(no subject)
Title: The Dukes, a 'stang and the Six Degrees get Closer.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (Padackles.)
Rating: NC-17
Notes: For the lovely 16shadesofwild on her 21st birthday. A tag fic of sorts I guess, brought on by the amusing coincidence of this photo.
The party is dull.
Jared sits perched above the dance floor, little more than a space that’s been cleared amongst the bodies, fake laughter and ice swans. Sandra is off somewhere, probably trying to make connections, and so he’s occupied himself with a glass of scotch and a mental game of ‘six degrees of Warner Brothers incest’.
He smiles easily as Lauren Graham comes up behind him, hands over his eyes. He knows who it is. She unhands him and presses a kiss to his cheek, tugging on his hair. Too long. She likes it. She asks where his partner is, and he gets the uncomfortable feeling that she’s referring to Jensen in more than an ‘in-crime’ sense. She laughs easily, unfazed by the look that he must be wearing.
When she moves on to the next unsuspecting target, he scans the room for Jensen like a virus check. He finally finds him, talking to Tom Welling.
Tom somehow manages to pick up on the fact that Jared is watching, and yep, weird supermanish characteristics still intact. He grins that megawatt grin and nudges Jensen until he’s looking, too. Jared gets the distinct feeling that he’s the tail here, the Rory at Emily and Richard’s Yale party. The thought makes him hurt for his Dean, but only for a second - he has to remind himself that the character is dead and no longer a part of himself.
The thought is cut short by the singing of birds, the humming of a string quartet, and blindingly brilliant lights. All of the clichés, and he suddenly feels like he hasn’t taken a breath in a few minutes.
John Schneider walks - no, floats -- over to his play-son and play-…Jensen.
If this were a script, the italics would read something like “dream sequence; Jared remembers” now.
.
He lounges on the couch, Jeff in the armchair. It’s real hot, hot as the hinges of hell as his mama would say. He’s practically stuck to the couch like a pig in mud, but he ain’t real happy about it. Gosh darn it, Texas. Jeff’s supposeda be watchin’ after him, but he’s plenty old now and cain watch himself. He’s just gittin’ to be tall ‘nough now that he stretches clear from one end of the couch to the other.
Dukes of Hazzard’s on TV. Bo hops into General Lee, plaid shirt raisin’ an’ showin’ a little bitta skin. He’s pretty sure that the air around him gits hotter than Jennifer Love Hewitt’s ass, and that one is all Jeff.
He gets up and heads to the sanctuary of the bathroom before Jeff notices. He don’t know if he’s a-washin’ or a-hangin’, but he don’t much care. He knows he’s eatin’ supper before they say grace tonight, but that ain’t nothin new.
Damn Dukes.
.
Jared was real adamant about Wade’s car being a Charger in House of Wax, and he managed to twist just the right person’s arm to make that happen. Wade wasn’t a pus- -err, punk, he wouldn’t have driven a Mustang. He’d want a car just like General Lee, because he was a good ol’ boy, too. Jared knows the feeling. Jenny teases him about it sometimes, the way that the drawl creeps back into his voice when he’s real tired and the way that there’s a beaten up Stetson hidden on the top shelf of his closet, just in case he should ever need it.
Jensen. Who knows about his insufferable irrational infatuation, thanks to a game of I've Never that got a little out of control. Jensen, who is waving him over now. His eyes widen and his feet either become his greatest nemesis or his saving grace - he’s not sure which - ‘cause he’s moving towards them. Tom’s gone now, and Jared didn’t even see him leave.
Jensen grins like a car salesman. Laying it on real thick, and Jared can hear all the shades of amusement in his tone. “Jared, buddy.” He smells like red wine, Merlot, maybe. Not very Texas of him, but it’s not as if he should be surprised. “John,” gesturing to this golden god with a sparkle of childish laugher in his hazel eyes “meet Jared Padalecki. He’s a fan.” A snorted laugh, and Jared can see that Jensen is nearly choking under the weight of his own delight.
Jared extends his hand to be shaken, and everything’s going fuzzy around the edges, either from approximately 60% malt whiskey or by the oncoming of another dream sequence.
He has to remind himself that he’s not thirteen anymore, and even still he’s mentally chanting something along the lines of a very garbled ‘think unsexy thoughts’. Yeah. Simpsons were popular in his house, too.
And god in heaven above, those hands are touching his hands, and they’re a soft heat unlike any he’s ever known, practically ethereal. He looks down incredulously, watching as John Schneider’s fingers wrap around his hand and his fingers manage to mirror it. He’s imagined this moment, and goddamnit, he’s never going to hear the end of this. Jenny ain’t going to let this go. He looks back up again, because he’s probably been staring at their hands for a little too long now. John just looks somewhere between amused and confused, glancing between a glassy-eyed Jared and a still snickering Jensen, unsure as to where to let his own expression rest. Jared gasps and snatches his hand away finally, and yeah, smooth move Padalecki. That’s real smooth. Jensen can’t even hold his laughter in anymore; he’s loving this far too much. He excuses himself then, backing right up into a lurking Mike Rosenbaum. Jared smiles through his own mist of discomfort - he’ll get his. From what he gathers, Mike is an ex of sorts, although he doesn’t know all the sordid details yet.
