look both ways, ja/sc, R
Title: Look Both Ways.
Pairing: Jensen/Steve
Rating: R
AN: okay so this one feels weird, and it’s pretty slow, but I like it and hope you will too. Feedback would be much love.
fade in, cut to, close up.
Steve’s return ticket to Vancouver is still in his pocket; dog eared and stark against the blue denim of his jeans. It was one of those things, Chris liked to call them seizures, unplanned and unprepared; his suitcase full of dirty clothes, notepads for his songs. Far from Cali but close to home, anyway, and Jensen would be pleased to see him if he had the time.
Distant clouds rumble, whites and greys and silver, and there’s that scent, Steve doesn’t often smell, that hope of rain. Of new. They spend Jensen’s spare five minutes on his trailer steps, passing coffee back and forth, voices like babbling brooks. Jensen’s moving upstream, kicks out a foot. Here’s something.
Steve knows it won’t be tangible, doesn’t look back. Yeah?
I always wanted to draw.
So draw.
Fuck no. I stink. I always wished I could.
Fucking figures. Steve guides stray hair back round his ear. It’s getting too long. You artistic types. Your hunger's never sated.
Pot meet kettle.
Jensen’s lace is undone and Steve flicks it once, moves on. I’m a two bit country singer hanging off Kane’s coat tails.
Fuck off, Jensen curses through his laughter, obviously thinks that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week.
True story. I’m also loving every minute.
Jensen waves off an approaching PA, some pretty little girl with shiny hair and too-big clothes. Steve watches as she waddles away, her boots sloshing in the mud, speckling the bottom of her jeans. He turns back and Jensen’s looking over, looking for something. So you never want for anything, huh?
Steve shrugs. Somewhere behind them, fake lives are becoming real, people moving, going, doing. He has five days and idly wonders how he’ll fill them, who he should talk to about sightseeing, doubts Jensen sees more than this most the time.
He doesn’t consider buying an umbrella.
If I want something I just go get it.
compress time, dissolve, birds eye
Steve’s in old jeans and that green shirt Kane’s always stealing, frayed at the sleeves; his brown coat freckled with rain drops. He just stands there as the sky slowly opens and the gentle pit pat strengthens, pours. This is an old buried feeling, his nose pink with cold, rain water drawing the salt of his skin. Been a while since he’s tasted that on himself, not someone else.
When the boys are done, Jensen’s standing undercover with his arms folded, and Jared’s running circles round Steve, giggling, his dogs yapping at his heels. Jared’s saying, you want some lunch man? and you should try the chicken, man! and how long are you staying, we need to go get drunk. Steve watches as Jared flicks his hair from side to side, how it sticks to his neck and forehead and clumps at the back.
Steve says, I like sushi. You got sushi? because he came straight from Jensen’s place, and the dude needs to shop, yesterday. Nothing but crusty plates and a half eaten box of Wheaties, out of date. Jared laughs and looks over at Jensen, who's frowning. He’s been frowning all day and Steve’s not used to it, he doesn’t like it.
Sushi, Jen? Jared’s voice is laced with laughter. Jensen’s unamused, turns on Steve.
What do you want sushi for?
Sustenance, Steve says.
Jensen scowls and Steve wonders if he’s been practising that one. He’s getting good. Fucking, eat the chicken.
Steve looks at Jensen, who's gaze doesn’t falter; looks over to Jared who's standing there, brow skyward, eyelashes speckled with rain. He shrugs. His make up’s running. Steve looks back again. Did I do something wrong?
No. You’re just not in Kansas any more, okay Dorothy?
Steve decides he’s not in the mood for spectacles, starts to walk over to Jensen while Jared mutters something that sounds like, I thought you were from California? Jensen unfolds his arms and steps back, once, boots scraping in the dirt. Steve can’t see his freckles, but sees the outline of his contacts; sees how the muscle of his jaw flexes in protest.
Am I unwelcome?
Jensen sighs, rubs at his face with a weary hand. You’re never unwelcome.
