RPS advent fic - Many Worlds
I wrote RPS for rps_advent, and here it is!
Fandom and Pairing: CW: Jensen Ackles/Sam Winchester
Prompt: Crossover with a fictional character
Your name: wesleysgirl
Fic title: Many Worlds
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~5,700 words
Thanks to bethynyc for the constant hand-holding and encouragement, and to bethynyc, ladybug218 and eponin10 for the betas/proofreading.
Jensen has a raging headache when he wakes up. It's all he can do not to roll over and puke, but as soon as he groans there's a hand on his arm -- and he went to bed last night alone, didn't he? He'd swear he did -- squeezing, and an urgent voice talking way too fucking loud in his ear, and that's it. He pulls away, staggers toward a bathroom he doesn't remember either, and manages to get somewhere in the vicinity of the toilet before he hurls.
"Jesus, Dean," someone says. If Jensen wasn't so busy throwing up stuff he ate so long ago he'd forgotten about it, he'd wonder about that being weird. By the time he's done puking, his sinuses burning and his eyes watering, he feels like dying.
"What the hell?" It's got to be Jared, because who the hell else would it be, but he sounds way more worried than a night of getting plastered warrants. There's this whole thing where Jensen doesn't actually remember getting drunk the night before, though. "Come on, Dean. Let me -- " A cold washcloth swipes at Jensen's mouth, and he yanks it away from Jared and throws it irritably at the wall.
"Leave me alone, Jared," he slurs. The headache, thank fuck, is relaxing its vicious band around his temples, and he can think again. A little bit. "And stop calling me Dean."
This is where Jared's supposed to retort that at least he remembers to call Jensen Dean during scenes, unlike Jensen, who's always slipping and saying Jared instead of Sam. People swear there was one time editing didn't catch it and his fuck-up made it into the final cut, but Jensen doesn't believe it. Not that's he's actually sat down and watched any of the episodes with more than half his attention, because it's a job, not an obsession. He's got better stuff to do with the time he spends off set, or so he tells himself.
He swallows and opens his eyes when the headache slides away. His mouth tastes like puke. "Either I got drunk enough last night that I don't remember anything, or I'm coming down with the mother of all stomach bugs," he says. Jared looks worried. "Or maybe it was food poisoning. What the fuck did I eat?"
"You don't remember," Jared says, and yeah, that's worry in his voice.
"No shit I don't remember, dude. That's what I just said." Jensen levers himself up off the floor, shrugging off Jared's help, and leans over the sink.
"Are you gonna hurl again?" Jared asks. That, at least, sounds more like him.
Jensen inhales slowly between his teeth. "God, I hope not," he says.
"Come on and sit down," Jared says, sliding an arm around Jensen's waist. It's way touchier than they ever are off set, but Jensen's shaky enough that he's grateful for the support as they go back out into a hotel room he doesn't remember at all.
He sits down on the bed, the mattress squeaking in protest, and leans forward. "What the hell is going on?"
"Good question," Jared says.
"Did I -- did I hit my head or something?" Jensen runs his hand over his hair, feeling for lumps or blood or whatever might clear this up, but there's nothing.
"You were fine when we went to sleep." Jared says. He's watching Jensen carefully. "Dean -- "
"Stop calling me that," Jensen says. He wants to shout it, to get angry, but he's still feeling pretty woozy and yelling will probably just make his head hurt again.
"What do you want me to call you?" Jared asks.
"Jensen. My name is Jensen. Dean's just a character on a stupid TV show, and I'm starting to think that you're the one who hit his head."
"A character on a TV show?" Jared looks wary, confused.
"Dude," Jensen says. "Maybe someone slipped something into our drinks last night, because I don't even know where we are."
"We're in Wisconsin. Right outside Fitchburg." Jared's still standing there, but after a minute he sits down heavily on the other bed. He's wearing a thin, worn t-shirt and cotton pants with a drawstring waist that look more like something from wardrobe than what he'd usually wear. "I don't know, Dee -- " He catches himself, stops, then starts again. "I don't know. It could be something lingering from before, I guess."
"From before what? Jesus, Jared. Try making some sense."
"I'm Sam," Jared says, with enough desperation in his voice that Jensen is taken aback. "I'll call you Jensen if you want me to, but you have to call me Sam. Who the hell is Jared?"
Jensen looks around, waiting for a bunch of guys from the crew to shove in the door to this shitty hotel room, laughing. "You're Jared."
"No," Jared says slowly. "I'm Sam."
"Don't be an asshole," Jensen snaps. "Sam's just a character on a TV show."
Jared pats himself down -- shoulders, chest, thighs. "Huh," he says. "Feels real enough to me."
"Fuck you," Jensen says, because enough is enough. He gets up, stomps over to the door, and throws it open, expecting to see Jeff and Rod and Ian on the other side.
It's dark, early morning. The Impala's in the parking lot just to the right of the door.
"Okay, fine," Jensen says. He turns around and looks at Jared, who's watching him with that wary look again, and damn Jensen hadn't realized he was that good an actor. "You got me. Good one. Where are they? The shower?" He's thinking cameras now -- it'd just take one to get the audio of him being spectacularly Punk'd. Storming into the bathroom, he rips the shower curtain back, but there's no one in there. "Come on, guys!" he shouts.
"Dean, there's nobody here but us," Jared says, and Jensen grabs onto him and shoves him up against the door frame.
"Stop calling me that," he growls. "I'm. not. Dean."
"You could have fooled me," Jared gasps. "Prove it."
Jensen gapes at him. "What?" He shoves Jared against the door frame a little harder, feeling a sick twist of pleasure when Jared grunts, and lets him go. "What do you mean, prove it?"
"Just what I said," Jared says, pulling his t-shirt down. "If you want me to believe you're not Dean, prove it to me."
"I don't know how to do that," Jensen says. He shifts his weight, thinking. "I mean, what would you do if I told you to prove to me that you're Sam and not Jared?"
Jared pauses for a few seconds, then looks up, eyes widening. He rips his shirt off over his head and tosses it toward the bed, comes over and grabs Jensen by the arm, and drags him over to the big standing lamp. Flicks it on and turns. "There, see?" Jared says, one hand curled over the top of his shoulder. "There. That's from Iowa. Ankeny, remember? Reverend Sorensen and his daughter Lori, and the Hookman? That's where he got me. Remember?"
"Of course I remember, but dude, none of that was real." He looks because it's what Jared wants him to do, expecting to see some shitty make-up job, but is shocked by what looks like an actual scar. "Dude."
"What, does it look worse than you thought?" Jared turns his head over his shoulder as Jensen reaches out tentative fingers.
Jared's skin is warm, but it's thickened and rough where the scar tissue is, and Jesus, Jensen sees Jared without a shirt on all the time, he knows Jared doesn't have a scar like this. "Sam?" he whispers, even though it can't be true.
"Yeah," Sam says. He turns around, eyes meeting Jensen's. "You're not Dean."
"No," Jensen says.
"What does -- I don't -- " Sam doesn't seem to know what to say, which Jensen gets, because what the fuck do you say when something totally impossible happens. "Who are you?"
"Jensen. Ackles. I play Dean on a TV show."
"You look just like him," Sam says. He frowns and steps a little closer, chin down and his head tilted to the side. "Except..."
"What?" Jensen says roughly, when Sam touches his left eyebrow lightly, just a brush of fingertips like a giant cat swiping at him, but gentle.
"They aren't there," Sam says. "The scars from when that Daeva attacked us."