.
A shot each of Southern Comfort later, and he and John (‘Mr. Schneider? Nah, boy. Call me John. I’m not your daddy.’) are leaning against the bar, talking. John hates these parties. He does like those fancy little hors d'oeuvres that they serve though, and seeing the people that he works with when they look like real people and not cartoon characters. Jared manages to angle the conversation to the safe subjects, General Lee (‘beaut of a car! Think she’s still with one of the producers…’) and Jensen (‘good actor, but he’s got a smart mouth on him. Reminds me a bit of myself at the age.’), while keeping it as far away as possible from that doe-eyed look he’s getting, and any mention at all of being thirteen and jerking off in the shower. It’s getting a little harder with every shot (not mentioning it, not his…shut up, brain), and fuck (sorry, mama), is John Schneider a pretty man. He vaguely tries to remember how many drinks he’s had, and he can’t. It’s the nature of the beast at one of these parties; it’s how you come with Alexis Bledel and end up leaving with Chad Michael Murray.
He’s somewhere between getting down on his knees right now, right here in front of everyone, and wrapping his tongue - which feels like he’s been using it to eat concrete - around three words which he hasn’t said to much of anyone lately and which would fall as uselessly as the way his sister used to lust after that boyband of hers, writing the blonde’s initials and hers together in hearts all over her best jeans until mama snapped.
A hand on his shoulder saves him.
A chest aligned with his back, knees pressed against the underside of his, toes to his heels, and hot breath to that ohgodyes spot on his earlobe follows it immaculately.
Merlot and beach sand voice, Cali softened and Texas on its last legs, Jensen simply breathes and the rest of the room fades out. That’s just the kind of guy that he is, and Jared doesn’t really know why he’s the one getting all the attention on the show. It makes him want to wave his arms and shout like any given building that they’re in is on fire. Dontcha (wish your girlfriend was hot like me? … what the hell is with music these days?) know that that’s Jensen Ackles?!? Jensen needs to be worshipped; it’s just the way he is. He’s built to be the second coming of Adonis, regardless of whether or not you think there was a first.
Oh god, his head is pounding with the music now and he still doesn’t know why Jensen’s standing behind him and not sayin’ anything. He shouldn’t have had that last shot; Tequila is a plaything of the devil, or so his mama says. John suddenly makes a face like Jensen is saying something to him, but Jared can’t hear any words. John makes a motion that’s somewhere between a wave and a salute and disappears into the crowd, swallowed by bodies in over priced clothing.
Jared feels like the room is spinning around them, and the only ones that aren’t moving are he and Jensen. Jensen leans up and Jared can feel the way that his body slides along his, close because there’s a group of miscellaneous women behind him, who Jared discovers when he tries his best to crane his neck all the way around, like the little girl in the exorcist. He thinks that he can feel every muscle in Jensen’s body, his hard pecks (did he just use the word pecks?), and the way that his stomach fits perfectly against the small of Jared’s back when he’s leaning like that. He draws in a breath sharply, and okay, yeah. Maybe he’s still a little off kilter from the meeting with John or something.
Then Jensen’s breath is on his ear again and it feels hot and wet, inherently sexual now. It fits, though. Jensen Ackles is fucking sex on legs, or sex on a stick, or sex in green and brown pumas, although he’s not wearing the shoes that Jared likes tonight. He shakes his head to try and clear out the thoughts, and manages to thump Jensen in the process. Jensen curses loudly and moves away as Jared turns slowly, like he’s moving a few seconds behind everything else in the room.
Jensen’s hand - the one that’s not holding the brandy snifter - is rubbing at his temple, and he finally gets back around to the purpose for this stopover. “Your girl is leaving.” Motioning towards the door, where Sandra is looking over at them with an annoyed expression. Oh, right. She must have asked Jensen to let him know that she was going, on the arm of an executive nonetheless. Jared nods to her and looks back over at Jensen, trying to read the jumble of feelings that flicker across his features. Mostly, Jensen looks confused. But under that, he can see a certain sort of pain, and Jared doesn’t know what to make of that. Jensen leans in again, real close, and whispers. “I’m sorry, man.” There’s a certain realness to it that Jared doesn’t expect from Jensen, and a poignant silence follows.
Jared is the first to break it. “Huh?” Jensen’s mouth, in all its Botticelli’s angel perfection, tightens in the way that Jared has come to know means he’s perplexed, or angry, or upset, or trying not to feel anything at all. His lips sort of pucker, like Jensen’s just had a shot of tequila himself and is on to the citrus afterwards. The creased brow that accompanies this one clues him in to the fact that Jensen is confounded.
