Chapter Text
It all starts with one fucking mistake. Well. One fucking mistake in front of Misha Collins.
Jensen got enough sleep and ate a hearty breakfast, the first one in a week because a post-flu stomach doesn’t like bacon, who would have thought? He also woke up on his own (no alarm clock included), there was hot water during the shower, and for once, the sun doesn’t have icicles hanging from it. It’s a miracle! He had coffee and sugar in his regular quotas, said hi to everyone, and basically had a slam-bang of an excellent morning.
The scene is Dean chatting with Cas, like they do, getting at the meat of the apocalypse now, and how for ages Dean has said he wants to die, yet he hasn’t really gotten around to doing it, the hypocrite, can’t he just admit that fighting for Bobby’s life and Sam’s freedom and the survival of not-so-innocents is simply a roundabout way of fighting for his own soul?
It’s a “Where’s the end of your rope, Dean, where is it really?” from Castiel, and a “Sam’s the end of the line. If he goes… I don’t want to stay.” Appropriate pause and all.
Except Misha’s there, so of course Jensen is fucked before he can appreciate the fact. Castiel nods gravely and says, “Yes. I, too, would burn my journal and pine along with Meatloaf if Jared went away.”
And Jensen has to take a second before he realizes that it wasn’t Sam’s name he said.
Jared lets out something damn near a cackle there on the sidelines, Eric tumbles over at the waist in his chair, everyone’s laughing, the damn cameras are shaking up and down, and Jensen wants to kick all of them up the asses. Simultaneously.
Jared tears over and wraps him up in a burrito of a hug, sobbing loudly into his shoulder, “I’ll never let go, Jen, oh God, I wish I knew how to quit you!”
From that moment on, Jensen is fodder for the masses. The masses, of course, being Sera Gamble and Jim Beaver and Josie the grip and Mick who edits sound and Harlon over at catering and fucking hell, was everyone getting paid to stand around and watch that scene? For fuck’s sake.
It’s not even funny when Jeff Morgan calls that night to ask how long Dean’s been in love with his brother and whether he should get them therapy.
Jensen’s going to kill Jared. For real this time.
**
The joke has a longer half-life than most radioactive elements, it seems.
Jared starts flubbing every fifth line, proclaiming Sam’s desire to do everything from getting a beer to committing ritual suicide with ‘Jensen’. When Eric orders him to knock it off (still laughing, mind you, because Jared is the freaking fairy of glee and no one is immune), Jared takes to constantly announcing that he has not left, tell Jensen not to worry, he’s still here, he’s only gone to the bathroom or to grab a sandwich or to discuss how best not to be out of Jensen’s line of sight for the rest of the day with McG, and as if that weren’t enough, someone— Jensen’s not naming any names— took his script, whited out every use of the name ‘Sam’ and replaced it with ‘Jared’.
Jensen doesn’t even have a moment to sit down this week. He has no idea where Jared is finding the time to be such an effective bastard.
Misha is no help. What is the point of that man, anyway?
**
Not “Sam, you wanna get a beer?”
Not “Just shoot her damn brains out, Sam!”
Oh, no. Because that would be too easy, too kind to Jensen Ross Ackles.
**
Not even “Hey Sam.”
The universe is definitely laughing at him.
**
And then of course, he’s got to live with Jared for the next bajillion and one months.
He’s got to live with the helpful notes telling him where Jared is at all times (Hey Jen, just stepped out to get the paper and Hey Jen, gonna be in the john for the next two minutes taking a leak and Hey Jen, standing right behind you) and he’s got to live with ‘I’d Do Anything For Love’ as his new ringtone (he is never ever allowing Misha or Jared within twenty yards of his cell phone ever again) and he’s got to live with Jared’s big fat annoying face whenever Dean experiences another heartfelt hemorrhaging of his soul, which is, oh yeah, always.
It’s the matching cowboy hats that really kill him. They absolutely kill him. Har dee har har, Jared, I’m not wearing that, don’t give me that look.
Why is it that even now, even fucking now, he can’t resist Jared’s sad eyes?
**
“So, Jensen—”
“Shut up.”
“—I was thinking that we—”
“Shut up.”
“—should maybe exchange emergency numbers again—”
“Shut the hell up!”
“—just in case.”
It feels really, really good to flip Jared off with both hands, in three different ways.
**
Which is why Jensen has sunk so low as to be hanging out with Misha at the bar instead of Jared. Not because he flipped Jared off. Dude, they’re not children. And not because he ran out of the house with Jared’s car keys and drove away before Jared could get a better grip on the back bumper. It’s mostly because Jensen put his own car keys in the bin that holds Sadie and Harley’s poop and even if Jared did figure that out, Jensen’s betting he won’t like the idea of dumpster diving for them. So he’ll never drive his own car again. It’s alright; he’s planning on keeping Jared’s car for the rest of his life anyway.
Misha’s got Jensen-radar, because Jensen didn’t tell anyone he was coming here, that’s for damn sure. Misha’s probably a Dalek anyway, able to find hapless innocents with a snap of his… Well, wait, he’s got fingers. Fuck it. It’s all a ruse, anyway.
“Dude.” Jensen gestures at Misha and slops beer all over his own arm. “Where’s your plunger?”
“Under my left love handle,” Misha answers mournfully. “Where I always put it.”
“Dude.” There are so many ways that that is just wrong. Jensen will die of old age before he gets through them all.
“It broke the other day, and I was all out of rubber cement.”
Jensen grabs Misha’s shoulder. “Stop.”
Misha shrugs. “Alright. Let’s talk about you.”
Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. Jensen’s swearing a whole lot more these days. “Let’s not.”