"That wasn't real," Jensen whispers, but now that he's looking, he can see the scars on Sam's face, thin and silver and almost invisible, but there.
Sam reaches up and grabs hold of the hand Jensen hadn't even realized was touching Sam's face. "Yeah," he says. "It was. It was real here. So now the question is... where's Dean? And how do I get him back?"
* * * * *
It's still totally surreal, but Jensen tries not to freak out too much when Sam suggests doing a little research about alternate realities. Unfortunately, the piece of shit hotel they're in doesn't have WiFi -- not that that comes as a surprise -- so they have to go somewhere they can get a connection to the internet.
Which means driving. In the Impala.
Since Jensen drives the Impala at least some of the time, the thought of getting behind the wheel of it shouldn't bother him, but he hesitates near the passenger side door. This is Sam's world -- funny, that, what with the way it looks just like his, and he has to keep reminding himself about the scars and how Sam kept calling him 'Dean' like he was most of what held the world together -- so Sam should drive.
"What?" Sam says, stopping with his bag in his hand. No point in coming back here, not when they always keep moving. It's a concept about a million times more depressing than Jensen has ever contemplated.
"I just... don't you think you should drive?" Jensen tries for a joking tone. "Somehow I get the feeling Dean wouldn't like me driving his car."
Sam looks at him for a long moment, then just nods. "Right."
They eventually find a Starbucks after an hour on the road. The inside of the car is... well, if Jensen hadn't believed it before, looking through the glove compartment would have gone a long way toward convincing him. There's a gun -- and it looks so much more real than the props they use on set, heavy and solid -- and old napkins and ketchup packets and gauze rolls and a dozen cassette tapes, some of them cracked and at least one with the thin shiny tape stuff hanging out of it.
Jensen shuts the glove box again without saying anything.
In Starbucks, he drinks a cup of hot coffee gratefully and watches as Sam surfs the internet, frowning. His hair's all mussed up and too long, and part of Jensen wants to reach over and push it out of his eyes, but he's sharply aware that he doesn't belong here.
"You weren't doing anything weird, were you?" Sam asks. "While I was asleep?"
"First I was asleep, then I was puking," Jensen says. "I have no idea what Dean was doing. Maybe he was fucking around with a spell or something." It sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud.
"Maybe." Sam frowns again, fingers tapping at the keyboard that looks too small beneath his freakishly large hands. Jensen gets it now, why Dean rags on him about his height. It doesn't even make any sense, but Sam -- the real Sam, not Jared -- really is crazy tall, and that really, really doesn't make any sense, because Sam doesn't even exist. He's just a figment of Kripke's fantastic, freaky imagination.
Only he keeps glancing at Jensen, meeting his gaze, and he sure as hell seems real.
After a while, Sam sits back and rubs his eyes. "I've gotta go," he says, gesturing toward the bathroom. "I'll be right back. Watch the laptop, okay?"
"Okay," Jensen agrees.
He waits until he's alone, then shifts over into Sam's seat and opens a new window in the browser. Fifteen seconds and he's on imdb looking up Supernatural; looking himself up only to discover that he doesn't exist might be more than he can handle just then.
There's supernatural, lowercase, as a keyword, with 6770 entries -- "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring" is highlighted. There's "Sobrenatural," a movie made in 1981 that seems to be about a woman who's being stalked by the ghost of her dead husband. Then there's a 1933 movie that looks like a classic even if Jensen's never heard of it.
But there's no sign of his show, and no Eric Kripke. No Jared Padalecki.
Jensen doesn't look up his own name.
Sam comes back from the bathroom and sits down in the chair Jensen abandoned. He doesn't ask Jensen what he's doing. Maybe that's what makes Jensen tell him.
"I was looking up your name," he says. "Well, not yours. Jared's."
"And?" Sam says.
Jensen shakes his head. "Nothing."
"What about you?"
"Finding out that I don't exist... I don't know if I'm ready to go there." Jensen grimaces and slides the computer back over to Sam.
Sam looks at him for a second, then nods and looks at the computer screen. "Let me show you what I was looking at," he says, and Jensen thinks Dean has Sam trained well. Trained to drop a subject without even needing to be told, trained to focus on the work at hand instead of on whatever it is they're -- not -- talking about. "Here, check it out."
Hitching his chair closer, Jensen leans over and reads, "Many-worlds Interpretation?"
"It's a quantum mechanics thing," Sam says, and launches into an explanation so complicated that it makes Jensen's head spin. It's worse than some of Kripke's dialogue, which is hard enough to memorize even when he doesn't have to understand it -- although on the other hand maybe if you understand it it's easier to memorize? Sam glances at him, and his confusion must be obvious because Sam sighs and clicks on a link. "Here, look at this."
It's another page with the same information in slightly clearer language, but Jensen still doesn't get it. "You gotta help me out here, Sammy."
There's a pause, then Sam starts with what he must think is an explanation. "Branches of the universal wavefunction split when different components of a quantum superposition decohere from each other."
"'Decohere?'," Jensen says. "I don't even know what that means. Try it again in smaller words." He doesn't care that he sounds stupid -- he just wants to get it.
"It means... there are all these different possible worlds, see? Like the branches of a tree spreading outward, and in some of them I never went to school, or I went to school but I never met Jessica. In some of them, Mom didn't die." Sam swallows and Jensen wants to reach out and touch his shoulder, comfort him.
"Your mom," he says roughly. "What does any of this have to do with me? I shouldn't even be here."
"I don't know," Sam says. "Maybe you should. There's nothing you can think of that you might have done?"
"Shit, Sam, it's not like I was trying to conjure up... whatever it is people conjure up." Jensen does his best to think, though, and a faint memory flickers past like a dragonfly at twilight, there and gone as fast as you can blink. "Huh."
"What?" Sam leans forward in his chair, watching Jensen intently. He's so fucking pretty -- way prettier than Jared, even with the thin scars on his face -- that Jensen gets distracted looking at him for a few seconds.
Recovering, he forces his mind back to the task at hand. "I think... just as I was falling asleep last night, I kind of... wished."
"What do you mean, you wished?"
"I, you know, wished." Jensen tries to explain it. "I was lying there thinking about the show" -- which he doesn't do when he's not working, not really -- "and I thought -- I think I thought -- something like 'Wish I could find out what it'd be like to be Dean for a day.'"
"But you're not," Sam says, and Jensen frowns at him. "You're not Dean. You're you."
"Yeah, but maybe this is as close as I can get. If I really was Dean, would I even know that I was?" Jensen realizes how totally fucking insane this all is. "Anyway, dude, if it was that easy, I'd have had a million dollars a hundred times over by now."
"It's all we've got to go on," Sam says. He sits back, loose-limbed and defeated, knees spread wide. "The rest of this is way beyond me. We might as well watch old Star Trek episodes for pointers on how to tell which one of you's the evil Kirk."
"There's only one of me," Jensen points out.
"And I'd say that's a good thing," Sam says, "but..." He turns his head and looks at Jensen.
"But you want your brother back." Jensen gets that. "Believe me when I say that spending the rest of my life in a world where vampires and demons are real -- not high on my list of things to do. We'll figure this out." It feels natural to reassure Sam.
"Yeah," Sam says, glancing down at his hands. "I know we will."
