raeschae | Where I Want to Go (disclaimer!verse) 1/2

Title: Where I Want to Go (1/2)
Author:

raeschae
Rating: PG-13 for language in this part.
Pairings:Jared/Jensen, mention of Chad/Sophia . . . Steve, Chris, and Sandy make appearances here as well, but are romantically unattached.
Warnings: Language? Other than that, nada thus far.
Word Count: 5900ish
Disclaimer: This entire 'verse exists only inside my mind – and I guess the minds of everyone who reads it. It is fiction, and therefore not intended to depict any actual person, place, or event. Translation: It's. Not. Real.

Summary: In September '06, a skater walks into a tattoo parlor . . . the rest, as they say, is history. Prequel to Disclaimer: We Will Not Be Held Responsible.

A/N: First, I have to give a shout-out to neutraldeviance for thoroughly beta-ing this mother for me. It's so much better because of you, babe. Thank you!

Second, I know I promised y'all timestamps and prequels and sequels and supplements. This is the first one that I wanted to attempt, but good Lord, it's been hard to write. I don't know why. I love these boys. The words just weren't coming . . . hopefully, it'll be worth the wait.

And finally . . . This was originally conceived as a OneShot, but nearly 6000 words into it, I realized I was only about half-done, if that. So I'm breaking it up into two. I hope that's okay! OH! And the title of the fic comes from the Bright Eyes song The First Day of My Life. And that is all – I promise!

(Graphics under the cut)

***

Jared Padalecki does not cry. Ever. About anything.

But as he stands in the middle of Slinging Ink, the tattoo parlor that he owns on the Santa Monica Pier, he feels the undeniable sting of tears building behind his eyes. The scent of fresh paint and new leather fills his nose, and the buffed-and-shined hardwood floor is slick against the bottom of his boots. The early morning sunrise blazes in through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the shop, and it's all he can do to keep his six-foot-four-inch frame upright as he takes in the sights of everything around him.

It's not like this is brand new. He's owned the place for two years already, and it was about twenty-five years old when he bought it. But the remodel has taken what feels like a lifetime and now that it's done, Jared thinks maybe this is the first time it's ever really felt like his.

Which means something to a kid who grew up with pretty much nothing to his name most of his life. He saved every dime he made tattooing back in Texas, from the time he was sixteen until his eighteenth birthday, to buy himself a truck and get the hell out of San Antonio. Not because he hated the city itself, but because he was just over his life there in general.

Arriving in California with the clothes on his back, a spare set on the seat next to him, and some hand-me-down tat equipment, Jared didn't really care that he didn't own much stuff. He just cared that life was going to be better somehow.

And it has been. Obviously. Because now he owns a pretty bad-ass tattoo parlor, which he runs with his closest friends, and he makes a living pounding celebrity flesh. He shares an apartment with his best friend, Chad, and has his own bed and everything. He owns his own business. He's not in jail, and he's not dead. All in all, he figures he's come a lot further than he, or anyone else, really thought he would.

A banging at the back door draws him out of his thoughts and back into the present. Though Sophia and his part-time receptionist, Sandy, helped pick out the furniture and the wall colors, and Chad designed the new logo for the front window and the neon sign over the reception desk, none of them has seen the renovated shop yet. Steve knew a couple of contractors that installed the floor and did the brick work on one wall, but he hasn't been allowed inside for the better part of two weeks, either.

He can hear Chad shouting for him to stop being a stupid fucking girl and just let us the fuck in from the other side of the door. Jared will never let them know what a big deal this is for him. What it means to be revealing his personal vision for what he has wanted Slinging Ink to be, since before he bought it, to his nearest and dearest – to his family.

“Chill the fuck out, asshole!” he barks as he pushes the door open. Four eager faces roll their eyes and push past him into the new employee kitchen/break room. Sandy passes with a bright smile and hands him a steaming cup of coffee from the espresso bar down the boardwalk, turning her cheek up for the thank you kiss that always accompanies her morning delivery.