So what’s the problem? Bad day at work? Steve looks back at Jared who plays in the mud with his dogs, oblivious to the state of his clothes or the two men bickering behind him. Want some time alone with your boy?
Jensen lets out a snort and shakes his head, and he looks tired, run down, older. Sure, whatever. You want sushi, we’ll get you sushi.
wide angle, soft, and tilted.
Steve’s played to crowds like this before. Not as game as the south, and not as edgy as home; not on borrowed time, not running to catch up. There’s four walls and a lot of booze but it still feels different; looks and smells and sounds. Jensen’s sitting as close to him as physics allows without being on top; and Steve can feel the way his thigh bops to the music. Take It Easy.
Jared’s sitting across from them talking to a stage hand, Billy or Bobby or Brett; it starts with B. Crazy stories Jensen hasn’t told him yet, Jared’s laughter a pitch only his dogs could hear, and his giant hands slapping the table for effect. Jensen sighs heavily, and it’s the third time in two minutes. The light on Steve’s face flickers as people go by, black white, black white. His beer’s warm.
Let’s go, Jensen says, and he’s saying not asking because he’s up on his feet. Jared stops with his story.
It’s 9.30 you pussy.
Steve’s home tomorrow and you’re boring him.
Jared looks at Steve. When he gets no reaction, he says, Fuck off, and pushes past Brad to see to Jensen. Steve likes to watch them, the easy way they run together, like colours bleeding. Jared’s hands frame Jensen’s whole face and his thumbs graze cheeks back and forth. Jensen rolls his eyes as Jared says, Let me see you.
Steve smirks, standing up himself, because Jensen said they’re going and that’s basically it. What’s the verdict Doc?
Serious case of Bullshit. Have him take two aspirin and call me in the morning.
Jensen shrugs him off and fails, Jared grabbing him into a hug, wrapping one leg right around him. Jensen can’t resist, hugs back for a moment, before pushing off with a lazy hand. Jared’s given up anyway. He just laughs and says, You crazy kids have fun, now, and Jensen has the bottom of Steve’s shirt in his hand to guide him through the crowds.
Steve lifts his arm up in the air as goodbye, bumping with elbows and hips into the people all around them. No-one tries to stop them, no-one looks at Jensen and mistakes him for Dean Winchester. No-one gives a flying fuck and it’s nice.
Steve smiles.
track in, two shot, backlight.
Steve doesn’t ask their driver to slow down. He wants the driver to slow down, he just doesn’t ask. He wants to take a good look round, remember the street names and the faces of the people who walk them. He wants to remember the colour of the rain where it puddles in the pavement, and the neon lights reflecting in his window. He wants to take a piece of Vancouver with him, he just hasn’t decided which one.
Jensen’s just looking at his thumb, picking the cuticle, scratching at the skin as if it’s dried glue he can’t get off. Steve rests a hand on Jensen’s and leaves it there the rest of the way back, Jensen breathing out and throwing his head back on the seat, closing his eyes. The car’s radio is playing Tangerine, and the indicator blinks amber as they make the last turn into Jensen’s street.
Inside, Steve’s jacket is on the back of a chair, the content of his pockets emptied onto the table. Ben loaned him a cigarette lighter, black and blue, the name of some hotel on the front. Steve turns to Jensen who's sitting on the sofa, taking his boots off.
You think hotels give out lighters for the afterglow?
Jensen grunts. The what?
Sex, Jensen.
Donno.
Steve sits down beside his friend, toes off his boots, kicks his feet up. He sits for a moment, watching the TV remote, wondering if Vancouver programming is any better than the US. Decides, no.
Why did you come here? Jensen pretends to inquire, but inquiries can go either way and Steve has no rights to remain silent. Jensen has his elbows on his knees and his head tilted up, enough to glare at Steve intently. He looks weighed down by nothing.
I had the money.
To do what? See Vancouver? Because all you’ve done is hang about set and ask stupid questions.
