, Jared? I … feel it. I know. I just. It’s …”
Jared pulls him even closer. Jensen feels lips being pressed against his hair, feels his fingers twitch again and ideas taking hold in his mind. There are lines of words being put together, words that sound like tunes, lyrics and poems. Jensen wants to say it all out loud, wants to write it down as well.
But he just listens to Jared breathe, lets the rhythm calm him down.
“I think ... well I guess this is me coming to my senses.”
“Whataya mean?”
Jared shrugs a little, not enough to dislodge Jensen but enough for Jensen to feel it. And suddenly Jensen realizes what they are doing, something they’ve never done before.
“This feels awfully close to cuddling,” he blurts out, because that happens sometimes, too. Jensen has moments when he can’t hold the words back, when they just get out. Usually it doesn’t do much damage, right now he’s not sure what to expect.
Jared snots. So Jared-like and typical that Jensen grins.
“Was wondering when you’d realize it. God … seems like I’ve got you twisted pretty good. I’m sorry Jen. I … You know, Steve showed me all the songs you wrote for him.”
Jensen blinks. That’s new. Not unexpected seeing as Steve’s kinda proud of Jensen’s song writing skills but it’s still not something Jensen thought would happen.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Uhm … I asked him. I heard one of the songs, they’re all over the internet. I wanted to know more. He told me what you were like; always writing, on pages, on napkins, in your diary. I wondered what changed, since I never saw you doing it.”
Jared’s right. Jensen didn’t need to hide behind pages and pens when he was with Jared. He tells him as much, tries to tell him what it’s like when he feels the urge to write, when it usually happens. How the words spill out, take over, make it impossible to stop.
He sits there, cuddled close to Jared and doesn’t feel one tiny bit pathetic about it. He sits in his living room and tells Jared about his writing, when he started, what it meant, which secrets the books hold. Every secret, save one. This one has to be told with words directed to Jared. But first Jensen has another question.
***
It’s dark when Jensen wakes up. He can’t remember falling asleep, can’t remember when Jared moved them so that they were lying on the whole length of the couch instead of just slouching on the edge of it. What he remembers, though, is asking Jared what he meant when he said he was coming to his senses.
A smile pulls at his lips when he thinks about Jared’s answer, realizes that this was what he’d been looking for when he started searching his closet. The diaries, the words, the one secret calling out to him. Or at least, Jensen felt like they did. Like maybe it had been time to come clean, to spill and tell and talk. Maybe it had been time and Jared making the first step had been the one thing that pushed Jensen back, indirectly looking for the place where his thoughts, feelings and ideas where stored.
‘I fell in love with your words. With the songs Steve showed me, with the lines and lyrics and emotions. I fell in love and realized I had been all along. Those words on the paper, the songs, that’s what you usually say to me, you tell me things, talk to me. Steve, he never knew you’d say those things, only ever saw your songs. I heard you say them, heard you talk. It’s you I was falling for. You and your words.’
The black leather book sits next to the couch, on the floor now. Not on the table anymore.
Jared’s words were left hanging in the room, between them, for a while. Jared anxious, fidgety all of a sudden. Jensen, caught in a serene calmness he’d never known before. It was going fast and then it wasn’t. This had been happening for years, slow and undetected, hidden from eyes and words, only to be right there, right on the surface of things. On the surface and also deep down.
Everything had been right there. It only had to be said out loud and then be recognized. So Jensen just gave Jared the diary. The one that wasn’t full and wasn’t meant to be ever opened again, only now there was a reason to open it, to show the pages, to free the words and let them be seen.
Now Jensen couldn’t speak because was enthralled by Jared’s words, Jared emotions. So he let Jared read, take in everything Jensen has ever wanted to say, to tell him, to shout out loud. Words on white paper, repressed in Jensen’s mind until he couldn’t bear it anymore.
Jensen’s been scared, anxious, nervous and basically not able to look away from Jared while he reads. Then Jared closed the book, swallowed, opened it again and read every single page for a second time. Then for a third and a fourth. Like he needed time to process, the words and their meaning. Like he needed to understand what they meant for him, for them. Jensen got it, but he was ready to burst out of his skin by the time Jared dropped the book onto the floor.
Tension was crackling between them, anxious and charged, Jensen waiting for an answer, a reaction. But Jared’s caught up in sorting out his thoughts, formulating and stopping, opening his mouth, closing it again, thinking and frowning and finally moving. And then answer Jensen got was more than he’d hoped for and everything he’d prayed for. In both words and actions.