“Sandra. She just…” motioning to the air around them and glancing towards the negative space in the doorway where she was just a minute before.
Jared blinks slowly as his brain processes, and then he does what comes naturally. He laughs, loud and exuberant. And once he starts, it’s real hard for him to stop, thank you very much liquor. He tries to choke out an explanation as one of those nearly perfect blonde eyebrows arches up, and Jensen gets his bitch, please face on. “She’s…we’re not…” A gasped breath. “…dating.” A pause. “You really thought we were dating?”
Jensen looks embarrassed now, a look that he wears infrequently enough that Jared wishes he had a camera with him. “….no.” It’s the kind of no that really means yes, that much is obvious.
Jared grins wolfishly. “No?” He honestly thought he knew. How could he not have? They’ve shot almost an entire season together, they hang out so often that they know each other’s idiosyncrasies like they’re memorized lines (the smell of potpourri makes Jensen sneeze, and Jared refuses to step in puddles when it’s raining), and he’s…well, he just should have known. Period.
Jensen shrugs.
.
Jared waits for coat check alongside that chick from Related, you know the one. For some reason he associates her with being a cop, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t speak, just stares straight ahead seeking out his jacket with his eyes as they move closer to the front of the haphazard line. He finally spots it, right next to the overcoat Jensen had been wearing. He bets there’s not an imperfection on Jensen’s, unlike his which is covered in dog hair, his own hair and god knows what else.
When he’s at the front, he gives the girl behind the counter his ticket. Calls her back as she goes to leave, and leans in as if he’s being conspiratorial. He drops his voice an octave, aiming for sexy and probably just achieving drunk in the downward slope of it. “Sugar, you’ve gotta bring me the coat beside it, too. It’s my friend’s, and he’s not in a real good way right now.” Jared is a sufficiently awful liar, but no LA girl is insusceptible to Texan, or at least he’s yet to find one. She comes back and hands him both coats, pretty little smile on her face like a dog that’s just done a trick.
He holds Jensen’s coat against him as he heads over to the table that he’s sitting on, swinging his legs back and forth like a little kid. Jared feels an odd satisfaction when he notices that some of the grit from his own jacket has transferred.
"Jenny?" He looks up with hazel eyes that are half-lidded with alcohol. "Why does that chick make me think of a cop?" He motions, and Jensen's eyes follow.
"Crash." He says, simply stated. Jensen almost always has the right answers.
.
The funny thing about LA is that you don’t much need a jacket, but it’s all part of the look. Everyone wears one anyhow, and most of the WBers are so used to the Canadian chill that they need one even less. Jensen carries his across his arm, like something out of a period piece. He reminds Jared of Laurie in Little Women (shut up, his sister likes it) like that. He’s half tempted to ask for money to buy a lime, but he knows it’ll just get his ass kicked. For being four inches shorter, Jenny can really throw down. Even more surprising from someone named Jenny, now that he thinks about it.
Jared’s staying at Sandy’s apartment, like he always does when he’s here. It’s their routine. Stay together, play the happy couple for a while. Maybe find a way to get their picture taken out together, if they can swing it. Neither is really important enough to be stalked, but sometimes they get lucky.
Jensen’s elbow hits him in the ribs, and he gasps as he turns to look at him. “You gonna come?” Jared has no idea what he’s talking about, and it’s only in retrospect that he understands that Jensen has been talking for at least half a minute now. Jared couldn’t quote a single word of it if his life depended upon it.
He nods, because whatever it is probably beats the other option. The last thing he needs is to walk in on Sandy, uh, entertaining someone tonight.
.
The taxi ride is uneventful, if you consider fairly awkward uneventful. He’s not sure that the awkwardness is coming from he and Jensen, but the cab driver keeps throwing wayward glances in his rearview mirror and the radio only seems to be playing Hindi music. When Jensen’s hand brushes against his, he nearly jumps out of his skin. The same thing goes for the time that the cab turns sharply and their shoulders bump, and when Jensen’s foot slides on top of Jared’s, just for a second.
They stop in front of a flawless building and Jensen tosses a couple of bills into the driver’s open hand before they climb out, all the while smiling a smile that can’t manage to reach his eyes. He leads his way inside the building, and Jared had forgotten that he has two apartments. The concept just seems so impractical to him that he’s never been able to bring himself to do it, not for the amount of time that he spends in Los Angeles.
Jensen’s building is old fashioned, the kind with dark red carpeting in the hallway and architecture that is supposed to mimic the gothic era, despite the fact that this place was built in the seventies, tops.
Jensen stops in an arc of eggshell coloured plaster, digging a key out of his pocket. He lets them in and immediately heads for the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a six-pack of Miller lite. Jared still has no idea what he’s doing here, so he hovers awkwardly in the living room, just looking at things.