“Let’s do,” Misha wheedles. He thinks Jensen thinks he’s drunker than he is, but Jensen knows his game. He’s still not fast enough to stop Misha from ruffling his hair.
Misha smiles beatifically at him. “We’re friends, right?”
“Uh.” There’s a trick in here somewhere, he knows there is. “Yes?”
“And you know I trust you with my life.”
Okay, so maybe Misha is a little bit drunker than he thinks that Jensen thinks… he thinks he is. “Okay.”
“And friends don’t leave friends hanging.”
Four, three, two…
“So why didn’t you tell me about your secret love?” Misha whines like a pro, extending syllables every which way and going up and down about two octaves. And he’s so intent, the look on his face is desperate and bewildered and determined all at once, and he’s squeezing the life out of Jensen’s jacket sleeve.
“Collins. Enough.” Jensen glares. His limit was reached long ago, and look, Sam didn’t even have to die. Praise Kripke.
Misha switches masks in an instant, slumping back in his seat, his expression calm and slightly resigned. His hand has untangled itself from Jensen’s apparel and is currently swirling his Heineken, and it’s all a little shocking, how fast everything changes. “Fine. Sorry.”
Jensen tosses back what’s left of his beer. “Little late for that, don’t you think?”
Misha gives him a crumpled ketchup packet in apology.
A few minutes pass, and Jensen manages to figure out what’s going on in the hockey game above the bar. He’d be watching it at home with Jared, except Jared’s a jerk.
“All I’m saying,” Misha says finally, “is that it was awfully Freudian.”
Jensen resists shoving the ketchup packet down Misha’s shirt. “Your mom’s awfully Freudian.”
“See, that’s Freudian, too. And don’t talk about Freud like that.”
Jensen clears his throat. “I do not secretly love Jared.”
“Okay.”
“I do not secretly plan to waste away if Jared ever leaves.”
“Okay.”
Jensen glances at Misha and finds actual, honest-to-goodness agreement. No grin, no raised eyebrows. He doesn’t trust it, but hey, he’ll go on. “And I’m not secretly pining along with Meatloaf.”
“Jensen, come on. I know you’re none of those things.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, ‘cause it’s not a secret anymore.”
Jensen sighs. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”
Misha tilts his head thoughtfully. “No, my folks were married, I’m pretty sure. My eleventh brother, however…”
“Look, dude, just drop it. Okay?” Jensen gets to his feet and zips up his jacket. “I get enough from Jared because of you, I don’t need you on top of it.”
He’s opened himself up for a disgustingly messy jab involving being on top or needing Misha on top, and he knows it. But Misha lets it go. Jensen can feel Misha’s eyes on him all the way out the door.
**
He’s in the middle of brushing beer leftovers off of his teeth and tongue (Hey Jen, I haven’t abandoned you, I just switched your toothbrush to the left toothbrush holder because it’s fun. Okay? :) ) when he gets an idea.
**
“Dude, give me my keys.”
Jensen smiles. “No chance. I like your car too much.”
Jared frowns with all six feet plus of himself. Somehow. “Come on, man! I have to get in for extra scenes.”
Jensen twirls the keys around his finger and watches as Jared’s eyes follow round and round, like a cat’s. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you there in time.”
Jared straightens up, peering at Jensen in a refreshingly confused manner. “You’re… going to drive me.”
Jensen smacks Jared on the ass and grins his way out the front door. “All the better to keep an eye on you, honey bunch.”
**
But if Jared hates this new turn of events, he’s not making anyone else aware of it. Which wasn’t part of the plan. At least Misha is keeping his distance, or maybe it’s the fact that they don’t have any scenes together this week. Whichever, it’s all gravy to Jensen. He just wishes that Jared wasn’t so good at adapting to new environmental apocalypses, like freak snowstorms or having your friend try to be smarter than you.
Clinging all over someone who is already clinging all over you is not so effective, as it turns out. If Jensen hears one more ‘awww, you guys!’ he will seriously punch a hole through the Impala’s windshield and wedge Jared through it face first.
Offering to feed Jared lunch by hand doesn’t have the same effect when Jared actually takes him up on it.
Shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over Jared’s shoulders between scenes doesn’t really work out when Jared drags Jensen under his arm so they can both wear the coat.
And having a big bouquet of roses sent to Jared right in the middle of watching the dailies isn’t so satisfying when Jared grabs his face and smushes his cheeks together for ‘being so thoughtful in front of everyone, Jen!’
Yeah, Jensen knows how to take a hint. It was a stupid plan anyway.
**
Jensen’s pretty sure he shouldn’t be the one feeling guilty. But Mama raised him right, so here he is, with his current two favorite beings on the planet, due to Jared having a late shoot that showcases how well he can flop over in a graveyard and bleed from the mouth. Or something.
“Now this is a runaway demon,” he instructs. The hellhounds study it attentively, committing it to bouncy, yellow, demonic memory. “Sic it.”
The hellhounds tear after the ball, banging into each other and barking at the tops of their lungs because, god knows, the lone toddler in the playground to the right might actually beat them to the ball and steal it from them. Sadie gets there first and somersaults right over it before jumping on Harley and wrestling it out of his mouth. Harley grabs her tail and the hellhounds return, just like that, Sadie wearing a smashing new slobber hat and Harley with her tail in his mouth.
The demon squeaks plaintively between vicious, vicious teeth.
“Drop it.”
Then there’s a lot of tail wagging and a lot of Jensen trying the find the silver lining in the amount of drool coating his fingers, and then, good god, the demon is loose again, damn it, and off they go.
Meatloaf sings about that thing he won’t do again. “Yeah.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have seen my dogs recently, would you?”
Jensen whistles them back. “Looking at ‘em right now. Drop it!”