He barely has time to lift the cup to his lips before he hears Sophia squeal. Turning, he leans against the door and watches her hands glide slowly over the soft contours of the massage chair she's been begging him for since she started working with them. It has been her contention, for the last year and a half, that they spend the majority of their day hunched over clients and a vibrating chair can only help their posture and all-around health and well-being. Jared's pretty sure she just wants to have sex with Chad in it, but as long as they clean up and he never, ever has to know about it, he's okay with the chair.

“You are the best boss EVER,” she screeches, running across the room and launching herself into Jared's arms, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. The kiss she presses to his lips is unexpected, but not all-together terrible.

“Dude!” Chad's voice is stern as Sophia turns her head and matches Jared's eyebrow raise with one of her own. “Get off my girlfriend!” He'd probably be easier to take seriously if they couldn't only see his lips moving around the pin art he has his face pressed into. Kind of makes Jared rethink the vintage toys he bought to place around the room for stress relief. “Ow,” he exclaims, pulling the toy away from his face. “Fucker stabbed me in the lip.”

“Maybe you shouldn't try to talk into the metal pins, idiot,” Sophia offers as she untangles herself from Jared's embrace and shoves her hands deep into the back pockets of her tight-fitting jeans. “This is amazing, Jay,” she nods, clearly impressed.

It's a pretty cool break room, he has to admit. It has all of the kitchen appliances they could possibly need, a table big enough for all five of the staff members to eat around, if they ever got a chance to sit down together, and the massage chair, along with a closet the full length of one wall for storage of equipment and merchandise. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of selling tee shirts and hats at first, but Chad's logo is fucking sick, and he couldn't not print it up once it was finished.

“There's more,” he nods toward the curtain that separates their personal haven from the rest of the shop.

He's in the back of the line as they pile through, and he can only imagine their faces as they take in the scene around them. Each station sports a brand new, state-of-the art chair, granite counter tops, and more drawer space than they used to all have put together. The reception desk matches the tat stations, and there's a brand new So-Be energy drink machine standing proudly next to it. The long, wraparound leather couch that Sophia picked out faces the front picture window, and allows their clients a spectacular view of the ocean and the pier's infamous Ferris wheel.

Stepping through the curtain, Jared watches as his staff roams the room, touching things and commenting on the various elements of the new design, as well as the art Jared commissioned from each of them, and then had framed to hang around the room. This place could not possibly belong to anyone other than the five people standing in it now. It's not just his. It's theirs, and he's proud to share it.

“Jay, man,” Steve's calm voice sounds for the first time and Jared looks over his shoulder. “You outdid yourself, dude. It's phenomenal.” He claps his hand over the younger man's arm and nods appreciatively. “It's all love, man.”

Pride swells in his chest as Sophia and Sandy echo Steve's sentiments, hugging him again and then returning to the front desk to look over the new database software Jared bought to help Sandy with scheduling.

Another bump against his shoulder catches Jared's attention and he turns his head to see Chad beaming like a kid on Christmas morning. “What?” he asks.

Chad just shrugs, nonchalant as always. “We made it, man,” he breathes, and Jared just nods.

Five years ago, he wouldn't let himself dream that this was possible. “Yeah, we did,” he agrees, arms crossed over his chest.

The only thing he can think, as he surveys his empire, is It doesn't get any better than this.

He has no way of knowing that, two weeks from now, his entire life is going to tip upside down, and when it rights itself again? It will be more full, and so much better, than Jared has ever dared to dream.

“Get your ass up, you lazy fucker!”

Eyes squeezed shut, Jensen Ackles rolls over on his best friend, Chris's, couch and presses his face further into the pillow beneath his head. He has no intention of moving from this place until he's damn good and ready, and Chris can eat it if he thinks Jensen's going to jump just because he says so.

To his credit, Chris doesn't say anything. Doesn't even bother Jensen again for a full sixty seconds. And even then, he doesn't so much as breathe a word. Just sits his lard ass down on top of his friend's sleeping form, wiggling his ass against Jensen's ribs until he gets the reaction he's been waiting for.

“The fuck off me, asshole!” Jensen exclaims, pain burning through his chest as he fights to free himself from the crushing weight. It's not because Chris is so big or anything. But really? Someone sits on your ribs? It hurts. Period. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he exclaims, sitting when Chris finally stands.