“This is beautiful. You’re beautiful. God, so much wasted time.”
Jared never gave Jensen the chance to use words to answer. Their lips meeting, their tongues battling, their teeth nipping, all this was way better than any kind of words, written or spoken.
Jared nuzzles against Jensen’s neck, makes Jensen twitch and smile. Sock-clad feet rub against Jensen’s bare ones and make him hitch a breath. There will be words. They have to talk, but right now Jensen’s content enough to let it all go, to let his mind settle. To let the urge to write, to scream, and to scratch the paper with his pen settle into the back of his mind. Jared is distraction enough.
Jared is simply enough.
“Sleep, Jen. We both need it.”
Jensen can only agree, settling down more comfortably while trying not to wonder why they haven’t moved to the bed. Before the thought is completely finished in his mind, Jensen’s asleep again. No more words needed right now.
At 32 and four months, Jensen has found the right balance between spoken words and written lines.
Author: the_milky_way
Genre: RPS
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4.650
Warnings/Spoilers: none
Beta: Many thanks to parka_girl
Disclaimer: This story is fictional (not real, didn't happen). Not true in any way. I don't own anything.
Summary: Jensen writes because he doesn't really know how to use words in any other way. Only when Jared is there things are different.
Notes: This is for morgentau who prompted me with j² - diary, socks, rush. I don't know if this is what you imagined and I really have no idea where this came from but I hope you like it.
The first time Jensen holds a pen in his hand and actually uses it, he’s two. Scribbles circles, dark blue in white. It’s his own signature, his own letters. It’s all readable in his mind, for his eyes only. His mother smiles and gives him new paper every time he demands it.
He doesn’t let go of his pen for an entire week.
***
When he’s five, he can write his name and several other important words. The scribbles are less chaotic and random and more defined, more logical. He writes whenever he gets the chance to. Plays reporter when Josh lets him be close, tolerates his inane questions and stops making fun of his random letters on the white of his paper.
Josh’s also the one giving him all his old pens and pencils, making it possible for Jensen to draw on every surface in the house. Everything is plastered with white and colored paper, each and every one of them signed with Jensen’s name. Chicken scratches and all.
***
At thirteen, he’s writing for his school’s tiny newspaper, goes over every assignment twice and sometimes actually helps Josh with his. He’s good with words and he knows his parents are proud of him. Only sometimes he wishes he was as good with words when they’re spoken instead of written.
Jensen can’t, won’t really speak to people. He can write articles full of extraordinary words and phrases, sentences long enough to cover a page while still readable and understandable. He can write poems, lyrics and short pieces of fiction. He writes essays for school that are way above his grade level. But when it comes to talking to people, giving presentations or simply asking for something in a store, Jensen’s lost.
His mother’s concerned, he knows that. He also knows that she doesn’t have a solution or even an idea as to how to get her son stop being so shy. So she does the one thing she knows will make Jensen happy, buys him new pens, paper and finally a diary.
Josh mocks him for it for days, sometimes weeks. Says it’s girly and boys don’t do stuff like that. He even calls Jensen queer, which earns him two months of being grounded. Jensen just smirks every time Josh fumes when he’s caught sneaking out the back door and gets an additional week.
Jensen loves his diary even though he has to agree with Josh, he thinks it’s a little girly. But he has a little sister now and can get away with carrying something girly around most of the time. He’s not letting the diary out of his sight. He has it half filled after the first three months and tells his mom that he wants more every year for Christmas and birthday. He gets his wish every single time.
The diary becomes his best friend. The diary makes it possible for him to find words, a life, a friend who listens.
***
When Jensen is sixteen, the diary is the first one he tells his deepest secret. He’s still incredibly shy, insecure as well. He can’t say a word to someone who isn’t friends or family without stumbling.
Writing is what keeps Jensen focused, what makes it possible for him to sort his thoughts, to clear his mind. The diary keeps his secrets, the songs and poems carry part of his soul. He never shows them to anyone. Not until way later, not until he’s secure in himself and with himself to allow those words out into the open. So the white, blank pages of the little dark red book keep things for him he would never dare to speak out loud.
At sixteen, Jensen comes out to the white blank pages in a little dark red book first.
It takes him another two years to tell his best friend - and even longer to tell his family - by then he’s already in Hollywood and on the way to building a life for himself and no one really cares whether he likes girls and boys.
At least not until he has a manager and agent and prospective roles that might mean everything to him and his new career. The diary is there through it all, keeping him grounded through the first few years. Through the drama and the failures, through his successes and the evolution of his life.
