raeschae

Title: Creative Control (3/3)
Author:

raeschae
Pairing:J2
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 10Kish

SummaryIn the hierarchy of filmmaking, there are those with distinct vision, and then there are production assistants.

A/N: I was originally going to break this story up into a few more parts, but this is it, kids. The exciting conclusion . . . I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I've enjoyed spending a little bit of time with this Jared and Jensen. There are a couple of possible time stamps planned for the near future, so if you like 'em, there could maybe be more.

Thanks to:

neutraldeviance, for the beta.

vamphile, for the persistent cheerleading.

Graphics by:

raeschae

The dinner at Jared's house seems to tip the scales a little bit. Jensen resumes lunches with Jared, and they get together after work a couple of nights a week. They spend those nights together, and then head to work separately in the morning. It's an easy system, and though they never talk about what it actually is, both seem fairly okay with it. At least Jensen's not freaking out and running for the door or anything.

It's over lunch nearly a month later, and only six weeks from the scheduled end of principle photography, that Jensen quirks his head in Jared's direction and studies him intently for longer than he normally does.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

Jensen's fingers brush the side of Jared's face, pushing his long hair away. “You're sweating.”

“Yeah, cause that's new.” It's not. Jared sweats a lot. Jensen usually just mocks him for it.

“But you're hot.”

Like he can let that go without a smirk and an eyebrow raise. “So're you, baby,” Jared leers and Jensen rolls his eyes.

“I meant your skin, dumb ass. You're feverish.”

Jared shakes his head. He's got a bit of an ache in the back of his skull, and his eyes are burning a little. His chest feels tight, and his throat is scratchy, but it's not like he can just call in sick, so what does it matter? “I'm fine. So what do you wanna do this weekend?”

Jensen narrows his eyes, his hand slipping down to capture the back of Jared's neck. “So I have to take care of myself, but you don't? What kind of bull shit system is that?”

He wants to point out that working with a cold is not the same as neglecting to eat for an entire weekend in favor of smoking on the couch and watching movies. Instead, he says, “After today, I have three days off. I'll rest.”

The look on Jensen's face says he's less-than-convinced. “You could do it at my place,” he suggests. “I mean, if you want to. I could make you soup.”

The offer throws Jared a little bit. “We're supposed to go out tonight,” he reminds Jensen, who just rolls his eyes. “I told you that I would take you to that sushi bar you wanted to try.”

Shaking his head, Jensen's fingers dig into Jared's thigh. “Really?” He rolls his eyes. “You think you're up for going out tonight?” When Jared shrugs, Jensen shakes his head again. “Dude, you can barely keep your eyes open. Why don't you go home after we wrap, pack a bag, and just plan on staying at my place for a couple days. Let me take care of you for a change.”

On the surface, it seems like a simple statement. To Jared, it means something. At least, it seems like it does. So he doesn't argue. Just nods his head and presses a firm kiss against the corner of Jensen's mouth. “Thank you.”

The standard eye roll makes its presence known before Jensen gets that far-away look in his eye and then responds into his mouthpiece. “On it,” he declares and then turns to Jared again. “I'll see you later.”

It's a pretty big deal, the way Jensen's taking actual initiative over something. Granted, it's over Jared's well-being, and not his own. But it's a start.

“What's that?” Jared asks, eyes fixed on Jensen as he tosses vegetables into a stock pot on his stove. He's, frankly, a little surprised that Jensen even owns a stock pot.

Jensen looks up, like maybe he forgot that he wasn't alone in his apartment. “Um, my mom's homemade chicken soup recipe,” he answers distractedly.

Homemade chicken soup. Jared would be surprised, except that everything about this night is so not Jensen that he stopped being shocked an hour ago. “Oh,” he answers, eyes flitting back to the television.

When he arrived, duffel bag in hand, Jensen took it from him and ushered him to the couch, where blankets, pillows, and three different remotes were awaiting him. The movie tower had been dragged across the room and now sits directly to his left. There's a bottle of juice on the coffee table, also pulled up to the couch so Jared can reach it without moving. Honestly, it's just the flu. It's not like Jared is dying or anything.

“They make that shit in a can, ya know?” Jared teases and Jensen just rolls his eyes.

“With enough sodium to give a horse a heart attack,” he fires back.

Coming from a guy who lived on Ramen noodles and Kraft macaroni and cheese a couple of months ago, Jared thinks the statement's pretty fucking funny. He doesn't say anything, though. The truth is, he's used to being the caregiver in most of his relationships. To have someone take care of him is strange. But it doesn't totally suck.

When Jensen slides the lid onto the pot and turns, rubbing his hands together, Jared holds out an arm. “Come sit with me,” he invites.

Jensen catches his bottom lip between his teeth and shakes his head. “You need anything?”