The low, gravelly laughter that answers his question is too irritating for words and Jensen just lets his eyes scan the room until they rest on the clock over the television. It's only noon. Why the hell is he awake?

“Come on. We got shit to do,” Chris snaps his fingers and then disappears from the living room into the kitchen, allowing the door to slam firmly behind him.

He vaguely remembers his friend saying something about heading down to the pier to meet some guy in his band today, but Jensen doesn't recall the guy's name, or if their plans were actually real. It's possible he dreamed them. In his current, hazy state, he really can't be sure.

He's only been in California for three days, and he doesn't start his new job designing skate decks for Element until Monday. Also, he's an emo skater kid who had no business spending five hours in that goddamn honky tonk Chris took him to last night, so he drank more than he's used to just to keep his mouth shut against some of the looks he was getting in that place. All he wants is sleep and quiet before the grind of an actual job invades his life. Why is that so hard to understand?

He's pretty sure he sits staring at the floor for the better part of what has to be an hour. Doesn't move. Doesn't really even think. Just sits there. Staring.

“Come on, man,” Chris's voice prods from the kitchen and the smell of bacon grease doesn't do much for Jensen's hangover. It'll be good once he gets it in his belly, he's sure, but for now? The smell is making him want to run for the bathroom. If he didn't have to, ya know, get up to do that.

Standing slowly on legs that don't seem to want to function on their own, he makes his way across the living room and pushes into the kitchen. It's weird to him, walking through Chris's house. To Jensen, it feels like he just graduated from high school. Like they can't possibly be old enough to do any of the things that actual grown ups do. But Chris has a nine-to-five with a security company, pays his bills on time, owns a home, and actually gets out of bed before noon. He cooks, and yesterday, Jensen caught him cleaning the bathroom. Chris is a full-on adult, and Jensen's not sure when that happened, or how he can make it stop.

He slumps against the counter, scrubbing one hand over his stubbled face. He's twenty-eight years old. A college graduate. It used to bother his parents that Jensen would rather work retail and other odd jobs to make money, instead of settling into a career that put the degree they paid so much money for to good use. But it's never bothered Jensen. He's always danced to the beat of his own drummer, and the opinions of other people have never mattered to him all that much. He likes the things that he likes. If you don't, then don't hang with him. His personal motto isn't so difficult to understand, he doesn't think.

“Shit, son,” Chris laughs, his ponytail shaking as he looks up from the stove to cast an assessing gaze over his friend. “What happened to my boy? The one who used to party all night and still look supermodel pretty the next morning?”

Jensen raises an eyebrow and fights the urge to tell his friend that this is what happens to his boy when he drinks too much. He's never been against alcohol, exactly. He's not straight-edge or anything. He's been known to tip more than a few back on occasion. But Jensen's never been a big fan of the taste of most alcohol, and being as he doesn't care what anyone thinks of him anyway, he refuses to get hammered just to be like all of his friends.

Instead of slipping off on that soapbox, though, he settles for saying, “Fuck you.” It's concise, to the point, and doesn't require much movement from his still-half-numb lips.

“There he is,” Chris winks knowingly, pulling the pan from the stove to dump lumps of eggs onto two separate plates.

Jensen would roll his eyes, if it didn't hurt his brain so much to do so. “I hate you,” he mutters through a sleep-grumbled voice that sounds foreign to his own ears.

Dropping Jensen's plate at his side, Chris points at it and speaks around a mouthful of his own breakfast. “Come on, man. We got shit to do. Pull yourself the fuck together.”

He's grouchy, but he does as he's told. Eats his eggs and even tries to smile. He figures he owes Chris that much, at the very least.

After all, Chris has been really good to him the last few days, and he really can't complain. He showed up on the man's doorstep unannounced with a couple of suitcases and a smile, so the fact that Chris is even still talking to him is, Jensen thinks, a testament to the strength of a friendship nearly fifteen years in the making.

Jensen was twelve when he got his first skateboard. Still refers to that birthday as The Day That Changed His Life. He was hanging out at the skate park down the street from their house when a couple of the older kids started picking on his friend, Ty. Chris popped up out of nowhere, cigarette between his lips, and told the older kids to fuck off.