There’s a picture of Jen and Mike Rosenbaum on the TV, and the furniture here is all real fancy. Fancy in that girly, classic way, with dark woods and subtly printed fabrics that look expensive, and Jared doesn’t think that he picked it out himself.
Jensen comes back with the beer, tossing one to Jared. Opens his own and downs it quickly, and Jared has the fleeting impression that he’s working up courage for something. He pushes the thought away and follows suit, opening a beer of his own to sip. He sits on the edge of the couch and Jensen flops down beside him, sprawled out. “So…” Jared tries, trying to get a handle on this situation.
“You ever seen my car?” Jensen asks, and Jared wonders just how drunk he is. He shakes his head. No. “Finish your beer. You gotta see her, she’s beautiful.” The smile that spreads across his face is dazzling, so Jared does as told.
.
Down in an old elevator, with glass mirrors that must be a bitch to polish. Jensen hits ‘G’, and they come out in some sort of parking garage. He turns a corner, away from most of the cars, and then waves his arms theatrically, sing-songing. “Ta-da!”
In front of Jared sits a red Mustang convertible, gotta be a ’64, maybe a ’65. Jensen’s eyes are lit up like a candle. He starts to speak, tripping over the first few words in the way that he does sometimes when he’s been drinking. “Haid for per…paid for her with my modeling money when I was in high school.” He looks real proud of himself.
Jared smiles just a little. “She’s nice. You know that the only car to ever beat General Lee was a Mustang? The Double Zero.” When Jensen gives him a blank look, he shakes his head. “Dukes of Hazzard. You live in a cave, boy?” A teasing grin. He leans back on the edge of the car, and it’s second nature now thanks to Sam.
Jensen takes a step closer, his own smile turning oddly feral. “Only nice?” Before Jared can even respond, Jensen is standing in the gap between his legs. He backs up a little on the car, and now he’s all spread out on the hood.
“Yeah. She ain’t no Charger.” Jensen laughs at that, throwing his head back in a way that would make Jared think he were flirting if he were female.
“You make an attractive hood ornament,” he purrs, and Jared is momentarily surprised by how easily he says it. One of those faultless hands is stroking over Jared’s chest, and he looks down at it in wonder. Oh god. Jensen drops his voice even lower, leaning closer and breathing in Jared’s ear. “Let me suck your cock, Jared.” It’s barely a whisper, and Jared’s not sure if he actually heard what he thinks he heard. He blinks. Once, twice, three times. The expression on Jensen’s face doesn’t change, and he doesn’t know if he’s just drunk but he really doesn’t want to push his luck with the matter.
The corner of his mind that’s still getting blood is reminding him that this is a really, really bad idea, but by now most of his thoughts and energy are focused somewhere else, a little lower. He nods and swallows, already starting to shake with the effort of all of this.
Jensen’s lips drop to his earlobe, and he can’t help the noise that he makes. He whines, long and low, and he’s probably going to hear about that later, too. They move down his neck, across his collarbone, and down his chest languidly, pressing through the fabric of his shirt. His shirt is rolled up, and Jensen is licking patterns onto his skin, too frickin’ slow for his liking. His fingers work at Jared’s belt, and god, he’s nimble for someone who’s drunk enough to be doing this.
It’s not a second later before he’s free of his boxers and Jensen is blowing warm air over his cock, and then there’s nothing but stars and glitter behind his eyelashes as Jensen’s motherfuckingperfect mouth is on him. It’s amazing in ways that he can’t even fathom, and it’s like the subject in school that you hadn’t known you’d like until you get placed in it by accident. His hands are in Jensen’s hair before he even knows it, an automatic reaction that he doesn’t exactly loathe. Jensen’s all wet heat and low noises against Jared’s skin, tongue working feverishly in places that Jared hadn’t even known existed. His eyes are closed, eyelashes practically touching freckled cheeks like he’s praying. Jared has to look away, or he’s not going to last. Jenny’s just god forsakenly beautiful, in a way that no man ever should be.
His eyes flick open as Jared lets out a moan, not knowing or much caring whether he’s expected to be quiet or not. The only sounds he can hear are his own frenzied breathing and the soft murmuring noises that Jensen’s making as he takes and releases his length, the only things he feels are the ridges of the hood against his back, and the way that Jensen’s mouth conforms to him like they were made to fit together.
His muscles tense and he thrusts up, hips arching off the car like a desperate teenager. It washes over him like the tide coming in before he can even warn Jensen, and all that he manages is a strangled whimper-cry as he comes, eyes squeezed shut and lack of fingernails digging into Jensen’s scalp. Jensen licks him clean before standing, stepping away and watching him so intently that Jared can feel his gaze even through the lingering miasma of orgasm.
“Anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like John Schneider?” he pants by way of thanks when he opens his eyes, stretching up for a chaste kiss before the thirteen year old version of him doubles up in hysterics.
