Fic: Mr&Mr Winchester (J2, spnspringfling 2016)
Sam barrels through the door, sweaty and dishevelled. Once upon a time it would’ve turned Jensen on, but now he’s just pissed.
“You’re late,” he says.
“Sorry,” Sam gives him the puppy eyes. “Something came up.”
He launches into a detailed explanation, but Jensen stops listening at ‘5000 cubic feet of concrete’, because he just doesn’t care.
Which probably goes some way to explaining why they’re here.
The consulting room door opens and a brown-haired woman steps out.
“Misters Winchester,” she says.
Jensen and Sam stand up.
“After you, Dean,” Sam says chivalrously.
Jensen rolls his eyes, smooths his hands down his smart grey suit and strides into the Marriage Guidance Counsellor’s office.
“I have to confess,” Dr Kim Rhodes says after the introductions are done, “that you’re the first married gay couple I’ve counselled.”
Jensen smiles and tries to subtly angle his chair so that his back isn’t to the door.
Dr Rhodes reads from their client information sheets. “I see you both own your own businesses, Sam in Construction and Dean in IT Security.”
Sam answers for them and makes polite small talk while Jensen wonders if there’s a fire escape beside the window.
“How did you two meet?” Rhodes asks, while Jensen is busy plotting escape routes.
Sam’s onto it like the enthusiastic puppy he is.
“It was Bogota, wasn’t it, Dean? You were setting up IT Security for a new client and I was quoting for a shopping mall construction job.”
Jensen nods. He’d actually been there to assassinate a judge who’d become a thorn in the side of a major drug cartel.
“We met in the bar of the hotel.”
Where Jensen wasn’t staying. He just had to duck in there and pretend to be a tourist, because his getaway hadn’t gone as smoothly as planned. Jensen’s planning is meticulous. He hates when somebody else jams up his works. Anyway, Sam caught his eye and they had a few drinks. They discovered over neat whiskey (Jensen) and strawberry daiquiris (Sam) that they were both from Texas, both loved basketball and UFC, were both fans of country music and would both be in the country for another 48 hours, although their respective work was finished.
Jensen casually mentioned that he found being alone in a dangerous country like Colombia scary and Sam, like the big lunkhead he is, gallantly offered to hang around with him and protect him. Which was perfect, because the authorities were looking for a man travelling alone.
Sam was unsurprisingly easy to get into bed and surprisingly fantastic in bed. Well-hung, a little bossy, and willing and able to pin Jensen down and give it to him hard.
Jensen never has any trouble attracting playmates. He isn’t vain, but he does own a mirror; he knows he’s attractive. Before Sam, sex was mostly just a means to an end or a simple release. With Sam, it was a revelation.
Which is actually the main reason they’re here.
Jensen can barely remember the last time they had sex.
Sam and Dr Rhodes are looking at him expectantly so Jensen smiles and says, “I saw this gorgeous guy sitting at the bar and it was lust at first sight.” Sam’s eyes edge toward kicked puppy so Jensen adds, “Which quickly turned to love.”
It’s true enough. 48 hours in Bogota, turned into two weeks in Vegas and when they headed back to Texas, they were married. Technically, it’s probably not legal, given that Jensen was using an alias, but still.
“…thought mutual interests and fantastic sex would be enough,” Sam is saying, “and it was for the first couple of years. But now…it feels like there’s a gulf between us, a lack of honesty. Like he’s hiding something.”
Well duh, Jensen thinks.
His cell phone rings.
Dr Rhodes and Sam both frown at him. “That’s supposed to be switched off.”
Jensen holds a finger up. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
He heads out to the waiting room and his handler, Chris, tells him that the Firm has an urgent job for him. His standard ‘urgent’ fee has already been wired to his Swiss bank account and he needs to get to Beaumont pronto. The authorities are moving DIA prisoner Curtis Armstrong, who almost brought down the Firm when he turned rat, and the window of opportunity is small.
Jensen leaves.
Sam and Dr Rhodes are probably bitching about what a shitty husband he is and how Sam could do a lot better. Jensen doesn’t want to lose Sam, despite the rut they’re in, but the job has to come first.
Jensen is lying flat on his belly, hidden among the trees, on a slope, in somebody’s rustic, densely-wooded country property. He’s had to bust out his camos for this gig and he feels almost legit, waiting motionless behind his Barrett M82. Periodically he looks through his scope, sighting the road where the prison bus will come. Armstrong is being transferred from USP Beaumont to the Federal Supermax in Florence, Colorado. He’s being driven to Jack Brooks Regional Airport and Jensen only has an eleven minute window in which to put a bullet in him.