“Oh, man, you are a lifesaver, you know that?” Jared sounds beat. There’s a crash and a lot of cursing, and Jensen holds a moment of silence for whichever mug just died an untimely death in their kitchen. “Shit. Thank you. Really, Jensen, thank you.”
“All in a day’s work.” Harley gnaws on the demon with his butt stuck up in the air. Hell is so going to fire him. “What’s for dinner, woman?”
Jared pauses. “So,” he says, “my dogs have reached surrogate status, huh? It’s cute how much you need me.”
Jensen hangs up on him.
**
The thunk is pretty audible. Carpet’s deep, but not that deep, and that doorknob is the heaviest fucking doorknob Jensen’s ever had the pleasure of meeting.
“Jensen.”
Jensen flips a page of the newspaper. “Present.”
“Hey, man. Knob’s off again.”
Jensen cranes back over the couch and eyes the doorknob lying in the middle of the hallway, looking like the latest victim of the French guillotine. “Yep.”
“So?”
Jensen goes back to the paper. Ooh, football tonight. There will have to be popcorn and milk duds. “Sorry, could you speak up? I can barely hear you.”
“You are a fucker. That loud enough?”
Jensen tsks at the most recent travesty of hockey. “What was that? It takes one to know one?”
“Jensen…” Okay, Jared’s whine has now entered the building. There’s some shuffling from within the bathroom followed by a metallic squeak, and then the inevitable clang and the even more inevitable “fucking hell!”
Jensen winces and shakes his head. That’s left a mark in the linoleum, then. One of these days, he’s going to have to bite the bullet and get them the right sized screwdriver to fix those doorknobs. But right now, he’s reading the sports section.
“Jen, please,” Jared wheedles. “I’m hungry and bored.”
“There’s plenty of food in the fridge.” Good conversational skills are the key to any successful living situation.
“Jeeeeeeennnnnn.”
Jensen rolls his eyes, gets off the couch, retrieves the doorknob, and shoves it back into place. “Come on, push.”
There’s another clink; the knob in Jensen’s hand wiggles a little, then the satisfying snick sounds as male end meets female end, and the door clicks open.
Jared topples out and rolls onto Jensen’s feet. He wraps an arm around Jensen’s leg and rubs his face against his shin like a cat. “Knew you were really a hero.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Heroics aside, Jensen would feel bad leaving him in there. Besides, he’s bored, too.
**
The joke dies an official death at home. Jensen counts himself lucky and goes back to thinking of Jared with that sense of retrospective fondness he enjoys. Jared is terribly clever. Jensen wouldn’t mind possessing that much wiliness himself, but thankfully, he lives with Jared and one day he may just absorb this ability through osmosis.
Which means that, of course, he’s underestimated his housemate. Again.
Jared really needs to not be left to his own devices while other people are trying to make an honest living, because the things that result are just unspeakable. Jensen’s tried telling Sera and Eric this. Kim was the only one who believed him; the problem was that Kim enjoyed Jared’s antics. So, no help there.
The next week at work, Jared actually puts a GPS tracker in Dean’s jacket pocket. Jensen wants to know which of their cars has had its Garmin liberated, but since his keys are still buried in dog doo, he figures Jared knows that sometimes one must make sacrifices for one’s art.
Dean’s coat feels just a little heavy on one side. And because Jared doesn’t have an address or a set of global coordinates while he’s wandering around set, he relays his whereabouts by hollering at the top of his lungs, using the highly technical terminology of “Hotter! Hotter! No, colder, you’re ice cold!”
Apparently, subtlety is no longer an issue.
The plot of the show seems to be moving forward a little, though. Sam’s trying to find Gabriel, and he stole the Impala but left one of the shotguns, most of the salt, and a note telling Dean to JUST SAY NO.
Meanwhile, Dean and Cas are still waiting for Godot. Like they do.
But then Dean is informed that his brother has suffered an appalling death at the claws of Zachariah. The average angel may not have claws, but Zachariah certainly does. Even the fangirls picked up on that. Bobby’s trying to keep Dean from going kamikaze, and Jensen’s calling up every reserve he’s got, thinking about untimely pet deaths and the utter despair that followed his very worst breakup, when Castiel teleports through the ether with Sam in tow, Sam, who wraps Jensen in the tightest hug known to man, yelling, “I’m here, it’s okay, I’m alive!”
There’s a beat, Jared’s eyebrows wiggle, and the whole crew cracks up right there on the spot. Jensen decides it’s time to take matters into his own hands.
**
The best part is that they’ve already given him all the ammo he needs. Eye of the Tiger was a big hit, after all. He waits for the end of his filming day, and Kripke must know that the other scene being filmed across the road will be abandoned just as soon as the music starts, but he sets everything up anyway, and that’s what Jensen loves about Eric. It’s what he misses about Kim.
It takes exactly three seconds for everyone to catch on. Jensen revs up his act like the pro he is; he’s seen Meatloaf’s video a thousand times (and if Jared knew about the torch Jensen had carried for that man, he’d never hear the end of it, so naturally, Jared has no idea), he’s got a cloak from costuming, and the song itself begs for the most outrageous melodrama in existence. Jensen was on Days, he’s got the chops for it. All he needs is Fabio in a mask and Angelina Jolie stretched out on top of the Impala.
He makes do. Reaches for the sky, drags the sorrow out of his soul to the sound of Jared’s wheezing. Jared is, in fact, nearly floating, he’s laughing so hard. Jim’s grin is epic, and everyone is clapping along, clutching at their hearts in time to the music. Jensen makes puppy eyes at Jared and feigns a knife to the heart. Of course he’s making his version as dirty as possible, because with lyrics like these, how can you not? He feels his mastery of the longest joke he’s ever endured taking over.