* * * * *
They stop by a local diner for dinner -- you can only get so much food at Starbucks, and it's all cranberry scones and weird ginger muffins. Yuppie shit. Diner's have real food, like hamburgers and meatloaf and chicken fried steak, which is what Jensen orders. Sam gets two burgers, fries, and onion rings, and eats them like he's starving.
"Dude, take it easy," Jensen says. "The food's not going anywhere."
Sam takes another huge bite. "It's been a while," he says.
"What do you mean, it's been a while?" Then Jensen gets it. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Real food?" Sam shrugs. "I think it was yesterday morning. You can't do a cash withdrawal on a credit card without a PIN number, and we don't always have a lot of real money."
"Jesus." Kripke always glosses over that part as much as possible -- it's never occurred to Jensen that there must be times Sam and Dean go hungry, but now that he thinks about it, it shouldn't come as a surprise. "Well, here." Jensen takes his wallet out of his pants -- good thing he fell asleep wearing them last night -- and takes out all the money he has, which is a little under two hundred dollars. Holds it out to Sam, who just looks at him, puzzled. "Take it," Jensen says. "If Dean and I -- you know, switch back, in the next ten minutes or whatever, you should at least have this."
Sam reaches out, slowly, and takes it. "Thanks."
"No problem," Jensen says, and grins. "You'll have to pay for lunch, though; you cleaned me out."
When Sam's finished eating, he sits back and watches Jensen eat. Jensen's only halfway through, despite the fact that Sam had twice as much food as he did. Jensen glances at him and catches him sucking on his lower lip thoughtfully; that's not something Jared ever does, and it cements even more firmly in Jensen's mind that they're two totally different people. He also finds himself pretty distracted by the sight of it -- it kind of makes him want to suck on Sam's lips, himself. It makes him want to ask Sam if that'd be okay.
"You want the rest of this?" he asks instead, shoving his plate across the table.
"You don't want it?" Sam's already grabbing a fork.
Jensen shakes his head and watches Sam eat.
Not that that's any less distracting.
* * * * *
That night, they get a motel room with one of the credit cards Sam's got in his wallet. Two beds, a window lock that looks like it'd break if someone breathed on it heavily, one bathroom with cracked tile and dirty grout. They're both tired and probably a little confused -- well, okay, Jensen's still a lot confused -- so they crash out on the beds and watch TV for a couple of hours until Jensen falls asleep.
He wakes up after midnight, the TV and lights still on and Sam asleep, sprawled out across the other bed. His shirt's off, his chest bare and the sheets low enough that Jensen can see he still wearing his jeans.
Jensen gets up to shut off the TV. As soon as the room's quiet, Sam stirs and mutters. "Dean?"
"No, it's me," Jensen says.
Sam opens his eyes and looks at him. "Jensen," he says, his voice so heavy with emotion that Jensen goes over and sits on the bed next to him.
"Yeah. Sorry," he says.
"Don't be." Sam blinks, trying to orient himself. "I was dreaming."
"What about?" Jensen glances down and thinks he can guess -- Sam's dick is hard, and there's something about the way he's breathing, the way his lips are damp.
Sam sits up, and suddenly they're really, really close together, not that Jensen's complaining. He can practically feel the heat radiating off of Sam. "Why did you wish for that?" Sam asks.
"I didn't really wish for it," Jensen says. "It was just... you know, one of those things."
"But you thought it," Sam says.
He had -- it'd been like instinct. Instinct, just like the way Jensen's hand reaches out to touch Sam's shoulder without him thinking about it. "I think about lots of things," he says. Sam's skin is warm against his fingertips.
"So do I." Sam takes Jensen's hand in his and slowly, slowly slides it down along his body. Over his chest, across one nipple. Lower, their fingers tangled together, until Jensen can feel the soft line of hair on Sam's belly, the worn fabric of his jeans, and the nudge of Sam's erection against the edge of his hand. "I think about things, too."
"Yeah," Jensen says. He leans in, their mouths inches apart. "I guess you do." He moves his hand lower, dragging Sam's along with it, and gives Sam's dick a gentle squeeze. Sam gasps, and Jensen kisses him while his lips are still parted, soft and slow.
Sam whimpers and arches up, trying for more. "God. Please."
"You want this?" Jensen whispers, thumbing over the head of Sam's cock, feeling the thin fabric dampen.
"Yes." Sam's shaking, and this is so very, very fucked up, but Jensen can't care about that now because he's pulling Sam closer with one hand on the back of his neck and kissing him, kissing him like this is his only chance, and he's not sure whether to hope it is or hope it isn't.
Sam's mouth opens wider, letting Jensen in. His dick is straining against his jeans and against Jensen's palm, but he's keeping his hands to himself. It takes a minute -- okay, maybe longer, because what they're doing with their lips and tongues is pretty distracting -- for Jensen to figure out why. "It's okay," he murmurs. He catches Sam's lower lip between his teeth and bites down, not hard enough to hurt. "I'm not Dean. Remember?" Tightening his grip on the back of Sam's neck, he pulls away a little bit until their eyes meet. Sam's are dark with wanting. "You can have this."
And Sam groans and grabs onto Jensen's hip, kissing him harder. A hand fumbles its way up Jensen's back, grabs a fistful of his t-shirt. Jensen can smell chlorine in Sam's hair, and Sam's mouth tastes sweet. "Please," Sam chokes; he reaches down and grabs onto Jensen's hand, hard, holding it against his cock, then shudders and cries out. Sam's teeth close on the nape of Jensen's neck, catching the collar of his shirt and skin both, and he gives a series of short grunts as he comes, shaking like he's going to fall apart.
Jensen won't let that happen. He holds Sam, cradling the back of his head, messy hair tangled in his fingers, and says stupid, soothing things like "That's it" and "Good" and "Sam."
He might not have wished for this, not exactly, but he feels a huge swell of gratitude that he's got it.
"Guess I was wound a little tight," Sam says, his voice trembling.
"Don't you apologize," Jensen tells him.
They kiss again, slower now that Sam's a little less desperate. Sam's hand is still holding Jensen's to the front of his jeans, which are wet instead of damp now, Sam's hips moving restlessly as his dick twitches and starts to harden up again.
"Let's get rid of these," Jensen says, undoing the button on Sam's jeans.
Sam goes quiet and hesitant then, but he lies back and lets Jensen undress him, watching him with dark eyes. He watches as Jensen takes off his own clothes, dropping them to the floor and feeling a little bit too much on display. Dean wouldn't, he knows. Dean would be confident, sure of himself.
Well, okay, maybe not if he was getting ready to have sex with his little brother.
Jesus, this is so fucked up.
"Come here," Sam says, and Jensen does. He crawls up over Sam, arms braced on either side of him, and just... looks at him. "Does it freak you out?" Sam asks.
"Lots of things freak me out," Jensen says.
"That I look like him," Sam clarifies. "Like Jared."
Jensen looks again -- really looks -- and he can see that there are differences. A quick glance and you'd swear they were twins, sure, but once you really pay attention it's easy to see that they aren't the same. Sam's scars for one thing, but his eyes, too. His eyes have this faint blue tinge to them that Jared's don't. "No," Jensen says finally. "It doesn't freak me out. What about you?"
Sam swallows and looks down, his gaze skittering along Jensen's body to his cock. "No."
"Sam," Jensen says, and Sam looks at him again.
"I'm not freaked out," Sam says, with such longing on his face that Jensen gets it -- this is something Sam wants but thought he'd never be able to have.
"And I'm not Dean," Jensen says.
"I know," Sam says. He pulls Jensen down for another kiss, big hands skimming along Jensen's bare back to his ass. "Shut up and fuck me."
