Fic: Good Buddy (SPN RPF, J2, 1100+ words, R)
Title: Good Buddy
Fandom: SPN RPF
Rating: R
Pairing: J2
Characters: Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki
Warnings: None
AO3 link
Summary: Jared and Jensen make the drive up to Vancouver for the start of the season. Jensen's bought them two-way radios and Jared's getting ideas.
Author's note: Ahem yeah so if you've watched the videos from Vancon then you might be aware of this discussion. After which this fic became pretty much inevitable.
The title is also a CB radio term. Those unfamiliar might wanna consult this handy dictionary. Thanks to Becky for the beta!
They’re somewhere in the south of Oregon, heading north up I-5, when the two-way radio in Jensen’s passenger seat crackles into life.
“Breaker, breaker,” Jared says. “BZZT BZZT.”
Jensen swipes at the radio with his right hand, keeping his left on the wheel. “You don’t have to make the crackling noise yourself, dumbass,” he says. What a dork. More’n halfway into this two-day drive and Jared’s still giddy over his brand-new toy.
Of course, Jensen would be lying if he said that wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting. So fuckin’ stupid, he’d thought to himself, handing over a crumpled fifty to the spotty Best Buy cashier; and at the same time, with absolute certainty, Jared’s gonna eat this shit up. Which of course did absolutely nothing to help his case. Jensen’s not exactly sure what’s more embarrassing: Jared’s gleeful insistence on using (probably inaccurate) truck-driver slang, or the fact that he, Jensen, is so gone for his co-star that he spent the last morning of his precious summer vacation in a big-box retailer buying a pair of walkie-talkies just to make Jared laugh.
“BZZT,” says Jared, again, reasserting his presence.
“I’m listening,” Jensen says; and when Jared coughs, “Uh… Roger? Wilco?”
“That’s military radio,” Jared tells him. And then, “Look out the window, over on the left.”
Jensen looks, out past the treetops outlined in green against the bright blue sky. Above them, a black shape is hovering, huge and almost motionless, its wings wide and still.
“Bald eagle,” says Jared, staticky and pleased. “Pretty fucking sweet, right?”
Jensen glances at his rearview mirror. Even with a good twenty foot of distance between them, it’s easy to make out the white flash of Jared’s smile.
“Very cool,” he says.
They lapse into silence for a little while after that. Every now and again, Jensen flicks his eyes upward just to see Jared behind him, his tan arm resting on the edge of his truck’s open window, his head bopping to the beat of some music that Jensen can’t quite hear. It’s not much, the separation of a few yards of highway, but it feels kinda emblematic; leaving Jensen nostalgic for the summer just gone. It’s not like they’re not gonna be together in Vancouver. It’s just not quite the same: working long hours through the dark Canadian winter, struggling in the evenings to shake off the lingering influence of the Winchesters, all that angst and emotional inarticulacy somehow clogging the air. Add to which, it looks from the scripts they’ve been sent so far like the boys are fighting. That always makes things weird. And. Well. Whatever. It’s not that odd for Jensen to feel a little melancholic at the loss of Jared’s naked skin in the afternoon light, of long lazy sunny fucked-out days. It’s not sappy. Really it’s just good sense. But it weighs in his stomach like something more.
Just as he’s starting to really feel the ache of it, “BZZT,” goes his radio again. “I’m hungry,” Jared says.
“You’re not serious,” Jensen says. On one level, this is not a surprise. Jensen has never met anybody who eats as much as Jared: the kid will wolf down two full-sized entrees and then look around for the main event. On the other hand, it was less than two hours ago that he watched Jared put away a truly obscene quantity of pancakes at an IHOP somewhere outside Redding. Like, substantial double figures obscene. There were moments when Jensen had genuinely feared for the long-term prospects of Jared’s waistband. So, surely. Even Jare.
On the radio, Jared clears his throat. “No, Jensen,” he says. It’s half a whine. Then, deeper and more throaty, “I’m hungry,” he says.
“Oh,” says Jensen. “Oh.” He tightens his fingers on the wheel.
The radio fritzes and then Jared’s voice comes through again, suddenly loud against the quiet of Jensen’s held breath. “For your cock, I mean.”
Jensen breathes out on a laugh. “Yeah thanks, 10-4 on that one,” he says.
“Oh good,” says Jared. He shifts back into a lower register. “So… what are we gonna do about it?”
Jensen’s not exactly sure. In a way, it’s just as ridiculous as the other thing. Jared might not quite have had a Jensen all-you-can-eat for breakfast, but they did fuck this morning, and twice last night, in a creaking bed in a water-stained motel that made Jensen think, inevitably and inappropriately, of Sam-slash-Dean. So. Hungry is as hungry does. But somehow it’s suddenly a lot harder to be the responsible adult (and yeah maybe that might relate to the fact that Jensen is also suddenly a lot, y’know, harder himself). After all, this time tomorrow they’ll be back in Vancouver. This feels oddly like the last day they have.
Jared seems to take his silence as an invitation to continue. “Wish I was in the car with you right now,” he says, conversationally. “I could just slide along the seat and unzip your pants, get you in my mouth right there.”
“If you wanted to cause a fucking car crash, maybe,” Jensen says. But it’s a pretty good fantasy, Jared contorted across the seat and the footwell, swallowing him down with the trees flying past outside. He runs his tongue over his lips. “Go on,” he says.
“Guess I’d take it kinda slow,” Jared says. The drawl that creeps into his voice when he’s dirty-talking like this never fails to make Jensen crazy. “Real slow and thorough. So I could taste you.”
“Yeah,” says Jensen, and he’s kind of through pretending that he doesn’t find this hot. He shifts in his seat a little. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
“Gonna get my tongue all over you,” Jared says.
“Yeah,” Jensen says. “Your tongue. And your hands on my thighs.” He shifts again, considering it. “My fingers in your hair. You like that.” It’s an understatement. There’s almost nothing that Jared likes more. Earlier in the summer, Jensen spent a whole afternoon just playing with Jared’s hair, tugging on it or twisting it around his fingers, scratching his nails over Jared’s scalp. Jared had started out giggly, got steadily more flushed and more intense, and finally (after Jensen gave in and started jacking him off) had come rapidly, violently and with a strangled kind of moan that Jensen still finds himself reliving in idle moments (in the line at Best Buy).
“Jensen?” says Jared, suddenly sharp. “You’re in the middle of the fuckin’ road.”
Jesus. Jensen swings the wheel, rights himself just in time. A car whizzes past beside him, blasting its horn. “Maybe we should pull over,” he says.
“Affirmative,” Jared says. “BZZT.”