It’s there. Until one day it isn’t anymore.
***
At 23, Jensen gets his first bigger role outside the soap world. Nothing big, just a little scifi. But it pays and it’s good experience. There are scripts he laughs about but still manages to handle gracefully. There are people he’s suddenly close to and gets along with.
He has no need to hide anymore, no need to use the pen as a safety line. He doesn’t need to desperately fill the blank pages anymore so that he doesn’t feel too lonely. For the first time in years he feels like writing is just a thing in his life and not his entire life.
Because at 23, Jensen finally learns to talk.
He learns how to use words, accents, and intonation. Not only in front of the camera but behind it as well. He doesn’t need to write things down to understand them, to imagine them, he’s right in the middle of them. He does keep on writing, songs for friends, lyrics for parts of songs, poems he publishes anonymously and even simple stories just to remember things.
The diary gets lost in Jensen’s life, gets shoved into a box where all the other diaries from years long gone by have been stored. Jensen’s never touched any that are already filled with words and sketches and futile attempts at learning how to be someone different.
Once a book was filled it has lost its purpose. Once a book was filled Jensen rushed to put it away, to get away from the things inside, from the words that are only real on paper. From words that are a little too real sometimes.
His last diary suffers the same fate.
The box vanishes among the things Jensen’s not able to buy and keep. Jensen has a life, can talk, use words that aren’t written, aren’t all that permanent. Paper is no use to him anymore, not when it comes to living his life.
***
At 32, Jensen sits on the floor of his bedroom and tries to sort through his closet. He’s looking for boxes of documents that shouldn’t be hidden somewhere among things accumulated over the years. He’s not sure why he started looking here, but something has been drawing him in.
It’s been a rushed couple of weeks. Jensen feels like he’s losing pieces of himself left and right. He doesn’t know how to stop it, doesn’t know why he feels this way. He shouldn’t be sitting here staring at boxes and boxes of things way past their usefulness.
He should hurry, be in a rush to get out and away from what has become his life. Somehow it’s hard to do just that though. Jensen suddenly wants to stay, doesn’t want to rush down to L.A. and be the man people now know.
Suddenly Jensen just wants to stop, wants to calm down and settle. Maybe only for one day, to get his thoughts together again and figure out why Jared’s announcement has left him off-kilter and so very much confused.
Jared.
The one thing Jensen’s never been able to write about. Not really anyway, just about his feelings not about Jared himself. Because Jared is the one person who Jensen can talk to about everything, who listens and makes Jensen use words in a way he never has before. It’s almost like Jensen finally found the right way to communicate, to be social and a nice person without hiding behind a mask or Hollywood’s typical superficial attitude.
Jared makes him speak, formulate words in his head and then actually say them. Jared also makes him incredibly self-conscious about everything he does. Jensen never shows Jared the songs he wrote with Steve or the poems that are plastered along Jason’s home office. Jensen never does, but Jensen’s friends do. And every time Jared says something nice, praises him, tells him he’d never expect to feel such emotions and depths from simple words, Jensen wants to crawl into a hole.
He can’t bear Jared seeing what’s really on his mind, because Jared is the only one that seems to be able to look through all the walls and barriers Jensen’s erected over the years. Jared’s the one making Jensen feel with just one word, one gesture, one look.
Jared’s the one who makes Jensen want to go and buy a new diary, because for the first time in years Jensen feels like the thoughts and words in his head are too much for him to cope with. For the first time in years, Jensen feels the urge to fill blank white pages with everything he feels and thinks because he can’t say it out loud.
So he sits there and stares at boxes. He sits in his closet in Vancouver when he should be on the way to California to meet up with friends and the woman who’s supposed to be his girlfriend. Only, they haven’t talked in weeks, haven’t said what they usually say when the end a phone call in months.
Jensen feels lost. So very lost and unsure whether it’s him or Jared’s last words before he left.
‘I left her. She wasn’t the one. I thought you should know. Oh and Jen? Love you or Leave you is an awesome song.’
It’s been two weeks since Jared said that, since Jared said that and then left for Texas. Jensen’s been a mess ever since or so he tries to reason with himself. Because if he wasn’t a mess, this wouldn’t affect him so much.
He’s been running around like a headless chicken, rushing from one place to aother and never getting things done. And then his mother had called to ask for documents she was sure he had. Right now he thinks it was an intricate ploy to get him into the closet, which doesn’t make sense, not even to his muddle brain, but then he’s not trying to be logical about his thought process anymore.