Steve shifts and resettles. He can’t remember the last time Jensen was so hostile with him, sharp edged words like the silver sword of a Winchester. They’ve been apart too long. I always thought there were no stupid questions.
There are, and you covered most of them while you were here.
What’s wrong with you?
Jensen sits up. You don’t know?
If I knew I wouldn’t ask.
Jensen growls and it sounds like it comes from deep in his gut, clawing it’s way up. He all but scrambles over to Steve, throws one leg over him, thrusts out a hand rough, catching skin, resting at Steve’s ear. His grip is firm and their foreheads almost touch, eyes mixing, flavoured with lust.
Touch me, asshole. Why haven’t you touched me yet?
take ten, replay, and focus.
Steve has his hand wrapped round Jensen’s cock, hard and heavy and wet and, somehow, the same. Still the same old Jensen. Jensen mutters into Steve’s ear as Steve brings him closer to the brink, just messy and crude and they’re both relearning the steps, never got very far in the first place.
Fucking idiot, Jensen says, words feverish, Too lost in your own world, wouldn’t look at me, wanted you, wanted this, five days. and he’s thrusting, grinding his hips and urging Steve on, and for the first time since arriving Steve looks, sees Jensen and understands.
I gave up on you, long time ago, Steve admits and he’s losing his own breath now, Jensen’s taking it away. Thought you and Jared … thought a lot of things.
Fucking idiot, Jensen repeats, and a few more awkward strokes he’s down and out, coming with a restrained cry, Jensen always restraining. Head on Steve’s shoulder, his breath is the first warm thing Steve’s felt since arriving, and it’s sinking into him, pooling in his stomach, leaving something, bliss.
Jensen is unbuttoning Steve’s jeans hastily, asking, you want? and not needing an answer. He’s kissing at Steve’s neck, hungry, biting, up and up to take Steve’s mouth and Steve’s just open, kissing back, all mouth and teeth and tongue, just taking it. He’s taking it with him.
Steve says, yeah, yeah I do, but Jensen’s already there.
to black.
Pairing: Jensen/Steve
Rating: R
AN: okay so this one feels weird, and it’s pretty slow, but I like it and hope you will too. Feedback would be much love.
fade in, cut to, close up.
Steve’s return ticket to Vancouver is still in his pocket; dog eared and stark against the blue denim of his jeans. It was one of those things, Chris liked to call them seizures, unplanned and unprepared; his suitcase full of dirty clothes, notepads for his songs. Far from Cali but close to home, anyway, and Jensen would be pleased to see him if he had the time.
Distant clouds rumble, whites and greys and silver, and there’s that scent, Steve doesn’t often smell, that hope of rain. Of new. They spend Jensen’s spare five minutes on his trailer steps, passing coffee back and forth, voices like babbling brooks. Jensen’s moving upstream, kicks out a foot. Here’s something.
Steve knows it won’t be tangible, doesn’t look back. Yeah?
I always wanted to draw.
So draw.
Fuck no. I stink. I always wished I could.
Fucking figures. Steve guides stray hair back round his ear. It’s getting too long. You artistic types. Your hunger's never sated.
Pot meet kettle.
Jensen’s lace is undone and Steve flicks it once, moves on. I’m a two bit country singer hanging off Kane’s coat tails.
Fuck off, Jensen curses through his laughter, obviously thinks that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week.
True story. I’m also loving every minute.
Jensen waves off an approaching PA, some pretty little girl with shiny hair and too-big clothes. Steve watches as she waddles away, her boots sloshing in the mud, speckling the bottom of her jeans. He turns back and Jensen’s looking over, looking for something. So you never want for anything, huh?
Steve shrugs. Somewhere behind them, fake lives are becoming real, people moving, going, doing. He has five days and idly wonders how he’ll fill them, who he should talk to about sightseeing, doubts Jensen sees more than this most the time.
He doesn’t consider buying an umbrella.