Jensen would do anything for love. He’d run right into hell and back, an admission that makes his audience absolutely insane with glee. Yes, Jensen would do anything for love.
He makes sure to point right at Jared as he croons, for the last time, “But I won’t do that.”
The audience literally roars.
Jensen, shielding his eyes from the horror of doing Jared, thinks he sees Misha wince. Misha’s eyes dart and return, and his mouth twists down. Something shifts in Jensen’s chest like a toppling weight and, for a split second, he feels like he knows why but can’t put any words to it.
By the time Jensen follows Misha’s eye-flicker and actually looks at Jared, there’s only laughter and that familiar grin.
**
The joke has been slaughtered. Which is odd because it’s definitely not dead. Jensen gets plenty of cracks from the crew, as well as plenty of congratulations on his new music video, which will likely have even more hits on You Tube than the first one. But the joke still feels, somehow, like it’s been gutted and skinned, and hung up on the nearest tree branch, out of reach of random packs of wolves.
Maybe it’s because Jared hasn’t made one comment since Jensen’s performance.
Things don’t feel different. Jared still snorfles his way through take after take, still pats Jensen on the back and gets hand-slappy in the Impala. But anything referring to Jensen’s Jared-addiction is gone. Jensen doesn’t know whether to feel happy or worried at first, but as the joke slips slowly out of the realm of funny and into the land of nostalgia, Jensen stops worrying and lets himself get back into the regular swing of things.
Until things are different. Not on set, but at home.
**
“Dude.”
Jared doesn’t answer. Jensen rereads the letter and shakes his head. “Dude.”
Nothing. Jensen cranes his head back and shouts down the hall to the living room. “Dude!”
Jared has obviously gone deaf, but the hellhounds come running. Jensen wades through wagging tails and floppy tongues, down the hall and into the sprawling living room. Jared is plugged into his iPod, whacking his hands on the coffee table to what sounds like a violent and shrieky bout with Drowning Pool.
Jensen tugs an ear bud out. “Dude, read this.”
Jared shuts off the music and arcs his head back over the couch, looking curious. Good enough. Jensen thrusts the letter at him and tries not to puke at the wafting plumeria cloud it’s been drenched in.
Jared does a triple take before spinning to his knees on the couch and shoving the letter at Jensen. “Are you— Are they seriously— What the fuck?”
Jensen grins and buffs his knuckles on his shirt. “Fifty-five percent of slash fans think I’d look sexier wearing Frederick’s of Hollywood than you.”
“That’s a lie,” Jared says, indignant. “You are nothing but a big fat lying liar.”
“Hey, don’t kill the messenger,” Jensen placates, lifting both hands. He checks his own ass and raises his eyebrows at Jared. “Just telling you the stats, as accepted by the FBI.”
“The huh?”
“Fangirl Board of Information. See?”
Jensen angles his hips to provide a visual aid, and Jared’s eyes drop dutifully to his jean-clad butt before skipping back up again. But when they do, they just stop, fixed on Jensen’s face. Jensen feels inexplicably like he’s just been asked an important question, one he should answer. And he can’t look away. It’s several seconds before Jared shakes his head and the stillness breaks.
“No way. I can carry off lacey buttfloss much better than you,” Jared grumbles, peering over his shoulder at his own back end. He puckers up his face in a pout the size of Texas, then jumps to his feet and makes for the kitchen. “That’s it. I’m writing back. Get the Polaroid.”
Jensen laughs, but thinks he manages it a little late.
**
“Misha. Read it and weep.”
Misha stares at the letter in his hand. “What is it?”
“Jared and I have Max pick out all the more avant garde pieces of fanmail so we can laugh. It just so happens that I win the Supernatural underwear contest.”
Misha reads, then sets the letter down and picks up his phone. He taps a little, twiddles a bit, and shows Jensen a photo on Twitter.
Jensen never wants to think about underwear again.
**
Jared’s indoctrinating him into the fandom of True Blood, pointing out all the helpful information such as how smoking hot Tara is, how awesome it would be to have the Compton Southern accent for real, and how Vikings make the most bad-ass motherfuckin’ vampires. They’re currently living off beer, potato chips, and wasabi peas, and Jensen can’t remember the last time he had the couch to himself like this.
He does really like the soundtrack, though, and he says as much to Jared. “Really like the soundtrack.”
“Oh, man, this whole show’s made of awesome. Here, check this part out, Jason Stackhouse is a total douche.”
Jason Stackhouse might be a total douche— and Jason might currently have a hard-on so huge that Jensen is this close to jumping up and running the hell out of there— but for whatever reason, Jensen’s only catching every other swear word out of Tara’s mouth. (Even if, damn, she totally is as hot as all that.)
It’s the fucking couch. It’s too damn big, and for some godawful reason, that’s screwing with Jensen’s ears.
“Course, Jason’s kind of adorable as a douche,” Jared allows, taking a long swig of his Heineken. “How he manages both at the same time… One of the mysteries of life. Or.” Jared points right at Jensen from where he’s sitting clear across the carpet. “Or he’s related to Chad.”
Jensen nods. It’s a sound hypothesis. “Could be. Hey.”
“Yeah?” Jared fixes him with an inquisitive forehead-scrunch.
Jensen clears his throat, because what he’d planned on saying suddenly doesn’t sound as smooth as it had when he planned it. Instead, he gestures at the empty couch cushions he’s been so bravely trying to cover with both legs.
Jared follows the movement of his hand and looks back, still curious.
“Dude.” Jensen straightens, trying to remember how to sit like a normal person. “Couch versus rug? Come on.”