His fingers twitch. The urge for a pen, some paper, it’s there and growing stronger with every day that goes by. Every day Jensen doesn’t use to sort things out. He’s supposed to work, use the hiatus to find roles, scripts, future plans. Except all he can think of is how he’ll handle weeks without seeing Jared, how he’ll handle seeing Danneel when there’s nothing he’d want to do more than to tell he it’s not working.
He should write a letter.
Jensen gets up, goes into the living room and wonders why he ever moved out of Jared’s house. Then he remembers the plans they all made last year, the engagement and everything following that.
Jensen writes a letter. One he should have written weeks ago.
***
At 32 and four months, Jensen sits on the floor in front of his closet, staring at boxes again. He still needs to find the documents. He feels lighter, like a burden’s been taken from him. The words are out of his head, on paper, permanent and readable for everyone who wants to. He knows they’ll only reach one other pair of eyes and he still doesn’t really know how to feel about that.
His hand aches a little from where he grabbed the pen too hard, held onto it like it was a lifeline again, a safety blanket that he got rid of years ago because he didn’t need it anymore.
It’s not the same right now, though. Writing isn’t threatening to take over his life, it’s just a means to an end, a way to get things said, to get them done. His written words are composed into paragraphs that explain more than he could have ever said out loud. Still, Jensen also knows he’d been able to say them if necessary, if forced to.
He scrambles half way up to his knees when one of the boxes on the top shelf in the closet starts sliding forward. He’d yanked sheets of papers out from under it several minutes ago and had been sitting there staring at the box since then. Now he has to move, has to act.
Only he’s a little too slow, a little too late. The box tumbles down, taking three others with it. They shower Jensen in old socks and boxers, things he thought he’d thrown away when he moved out of Jared’s place. Apparently not.
He’s hit by socks, paired, even matched, mismatched and multi-colored, old and new (joke gifts from Jared that Jensen’s never worn). Then he just sits and looks at the piles of socks surrounding him. He snorts, giggles and then outright laughs. Jensen sits there and laughs until he sees it.
The diary. The last one he ever dared to touch, to open, to write in. The one that was supposed to stay locked away and be forgotten but had somehow managed to entice Jensen again. He knows what’s in there, knows that the last time he’d written down his thoughts had been exactly one year after he’d met Jared.
The last date is the day Jensen realized how screwed he really was. Once again, the diary had been the only way to say it, to admit it, to confess. The diary had been his only confidant in that matter and Jensen hopes, prays, that it’ll stay like that.
And yet that wasn’t even true. Because Jensen also hoped and pray for things to happen, things that he’d written down and lost control over the second he shut the diary and put it away again. His thoughts are in there, his emotions and confused realizations, his freak out and calm down. Everything.
Everything he’s ever felt for Jared is in there.
Jensen doesn’t know how, but suddenly he’s sitting there amongst hundreds of pairs of socks and has the diary in his hands. The smooth black leather surface feels cool under his fingers, and also familiar. He wants to open it, wants to see if it’s still all in there.
He can’t.
“What, you gonna read your socks a story now?”
Jensen flinches so hard that he’s sure he pulls a muscle in his neck. It hurts like a bitch and his heart’s in his throat when he whips around to glare at Jared.
“Jesus Fucking Christ, Padalecki. You wanna kill me or something?” Jensen knows he’s scowling hard and looking annoyed as fuck, but right now, in his state of mind, he can’t deal with everything all at once. He concentrates on being pissed at Jared.
Jared actually looks chagrined, smiles a slow, sheepish smile and shrugs.
“’M sorry man. But ... you know you could actually answer your phone and tell me where you are. You just vanished, Jensen. Just ... Danneel called me to ask if you where with me. No one knew until your mom said you were still here. So I came back. To check. I was a little freaked, you know. Why are you still here?”
This is so Jared, acting on instinct, talking the same way. Just out with the words and never holding back when he doesn’t think it’s necessary. Jensen’s sometimes a little jealous of that ability, wishes he could do it, could just say what he thinks, what he wants to know.
His heart calms down while he sits there and looks at everything and nothing. His eyes skip to Jared a few times, taking in how exhausted he looks, how tired and worried. Jensen frowns but can’t find the words to express his thoughts. He’s stuck at being 13 or 14 again, shy and introverted, not used to speaking what’s on his mind. It never happened with Jared before. It scares him that it’s happening now.
***
The coffee is fresh, hot on his tongue and it wakes him up a little more. Jensen doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so tired, why he feels worn and drained. But Jared’s there, Jared’s sitting on the couch right next to him, sipping his own cup, talking about how things ended with her and how he just had to go home for a while to think.