If I want something I just go get it.
compress time, dissolve, birds eye
Steve’s in old jeans and that green shirt Kane’s always stealing, frayed at the sleeves; his brown coat freckled with rain drops. He just stands there as the sky slowly opens and the gentle pit pat strengthens, pours. This is an old buried feeling, his nose pink with cold, rain water drawing the salt of his skin. Been a while since he’s tasted that on himself, not someone else.
When the boys are done, Jensen’s standing undercover with his arms folded, and Jared’s running circles round Steve, giggling, his dogs yapping at his heels. Jared’s saying, you want some lunch man? and you should try the chicken, man! and how long are you staying, we need to go get drunk. Steve watches as Jared flicks his hair from side to side, how it sticks to his neck and forehead and clumps at the back.
Steve says, I like sushi. You got sushi? because he came straight from Jensen’s place, and the dude needs to shop, yesterday. Nothing but crusty plates and a half eaten box of Wheaties, out of date. Jared laughs and looks over at Jensen, who's frowning. He’s been frowning all day and Steve’s not used to it, he doesn’t like it.
Sushi, Jen? Jared’s voice is laced with laughter. Jensen’s unamused, turns on Steve.
What do you want sushi for?
Sustenance, Steve says.
Jensen scowls and Steve wonders if he’s been practising that one. He’s getting good. Fucking, eat the chicken.
Steve looks at Jensen, who's gaze doesn’t falter; looks over to Jared who's standing there, brow skyward, eyelashes speckled with rain. He shrugs. His make up’s running. Steve looks back again. Did I do something wrong?
No. You’re just not in Kansas any more, okay Dorothy?
Steve decides he’s not in the mood for spectacles, starts to walk over to Jensen while Jared mutters something that sounds like, I thought you were from California? Jensen unfolds his arms and steps back, once, boots scraping in the dirt. Steve can’t see his freckles, but sees the outline of his contacts; sees how the muscle of his jaw flexes in protest.
Am I unwelcome?
Jensen sighs, rubs at his face with a weary hand. You’re never unwelcome.
So what’s the problem? Bad day at work? Steve looks back at Jared who plays in the mud with his dogs, oblivious to the state of his clothes or the two men bickering behind him. Want some time alone with your boy?
Jensen lets out a snort and shakes his head, and he looks tired, run down, older. Sure, whatever. You want sushi, we’ll get you sushi.
wide angle, soft, and tilted.
Steve’s played to crowds like this before. Not as game as the south, and not as edgy as home; not on borrowed time, not running to catch up. There’s four walls and a lot of booze but it still feels different; looks and smells and sounds. Jensen’s sitting as close to him as physics allows without being on top; and Steve can feel the way his thigh bops to the music. Take It Easy.
Jared’s sitting across from them talking to a stage hand, Billy or Bobby or Brett; it starts with B. Crazy stories Jensen hasn’t told him yet, Jared’s laughter a pitch only his dogs could hear, and his giant hands slapping the table for effect. Jensen sighs heavily, and it’s the third time in two minutes. The light on Steve’s face flickers as people go by, black white, black white. His beer’s warm.
Let’s go, Jensen says, and he’s saying not asking because he’s up on his feet. Jared stops with his story.
It’s 9.30 you pussy.
Steve’s home tomorrow and you’re boring him.
Jared looks at Steve. When he gets no reaction, he says, Fuck off, and pushes past Brad to see to Jensen. Steve likes to watch them, the easy way they run together, like colours bleeding. Jared’s hands frame Jensen’s whole face and his thumbs graze cheeks back and forth. Jensen rolls his eyes as Jared says, Let me see you.
Steve smirks, standing up himself, because Jensen said they’re going and that’s basically it. What’s the verdict Doc?
Serious case of Bullshit. Have him take two aspirin and call me in the morning.
Jensen shrugs him off and fails, Jared grabbing him into a hug, wrapping one leg right around him. Jensen can’t resist, hugs back for a moment, before pushing off with a lazy hand. Jared’s given up anyway. He just laughs and says, You crazy kids have fun, now, and Jensen has the bottom of Steve’s shirt in his hand to guide him through the crowds.