Chris was sixteen at the time, and though Jensen's parents didn't want their little boy hanging out with a teenaged boy at all, it wasn't like they spent all their time together. Jensen was in sixth grade. Chris was in high school. He dated and had a part-time job. Jensen saw him when he and Ty were skating sometimes, but Chris was usually too busy hanging by the fence, smoking and flirting with the girls that were his age, to worry much about the kid in the baggy pants who thought he was some kind of hero.

It wasn't until Jensen started high school that he and Chris started hanging out all the time, and have been pretty much inseparable ever since. Much to his parents' chagrin. In fact, the last time Jensen saw his parents, the conversation turned to Chris just before Jensen stormed out and swore he'd never be back.

He was twenty-one when his mother told him that she wanted to set him up with Rhonda Hurley, this chick he had graduated with and spent the better part of his life in Sunday School with. Aside from a few weird rumors about a pair of pink panties, Rhonda was sweet and adorable and pretty much everything the perfect girlfriend is supposed to be. But Jensen isn't straight, and that kind of makes a hetero relationship difficult. He tried explaining that to his mother for what felt like the one hundredth time, and his father asked if it was because Chris had touched him inappropriately back when he was in junior high.

That's when Jensen took his leave. His mother had the decency to apologize for his father later that year when she called to beg him to come home for Thanksgiving, but Jensen wasn't feeling quite so forgiving and informed his parents that he would be having dinner with Chris's family, and with his new boyfriend, Rex. His father called a week later to let him know that his immature actions were breaking his mother's heart. Jensen hasn't talked to him since.

Sometimes he wishes that he could have celebrated this move with them. That they could just move past the drama and share in the utter joy he felt when he got the call from Element. It's the realization of a dream he's had since he was fourteen, and it would be nice to know that his parents are proud of him. But then he remembers that he has Chris, and Chris is plenty amped for the path Jensen's dreams are leading him down, so maybe he doesn't need anything else..

After a quick shower, Chris gives him a guided tour of everything between his house and the Santa Monica Pier. When they ease into a parking space behind a long row of what appears to be retail shops, Jensen's glad Chris is letting him blast Green Day's American Idiot album from the truck's speakers. It sounds like California in the cab, and nothing looks more like the West Coast than those waves and that damned Ferris wheel. This is the moment that Jensen falls hopelessly in love with Santa Monica and lets himself think that his life is finally clicking into place.

Little does he know that in less than fifteen minutes, he'll fall in love once again. And he may just be forced to give a new date to The Day That Changed His Life.

“Jay-red Pad-a-lecki!” Chris's voice booms over the sounds of the Marilyn Manson song flowing from Slinging Ink's impossibly loud speakers. “The fuck have you done, son?” he laughs and Jensen is more concentrated on making sure the glass door doesn't shatter than on whomever his best friend is addressing in whatever strange language he's now speaking. Seriously, what's a Padalecki?

Chris's inquiry is met with a resounding laugh. The kind that starts building in your chest and just echoes off of everything around you. When Jensen turns his attention to the actual interior of the tattoo parlor, he almost chokes on the coffee he just purchased down the boardwalk.

Is there a more beautiful human being on the face of the planet? Jensen's pretty sure the answer is a absolute and decisive 'no fucking way.'

Jared is about twelve feet tall, or maybe just six and a half, with full sleeves of tattoos and these dancing eyes that might be blue, but Jensen can't be sure. His teeth are impossibly white, and his shoulders are so broad, the muscles so inviting beneath the multi-colored ink there, that it takes every ounce of self-discipline Jensen has not to step around his friend and sink his teeth into them.

He wraps Chris in a half-hug and then tosses his gaze back to the shop behind him, narrowly missing any notice of Jensen, which is fine. Gives him more time to gawk, gape, and generally look like an idiot without being noticed. “You like?” he asks, and his voice isn't exactly deep, but it's definitely dripping with enthusiastic sensuality. At least, Jensen finds it sensual. Could be just because it's coming out of those soft-looking lips, but he's not a girl so he's going to pretend that he didn't just think of this guy's lips as soft-looking.