Jensen knows what he means. Only, Jensen didn’t go home, Jensen stayed right where he was and if he’s honest, he didn’t really do a lot of actual thinking. He just mulled, played with ideas, created words and sentences in his head that fit the situation, fit his feelings. But he didn’t really think about the meaning of them or why he was thinking them in the first place.
Except it’s all happening now. Jensen thinks, about Jared being there, being worried. About the letter he wrote and wonders when it’ll reach its destination. About how easy it would be to just start talking, to just tell Jared what’s on his mind, to tell him how confusing everything is right now. He wants to tell Jared that it was unfair of him to say what he did and then leave, taking the chance away from Jensen to answer, to think, and to realize that maybe, maybe he isn’t alone in this.
But Jensen’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth and even the coffee can’t take away the block that’s suddenly there between his brain and his mouth. Something that usually wasn’t the problem between Jared and him. Never before.
Jensen’s fingers twitch again. He needs a pen, needs paper and a quite corner. But he can’t run out on Jared like this, can’t just disappear.
“So, you were reading to your socks?” Jared sounds amused but Jensen can hear the underlying concerning, the worry swinging along the words.
“Nah.. was looking for something for mom. I ... just ... I didn’t feel like going home. Needed time to think. And she called, wanted documents. I dunno why I started looking there. Socks kinda attacked me. Found the box with my diaries though.”
He’s never told Jared about them. Only ever said that he used to write a lot when he was younger because he wasn’t so good with talking. Jared knows about that, just not about the diaries. Jensen feels just a tiny bit pathetic then.
“Diaries? This where you put your thoughts? Figure it would be books. You like books.” Jared sounds interested and unsure, like he doesn’t know what’s going on either. Jensen feels relieved for reasons he can’t comprehend just yet.
“Yeah. I ... They were there. Places to put my words in. Words I could never say. Haven’t touched them in years. Didn’t need them. I just ... it was strange to see them there. Because right now I think I could use a blank page and a pen.”
Jared stays silent for a long time. So long that Jensen starts to fidget, starts to think he shouldn’t have said anything. Because Jared, after all, is the one person who can see through him. Jared’s the only one who knows what Jensen’s thinking because he’s always listening so very carefully, like he might miss something hidden, something not said out loud.
When he speaks again, Jensen tries not to jump, tries not to let on how nervous he suddenly is. There’s no reason to be but Jensen is.
“It’s me, right? I made you want to write instead of talk. What I said, how I left. I’m sorry. I.. I shouldn’t have,” Jared sounds broken then, lost and small. And it’s something Jensen can’t stand, never could.
It’s the first time in ages that he doesn’t take writing over talking, instead he just acts. He pulls Jared closer and just sort of melts into him, into the embrace, into Jared’s arms that come up around him.
Jensen gaze falls on the black leather cover of the book in the coffee table. He’s not sure why he brought it in with him, probably just a reflex. He had it in his hands when Jared dragged him out of the closet and yes Jensen is fully aware of the irony, even though he isn’t really sure if that’s what is happening here.
“Not really you. Just ... the situation? I … I wrote a letter. To Danneel.”
Jared’s chest hitches under Jensen’s cheek. Jensen didn’t even realize that he slumped down this much.
“To whom?”
“Danneel. I … should have done it earlier. Should have talked but ....”
“But the words where missing? Stuck in your head and not coming out?”
“Yes.”
Sometimes Jensen really wonders if Jared’s reading his mind and if he should be freaked out by how well Jared knows him. But then it works the other way round as well.
“What’s happening here, Jared? I … feel it. I know. I just. It’s …”
Jared pulls him even closer. Jensen feels lips being pressed against his hair, feels his fingers twitch again and ideas taking hold in his mind. There are lines of words being put together, words that sound like tunes, lyrics and poems. Jensen wants to say it all out loud, wants to write it down as well.
But he just listens to Jared breathe, lets the rhythm calm him down.
“I think ... well I guess this is me coming to my senses.”
“Whataya mean?”
Jared shrugs a little, not enough to dislodge Jensen but enough for Jensen to feel it. And suddenly Jensen realizes what they are doing, something they’ve never done before.
“This feels awfully close to cuddling,” he blurts out, because that happens sometimes, too. Jensen has moments when he can’t hold the words back, when they just get out. Usually it doesn’t do much damage, right now he’s not sure what to expect.
Jared snots. So Jared-like and typical that Jensen grins.