He looks through the scope again and catches something glinting in the distance. He lifts the gun and adjusts the scope and…no way.
Sam is sitting in a tree on the other side of the road, with a rocket launcher over his shoulder.
“What the fuck?” Jensen mutters.
And then there’s the rumble of a big engine and the police car leading the prisoner convoy comes into view.
Jensen swears and resituates himself, ready to take careful aim.
The flash of light is so bright his scope eye is temporarily blinded and then there’s a loud boom and the ground shakes and Sam falls out the tree. Jensen blinks back tears and swears softly as the bus skids on its side down the road.
Armstrong is flailing in his seat and Jensen puts his eye to the scope again, but it’s still watering and everything’s still blurry and the cops bringing up the rear are out of their car, weapons drawn, calling for backup, and Jensen’s ears are ringing. There’s yelling and distant sirens and this has turned from a simple job into a clusterfuck.
Jensen packs away his sniper rifle with economic efficiency and fades from the scene like a ghost. His escape route is thoroughly planned and his getaway at least goes smoothly.
He’s never failed to complete a job before and it stings.
He doesn’t think about Sam until he’s back in his business suit and cruising down the East Freeway in Dean Winchester’s silver Prius, his laptop and briefcase on the seat beside him and the M82 safely tucked away in the trunk’s hidden compartment.
What the actual fuck? is mostly what he thinks and he’s still thinking it when the guard waves him through into their gated community at Tanglewood.
Sam’s truck is in the garage. The roller door is up.
Jensen reverses into their driveway, waves genially at Alicia next door, and then gets his pair of Sig Sauer semi-automatics out of the trunk’s hidden compartment.
He enters the house through the window of the second living room and then makes his way to the door, hugging the walls.
“Honey, I’m home,” he calls out and is promptly showered with plaster from the wall beside him.
“Pathetic,” Jensen says. “I bet you couldn’t even hit a bus with a rocket launcher.”
The next bullet strikes much closer.
“I hit it,” Sam says. “You try firing a rocket launcher when you’re falling out a tree.”
“I’m not stupid enough to try firing a rocket launcher from a tree. I’m a professional.”
A hand grenade sails past Jensen’s head and he throws himself from the room, a gun in each hand, firing wildly as he dives, outstretched, to the hallway floor. The room he just vacated blows up and then Sam is firing at him from the top of the stairs and Jensen commando crawls into the kitchen and gets behind the island counter.
“You okay, Sweetheart?” Sam says with phony sweetness.
“Peachy,” Jensen grunts. He runs his hands over his body, makes sure he’s not hit. He leans back against the counter and considers his next move. “So how’d you get away?” he asks, buying time, “you know, after you fell out the tree.”
“I have more hand grenades,” Sam says pissily.
“But, Honey, you love this kitchen,”
Sam harrumphs. “The yard where I was hiding,” he says after a pause, “those two trucks in the driveway? I blew them up.”
“Subtle.”
“Effective.”
“Do you work for the Firm?” Jensen asks.
“Yeah. I’m their Number Two assassin.”
Jensen gapes. “The Moose? I’m married to The fucking Moose?”
“Jared,” Sam says.
“Padalecki, yeah, I know,” Jensen always reads the dossiers of the people who might kill him one day. No photos, of course. He knows everything except what they look like.
“Scared yet, Dean?”
Jensen snorts again. “Jensen,” he says.
There’s a long pause and then Sa-Jared says, “Fuck my life. You’re The Jackal?”
“In the flesh.”
Jared sighs. “Man, that job you did in Tunisia? With the cocktail fork? Fucking class, man. You’re awesome. No wonder you’re Number One.”
Jensen preens a little. And then he peeks around the edge of the counter. Jared is at the kitchen door. Jensen takes a shot and hears wood splinter. Jared returns fire and glass shards rain down from the shattered doors of the kitchen wall-cabinets.
“Sonofabitch! I thought you liked this kitchen?”
“Not like we can keep the place. The Firm obviously set us up to take each other out.”
It is the best explanation for why they were both sent on the same job.
Jensen comes up over the top of the island counter, firing both guns. Jared pulls his head back and Jensen backs into the dining room. He sneaks out the other door, around into the hallway, and creeps up behind Jared, who’s peering into the kitchen trying to figure out where Jensen is.
“Boo,” Jensen puts his gun to the back of Jared’s head.
And then feels something dig into his belly.
“Is that a gun you’ve got sticking into me,” he quips, “or are you just pleased to see me?”