Chris just laughs again and shakes his head. “Man, it's like a totally different place,” he nods his head in affirmation before turning his face toward Jensen. “Dude, a month ago, this place looked like one of those places you see in movies, right? Joints called 'The Rusty Needle' or whatever. Linoleum floors and white walls and shit.” He points to the couch, his eyes growing wide. “Used to have to sit on fucking folding chairs to wait your turn.” He returns his attention to the giant and pats his back with a slap. “This is,” he stops and shakes his head again. “It's fucking fantastic is what it is, son.”

Jared beams at the compliments and nods his head, casting his eyes over Chris's shoulder to take in the newcomer.

And promptly forgets everything that he was going to say just a second ago. This is Chris's friend? Earlier, Steve mentioned his band mate might be bringing some friend of his by for a meet-and-greet, but Jared was expecting another long-haired, neo-surf hippie like Steve, or an urban cowboy like Chris. Nothing prepared him for this . . . for him.

He looks like one of those punk/pop/emo guys Jared tattoos sometimes. Like he belongs in Fall Out Boy or Panic! At the Disco or something. His Black Flag tee shirt clings to his lean chest and broad shoulders, falling just above the white, metal studded belt that he's wearing over tight-fitting jeans. On his feet, ridiculously large DC skater shoes sport electric blue laces and Jared's pretty sure he's never seen a skater look so damn edible.

His hair is cut short, but the tips of the spikey 'do are dyed a vibrant, shining green. There are rings in his eyebrow and ears, along with a metal stud just below his lip. Dark liner surrounds his verdant eyes, making Jared think of night falling on a grassy meadow somewhere in a place far gayer than he ever cares to imagine again. When he raises his arm to run a hand over his hair, Jared catches sight of the rainbow flag tattooed on the inside of his left wrist, and he can't stop the grin that splits his lips.

“. . . gonna stand there and drool on yourself, or be an actual human being and say hi?” Sophia asks, pushing Jared's shoulder as she thrusts her hand into the new guy's and he smiles at her in a way that feels like maybe it sets Jared's chest on fire a little bit. “I'm Sophia,” she introduces herself, casting another chastising look over her shoulder. “That bumbling moron is Jared. Sandy, and that,” she turns the other direction and points, “Chad.”

“Her boyfriend,” Chad asserts with a friendly grin and a wink, and the new guy just nods and shares a conspiratorial grin with Sophia.

“Jensen,” he says, and Jared's brain finally reminds him that he's the owner of this establishment and should stop acting like a gaping buffoon.

“So Steve said you just moved here?” Jared asks.

Jensen nods and smiles as Jared's hand envelops his. God damn, that's a firm, warm, large handshake. “Yeah,” he answers when Jared releases his hand. “For work,” he adds. He's not usually shy, Jensen's not. Maybe a little reserved, but not shy. He's not afraid to meet new people or anything, but this guy is fucking intimidating. Whether because he's gigantic, or because he's unrealistically beautiful, he's not quite sure.

Jared eases himself onto the arm of the sofa, eyes fixed solely on the man standing before him, back-lit by the afternoon sun from the picture window. Gold flecks dance in his green eyes, and Jared can't really seem to make himself want to back away from them. “What do you do?” he asks, not even noticing that Chris has slipped to the back of the shop to talk with Steve.

Steve. Right. The guy that Chris was supposed to be bringing Jensen here to meet. “I, uh,” he runs his hand over the back of his hair and realizes this is the first time he's ever been able to answer this question with something other than 'Retail, mostly.” Clearing his throat, and feeling very much like an adult for the moment, Jensen smiles. “I design skate decks for Element.” He just hopes he doesn't sound as proud as he feels like he sounds. Doesn't want the guy to think he's a complete geek, after all.

It almost feels like the smile is going to split his face in half as Jared nods his head and fights to keep the zen cool he's so known for. Actually, he's so known for his tat work, but people also know that he's pretty even-keeled most of the time. “That's cool,” he nods easily.

Before either man can say much of anything else, Chris pops up behind Jensen's shoulder. “C'mon, man. Wantcha to meet somebody.” Shooting an apologetic, and incredibly knowing look, in Jared's direction, he says, “Bring him back in a sec. Promise.”