“Yeah,” Jared smiles at the way Jensen's eyebrow raises. “Need you to come sit with me.”

He takes note of the way Jensen grabs another bottle of juice from the refrigerator and brings it with him, hovering but not quite sitting. “You wanna watch a movie or somethin'?”

Leaning forward just enough to snag Jensen's wrist, Jared pulls him down to the couch and presses his lips to the edge of Jensen's jaw. “Lay with me.” Jensen looks to the kitchen and back again. “How long 'til it's done?”

“Two to three hours,” Jensen answers.

With a chuckle, Jared lays back, dragging Jensen with him. “And what? You're gonna stand in there with it for the next three hours?”

“Dude, when I'm sick, I don't want anyone touchin' me. Don't want anyone near me. I'm tryin' to give you your space or whatever.”

Wrapping his arms securely around Jensen's waist, Jared waits for him to relax. When he doesn't, Jared loosens his grasp and waits for Jensen to spring up again. “Don't want my space,” he manages to breathe against the top of Jensen's head.

Eventually, Jared lets Jensen start a movie. Occasionally, Jensen heads into the kitchen to check on the soup, but comes right back to the couch when he's done. Aside from the throbbing in his head, the chest congestion, and the ache in his muscles, it's one of the best dates Jared's ever been on.

He drifts in and out for the next twenty-four hours, eats the best homemade chicken soup anyone's ever made (at least, for him), and watches movies he's never even heard of, but that are better than most of the ones he's worked on. By Saturday evening, he's feeling better. Not good exactly, but definitely a world better than he felt yesterday.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Jensen's eyes drift lazily to his from the other end of the couch, fingers moving deftly over Jared's ankle and calf. “I guess,” he answers, the trepidation obvious around the edges of his words.

“You've been pretty much the most awesome nurse I've ever had,” Jared starts his question with a compliment, because it's true. And also because he wants Jensen to know just how fucking much he appreciates this weekend. “Why's it so much easier for you to take care of me than it is for you to take care of you?”

He's pretty sure he already knows the answer, but he needs to hear Jensen say it out loud. He can't live off of assumptions forever, and he needs to know that they're on the same page. For all of Jared's confidence, he's not omniscient and sometimes he needs to check in. Just touch base and make sure that he's still proceeding on the right track.

Though he aims for a nonchalant shrug, Jensen seems to think better of it. Leaning back, he lets himself sink into the couch, his hand stilling against Jared's foot. “I don't have some deep seeded issues or anything, okay? My mommy and daddy love me plenty, and I don't hate myself or anything,” he launches into what Jared thinks are probably the same ol' tired arguments he's given a thousand times. “I just,” Jensen sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “I've never been one of those self-motivated go-getters. I need a reason to do shit.

“Like, you saw what my apartment was like before, right?” Jared nods slowly in response. “That shit doesn't bother me. I really don't care if everything's piling up around me. Long as I can move from one room to the next, I don't really care. And maybe I should,” he stops and shakes his head, eyes meeting Jared's with that confidence that sometimes catches Jared off guard. “But I just don't, until I know that my parents are coming to visit, or that it makes you more comfortable. Then I have a reason to straighten up. Does that make sense?”

It does, and Jared nods his head in agreement. Jensen's not the guy who's going to do things just because they'll make him feel better about himself. He's fine with himself – that look in his eyes only proves it. He likes who he is, and he's okay with how he lives. But he'll go out of his way if it means that the people he cares about are comfortable and pleased. His desire to please has nothing to do with self-esteem.

“So when you're out lookin' for a fight?” Jared treads lightly on the subject that has the potential to blow up in his face. Jensen's so open right now, and he seems willing to talk. This could shut him down completely. Still, he has to try.

If he expects Jensen to blush or shrink away, though, Jared's in for a world of disappointment. He doesn't even shrug, and the unguarded reaction could be due to the fact that Jared is not feeling well and is somehow more 'vulnerable' in Jensen's mind. Or it could mean that maybe Jensen finally trusts him enough to just let it out. Either way, Jared's not going to complain or make a big deal out of something he's been wanting for weeks now.

“I get tense,” Jensen explains. “There's no real trigger or anything. Sometimes it's work shit. Sometimes it's family stuff. Sometimes it's just too long in the same rut and I can't take it. Like I'm all wound up and I need an outlet or something, I guess. Just a way to blow off some steam. Get it outta my system so I can get back to real life.”

Jared figures that 'sex with random strangers' works the same way for Jensen. It's either fight or fuck, and both accomplish the same goal. “You get that it's dangerous, though, right?”

And the standard eye roll is back in full effect. “I'm not an idiot,” Jensen asserts with a shake of his head. “But I do what I gotta do to get what I need.”