Jensen groans, any hope of hanging onto control shattering. He bites at Sam's jaw, his nipples, his belly, then takes Sam's dick into his mouth, sucking on it. Spreading Sam's thighs wider, he sucks Sam's balls, then licks his way lower. "We got any lube?" he asks, teasing at Sam with a fingertip.
"You... expect me to think when you're doing that?" Sam's head is thrown back.
"If you want me to fuck you, yeah." There's no way Jensen can manage to do more than what he's doing without lube -- Sam's too tight, and the thought of someone who looks like Dean hurting Sam is impossible to consider.
"Um. I don't -- " Sam gasps as Jensen licks a wet stripe up the length of his dick. "Yeah. Lube. In... my bag."
"Okay. Hang on," Jensen says. He gets up and grabs the bag, rifling through it until he finds the lube and a condom. "When was the last time you used this?"
Sam's hitched himself up onto his elbows; his hair's in his eyes. "I don't know. Last week?"
"Yeah? You like to jerk off in the shower, is that it? Because I'm pretty sure you do it more often than that." Jensen squeezes some lube onto his fingers and goes back to what he was doing before -- teasing Sam, slicking him up but not doing it fast or deep enough to make Sam do more than grit his teeth. "Tell me, Sam." His voice is low and rough.
"God." Sam arches as Jensen curls a hand around his dick. "Yes. Yeah, in the shower."
"And how do you do it?" Jensen moves his hand higher, thumb rubbing the ridge under the head of Sam's cock. "Like this?"
"Uhhnnnn," Sam gets out, shuddering. "Yeah. That's good. God, please. Don't stop."
"Do you like it fast?" Jensen asks. "Or slow? Do you ever fuck yourself while you're doing it?" He pushes his finger inside Sam, going deep, and Sam cries out.
"Please," he says brokenly. "Please."
That's all Jensen needs; he tears open the condom packet, rolls the thing onto his dick with hands that only shake a little bit, and slides into Sam, hot and tight and so fucking perfect that there are tears in his eyes. He blinks them away and pulls Sam closer, works his way deeper. "Okay?"
Sam nods, but his jaw is clenched. "Just do it."
"This isn't a fucking Nike commercial, Sam," Jensen says, holding himself still and waiting. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The look Sam gives him is totally trusting. "I know."
"Is this the part where you say 'shut up and fuck me' again?" Jensen asks.
Sam laughs and moves easily underneath Jensen, wrapping a leg around his waist. The weight of it settles whatever it is in Jensen that's unsettled. "What if I say you don't have to shut up?"
Grinning, Jensen pulls most of the way out, then pushes in again, nice and slow. Sam moans and moves, lifting his hips, and they find a rhythm together. There's sweat prickled on Jensen's skin already, and when he leans down and licks Sam's chest he can taste salt there, too, sharp and familiar, like he's known it all his life. Sam tightens around him, cock twitching, and Jensen gasps. "Jesus."
"Yeah." One of Sam's hands settles on Jensen's lower back where it can't really find a grip, but that doesn't seem to matter. "Come on."
Everything gets kind of fuzzy then. Jensen fucks himself harder into Sam, and Sam's moving with him, meeting every thrust. Sam's eyes are open, and he's watching Jensen the whole time, to the point where it feels wrong to look away, so they're pretty much staring at each other. That's why Jensen knows when Sam's on the verge of coming -- his eyes get this glazed look, and his mouth opens like that's the only way he can get enough air. There's just enough time for Jensen to shift his weight, get a hand between them and grab onto Sam's dick, and then Jensen starts to come and they're both groaning and shaking and coming, so hard that the line between them is blurred.
And if the name Sam says, voice strangled and desperate, isn't Jensen's... well, Jen can forgive that under the circumstances.
He collapses down onto Sam. Just lies there for a long time, with the sweat cooling on his skin and his dick softening, until finally he sighs and rolls away. He pulls off the condom and tosses it at the trash. Misses. Sighs again.
Sam rolls toward him and snuggles up close. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Jensen says, a little surprised. "Yeah, I'm good. You?"
"Mmhm." Sam's built all wrong for cuddling -- he's too tall, and his arms and legs are too long and gawky, like a teenager still growing into his frame. But Jensen doesn't pull away. "Should we talk?"
"God, no," Jensen says. His lips pull up into an almost-grin and he pats Sam's hair before tugging the covers half over them. "Let's just sleep, okay? We can figure stuff out in the morning."
"Okay." Sam's breathing evens out pretty fast, until it's obvious he's asleep, relaxed and trusting with an arm slung across Jensen's chest and their legs still tangled together.
Jensen wants to think about this -- about what the hell he's doing, because he could at least think about that even if how he got here isn't something he can figure out an answer to. But he's comfortable, and Sam's warm, and listening to Sam breathe starts to drag him into sleep whether he wants to go there or not, even though the lights are still on.
He's remembering the way Sam looked at him as he drifts off, and the last thing he thinks is that he wishes Sam could have what he wants.
* * * * *
Jensen wakes up in his own bed. As soon as he opens his eyes, he's sitting up, heart pounding. He's back. How is this -- but maybe it doesn't matter how. Hell, maybe it wasn't even real.
There's a sound from the hallway, and then Jared's walking in wearing nothing but a towel, his hair wet. He stops when he sees the expression on Jensen's face, but doesn't say anything.
"I was going to ask you to tell me I wasn't the only one who had a crazy day yesterday," Jensen says. "But since you're practically naked in my apartment, I'm thinking that's probably not necessary."
"Jen?" Jared says cautiously.
"Yeah," Jensen says. He suddenly feels really, really tired. He should probably feel freaked out about what happened and why, but all he feels is tired. "I take it I'm not who you spent the night with."
"Uh-huh." Jared inches closer. "So were you... there?"
Jensen nods and leans back against the headboard. "Dude, it was so weird."
"Believe me, it was weird here, too. You -- I mean, he called me -- thanks a lot for having my number the first one on the speed dial, by the way -- and for the longest time I was so sure you were trying to Punk me or something."
"That's pretty much what I thought, too. But he was different. He wasn't you."
Jared comes over and sits on the edge of the bed. "Yeah. There were times when I almost forgot Dean wasn't you." He looks down and his wet hair flops over his eyes. "There's still a little part of me that thinks maybe..."
"I wasn't fucking with you," Jensen says tiredly.
"I know." Jared's quiet for a minute. "You should have seen the scars. Seriously."
"Yeah. Sam, too." A thought occurs to Jensen. "Did you and Dean...?"
Jared's flushed cheeks are answer enough, but he replies anyway. "Yeah. Did you and Sam?"
"Yeah."
"I wasn't sure you... you know. Swung that way." Jared looks at him.
"Then you haven't been paying close enough attention," Jensen says, returning the look.
Jared's bold now, interested. "So how come you and I never...?"
"Damned if I know," Jensen says, and reaches for him.
The towel slips to the floor unnoticed.
Later, curled around each other, with Jensen's head on Jared's chest and one of Jared's fingers tracing the curve of Jensen's ear, Jensen says, "Hope he got back there okay."
"You got back here okay," Jared points out. "I'm sure he's fine."
"Yeah. I just... I never really spent that much time thinking about it, you know? About how fucked up their lives really are."
"Well, it's not like we knew they were real." Jared rubs his shoulder.
"It's fucking weird," Jensen sighs and closes his eyes.