Pairing: Jared/Jensen (Padackles.)
Rating: NC-17
Notes: For the lovely 16shadesofwild on her 21st birthday. A tag fic of sorts I guess, brought on by the amusing coincidence of this photo.
The party is dull.
Jared sits perched above the dance floor, little more than a space that’s been cleared amongst the bodies, fake laughter and ice swans. Sandra is off somewhere, probably trying to make connections, and so he’s occupied himself with a glass of scotch and a mental game of ‘six degrees of Warner Brothers incest’.
He smiles easily as Lauren Graham comes up behind him, hands over his eyes. He knows who it is. She unhands him and presses a kiss to his cheek, tugging on his hair. Too long. She likes it. She asks where his partner is, and he gets the uncomfortable feeling that she’s referring to Jensen in more than an ‘in-crime’ sense. She laughs easily, unfazed by the look that he must be wearing.
When she moves on to the next unsuspecting target, he scans the room for Jensen like a virus check. He finally finds him, talking to Tom Welling.
Tom somehow manages to pick up on the fact that Jared is watching, and yep, weird supermanish characteristics still intact. He grins that megawatt grin and nudges Jensen until he’s looking, too. Jared gets the distinct feeling that he’s the tail here, the Rory at Emily and Richard’s Yale party. The thought makes him hurt for his Dean, but only for a second - he has to remind himself that the character is dead and no longer a part of himself.
The thought is cut short by the singing of birds, the humming of a string quartet, and blindingly brilliant lights. All of the clichés, and he suddenly feels like he hasn’t taken a breath in a few minutes.
John Schneider walks - no, floats -- over to his play-son and play-…Jensen.
If this were a script, the italics would read something like “dream sequence; Jared remembers” now.
.
He lounges on the couch, Jeff in the armchair. It’s real hot, hot as the hinges of hell as his mama would say. He’s practically stuck to the couch like a pig in mud, but he ain’t real happy about it. Gosh darn it, Texas. Jeff’s supposeda be watchin’ after him, but he’s plenty old now and cain watch himself. He’s just gittin’ to be tall ‘nough now that he stretches clear from one end of the couch to the other.
Dukes of Hazzard’s on TV. Bo hops into General Lee, plaid shirt raisin’ an’ showin’ a little bitta skin. He’s pretty sure that the air around him gits hotter than Jennifer Love Hewitt’s ass, and that one is all Jeff.
He gets up and heads to the sanctuary of the bathroom before Jeff notices. He don’t know if he’s a-washin’ or a-hangin’, but he don’t much care. He knows he’s eatin’ supper before they say grace tonight, but that ain’t nothin new.
Damn Dukes.
.
Jared was real adamant about Wade’s car being a Charger in House of Wax, and he managed to twist just the right person’s arm to make that happen. Wade wasn’t a pus- -err, punk, he wouldn’t have driven a Mustang. He’d want a car just like General Lee, because he was a good ol’ boy, too. Jared knows the feeling. Jenny teases him about it sometimes, the way that the drawl creeps back into his voice when he’s real tired and the way that there’s a beaten up Stetson hidden on the top shelf of his closet, just in case he should ever need it.
Jensen. Who knows about his insufferable irrational infatuation, thanks to a game of I've Never that got a little out of control. Jensen, who is waving him over now. His eyes widen and his feet either become his greatest nemesis or his saving grace - he’s not sure which - ‘cause he’s moving towards them. Tom’s gone now, and Jared didn’t even see him leave.
Jensen grins like a car salesman. Laying it on real thick, and Jared can hear all the shades of amusement in his tone. “Jared, buddy.” He smells like red wine, Merlot, maybe. Not very Texas of him, but it’s not as if he should be surprised. “John,” gesturing to this golden god with a sparkle of childish laugher in his hazel eyes “meet Jared Padalecki. He’s a fan.” A snorted laugh, and Jared can see that Jensen is nearly choking under the weight of his own delight.
Jared extends his hand to be shaken, and everything’s going fuzzy around the edges, either from approximately 60% malt whiskey or by the oncoming of another dream sequence.
He has to remind himself that he’s not thirteen anymore, and even still he’s mentally chanting something along the lines of a very garbled ‘think unsexy thoughts’. Yeah. Simpsons were popular in his house, too.
And god in heaven above, those hands are touching his hands, and they’re a soft heat unlike any he’s ever known, practically ethereal. He looks down incredulously, watching as John Schneider’s fingers wrap around his hand and his fingers manage to mirror it. He’s imagined this moment, and goddamnit, he’s never going to hear the end of this. Jenny ain’t going to let this go. He looks back up again, because he’s probably been staring at their hands for a little too long now. John just looks somewhere between amused and confused, glancing between a glassy-eyed Jared and a still snickering Jensen, unsure as to where to let his own expression rest. Jared gasps and snatches his hand away finally, and yeah, smooth move Padalecki. That’s real smooth. Jensen can’t even hold his laughter in anymore; he’s loving this far too much. He excuses himself then, backing right up into a lurking Mike Rosenbaum. Jared smiles through his own mist of discomfort - he’ll get his. From what he gathers, Mike is an ex of sorts, although he doesn’t know all the sordid details yet.