Steve lifts his arm up in the air as goodbye, bumping with elbows and hips into the people all around them. No-one tries to stop them, no-one looks at Jensen and mistakes him for Dean Winchester. No-one gives a flying fuck and it’s nice.
Steve smiles.
track in, two shot, backlight.
Steve doesn’t ask their driver to slow down. He wants the driver to slow down, he just doesn’t ask. He wants to take a good look round, remember the street names and the faces of the people who walk them. He wants to remember the colour of the rain where it puddles in the pavement, and the neon lights reflecting in his window. He wants to take a piece of Vancouver with him, he just hasn’t decided which one.
Jensen’s just looking at his thumb, picking the cuticle, scratching at the skin as if it’s dried glue he can’t get off. Steve rests a hand on Jensen’s and leaves it there the rest of the way back, Jensen breathing out and throwing his head back on the seat, closing his eyes. The car’s radio is playing Tangerine, and the indicator blinks amber as they make the last turn into Jensen’s street.
Inside, Steve’s jacket is on the back of a chair, the content of his pockets emptied onto the table. Ben loaned him a cigarette lighter, black and blue, the name of some hotel on the front. Steve turns to Jensen who's sitting on the sofa, taking his boots off.
You think hotels give out lighters for the afterglow?
Jensen grunts. The what?
Sex, Jensen.
Donno.
Steve sits down beside his friend, toes off his boots, kicks his feet up. He sits for a moment, watching the TV remote, wondering if Vancouver programming is any better than the US. Decides, no.
Why did you come here? Jensen pretends to inquire, but inquiries can go either way and Steve has no rights to remain silent. Jensen has his elbows on his knees and his head tilted up, enough to glare at Steve intently. He looks weighed down by nothing.
I had the money.
To do what? See Vancouver? Because all you’ve done is hang about set and ask stupid questions.
Steve shifts and resettles. He can’t remember the last time Jensen was so hostile with him, sharp edged words like the silver sword of a Winchester. They’ve been apart too long. I always thought there were no stupid questions.
There are, and you covered most of them while you were here.
What’s wrong with you?
Jensen sits up. You don’t know?
If I knew I wouldn’t ask.
Jensen growls and it sounds like it comes from deep in his gut, clawing it’s way up. He all but scrambles over to Steve, throws one leg over him, thrusts out a hand rough, catching skin, resting at Steve’s ear. His grip is firm and their foreheads almost touch, eyes mixing, flavoured with lust.
Touch me, asshole. Why haven’t you touched me yet?
take ten, replay, and focus.
Steve has his hand wrapped round Jensen’s cock, hard and heavy and wet and, somehow, the same. Still the same old Jensen. Jensen mutters into Steve’s ear as Steve brings him closer to the brink, just messy and crude and they’re both relearning the steps, never got very far in the first place.
Fucking idiot, Jensen says, words feverish, Too lost in your own world, wouldn’t look at me, wanted you, wanted this, five days. and he’s thrusting, grinding his hips and urging Steve on, and for the first time since arriving Steve looks, sees Jensen and understands.
I gave up on you, long time ago, Steve admits and he’s losing his own breath now, Jensen’s taking it away. Thought you and Jared … thought a lot of things.
Fucking idiot, Jensen repeats, and a few more awkward strokes he’s down and out, coming with a restrained cry, Jensen always restraining. Head on Steve’s shoulder, his breath is the first warm thing Steve’s felt since arriving, and it’s sinking into him, pooling in his stomach, leaving something, bliss.
Jensen is unbuttoning Steve’s jeans hastily, asking, you want? and not needing an answer. He’s kissing at Steve’s neck, hungry, biting, up and up to take Steve’s mouth and Steve’s just open, kissing back, all mouth and teeth and tongue, just taking it. He’s taking it with him.
Steve says, yeah, yeah I do, but Jensen’s already there.
to black.