Jared looks away for a second, and then pushes to his feet and trips over to the couch. And sits down, and it should count as a win, except that he’s all the way on the other side, doing the last thing Jensen ever expected him to do: sitting like a normal person. With feet on the floor and arm on the armrest, back against the appropriate cushions. He’s got his other arm on the backrest, elbow crooked so that his hand hangs down midway across the couch.
Suddenly Jensen can’t feel anything but the space.
It all swings in a little hard at that moment, all the not-happenings of late. It’s weird to notice something for not happening, isn’t it? Jensen’s sure it is, and if not, then Misha could convince him. But, it’s just this:
Jensen can’t remember the last time Jared hugged him. Which, you know, Jared.
Not that Jensen keeps a diary with dates and notations or anything. It’s just something one notices, not having a best friend’s body heat usurping one’s own because the best friend in question has an arm slung around one’s shoulders/a hand hooked around one’s waist/a face buried in one’s arm/a leg riding up one’s jeans/insert other personal space abuse here.
Jensen knows he doesn’t smell bad. He stopped checking a couple days ago. And he knows he hasn’t pissed Jared off in some inevitable way due to their living situation, because if he had, then Jared would just be up in his room listening to screaming people who call themselves singers, or maybe out with his dogs somewhere. And he still takes Jensen along to the park and all that to keep the hellhounds happy, and he still talks to Jensen and laughs with Jensen and cracks jokes with Jensen. So it can’t be anything specific that Jensen did. Jared’s not exactly the secretive sort. If Jensen’s fucked up unforgivably, then he’s sure to hear about it, probably before he’s even finished fucking up. Jared’s just like that. He’s had too many relationships fall apart because someone didn’t pipe up and say what the hell was bothering them. Jared’s only told him about one of those broken friendships in detail, but for Jared, who takes everything like a personal slug to the gut, that’s more than enough, and Jensen winces at the mere thought that he might have caused that kind of angst.
But he hasn’t. Jared isn’t angsting, he’s fucking laughing. At Chad’s TV twin.
“Hey,” Jensen says to break the silence, even though there isn’t any silence. “Wanna run lines after this episode? There’s a scene…”
He trails off. Jared looks at him, smiles, and nods.
“Sure.”
They’ve got tough scenes coming up. It’s a perfectly legitimate question. And Jared said yes. So why does Jensen feel like he’s taken a step backward rather than forward?
**
It’s a fucktard of a week on Supernatural. They’ve lost Cas, but found Jimmy’s body. Someone’s betrayed their whereabouts to the angels: Zachariah has turned Dean’s mind into his own personal museum of horrors, and the exhibition this month features all the ways that Sam is going to destroy the world, take on a new tenant for that big, strong Winchestery body of his, or die in horrific, excruciating agony.
On Dean’s rack, even. At Dean’s hand.
The last scene on Friday takes all day, and Jensen’s pretty damn sure the network is going to have three litters of kittens over how Not Ratings Friendly it is to show Sam being cut to pieces by his own demented brother, while in the mind of said demented brother, one inch at a time. Jensen’s innards feel as raw as the special effects slop sitting on the table in front of him, his throat hurts like a sonofabitch, and his hands are literally shaking around the hilt of the machete Dean’s got hold of.
The wrap around five o’clock is such a godsend that Jensen wants to just go and lie down. Just as soon as he’s properly un-Deaned by costume and makeup.
Afterward, Eric walks with him, out of the way of the crew as they whip everything away into boxes and crates and the backs of vans, thanking him for the tough grind this week and assuring him that the next set of scenes will be a walk in the park in comparison, and would he like to go to Sparrow’s Bistro and Bar with the rest of them, kick back, unwind, and basically talk smack about the writers for putting all of them into this position?
Of course, the answer is yes. Eric claps him on the back and disappears toward his trailer. The sky is just beginning to pink up with the coming sunset. A breeze ruffles Jensen’s hair, makes his eyes feel too dry. There’s no one else around; they’re all breaking down the set or preparing to depart for the evening, and for the first time in days, Jensen can just… breathe.
It’s too much tired and too much ugly and too much “once more, with feeling.” Jensen sits down on a stack of crates and nearly misses. He’s thinking that, wow, he’s awfully shaky tonight, when he realizes he’s crying.
Damn. He’s not even sad. Dean is sad, Dean keeps getting his heart jerked around on a chain while trampling his own self-worth into the mud, Dean keeps putting his baby brother through shit and then not forgiving Sam for the shit he gets into himself, and Jensen’s merely the outlet, but, god. God. He can’t stop.
He’s exhausted. Just wants to topple over and slip from sobs into sleep. It’s the weekend, his work is done for two days, and here he is, menopausal and unable to stand up, he’s trembling so violently. He remembers in elementary school, fifth grade, that day he drank too much water and had to get picked up by his mom. There was this little third grader who cried herself to sleep on the nurse’s cot across from him, and then she kept crying all the way through whatever dreams she was having.
Similarly, his mom had a year way back when all she did was cry for no reason, and she’d smile at him through her tears and laugh and tell him not to worry, she wasn’t really sad, but he didn’t believe her until now, when he just gets it. He gets it.
A few minutes later, he thinks he’s winding it up— not shaking quite so hard, able to catch his breath between bouts— and he pushes to his feet, feeling this weird sense of complacency, when Jared shows up.
“Hey, man, they’re ready to head out if you—”
Jensen’s in mid-hitch. He spins away, wiping at his face. Another sob pushes its way through, but it’s weaker. His cheeks are all wet, he’s cried his contacts out of place, and it takes him a second to adjust and turn around again. When he does, Jared is already there, one hand reaching, touching down on his shoulder and drawing him in.
“Jen.”
Jensen sniffs and clears his throat. “Lousy week, Jared, that’s all.”