The fact that the huge guy made of muscles and perfection doesn't protest the implied innuendo makes a familiar warmth spread low in Jensen's belly. He winks at Jared, just in case the guy isn't getting the hints he's not even trying to hide, and follows Chris to the back of the shop.

Steve's nice enough. Jensen can see immediately why Chris is so drawn to him, why his friend gets along with this laid-back artist so well, but he's just not . . . well, he's not Jared. And therefore, Jensen finds he has little patience for the introductions. Oh, he makes appropriate small talk, smiles and is generally polite, but his brain is on the other side of the room. He doesn't even care if everyone inside the shop knows it at this point.

When Chris claps his shoulder, Jensen jumps a little. “What do you say I buy you some new ink, man?” he offers.

Jensen turns his full attention back to his friend. The four tats he already has were well-thought out and pack a lot of meaning. He's not really interesting in getting something new for the hell of it, just because Chris has a friend who happens to do them. Doesn't even know what he would get.

Before he can tell Chris as much, Steve nods over Jensen's shoulder with a twinkle in his eye. “Jay's the best in the business, man. You'll be in good hands,” he promises , tone all sorts of duplicitous. Like he knows Jensen's going to say 'yes' and it's going to have nothing to do with the ink at all.

When he pivots his body just enough to see Jared leaned against his station, arms crossed over his broad chest, Jensen can't help smiling. Jared shrugs and nods his head once, an unspoken confirmation of Steve's words, and he's walking across the shop with intent before his brain can tell him to stop.

Jared watches as Jensen approaches his booth, sits himself down in the chair, and looks up through eyelashes that are so long, it should be illegal. “What are we doin'?” he asks, sinking to his stool and rolling it closer to his client. Normally, he waits until he has a design in hand to get this close. Normally, he doesn't have anything more than artistic motives for sliding in next to the clients on his table.

It takes a minute for the question to process in Jensen's brain. What are they doing? Flirting shamelessly? Feeling each other out before they give in and just feel each other up in front of everyone? Eye-fucking each other for any and everyone to see? “Texas,” he blurts out and then runs his tongue over his lips.

“The whole state?” Jared asks, his lip quirking into an amused grin.

“Yes, smart ass,” Jensen rolls his eyes as though he's known this guy forever. It kind of feels like he has. “We are doin' the entire state of Texas. You up for it?”

“Always up for it, man,” he winks, turning away when Jensen just chuckles at the response. He grabs a sketch book and flips through the pages until he finds what he's looking for. “Something like this?” he asks, offering the book to Jensen.

There are pictures of the state flag, outlines of the state, the motto and name of the state in different scripts. There's a lot of Texas on the pages in Jensen's hand and he considers telling Jared to let him think about it for a week or two before he jumps into anything he's not sure about. Of course, geeking out in the chair while one of the best in the business waits on his decision doesn't seem like the best way to get in with the guy, so Jensen bites his lip and continues staring at the laminated pages. Maybe one of them will start screaming at him and jumping down on the paper or something.

“Not what you're thinkin'?” Jared's voice interrupts his thoughts and he smirks again when Jensen lifts those hypnotizing eyes from the book in front of him. “How about,” he stands from his stool and pulls the leg of his jeans up to his knee before turning and nodding over his shoulder, “Somethin' like that?”

Jensen's eyes snag, for just a second, on the button-flaps over the perfect globes of Jared's ass, but continue down to the exposed flesh the man is offering him. There, over his calf, is the outline of the state of Texas, filled in with the star and stripes of the state flag. It's perfect. Instead of telling him so, Jensen's eyes rise to meet Jared's again. “You, too?”

Easing back onto his stool, Jared bends at the waist to smooth his pant leg back out before nodding. “San Antonio,” he says with an underlying sense of pride only a true Texan can manage.

And if that doesn't just smack of too-much-coincidence, Jensen doesn't know what does. “Dallas,” he nods and Jared smiles even wider as he grabs a piece of paper and a fine-tipped Sharpie from his station.