.
A shot each of Southern Comfort later, and he and John (‘Mr. Schneider? Nah, boy. Call me John. I’m not your daddy.’) are leaning against the bar, talking. John hates these parties. He does like those fancy little hors d'oeuvres that they serve though, and seeing the people that he works with when they look like real people and not cartoon characters. Jared manages to angle the conversation to the safe subjects, General Lee (‘beaut of a car! Think she’s still with one of the producers…’) and Jensen (‘good actor, but he’s got a smart mouth on him. Reminds me a bit of myself at the age.’), while keeping it as far away as possible from that doe-eyed look he’s getting, and any mention at all of being thirteen and jerking off in the shower. It’s getting a little harder with every shot (not mentioning it, not his…shut up, brain), and fuck (sorry, mama), is John Schneider a pretty man. He vaguely tries to remember how many drinks he’s had, and he can’t. It’s the nature of the beast at one of these parties; it’s how you come with Alexis Bledel and end up leaving with Chad Michael Murray.
He’s somewhere between getting down on his knees right now, right here in front of everyone, and wrapping his tongue - which feels like he’s been using it to eat concrete - around three words which he hasn’t said to much of anyone lately and which would fall as uselessly as the way his sister used to lust after that boyband of hers, writing the blonde’s initials and hers together in hearts all over her best jeans until mama snapped.
A hand on his shoulder saves him.
A chest aligned with his back, knees pressed against the underside of his, toes to his heels, and hot breath to that ohgodyes spot on his earlobe follows it immaculately.
Merlot and beach sand voice, Cali softened and Texas on its last legs, Jensen simply breathes and the rest of the room fades out. That’s just the kind of guy that he is, and Jared doesn’t really know why he’s the one getting all the attention on the show. It makes him want to wave his arms and shout like any given building that they’re in is on fire. Dontcha (wish your girlfriend was hot like me? … what the hell is with music these days?) know that that’s Jensen Ackles?!? Jensen needs to be worshipped; it’s just the way he is. He’s built to be the second coming of Adonis, regardless of whether or not you think there was a first.
Oh god, his head is pounding with the music now and he still doesn’t know why Jensen’s standing behind him and not sayin’ anything. He shouldn’t have had that last shot; Tequila is a plaything of the devil, or so his mama says. John suddenly makes a face like Jensen is saying something to him, but Jared can’t hear any words. John makes a motion that’s somewhere between a wave and a salute and disappears into the crowd, swallowed by bodies in over priced clothing.
Jared feels like the room is spinning around them, and the only ones that aren’t moving are he and Jensen. Jensen leans up and Jared can feel the way that his body slides along his, close because there’s a group of miscellaneous women behind him, who Jared discovers when he tries his best to crane his neck all the way around, like the little girl in the exorcist. He thinks that he can feel every muscle in Jensen’s body, his hard pecks (did he just use the word pecks?), and the way that his stomach fits perfectly against the small of Jared’s back when he’s leaning like that. He draws in a breath sharply, and okay, yeah. Maybe he’s still a little off kilter from the meeting with John or something.
Then Jensen’s breath is on his ear again and it feels hot and wet, inherently sexual now. It fits, though. Jensen Ackles is fucking sex on legs, or sex on a stick, or sex in green and brown pumas, although he’s not wearing the shoes that Jared likes tonight. He shakes his head to try and clear out the thoughts, and manages to thump Jensen in the process. Jensen curses loudly and moves away as Jared turns slowly, like he’s moving a few seconds behind everything else in the room.
Jensen’s hand - the one that’s not holding the brandy snifter - is rubbing at his temple, and he finally gets back around to the purpose for this stopover. “Your girl is leaving.” Motioning towards the door, where Sandra is looking over at them with an annoyed expression. Oh, right. She must have asked Jensen to let him know that she was going, on the arm of an executive nonetheless. Jared nods to her and looks back over at Jensen, trying to read the jumble of feelings that flicker across his features. Mostly, Jensen looks confused. But under that, he can see a certain sort of pain, and Jared doesn’t know what to make of that. Jensen leans in again, real close, and whispers. “I’m sorry, man.” There’s a certain realness to it that Jared doesn’t expect from Jensen, and a poignant silence follows.
Jared is the first to break it. “Huh?” Jensen’s mouth, in all its Botticelli’s angel perfection, tightens in the way that Jared has come to know means he’s perplexed, or angry, or upset, or trying not to feel anything at all. His lips sort of pucker, like Jensen’s just had a shot of tequila himself and is on to the citrus afterwards. The creased brow that accompanies this one clues him in to the fact that Jensen is confounded.