It’s the first time Jared’s embraced him in a while, and Jensen notices it all over again when Jared curls his arm around his shoulders and leans into him. Jensen’s mind gets to work trying to pick that apart, more why he keeps noticing than why Jared hasn’t been hugging him lately, and Jared says, “I know, man.” He rubs Jensen’s arm as if he’s chafing away a chill. “I know.”
**
The next day, they’re home again because, yay, Saturday, but the whole man-hug thing might as well have not happened. Jensen’s somewhat confused, if by ‘somewhat’, you mean a lot confused, mostly confused, pretty much ninety-nine point nine percent confused. Confused with a chance of befuddlement.
There’s only one thing to do. It’s high time he cooked up a batch of Jared Cookies.
They’re these awesome chocolate chip cookies with coconut and crushed nuts and toffee and other top secret items. Jared Cookies are to chocolate chip cookies what the Brooklyn Bridge is to that little plank of rotten wood that Jensen jumped over when he was eight, right before falling on his ass into the stream while Josh laughed so hard he choked on his own spit. The recipe for Jared Cookies is a closely guarded Padalecki secret, handed over to Jensen with much cheek patting and finger waving by Jared’s own mother. I only give it to family, she’d said. You hear that, Jensen Ackles? Family. If I ever find this on MyFace or YouBook or whatever, I’ll have to disown you. The only time Jensen ever felt more privileged was when he actually took a bite of one of those cookies.
So he slaves all afternoon over mixing bowls and quisinarts (once again, these things work much better if they have a lid on) and the oven and finally the dishwasher (because Jared put the dish soap in last night and then forgot to start the damn thing so they have no clean plates or glasses), and by the time he’s done, the kitchen smells like the best slice of heaven he’s ever sniffed. And he admits to himself, pulling the cookies out to cool, that this can be a truce of whatever kind it needs to be, but mostly it’s a thank you for that hug last night, when Jensen didn’t end up composing himself for a full five minutes after Jared wrapped his arms around him. And that’s Jared’s fault, really, because who could be composed in the face of all that empathy, which smells, like it does, of Jared Padalecki’s armpit? Physically impossible.
But seriously, Jensen wouldn’t mind those hugs on a regular basis again, Jared. Hint, hint, have a cookie. Have two dozen.
He has time to put the cookies in the cookie jar, leave said jar tantalizingly in the middle of the counter, and head back to the bathroom to take a shower before his cell rings and Jared tells him he’s running late because of road work downtown, and does Jensen want Thai tonight?
Psh. Jensen always wants Thai.
Only when Jared gets home, he pushes the cookie jar back to its normal spot to make room for tons of takeout, and Jensen can only stare as Jared pulls out two boxes of Betty Crocker Chocolate Chunk Brownie Mix and preheats the oven. Jared grabs the bowl out of the dishwasher and the mixing spoon too, and then carefully steps around Jensen when they’re both standing in front of the fridge. Sidesteps him. By, like, a two foot radius. And waits for Jensen to get the hint and move out of the way so Jared can get the eggs.
Usually Jared just moves him bodily out of his space when the situation calls for it. Sometimes he makes an irritating nasal beeping sound while he’s backing Jensen up, both hands pressed to Jensen’s sternum, whole body nudging forward until Jensen finally caves and admits defeat.
But now, Jared just will not touch him and Jensen can’t take it anymore. His prowess in the kitchen has been shunted aside, Jared’s favorite sweet treat ever has been ignored, Jared is mixing eggs and chocolate to death in that stupid bowl, and Jensen’s about to pop like an overinflated helium balloon. He opens his mouth, determined to demand Jared’s undying flukeworm-like attachment to him again or he’ll steal the brownie bowl and eat all the mix himself. With his hands, damn it.
The reality of it, the part he can’t quite articulate even to himself, is that he’s all muddled up inside and well on his way to crazy.
He gets as far as shoving his thumb into the bowl and sucking it into his mouth before he actually looks at Jared and finds he can’t say any of it. He can’t yell at this Jared, and he’s not sure why, but that bit inside him that won’t stand for this weird ape-shit behavior bubbles right out of his mouth into, “Aw, honey, you baked!”
There’s a moment when Jared looks at him, just flicks his eyes like he’s studying Jensen, like he’s wary, and Jensen’s kind of caught in the pause, not breathing, until Jared lets his smile creep free. He flips the wooden spoon and presents it to Jensen with a flourish. “That I did, Sugar Plum.”
“Well, so did I,” Jensen says. He opens the cookie jar and gets mauled by an excited slavering beast.
Sadie and Harley are there, too.
**
But then it’s like Jared hits a reset button or something. Like he’s set himself some sort of bar, and every time he trips over it, he leaps back to the starting line and goes for the gold again. It’s getting to the point where Jensen wonders if he didn’t dream up the breakdown hug and the cookie tackle.
He doesn’t know what he’s done. It’s affecting his acting, too: at one point, the visiting director actually came up and took him by the shoulder, trying to find out if he was just spaced out or if he was prone to going catatonic in the middle of a scene. The look on Jared’s face was as concerned as ever, but the shoulder slaps? The pat on his arm or back or where-fucking-ever? No.
It’s like Jensen’s no longer standing next to his best friend.
Jensen has done some feeling around, trying to gauge Jared’s level of irritation, but for all his poking and prying, he’s been able to find nothing. Zip. Diddly-squat. Either Jared is trying out an entirely new form of acting that will bag him a fucking Oscar (yes, for a television show), or he’s just not angry.
So Jensen starts spending his free time rehashing the last month in his mind, trying to find the discrepancy that he’s sure is there.