“Give me two minutes to sketch it out and I'll be right back,” he promises, leaving Jensen in his chair and making his way to Sandy's reception desk. He could sketch it out at his station, but he's been feeling her dark eyes boring into him since Jensen entered the shop, and he's afraid she might burst soon if he doesn't let her squeal and giggle about what she's observing.

“So,” Sandy tries for casual and fails miserably.

“What?” Jared challenges, eyes fixed solely on the paper and the pen in his hand.

“He's hot,” is her response. When Jared only nods, Sandy sinks an elbow into his ribs. “Jared, he's gorgeous,” she hisses, eyes following Jensen's path from Jared's chair to the back corner, where he leans against Chris's shoulder and eases himself into their conversation.

Rolling his eyes, Jared tilts his head and considers his sketch. “This is LA, Sandra,” he reminds her. “Everybody's gorgeous here.”

“Not that gorgeous,” she shakes her chestnut ponytail and narrows her eyes as they sweep over Jensen's back. “Even with the hair and the,” her nose turns up slightly, “clothes.” Blinking, she turns back to Jared and finds his eyes on her for the first time since he joined her at the counter. “You gonna ask him out?”

Jared wants to smack his huge hand against the back of her tiny head. Instead, he huffs out a sigh and picks his paper up off the counter. “I might,” he alludes, rolling his hip off the reception desk and heading back to his station to prep his ink wells.

Across the room, Chris and Steve share a knowing look as Jensen turns to leave their conversation as easily as he entered it just a few minutes ago. “Dude, you're so gone,” Chris laughs and Jensen just flips him off before tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants and heading back to the mountain of mansex awaiting him.

“So, I kinda got a favor to ask,” Jensen starts, sliding back into the chair and watching as Jared's eyes dance with amusement.

Jared just grins brightly as he snaps his rubber gloves into place and then meets Jensen's eye with a dangerous glint. “Ask away.”

“Alright. Um, well, I've been here for three days, right? And so far, Chris has taken me to a honky tonk called The Silver Stallion, and a pool hall with dirt floors and actual, literal gas lamps on the walls.” With a groan, Jensen rolls his eyes and when he looks back at Jared, the big man is laughing. “You gotta help me out, man. I didn't move out here to live the redneck high life!”

Jared just presses the pattern he's created to Jensen's forearm and notes the way the guy's taught muscles flex beneath the skin he's about to mark. “So, what do you propose I help you do about that, Jen?” he asks, the nickname rolling off his lips naturally.

“Take me somewhere . . . I don't know, man . . . cooler?” He raises an eyebrow and Jared doesn't so much as glance up. “I'll buy you dinner. All the drinks you want wherever we go. I just,” he shakes his head, “I can't take another night out with the cast of Deliverance.”

The laughter that pours over Jared's lips sends shock waves directly south of Jensen's waist line and he can't help joining in. It's infectious. Hell, everything about this guy is pretty damn irresistible, if Jensen's being honest.

Glancing up through his bangs, Jared captures his bottom lip between his teeth. Why the hell not? This Jensen guy seems pretty cool, not to mention the fact that he's undeniably, as Sandy so bluntly pointed out, gorgeous “You got a car?” Jensen nods. “Swing back by here 'round ten. We'll grab dinner and I'll show you where the cool people hang.”

With a satisfied smile, Jensen lets his eyes drift to the place where Jared's fingers are stretching his skin tightly, and he says, “It's a date,” almost more to himself than to the man on the stool beside him.

When Jared's bright eyes meet his head on, and his grin splits his perfect face in two, Jensen thinks maybe he's going to throw up, in the best possible way. “Definitely a date,” he winks.

He's not about to, under threat of death or dismemberment, admit it out loud, but that wink kind of signifies Jensen's heart leaping without permission into the uncertain abyss of something that maybe resembles love. Of course, he doesn't really do love anymore, but Jared? Jared could maybe make him change his mind.

As he begins to color in the design he's working on, flirting and talking with the older man sitting next to him, Jared makes himself a vow: He will have this punked-out skater kid naked and hanging off the bed in his apartment by the time the sun rises tomorrow morning. He's seriously considering making the guy breakfast, too. For Jared? That's about as close to a declaration of love as anyone's ever gotten.

Part 2