“Was wondering when you’d realize it. God … seems like I’ve got you twisted pretty good. I’m sorry Jen. I … You know, Steve showed me all the songs you wrote for him.”
Jensen blinks. That’s new. Not unexpected seeing as Steve’s kinda proud of Jensen’s song writing skills but it’s still not something Jensen thought would happen.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Uhm … I asked him. I heard one of the songs, they’re all over the internet. I wanted to know more. He told me what you were like; always writing, on pages, on napkins, in your diary. I wondered what changed, since I never saw you doing it.”
Jared’s right. Jensen didn’t need to hide behind pages and pens when he was with Jared. He tells him as much, tries to tell him what it’s like when he feels the urge to write, when it usually happens. How the words spill out, take over, make it impossible to stop.
He sits there, cuddled close to Jared and doesn’t feel one tiny bit pathetic about it. He sits in his living room and tells Jared about his writing, when he started, what it meant, which secrets the books hold. Every secret, save one. This one has to be told with words directed to Jared. But first Jensen has another question.
***
It’s dark when Jensen wakes up. He can’t remember falling asleep, can’t remember when Jared moved them so that they were lying on the whole length of the couch instead of just slouching on the edge of it. What he remembers, though, is asking Jared what he meant when he said he was coming to his senses.
A smile pulls at his lips when he thinks about Jared’s answer, realizes that this was what he’d been looking for when he started searching his closet. The diaries, the words, the one secret calling out to him. Or at least, Jensen felt like they did. Like maybe it had been time to come clean, to spill and tell and talk. Maybe it had been time and Jared making the first step had been the one thing that pushed Jensen back, indirectly looking for the place where his thoughts, feelings and ideas where stored.
‘I fell in love with your words. With the songs Steve showed me, with the lines and lyrics and emotions. I fell in love and realized I had been all along. Those words on the paper, the songs, that’s what you usually say to me, you tell me things, talk to me. Steve, he never knew you’d say those things, only ever saw your songs. I heard you say them, heard you talk. It’s you I was falling for. You and your words.’
The black leather book sits next to the couch, on the floor now. Not on the table anymore.
Jared’s words were left hanging in the room, between them, for a while. Jared anxious, fidgety all of a sudden. Jensen, caught in a serene calmness he’d never known before. It was going fast and then it wasn’t. This had been happening for years, slow and undetected, hidden from eyes and words, only to be right there, right on the surface of things. On the surface and also deep down.
Everything had been right there. It only had to be said out loud and then be recognized. So Jensen just gave Jared the diary. The one that wasn’t full and wasn’t meant to be ever opened again, only now there was a reason to open it, to show the pages, to free the words and let them be seen.
Now Jensen couldn’t speak because was enthralled by Jared’s words, Jared emotions. So he let Jared read, take in everything Jensen has ever wanted to say, to tell him, to shout out loud. Words on white paper, repressed in Jensen’s mind until he couldn’t bear it anymore.
Jensen’s been scared, anxious, nervous and basically not able to look away from Jared while he reads. Then Jared closed the book, swallowed, opened it again and read every single page for a second time. Then for a third and a fourth. Like he needed time to process, the words and their meaning. Like he needed to understand what they meant for him, for them. Jensen got it, but he was ready to burst out of his skin by the time Jared dropped the book onto the floor.
Tension was crackling between them, anxious and charged, Jensen waiting for an answer, a reaction. But Jared’s caught up in sorting out his thoughts, formulating and stopping, opening his mouth, closing it again, thinking and frowning and finally moving. And then answer Jensen got was more than he’d hoped for and everything he’d prayed for. In both words and actions.
“This is beautiful. You’re beautiful. God, so much wasted time.”
Jared never gave Jensen the chance to use words to answer. Their lips meeting, their tongues battling, their teeth nipping, all this was way better than any kind of words, written or spoken.
Jared nuzzles against Jensen’s neck, makes Jensen twitch and smile. Sock-clad feet rub against Jensen’s bare ones and make him hitch a breath. There will be words. They have to talk, but right now Jensen’s content enough to let it all go, to let his mind settle. To let the urge to write, to scream, and to scratch the paper with his pen settle into the back of his mind. Jared is distraction enough.
Jared is simply enough.
“Sleep, Jen. We both need it.”
Jensen can only agree, settling down more comfortably while trying not to wonder why they haven’t moved to the bed. Before the thought is completely finished in his mind, Jensen’s asleep again. No more words needed right now.
At 32 and four months, Jensen has found the right balance between spoken words and written lines.