He still hopes Sam gets what he wants.
End.
Fandom and Pairing: CW: Jensen Ackles/Sam Winchester
Prompt: Crossover with a fictional character
Your name: wesleysgirl
Fic title: Many Worlds
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~5,700 words
Thanks to bethynyc for the constant hand-holding and encouragement, and to bethynyc, ladybug218 and eponin10 for the betas/proofreading.
Jensen has a raging headache when he wakes up. It's all he can do not to roll over and puke, but as soon as he groans there's a hand on his arm -- and he went to bed last night alone, didn't he? He'd swear he did -- squeezing, and an urgent voice talking way too fucking loud in his ear, and that's it. He pulls away, staggers toward a bathroom he doesn't remember either, and manages to get somewhere in the vicinity of the toilet before he hurls.
"Jesus, Dean," someone says. If Jensen wasn't so busy throwing up stuff he ate so long ago he'd forgotten about it, he'd wonder about that being weird. By the time he's done puking, his sinuses burning and his eyes watering, he feels like dying.
"What the hell?" It's got to be Jared, because who the hell else would it be, but he sounds way more worried than a night of getting plastered warrants. There's this whole thing where Jensen doesn't actually remember getting drunk the night before, though. "Come on, Dean. Let me -- " A cold washcloth swipes at Jensen's mouth, and he yanks it away from Jared and throws it irritably at the wall.
"Leave me alone, Jared," he slurs. The headache, thank fuck, is relaxing its vicious band around his temples, and he can think again. A little bit. "And stop calling me Dean."
This is where Jared's supposed to retort that at least he remembers to call Jensen Dean during scenes, unlike Jensen, who's always slipping and saying Jared instead of Sam. People swear there was one time editing didn't catch it and his fuck-up made it into the final cut, but Jensen doesn't believe it. Not that's he's actually sat down and watched any of the episodes with more than half his attention, because it's a job, not an obsession. He's got better stuff to do with the time he spends off set, or so he tells himself.
He swallows and opens his eyes when the headache slides away. His mouth tastes like puke. "Either I got drunk enough last night that I don't remember anything, or I'm coming down with the mother of all stomach bugs," he says. Jared looks worried. "Or maybe it was food poisoning. What the fuck did I eat?"
"You don't remember," Jared says, and yeah, that's worry in his voice.
"No shit I don't remember, dude. That's what I just said." Jensen levers himself up off the floor, shrugging off Jared's help, and leans over the sink.
"Are you gonna hurl again?" Jared asks. That, at least, sounds more like him.
Jensen inhales slowly between his teeth. "God, I hope not," he says.
"Come on and sit down," Jared says, sliding an arm around Jensen's waist. It's way touchier than they ever are off set, but Jensen's shaky enough that he's grateful for the support as they go back out into a hotel room he doesn't remember at all.
He sits down on the bed, the mattress squeaking in protest, and leans forward. "What the hell is going on?"
"Good question," Jared says.
"Did I -- did I hit my head or something?" Jensen runs his hand over his hair, feeling for lumps or blood or whatever might clear this up, but there's nothing.
"You were fine when we went to sleep." Jared says. He's watching Jensen carefully. "Dean -- "
"Stop calling me that," Jensen says. He wants to shout it, to get angry, but he's still feeling pretty woozy and yelling will probably just make his head hurt again.
"What do you want me to call you?" Jared asks.
"Jensen. My name is Jensen. Dean's just a character on a stupid TV show, and I'm starting to think that you're the one who hit his head."
"A character on a TV show?" Jared looks wary, confused.
"Dude," Jensen says. "Maybe someone slipped something into our drinks last night, because I don't even know where we are."
"We're in Wisconsin. Right outside Fitchburg." Jared's still standing there, but after a minute he sits down heavily on the other bed. He's wearing a thin, worn t-shirt and cotton pants with a drawstring waist that look more like something from wardrobe than what he'd usually wear. "I don't know, Dee -- " He catches himself, stops, then starts again. "I don't know. It could be something lingering from before, I guess."
"From before what? Jesus, Jared. Try making some sense."
"I'm Sam," Jared says, with enough desperation in his voice that Jensen is taken aback. "I'll call you Jensen if you want me to, but you have to call me Sam. Who the hell is Jared?"
Jensen looks around, waiting for a bunch of guys from the crew to shove in the door to this shitty hotel room, laughing. "You're Jared."
"No," Jared says slowly. "I'm Sam."
"Don't be an asshole," Jensen snaps. "Sam's just a character on a TV show."
Jared pats himself down -- shoulders, chest, thighs. "Huh," he says. "Feels real enough to me."
"Fuck you," Jensen says, because enough is enough. He gets up, stomps over to the door, and throws it open, expecting to see Jeff and Rod and Ian on the other side.
It's dark, early morning. The Impala's in the parking lot just to the right of the door.
"Okay, fine," Jensen says. He turns around and looks at Jared, who's watching him with that wary look again, and damn Jensen hadn't realized he was that good an actor. "You got me. Good one. Where are they? The shower?" He's thinking cameras now -- it'd just take one to get the audio of him being spectacularly Punk'd. Storming into the bathroom, he rips the shower curtain back, but there's no one in there. "Come on, guys!" he shouts.
"Dean, there's nobody here but us," Jared says, and Jensen grabs onto him and shoves him up against the door frame.
"Stop calling me that," he growls. "I'm. not. Dean."
"You could have fooled me," Jared gasps. "Prove it."
Jensen gapes at him. "What?" He shoves Jared against the door frame a little harder, feeling a sick twist of pleasure when Jared grunts, and lets him go. "What do you mean, prove it?"
"Just what I said," Jared says, pulling his t-shirt down. "If you want me to believe you're not Dean, prove it to me."
"I don't know how to do that," Jensen says. He shifts his weight, thinking. "I mean, what would you do if I told you to prove to me that you're Sam and not Jared?"
Jared pauses for a few seconds, then looks up, eyes widening. He rips his shirt off over his head and tosses it toward the bed, comes over and grabs Jensen by the arm, and drags him over to the big standing lamp. Flicks it on and turns. "There, see?" Jared says, one hand curled over the top of his shoulder. "There. That's from Iowa. Ankeny, remember? Reverend Sorensen and his daughter Lori, and the Hookman? That's where he got me. Remember?"
"Of course I remember, but dude, none of that was real." He looks because it's what Jared wants him to do, expecting to see some shitty make-up job, but is shocked by what looks like an actual scar. "Dude."
"What, does it look worse than you thought?" Jared turns his head over his shoulder as Jensen reaches out tentative fingers.
Jared's skin is warm, but it's thickened and rough where the scar tissue is, and Jesus, Jensen sees Jared without a shirt on all the time, he knows Jared doesn't have a scar like this. "Sam?" he whispers, even though it can't be true.
"Yeah," Sam says. He turns around, eyes meeting Jensen's. "You're not Dean."
"No," Jensen says.
"What does -- I don't -- " Sam doesn't seem to know what to say, which Jensen gets, because what the fuck do you say when something totally impossible happens. "Who are you?"
"Jensen. Ackles. I play Dean on a TV show."
"You look just like him," Sam says. He frowns and steps a little closer, chin down and his head tilted to the side. "Except..."
"What?" Jensen says roughly, when Sam touches his left eyebrow lightly, just a brush of fingertips like a giant cat swiping at him, but gentle.
"They aren't there," Sam says. "The scars from when that Daeva attacked us."