“Sandra. She just…” motioning to the air around them and glancing towards the negative space in the doorway where she was just a minute before.
Jared blinks slowly as his brain processes, and then he does what comes naturally. He laughs, loud and exuberant. And once he starts, it’s real hard for him to stop, thank you very much liquor. He tries to choke out an explanation as one of those nearly perfect blonde eyebrows arches up, and Jensen gets his bitch, please face on. “She’s…we’re not…” A gasped breath. “…dating.” A pause. “You really thought we were dating?”
Jensen looks embarrassed now, a look that he wears infrequently enough that Jared wishes he had a camera with him. “….no.” It’s the kind of no that really means yes, that much is obvious.
Jared grins wolfishly. “No?” He honestly thought he knew. How could he not have? They’ve shot almost an entire season together, they hang out so often that they know each other’s idiosyncrasies like they’re memorized lines (the smell of potpourri makes Jensen sneeze, and Jared refuses to step in puddles when it’s raining), and he’s…well, he just should have known. Period.
Jensen shrugs.
.
Jared waits for coat check alongside that chick from Related, you know the one. For some reason he associates her with being a cop, but he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t speak, just stares straight ahead seeking out his jacket with his eyes as they move closer to the front of the haphazard line. He finally spots it, right next to the overcoat Jensen had been wearing. He bets there’s not an imperfection on Jensen’s, unlike his which is covered in dog hair, his own hair and god knows what else.
When he’s at the front, he gives the girl behind the counter his ticket. Calls her back as she goes to leave, and leans in as if he’s being conspiratorial. He drops his voice an octave, aiming for sexy and probably just achieving drunk in the downward slope of it. “Sugar, you’ve gotta bring me the coat beside it, too. It’s my friend’s, and he’s not in a real good way right now.” Jared is a sufficiently awful liar, but no LA girl is insusceptible to Texan, or at least he’s yet to find one. She comes back and hands him both coats, pretty little smile on her face like a dog that’s just done a trick.
He holds Jensen’s coat against him as he heads over to the table that he’s sitting on, swinging his legs back and forth like a little kid. Jared feels an odd satisfaction when he notices that some of the grit from his own jacket has transferred.
"Jenny?" He looks up with hazel eyes that are half-lidded with alcohol. "Why does that chick make me think of a cop?" He motions, and Jensen's eyes follow.
"Crash." He says, simply stated. Jensen almost always has the right answers.
.
The funny thing about LA is that you don’t much need a jacket, but it’s all part of the look. Everyone wears one anyhow, and most of the WBers are so used to the Canadian chill that they need one even less. Jensen carries his across his arm, like something out of a period piece. He reminds Jared of Laurie in Little Women (shut up, his sister likes it) like that. He’s half tempted to ask for money to buy a lime, but he knows it’ll just get his ass kicked. For being four inches shorter, Jenny can really throw down. Even more surprising from someone named Jenny, now that he thinks about it.
Jared’s staying at Sandy’s apartment, like he always does when he’s here. It’s their routine. Stay together, play the happy couple for a while. Maybe find a way to get their picture taken out together, if they can swing it. Neither is really important enough to be stalked, but sometimes they get lucky.
Jensen’s elbow hits him in the ribs, and he gasps as he turns to look at him. “You gonna come?” Jared has no idea what he’s talking about, and it’s only in retrospect that he understands that Jensen has been talking for at least half a minute now. Jared couldn’t quote a single word of it if his life depended upon it.
He nods, because whatever it is probably beats the other option. The last thing he needs is to walk in on Sandy, uh, entertaining someone tonight.
.
The taxi ride is uneventful, if you consider fairly awkward uneventful. He’s not sure that the awkwardness is coming from he and Jensen, but the cab driver keeps throwing wayward glances in his rearview mirror and the radio only seems to be playing Hindi music. When Jensen’s hand brushes against his, he nearly jumps out of his skin. The same thing goes for the time that the cab turns sharply and their shoulders bump, and when Jensen’s foot slides on top of Jared’s, just for a second.
They stop in front of a flawless building and Jensen tosses a couple of bills into the driver’s open hand before they climb out, all the while smiling a smile that can’t manage to reach his eyes. He leads his way inside the building, and Jared had forgotten that he has two apartments. The concept just seems so impractical to him that he’s never been able to bring himself to do it, not for the amount of time that he spends in Los Angeles.
Jensen’s building is old fashioned, the kind with dark red carpeting in the hallway and architecture that is supposed to mimic the gothic era, despite the fact that this place was built in the seventies, tops.
Jensen stops in an arc of eggshell coloured plaster, digging a key out of his pocket. He lets them in and immediately heads for the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a six-pack of Miller lite. Jared still has no idea what he’s doing here, so he hovers awkwardly in the living room, just looking at things.