The last time Jared acted… well, like Jared, was around the time of the Joke from Hell. Okay. Easy enough. But then Jared was even more all over Jensen than usual, so… Did Jared hit some kind of limit? Set off some timer that said ‘ding! Your allotment of body-glomps has now expired!’? Jensen didn’t even know there were limits like that, but Jared may not be entirely human, so it’s possible. So. Joke from Hell. Fun times with Misha. Jensen’s song, and then Jensen remembers the odd reaction Misha had to his Meatloaf solo, and he wonders if Misha knows something about all this.
The only problem with asking Misha is that, if Misha doesn’t really know anything of import, Jensen’s never going to know about it. Whatever Misha Collins feeds him will be maniacally convincing, and Jensen will just be opening himself up to more scrutiny by laying down the question in the first place, but then again, Misha’s never once used any information he’s gained in a malicious manner. For all Misha’s incredible whackitude, he’s the most confidential confidante Jensen knows.
Jensen invites Misha for drinks, and then asks him to drive, because Jared needs the car.
(Actually, Jared wrestled the keys out of Jensen’s hands amidst much yelling and swearing that morning. It was epic, and the most physical contact Jensen has had with Jared for weeks.)
After two beers’ worth of listening to Misha rave about how many times he fell out of Jim’s wheelchair during shooting that day while kicking empty Coke cans at a bulls-eye they painted on the side of Bobby’s van (during which Jensen makes a personal vow to never, ever let Misha Collins meet Chad Michael Murray because the world would just fucking explode, thanks), Jensen decides he’s good to get things rolling.
“Misha, you think Jared’s acting weird?”
Misha barely glances at him. “As opposed to when he acts normal?”
Misha’s definition of normal aside, Jensen walked right into that one. “I just. Think he’s acting weird. Weirder than usual. Around me.”
Misha’s hand tightens around his glass. “Yeah.”
Okay, so he’s got a consensus, but he’s still not sure what that means. “Yeah, you agree? Or yeah, you heard me?”
“Yeah, I both.” Misha doesn’t look at Jensen. He studies the leftovers of his current beer. “Well, you were pretty harsh.”
Whoa. Back the truck up. “I— Misha, what the—?”
“With the song. But then, he probably deserved it, so…” Misha tilts his head, considering. “Can’t blame you there.”
Jensen just shakes his head. He’s not sure where to start.
Misha sighs. “Remember that night in the bar? With the ketchup packet, and you all angry.”
Yes, Jensen remembers that night. No, not by choice. “What about it?”
“That’s when I knew.”
Jensen’s going to need Misha to throw the bone a little harder. “Knew what?”
“You. And Jared.”
Correction: Misha needs to hit him right between the eyes with this bone. Obviously. “Me… and Jared what?”
“Heard it in your voice.” Misha looks very solemn, and Jensen’s not sure if this is a joke or not. Misha shrugs. “Wasn’t sure how to take it, but I figured you didn’t need teasing about that from me when you were getting it from him.”
There’s something about the way Misha says him that makes Jensen pause. “Never stopped you before. In fact, I’m pretty sure that was the whole point for a while there.”
Misha actually grimaces. For real. Castiel grimaces all the time, but Misha? “But I didn’t need to bring it to the forefront.”
Jensen gets two heartbeats before things start clicking home. “Wait, wait a minute. Wait. Just… hang on.”
Misha grabs the table top tightly with both hands and hangs on. It makes Jensen a little angry and he snaps his next words. “What exactly do you think you brought to the forefront? There’s nothing there! He was teasing me, that’s all. Jared was just being Jared.”
Misha eyes him balefully. “Are you sure about that?”
Well, he was. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Misha drops his eyes and contemplates his pint glass. “Teasing hurts more when it’s about something true.”
Jensen has to sit down. No, he has to pace. He has to put something gross in Misha’s beer or poke him in the eye or something because he’s not dealing with the implications of this conversation very well. Maybe he has to go out and let the air out of Jared’s tires. But the car’s not here and besides, then they wouldn’t be able to drive anywhere. “What are you talking about?” he says again.
Misha sighs. He’s blushing a little, and if Jensen’s head wasn’t currently screwed on backward, he would rib him about it properly. “You don’t need to be teased about liking Jared by… Jared.”
Jensen has to stop freezing up like this. It’s making him doubt his self-confidence, his faith in his own body. He jerks a hand up, then down, and settles on grabbing his hair. “No. No, you— I don’t like Jared! Like that! He can tease— It doesn’t matter about that because there’s nothing to be teased about!”
Or… yeah. It made sense, really. Jensen takes a deep breath and tries again. “He’s annoying. But it’s not… like that.”
Epic fail.
“Because it looks like it hurts you,” Misha says without looking up.
Jensen opens his mouth, and then shuts up. Does it? Does it look like it’s hurting him? He’s always been somewhat aware of his body language and mannerisms, because the other people who are somewhat aware of that stuff are known as the paparazzi, and Jensen’s no newbie to the surreal life. But Misha’s more observant than an owl on the hunt, and Jensen’s never had to hold up his guard around the rest of the cast and crew like he does with the public anyway. He doesn’t feel hurt. Not… not really. Not in that way, and that’s the important thing. It’s not like the situation stabs harder because Jared is the one not taking it seriously.
Shit. Did he just think that?
“Misha, shut up. You’re brainwashing me.”
And then Misha actually looks worried, and that’s much, much harder to handle all of a sudden.
**
Should he be hurt? Like, more than he is. If he were hurt, so to speak.
**
Jared smiles at him the next morning as they pass in the kitchen, and, yes, that right there in Jensen’s chest is technically defined as pain. Because it’s a big smile, it might even be a huge smile. But nothing is as ginormous as the Big Smile, nothing quirks in that particular way at the right side of Jared’s mouth as the Big Smile, and that’s… not it.
The very worst part is that Jensen realizes he recognizes this smile anyway. He’s seen it a lot lately.