"That wasn't real," Jensen whispers, but now that he's looking, he can see the scars on Sam's face, thin and silver and almost invisible, but there.
Sam reaches up and grabs hold of the hand Jensen hadn't even realized was touching Sam's face. "Yeah," he says. "It was. It was real here. So now the question is... where's Dean? And how do I get him back?"
* * * * *
It's still totally surreal, but Jensen tries not to freak out too much when Sam suggests doing a little research about alternate realities. Unfortunately, the piece of shit hotel they're in doesn't have WiFi -- not that that comes as a surprise -- so they have to go somewhere they can get a connection to the internet.
Which means driving. In the Impala.
Since Jensen drives the Impala at least some of the time, the thought of getting behind the wheel of it shouldn't bother him, but he hesitates near the passenger side door. This is Sam's world -- funny, that, what with the way it looks just like his, and he has to keep reminding himself about the scars and how Sam kept calling him 'Dean' like he was most of what held the world together -- so Sam should drive.
"What?" Sam says, stopping with his bag in his hand. No point in coming back here, not when they always keep moving. It's a concept about a million times more depressing than Jensen has ever contemplated.
"I just... don't you think you should drive?" Jensen tries for a joking tone. "Somehow I get the feeling Dean wouldn't like me driving his car."
Sam looks at him for a long moment, then just nods. "Right."
They eventually find a Starbucks after an hour on the road. The inside of the car is... well, if Jensen hadn't believed it before, looking through the glove compartment would have gone a long way toward convincing him. There's a gun -- and it looks so much more real than the props they use on set, heavy and solid -- and old napkins and ketchup packets and gauze rolls and a dozen cassette tapes, some of them cracked and at least one with the thin shiny tape stuff hanging out of it.
Jensen shuts the glove box again without saying anything.
In Starbucks, he drinks a cup of hot coffee gratefully and watches as Sam surfs the internet, frowning. His hair's all mussed up and too long, and part of Jensen wants to reach over and push it out of his eyes, but he's sharply aware that he doesn't belong here.
"You weren't doing anything weird, were you?" Sam asks. "While I was asleep?"
"First I was asleep, then I was puking," Jensen says. "I have no idea what Dean was doing. Maybe he was fucking around with a spell or something." It sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud.
"Maybe." Sam frowns again, fingers tapping at the keyboard that looks too small beneath his freakishly large hands. Jensen gets it now, why Dean rags on him about his height. It doesn't even make any sense, but Sam -- the real Sam, not Jared -- really is crazy tall, and that really, really doesn't make any sense, because Sam doesn't even exist. He's just a figment of Kripke's fantastic, freaky imagination.
Only he keeps glancing at Jensen, meeting his gaze, and he sure as hell seems real.
After a while, Sam sits back and rubs his eyes. "I've gotta go," he says, gesturing toward the bathroom. "I'll be right back. Watch the laptop, okay?"
"Okay," Jensen agrees.
He waits until he's alone, then shifts over into Sam's seat and opens a new window in the browser. Fifteen seconds and he's on imdb looking up Supernatural; looking himself up only to discover that he doesn't exist might be more than he can handle just then.
There's supernatural, lowercase, as a keyword, with 6770 entries -- "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring" is highlighted. There's "Sobrenatural," a movie made in 1981 that seems to be about a woman who's being stalked by the ghost of her dead husband. Then there's a 1933 movie that looks like a classic even if Jensen's never heard of it.
But there's no sign of his show, and no Eric Kripke. No Jared Padalecki.
Jensen doesn't look up his own name.
Sam comes back from the bathroom and sits down in the chair Jensen abandoned. He doesn't ask Jensen what he's doing. Maybe that's what makes Jensen tell him.
"I was looking up your name," he says. "Well, not yours. Jared's."
"And?" Sam says.
Jensen shakes his head. "Nothing."
"What about you?"
"Finding out that I don't exist... I don't know if I'm ready to go there." Jensen grimaces and slides the computer back over to Sam.
Sam looks at him for a second, then nods and looks at the computer screen. "Let me show you what I was looking at," he says, and Jensen thinks Dean has Sam trained well. Trained to drop a subject without even needing to be told, trained to focus on the work at hand instead of on whatever it is they're -- not -- talking about. "Here, check it out."
Hitching his chair closer, Jensen leans over and reads, "Many-worlds Interpretation?"
"It's a quantum mechanics thing," Sam says, and launches into an explanation so complicated that it makes Jensen's head spin. It's worse than some of Kripke's dialogue, which is hard enough to memorize even when he doesn't have to understand it -- although on the other hand maybe if you understand it it's easier to memorize? Sam glances at him, and his confusion must be obvious because Sam sighs and clicks on a link. "Here, look at this."
It's another page with the same information in slightly clearer language, but Jensen still doesn't get it. "You gotta help me out here, Sammy."
There's a pause, then Sam starts with what he must think is an explanation. "Branches of the universal wavefunction split when different components of a quantum superposition decohere from each other."
"'Decohere?'," Jensen says. "I don't even know what that means. Try it again in smaller words." He doesn't care that he sounds stupid -- he just wants to get it.
"It means... there are all these different possible worlds, see? Like the branches of a tree spreading outward, and in some of them I never went to school, or I went to school but I never met Jessica. In some of them, Mom didn't die." Sam swallows and Jensen wants to reach out and touch his shoulder, comfort him.
"Your mom," he says roughly. "What does any of this have to do with me? I shouldn't even be here."
"I don't know," Sam says. "Maybe you should. There's nothing you can think of that you might have done?"
"Shit, Sam, it's not like I was trying to conjure up... whatever it is people conjure up." Jensen does his best to think, though, and a faint memory flickers past like a dragonfly at twilight, there and gone as fast as you can blink. "Huh."
"What?" Sam leans forward in his chair, watching Jensen intently. He's so fucking pretty -- way prettier than Jared, even with the thin scars on his face -- that Jensen gets distracted looking at him for a few seconds.
Recovering, he forces his mind back to the task at hand. "I think... just as I was falling asleep last night, I kind of... wished."
"What do you mean, you wished?"
"I, you know, wished." Jensen tries to explain it. "I was lying there thinking about the show" -- which he doesn't do when he's not working, not really -- "and I thought -- I think I thought -- something like 'Wish I could find out what it'd be like to be Dean for a day.'"
"But you're not," Sam says, and Jensen frowns at him. "You're not Dean. You're you."
"Yeah, but maybe this is as close as I can get. If I really was Dean, would I even know that I was?" Jensen realizes how totally fucking insane this all is. "Anyway, dude, if it was that easy, I'd have had a million dollars a hundred times over by now."
"It's all we've got to go on," Sam says. He sits back, loose-limbed and defeated, knees spread wide. "The rest of this is way beyond me. We might as well watch old Star Trek episodes for pointers on how to tell which one of you's the evil Kirk."
"There's only one of me," Jensen points out.
"And I'd say that's a good thing," Sam says, "but..." He turns his head and looks at Jensen.
"But you want your brother back." Jensen gets that. "Believe me when I say that spending the rest of my life in a world where vampires and demons are real -- not high on my list of things to do. We'll figure this out." It feels natural to reassure Sam.
"Yeah," Sam says, glancing down at his hands. "I know we will."
* * * * *
They stop by a local diner for dinner -- you can only get so much food at Starbucks, and it's all cranberry scones and weird ginger muffins. Yuppie shit. Diner's have real food, like hamburgers and meatloaf and chicken fried steak, which is what Jensen orders. Sam gets two burgers, fries, and onion rings, and eats them like he's starving.