There’s a picture of Jen and Mike Rosenbaum on the TV, and the furniture here is all real fancy. Fancy in that girly, classic way, with dark woods and subtly printed fabrics that look expensive, and Jared doesn’t think that he picked it out himself.
Jensen comes back with the beer, tossing one to Jared. Opens his own and downs it quickly, and Jared has the fleeting impression that he’s working up courage for something. He pushes the thought away and follows suit, opening a beer of his own to sip. He sits on the edge of the couch and Jensen flops down beside him, sprawled out. “So…” Jared tries, trying to get a handle on this situation.
“You ever seen my car?” Jensen asks, and Jared wonders just how drunk he is. He shakes his head. No. “Finish your beer. You gotta see her, she’s beautiful.” The smile that spreads across his face is dazzling, so Jared does as told.
.
Down in an old elevator, with glass mirrors that must be a bitch to polish. Jensen hits ‘G’, and they come out in some sort of parking garage. He turns a corner, away from most of the cars, and then waves his arms theatrically, sing-songing. “Ta-da!”
In front of Jared sits a red Mustang convertible, gotta be a ’64, maybe a ’65. Jensen’s eyes are lit up like a candle. He starts to speak, tripping over the first few words in the way that he does sometimes when he’s been drinking. “Haid for per…paid for her with my modeling money when I was in high school.” He looks real proud of himself.
Jared smiles just a little. “She’s nice. You know that the only car to ever beat General Lee was a Mustang? The Double Zero.” When Jensen gives him a blank look, he shakes his head. “Dukes of Hazzard. You live in a cave, boy?” A teasing grin. He leans back on the edge of the car, and it’s second nature now thanks to Sam.
Jensen takes a step closer, his own smile turning oddly feral. “Only nice?” Before Jared can even respond, Jensen is standing in the gap between his legs. He backs up a little on the car, and now he’s all spread out on the hood.
“Yeah. She ain’t no Charger.” Jensen laughs at that, throwing his head back in a way that would make Jared think he were flirting if he were female.
“You make an attractive hood ornament,” he purrs, and Jared is momentarily surprised by how easily he says it. One of those faultless hands is stroking over Jared’s chest, and he looks down at it in wonder. Oh god. Jensen drops his voice even lower, leaning closer and breathing in Jared’s ear. “Let me suck your cock, Jared.” It’s barely a whisper, and Jared’s not sure if he actually heard what he thinks he heard. He blinks. Once, twice, three times. The expression on Jensen’s face doesn’t change, and he doesn’t know if he’s just drunk but he really doesn’t want to push his luck with the matter.
The corner of his mind that’s still getting blood is reminding him that this is a really, really bad idea, but by now most of his thoughts and energy are focused somewhere else, a little lower. He nods and swallows, already starting to shake with the effort of all of this.
Jensen’s lips drop to his earlobe, and he can’t help the noise that he makes. He whines, long and low, and he’s probably going to hear about that later, too. They move down his neck, across his collarbone, and down his chest languidly, pressing through the fabric of his shirt. His shirt is rolled up, and Jensen is licking patterns onto his skin, too frickin’ slow for his liking. His fingers work at Jared’s belt, and god, he’s nimble for someone who’s drunk enough to be doing this.
It’s not a second later before he’s free of his boxers and Jensen is blowing warm air over his cock, and then there’s nothing but stars and glitter behind his eyelashes as Jensen’s motherfuckingperfect mouth is on him. It’s amazing in ways that he can’t even fathom, and it’s like the subject in school that you hadn’t known you’d like until you get placed in it by accident. His hands are in Jensen’s hair before he even knows it, an automatic reaction that he doesn’t exactly loathe. Jensen’s all wet heat and low noises against Jared’s skin, tongue working feverishly in places that Jared hadn’t even known existed. His eyes are closed, eyelashes practically touching freckled cheeks like he’s praying. Jared has to look away, or he’s not going to last. Jenny’s just god forsakenly beautiful, in a way that no man ever should be.
His eyes flick open as Jared lets out a moan, not knowing or much caring whether he’s expected to be quiet or not. The only sounds he can hear are his own frenzied breathing and the soft murmuring noises that Jensen’s making as he takes and releases his length, the only things he feels are the ridges of the hood against his back, and the way that Jensen’s mouth conforms to him like they were made to fit together.
His muscles tense and he thrusts up, hips arching off the car like a desperate teenager. It washes over him like the tide coming in before he can even warn Jensen, and all that he manages is a strangled whimper-cry as he comes, eyes squeezed shut and lack of fingernails digging into Jensen’s scalp. Jensen licks him clean before standing, stepping away and watching him so intently that Jared can feel his gaze even through the lingering miasma of orgasm.
“Anyone ever tell you that you look a bit like John Schneider?” he pants by way of thanks when he opens his eyes, stretching up for a chaste kiss before the thirteen year old version of him doubles up in hysterics.