“Joined in death,” Jared says sadly. “I don’t think I’ve ever regretted a kill more.”
“Me either,” Jensen says. “Although. We could…”
“What?”
“Team up. We’d make great partners.”
Jared snorts. “I wonder what our marriage counsellor would say about that.”
“She’d say, stop keeping secrets, start having a lot of great sex again, and you’ll be fine.”
The gun barrel disappears from Jensen’s belly.
He lowers his own gun and his husband turns and faces him.
“I never stopped wanting you,” Jared says, his expression heated. “I just…you were keeping secrets-”
Jensen jabs a finger in his chest. “Pot. Kettle.”
“Yeah,” Jared ducks his head. “But I thought you were cheating.”
“Never,” Jensen breathes.
Jared’s eyes darken and he drags Jensen into the kitchen.
Their weapons go on the counter and then Jared is pushing Jensen back against the granite, his lips pressing hard, his tongue seeking entry. It’s wet and messy and demanding and Jensen gives as good as he gets. A thigh like a tree trunk presses in between his legs and Jensen rides it, grinding and groaning, the tip of his dick getting wet inside his shorts. It’s been too fucking long.
Jared pulls back and spins Jensen, shoving him down so that his chest is against the counter.
“Pants,” Jared says, sounding wrecked, and Jensen divests himself of the annoying barrier between himself and Jared.
Jared moves away and Jensen glares over his shoulder at his husband, watches him reach into the pantry and come out with…olive oil?
He uses is to slick his fingers and Jensen huffs and rolls his eyes and spreads his legs as wide as he can.
The prep is rough; careless and impatient. Jensen doesn’t care. He gets one finger, then two a moment later. He pushes back against the burn. Jared’s fingers wriggle and thrust, stretching him too fast, too soon, and then there are three fingers in his ass, and more olive oil, and a finger presses insistently against his prostate.
“Enough!” Jensen grits. “Get in me now, or I will shoot you.”
“Nah,” Jared drawls. “You love me too much to shoot me.”
Jensen would bitch at him only he’s too busy moaning at the feel of Jared’s slick, fat dick pushing into him. Jensen’s hole flutters and clenches and then gives as Jared batters his way inside. He pulls out and then fucks in deep, again and again, his balls smacking relentlessly against Jensen’s ass cheeks. Jensen’s hips have finger-shaped bruises.
From somewhere behind them a floorboard creaks and Jensen’s gun is in his hand. He twists and sights and fires, nailing the intruder with the raised gun right between the eyes. He topples like a felled tree, sightless eyes wide.
“Babe,” Jared murmurs, his eyes alight with love and pride. His next few thrusts nail Jensen’s prostate with the same pinpoint accuracy as Jensen’s gunshot, and Jensen howls and comes, untouched.
“Babe,” Jared repeats and follows him over the edge.
Jensen is bitching at Jared and wiping come and olive oil from his ass with a dishcloth when his cell phone rings.
“Hi Chris,” he says.
Jared goes still.
“Freddie Lehne?” Jensen’s eyes dart to the dead man. “The Firm’s Number Three Assassin? Yeah, we know. He’s taking a nap on our kitchen floor.”
Jensen listens. “Acting alone, huh? Completely unauthorized?” He rolls his eyes. “Sure, okay. My husband and I accept their apologies. Please tell the Firm that Mr and Mr Winchester will be taking an extended second honeymoon. We’ll make ourselves available for jobs when we return, but the Firm will be dealing with a new, joint company going forward and if they want one of us they’ll have to pay for both.”
He ends the call.
“Seriously?” Jared says.
“Why not? I know our styles are different-you’re all gung-ho aggression, wing-and-a-prayer stuff and I’m detail-oriented and meticulously organized-but we complement each other.”
Jared slips his arms around Jensen’s waist. “No, that makes sense. I meant are you serious about the second honeymoon?”
Jensen leans up and kisses his husband gently. “Oh. Yeah. Although,” he frowns. “We should probably get married again, in our real names this time, and have a proper first honeymoon.”
Jared smiles and then sighs. “I’m gonna miss being Sam and Dean Winchester.”
Jensen shrugs. “We’ll keep the aliases. We can call the new company Mr&Mr Winchester Inc.”
“C’mon,” he tugs on Jared’s hand. “Let’s pack. Wanna be gone before the clean-up crew arrives.”
Jensen can’t wait to show Jared the cleverly concealed weapons cache he had built into their walk-in-wardrobe. He wonders what surprises Jared has in store for him.
The End