It’s morning, Jared chooses to be more Mona Lisa than usual, and Jensen feels sick. Like the breakfast he ate never actually made it into his stomach, just evaporated halfway down, leaving him queasy and empty and hungry.
He goes for a jog anyway with Jared and the hellhounds around ten, and by the time they get back, they’re both so loosened up and settled back into their respective grooves that Jensen lets the rest drop back behind his other thoughts and leaves it there.
**
Jogging becomes a good bad thing. Good because it’s happening pretty much every day now, and Jensen’s feeling better than he’s felt in a while. Bad because he doesn’t remember Jared jogging so far away from him before.
Of course, when Jensen closes the distance, Harley tangles himself in Sadie’s leash in one second flat, so maybe there’s a reason for that.
**
So Jensen’s fucking sore now, thanks a lot, Jared Padalecki. Sore calves, sore thighs, hell, even sore abs and he really has no explanation for that. It might be attributed to getting belted in the gut by Harley’s immense head when Jensen was dumb enough to catch the Frisbee right in front of himself, but really, seeing as Harley knocked Jensen on his ass, shouldn’t that be what hurts more?
It did make Jared laugh, though, till he fell over. And if Jensen stuck a leg out and tripped him when he came over to laugh right in Jensen’s face, well, that was neither here nor there. Jared’s a klutz, everyone knows it.
Jared’s turned off his inner klutz at the moment, though, or his inner charmer is just the stronger of the two, because the bar has not yet kicked him out for accidentally faceplanting into a support beam and knocking the entire building down. Plus, Jared has scored two free drinks out of the bartender so far just on the merits of his smile, so Jensen can’t complain. That smile’s a bona fide lady-killer.
What he can complain about are muscles that shouldn’t be hurting, and he does complain, very verbosely once Jim stops talking to Misha. Jim looks a little sad that he didn’t have more to say, but Jensen is of the opinion that sharing is caring. He took his childhood lessons to heart; his mama weren’t no slouch.
For his part, Misha seems to find the hellhound massacre highly amusing, but then again, Misha and Jim have been here longer and Misha looks like he’s rounding tipsy and heading for smashed. Jensen isn’t even close to being drunk, and he doesn’t plan to be. Being drunk when you already feel off-kilter is not the way to go; Mike Rosenbaum proved that three years ago and hasn’t been allowed back in Afterglow since. He might also have told Tom Welling that he wanted to bear his children that night, and while that worked out alright, the angry police escort most certainly did not.
Not that there’s any comparison between Mike’s situation and Jensen’s. Totally different issues. He’s pretty sure.
Except somehow in the last ten seconds, Misha up and went all morose. He seems to be in the process of breaking up with his lager. Jim’s determinedly not paying attention to the tragedy of operatic proportions taking place next to him, and the only one left is Jared, over at the bar with Kripke and the rest.
Which means he’s not at the table with them. Jensen tries to catch Jared’s eye so that they can communicate with their eyebrows.
Seriously, it’s a language. He and Jared took classes.
But Jared has caught other people’s eyes instead, and at first Jensen doesn’t know if it was on purpose or not. That’s the third girl to saunter by and lean into Jared’s space. Jared’s not really leaning back, he’s just conversing, a polite nod here, a quick smile there. He’s holding his current drink in one hand and the other hand is in his pocket, which means it’s not on the bar, inching into the vicinity of the girl’s hand. Jensen’s seen that move. Hell, he honed that move by watching Jared perform it perfectly. And Jared’s not using it.
It’s not until Jared closes off the conversation and turns, signaling the bartender again, that the girl wanders off. Jared sips his drink as he waits— his hand is now out of his pocket, fingers drumming on the top of the bar— and then the bartender pulls a gorgeous pint of Labatt’s Blue that glows in the light. Jensen’s favorite. Jared runs his fingers down the side of the tumbler before gripping it, and maybe it’s the way his left shoulder drops or the way his thumb curves down the glass, or the way his eyelids dip as he turns, careful not to spill, because—
Reality, which was out to lunch somewhere in the next county, suddenly comes home with a vengeance, and Jensen forgets how to breathe.
His throat closes, just like that. As if Jared’s been shoved into new lighting or been lit from the inside, because— he’s not the same Jared that Jensen was looking at two seconds ago.
He’s… Oh, he’s…
Oh.
Jensen drops his glass off the edge of the table. And stares.
**
God. When… When did he…
Over Jared?
**
Jared flirts. He’s damn good at it. He’s not the type to charm ‘em and take ‘em home, though, because he’s too polite, too respectful, and he’s aware of his celebrity. Oh, is he ever. Still, that never stopped the smiles and the touches, the sweet nothings and the compliments in that smooth, gentle voice of his. Many a woman has fallen head over heels for that voice.
So it’s the lack of flirting that night that turns Jensen over onto his head and pushes Jared right out of the realm of friend and into something much more complicated.
Jensen has a hard time sleeping that night, and the next night. And the night after that. He thinks it through. He waits for it to fade, because sometimes it really does do that. He takes the dogs for walks and beats the pants off Jared at Halo and looks up from his script when Jared enters the room with sushi from that awesome place downtown, and fucking trembles every time Jared’s laugh reaches that one pitch, the one that flips Jensen’s stomach as well as his wits, end over end until all of him is falling and he just can’t— stop.
Suddenly, Jared makes him short of breath. Suddenly, Jared’s profile is etched in a new way against the light. Suddenly the curve of his smile takes on a million more meanings simply because Jensen is… He’s cataloguing it, he’s noticing. He’s becoming fluent in the unspoken language of Jared’s mouth.
And suddenly, he knows there’s nothing sudden about any of it.
~tbc~