"Dude, take it easy," Jensen says. "The food's not going anywhere."
Sam takes another huge bite. "It's been a while," he says.
"What do you mean, it's been a while?" Then Jensen gets it. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Real food?" Sam shrugs. "I think it was yesterday morning. You can't do a cash withdrawal on a credit card without a PIN number, and we don't always have a lot of real money."
"Jesus." Kripke always glosses over that part as much as possible -- it's never occurred to Jensen that there must be times Sam and Dean go hungry, but now that he thinks about it, it shouldn't come as a surprise. "Well, here." Jensen takes his wallet out of his pants -- good thing he fell asleep wearing them last night -- and takes out all the money he has, which is a little under two hundred dollars. Holds it out to Sam, who just looks at him, puzzled. "Take it," Jensen says. "If Dean and I -- you know, switch back, in the next ten minutes or whatever, you should at least have this."
Sam reaches out, slowly, and takes it. "Thanks."
"No problem," Jensen says, and grins. "You'll have to pay for lunch, though; you cleaned me out."
When Sam's finished eating, he sits back and watches Jensen eat. Jensen's only halfway through, despite the fact that Sam had twice as much food as he did. Jensen glances at him and catches him sucking on his lower lip thoughtfully; that's not something Jared ever does, and it cements even more firmly in Jensen's mind that they're two totally different people. He also finds himself pretty distracted by the sight of it -- it kind of makes him want to suck on Sam's lips, himself. It makes him want to ask Sam if that'd be okay.
"You want the rest of this?" he asks instead, shoving his plate across the table.
"You don't want it?" Sam's already grabbing a fork.
Jensen shakes his head and watches Sam eat.
Not that that's any less distracting.
* * * * *
That night, they get a motel room with one of the credit cards Sam's got in his wallet. Two beds, a window lock that looks like it'd break if someone breathed on it heavily, one bathroom with cracked tile and dirty grout. They're both tired and probably a little confused -- well, okay, Jensen's still a lot confused -- so they crash out on the beds and watch TV for a couple of hours until Jensen falls asleep.
He wakes up after midnight, the TV and lights still on and Sam asleep, sprawled out across the other bed. His shirt's off, his chest bare and the sheets low enough that Jensen can see he still wearing his jeans.
Jensen gets up to shut off the TV. As soon as the room's quiet, Sam stirs and mutters. "Dean?"
"No, it's me," Jensen says.
Sam opens his eyes and looks at him. "Jensen," he says, his voice so heavy with emotion that Jensen goes over and sits on the bed next to him.
"Yeah. Sorry," he says.
"Don't be." Sam blinks, trying to orient himself. "I was dreaming."
"What about?" Jensen glances down and thinks he can guess -- Sam's dick is hard, and there's something about the way he's breathing, the way his lips are damp.
Sam sits up, and suddenly they're really, really close together, not that Jensen's complaining. He can practically feel the heat radiating off of Sam. "Why did you wish for that?" Sam asks.
"I didn't really wish for it," Jensen says. "It was just... you know, one of those things."
"But you thought it," Sam says.
He had -- it'd been like instinct. Instinct, just like the way Jensen's hand reaches out to touch Sam's shoulder without him thinking about it. "I think about lots of things," he says. Sam's skin is warm against his fingertips.
"So do I." Sam takes Jensen's hand in his and slowly, slowly slides it down along his body. Over his chest, across one nipple. Lower, their fingers tangled together, until Jensen can feel the soft line of hair on Sam's belly, the worn fabric of his jeans, and the nudge of Sam's erection against the edge of his hand. "I think about things, too."
"Yeah," Jensen says. He leans in, their mouths inches apart. "I guess you do." He moves his hand lower, dragging Sam's along with it, and gives Sam's dick a gentle squeeze. Sam gasps, and Jensen kisses him while his lips are still parted, soft and slow.
Sam whimpers and arches up, trying for more. "God. Please."
"You want this?" Jensen whispers, thumbing over the head of Sam's cock, feeling the thin fabric dampen.
"Yes." Sam's shaking, and this is so very, very fucked up, but Jensen can't care about that now because he's pulling Sam closer with one hand on the back of his neck and kissing him, kissing him like this is his only chance, and he's not sure whether to hope it is or hope it isn't.
Sam's mouth opens wider, letting Jensen in. His dick is straining against his jeans and against Jensen's palm, but he's keeping his hands to himself. It takes a minute -- okay, maybe longer, because what they're doing with their lips and tongues is pretty distracting -- for Jensen to figure out why. "It's okay," he murmurs. He catches Sam's lower lip between his teeth and bites down, not hard enough to hurt. "I'm not Dean. Remember?" Tightening his grip on the back of Sam's neck, he pulls away a little bit until their eyes meet. Sam's are dark with wanting. "You can have this."
And Sam groans and grabs onto Jensen's hip, kissing him harder. A hand fumbles its way up Jensen's back, grabs a fistful of his t-shirt. Jensen can smell chlorine in Sam's hair, and Sam's mouth tastes sweet. "Please," Sam chokes; he reaches down and grabs onto Jensen's hand, hard, holding it against his cock, then shudders and cries out. Sam's teeth close on the nape of Jensen's neck, catching the collar of his shirt and skin both, and he gives a series of short grunts as he comes, shaking like he's going to fall apart.
Jensen won't let that happen. He holds Sam, cradling the back of his head, messy hair tangled in his fingers, and says stupid, soothing things like "That's it" and "Good" and "Sam."
He might not have wished for this, not exactly, but he feels a huge swell of gratitude that he's got it.
"Guess I was wound a little tight," Sam says, his voice trembling.
"Don't you apologize," Jensen tells him.
They kiss again, slower now that Sam's a little less desperate. Sam's hand is still holding Jensen's to the front of his jeans, which are wet instead of damp now, Sam's hips moving restlessly as his dick twitches and starts to harden up again.
"Let's get rid of these," Jensen says, undoing the button on Sam's jeans.
Sam goes quiet and hesitant then, but he lies back and lets Jensen undress him, watching him with dark eyes. He watches as Jensen takes off his own clothes, dropping them to the floor and feeling a little bit too much on display. Dean wouldn't, he knows. Dean would be confident, sure of himself.
Well, okay, maybe not if he was getting ready to have sex with his little brother.
Jesus, this is so fucked up.
"Come here," Sam says, and Jensen does. He crawls up over Sam, arms braced on either side of him, and just... looks at him. "Does it freak you out?" Sam asks.
"Lots of things freak me out," Jensen says.
"That I look like him," Sam clarifies. "Like Jared."
Jensen looks again -- really looks -- and he can see that there are differences. A quick glance and you'd swear they were twins, sure, but once you really pay attention it's easy to see that they aren't the same. Sam's scars for one thing, but his eyes, too. His eyes have this faint blue tinge to them that Jared's don't. "No," Jensen says finally. "It doesn't freak me out. What about you?"
Sam swallows and looks down, his gaze skittering along Jensen's body to his cock. "No."
"Sam," Jensen says, and Sam looks at him again.
"I'm not freaked out," Sam says, with such longing on his face that Jensen gets it -- this is something Sam wants but thought he'd never be able to have.
"And I'm not Dean," Jensen says.
"I know," Sam says. He pulls Jensen down for another kiss, big hands skimming along Jensen's bare back to his ass. "Shut up and fuck me."
Jensen groans, any hope of hanging onto control shattering. He bites at Sam's jaw, his nipples, his belly, then takes Sam's dick into his mouth, sucking on it. Spreading Sam's thighs wider, he sucks Sam's balls, then licks his way lower. "We got any lube?" he asks, teasing at Sam with a fingertip.
"You... expect me to think when you're doing that?" Sam's head is thrown back.
"If you want me to fuck you, yeah." There's no way Jensen can manage to do more than what he's doing without lube -- Sam's too tight, and the thought of someone who looks like Dean hurting Sam is impossible to consider.
"Um. I don't -- " Sam gasps as Jensen licks a wet stripe up the length of his dick. "Yeah. Lube. In... my bag."
"Okay. Hang on," Jensen says. He gets up and grabs the bag, rifling through it until he finds the lube and a condom. "When was the last time you used this?"
Sam's hitched himself up onto his elbows; his hair's in his eyes. "I don't know. Last week?"
"Yeah? You like to jerk off in the shower, is that it? Because I'm pretty sure you do it more often than that." Jensen squeezes some lube onto his fingers and goes back to what he was doing before -- teasing Sam, slicking him up but not doing it fast or deep enough to make Sam do more than grit his teeth. "Tell me, Sam." His voice is low and rough.
"God." Sam arches as Jensen curls a hand around his dick. "Yes. Yeah, in the shower."
"And how do you do it?" Jensen moves his hand higher, thumb rubbing the ridge under the head of Sam's cock. "Like this?"
"Uhhnnnn," Sam gets out, shuddering. "Yeah. That's good. God, please. Don't stop."
"Do you like it fast?" Jensen asks. "Or slow? Do you ever fuck yourself while you're doing it?" He pushes his finger inside Sam, going deep, and Sam cries out.
"Please," he says brokenly. "Please."
That's all Jensen needs; he tears open the condom packet, rolls the thing onto his dick with hands that only shake a little bit, and slides into Sam, hot and tight and so fucking perfect that there are tears in his eyes. He blinks them away and pulls Sam closer, works his way deeper. "Okay?"
Sam nods, but his jaw is clenched. "Just do it."
"This isn't a fucking Nike commercial, Sam," Jensen says, holding himself still and waiting. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The look Sam gives him is totally trusting. "I know."
"Is this the part where you say 'shut up and fuck me' again?" Jensen asks.
Sam laughs and moves easily underneath Jensen, wrapping a leg around his waist. The weight of it settles whatever it is in Jensen that's unsettled. "What if I say you don't have to shut up?"
Grinning, Jensen pulls most of the way out, then pushes in again, nice and slow. Sam moans and moves, lifting his hips, and they find a rhythm together. There's sweat prickled on Jensen's skin already, and when he leans down and licks Sam's chest he can taste salt there, too, sharp and familiar, like he's known it all his life. Sam tightens around him, cock twitching, and Jensen gasps. "Jesus."
"Yeah." One of Sam's hands settles on Jensen's lower back where it can't really find a grip, but that doesn't seem to matter. "Come on."
Everything gets kind of fuzzy then. Jensen fucks himself harder into Sam, and Sam's moving with him, meeting every thrust. Sam's eyes are open, and he's watching Jensen the whole time, to the point where it feels wrong to look away, so they're pretty much staring at each other. That's why Jensen knows when Sam's on the verge of coming -- his eyes get this glazed look, and his mouth opens like that's the only way he can get enough air. There's just enough time for Jensen to shift his weight, get a hand between them and grab onto Sam's dick, and then Jensen starts to come and they're both groaning and shaking and coming, so hard that the line between them is blurred.
And if the name Sam says, voice strangled and desperate, isn't Jensen's... well, Jen can forgive that under the circumstances.
He collapses down onto Sam. Just lies there for a long time, with the sweat cooling on his skin and his dick softening, until finally he sighs and rolls away. He pulls off the condom and tosses it at the trash. Misses. Sighs again.
Sam rolls toward him and snuggles up close. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Jensen says, a little surprised. "Yeah, I'm good. You?"
"Mmhm." Sam's built all wrong for cuddling -- he's too tall, and his arms and legs are too long and gawky, like a teenager still growing into his frame. But Jensen doesn't pull away. "Should we talk?"
"God, no," Jensen says. His lips pull up into an almost-grin and he pats Sam's hair before tugging the covers half over them. "Let's just sleep, okay? We can figure stuff out in the morning."
"Okay." Sam's breathing evens out pretty fast, until it's obvious he's asleep, relaxed and trusting with an arm slung across Jensen's chest and their legs still tangled together.
Jensen wants to think about this -- about what the hell he's doing, because he could at least think about that even if how he got here isn't something he can figure out an answer to. But he's comfortable, and Sam's warm, and listening to Sam breathe starts to drag him into sleep whether he wants to go there or not, even though the lights are still on.
He's remembering the way Sam looked at him as he drifts off, and the last thing he thinks is that he wishes Sam could have what he wants.
* * * * *
Jensen wakes up in his own bed. As soon as he opens his eyes, he's sitting up, heart pounding. He's back. How is this -- but maybe it doesn't matter how. Hell, maybe it wasn't even real.
There's a sound from the hallway, and then Jared's walking in wearing nothing but a towel, his hair wet. He stops when he sees the expression on Jensen's face, but doesn't say anything.
"I was going to ask you to tell me I wasn't the only one who had a crazy day yesterday," Jensen says. "But since you're practically naked in my apartment, I'm thinking that's probably not necessary."
"Jen?" Jared says cautiously.
"Yeah," Jensen says. He suddenly feels really, really tired. He should probably feel freaked out about what happened and why, but all he feels is tired. "I take it I'm not who you spent the night with."
"Uh-huh." Jared inches closer. "So were you... there?"
Jensen nods and leans back against the headboard. "Dude, it was so weird."
"Believe me, it was weird here, too. You -- I mean, he called me -- thanks a lot for having my number the first one on the speed dial, by the way -- and for the longest time I was so sure you were trying to Punk me or something."
"That's pretty much what I thought, too. But he was different. He wasn't you."
Jared comes over and sits on the edge of the bed. "Yeah. There were times when I almost forgot Dean wasn't you." He looks down and his wet hair flops over his eyes. "There's still a little part of me that thinks maybe..."
"I wasn't fucking with you," Jensen says tiredly.
"I know." Jared's quiet for a minute. "You should have seen the scars. Seriously."
"Yeah. Sam, too." A thought occurs to Jensen. "Did you and Dean...?"
Jared's flushed cheeks are answer enough, but he replies anyway. "Yeah. Did you and Sam?"
"Yeah."
"I wasn't sure you... you know. Swung that way." Jared looks at him.
"Then you haven't been paying close enough attention," Jensen says, returning the look.
Jared's bold now, interested. "So how come you and I never...?"
"Damned if I know," Jensen says, and reaches for him.
The towel slips to the floor unnoticed.
Later, curled around each other, with Jensen's head on Jared's chest and one of Jared's fingers tracing the curve of Jensen's ear, Jensen says, "Hope he got back there okay."
"You got back here okay," Jared points out. "I'm sure he's fine."
"Yeah. I just... I never really spent that much time thinking about it, you know? About how fucked up their lives really are."
"Well, it's not like we knew they were real." Jared rubs his shoulder.
"It's fucking weird," Jensen sighs and closes his eyes.
He still hopes Sam gets what he wants.
End.