“But it's not what you want,” Jared presses.

“Why is this even an issue anymore?” Standing from the couch, Jensen heads toward the kitchen. He's not angry, but Jared can tell he's growing more uncomfortable. “I mean, I haven't done that shit in weeks. Haven't brought anybody back here, haven't picked a fight. Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because I'm curious,” Jared answers him directly. Honestly.

“Great. So I'm some Ripley's Believe it or Not spectacle for you now?”

It's Jared's turn to roll his eyes. “Shut up,” he orders, and Jensen takes a drink of his beer while leaning his hip against his kitchen counter. “You need a reason to do the shit that you just can't find the motivation to do, right? And I get that. I do. Hell, I've seen it. You wait for the order, and then you do it. And you're happy to do it. It's pretty fucking hot, actually, watching the way you get off on following orders.

“But you don't do shit you didn't already want to do. My word, or whoever, is just the green light. But you don't like being cuffed to the bed. You don't like being called a fag before you get punched in the face. You don't like getting fucked by someone you wouldn't normally even talk to.”

“You don't know that,” Jensen fires back, eyes flaring just enough to force the words out, but not enough to come across as really angry.

“I do know that,” Jared asserts, forcing his way to his feet, though his muscles scream in protest. He's feeling better, but clearly not ready for a full-on boyfriend fight. “In all the times that we have gone out? All of the times that we've gotten dinner, or watched a game at a bar after work? I've never seen you drink more than a couple of beers. Never seen you drunk.

“You only do it when you're about to look for something you don't really want. When you're going for a fight, or lookin' to pick someone up who's going to expect more than you're willing to give. You think you're some enigma, but you're pretty fucking transparent.”

For a long time, they stare at one another, faces set in determination. Neither is backing down, and Jared can't help thinking that maybe getting sick was the best thing that could have possibly happened to him. They need this. If they're ever going to move beyond the casual dating stages, they desperately need to clear the air. It feels like progress, somehow.

Until Jensen grabs his keys from the counter and mumbles something under his breath about needing to get out. Until he tries to run away, mid-conversation.

Jared grabs his bicep on his way past the couch and Jensen's eyes are defiant when they meet his. “Don't you dare fucking walk away from me,” Jared grits out between clenched teeth.

“Then stop fucking pushing me,” Jensen fires back. He's not struggling against Jared's grasp or even trying to escape. His attempt at a grand exit was more of a threat than anything.

“Please,” Jared aims for a more subtle approach, and yeah, he's kind of manipulating what he already knows about Jensen, but he tells himself it's for the greater good. And that it'll keep the guy from coming home bruised and bloody. “Just answer my question, and I'll drop it for good, okay? Won't bring it up again.”

With a heavy sigh, Jensen drops his keys onto the coffee table and crosses his arms over his chest. “The guys who give me what I need are the ones who like it rough. They're not gonna get off until they feel like they've taken something from me, and I'm not gonna get off until they do.” He shrugs, but his shoulders never really relax. “Just how it works.”

There are so many things Jensen clearly doesn't know, that he doesn't understand. But Jared promised to drop it if Jensen would answer him. He can't go back on that now. Being true to his word is too important to this fragile house of cards they're building.

Instead, he lowers himself to the couch and runs a shaking hand through his hair. “Thanks,” he manages to say, and then adds, “for being honest with me,” when Jensen looks confused.

Moving to the refrigerator, Jensen brings Jared a bottle of water and then grabs the Tylenol from the counter on his way back. He sets both down and then sinks onto the opposite end of the couch. “Look, I meant what I said earlier. I haven't done that shit since you and I started,” he stops himself, catches his bottom lip between his teeth, and then offers Jared a shy smile, “Since we started doin' whatever this is.”

Jared nods. “I know,” he acknowledges, swallowing a couple of pills and draining half of his bottle of water.

“Haven't needed to. Haven't wanted to.”

He tries to smile, but it comes out looking pained as he lays back against the couch and rests his feet in Jensen's lap again. “In a couple of weeks, I have to go to New York for a meeting,” he explains. He meant to tell Jensen sooner, but the timing felt wrong. “Can you just promise me, if you start to feel tense while I'm gone, you'll call me? Not go looking for other ways to blow off steam?”

For a long time, Jensen looks thoughtful. Like he's really weighing the options and trying to decide if he can actually do what Jared is asking him to do. Slowly, his head begins to nod. “Yeah,” he says, settling further into his seat.

He'd have to be an half blind and completely stupid not to recognize the way Jensen relaxes and resumes massaging the arches of his feet and Jared lets his eyes drift shut once more. So maybe they're not on the same page yet, but they're definitely in the same book now. It's not everything, but it's definitely something.

The time difference between the East and West coasts makes it difficult for Jared to talk to Jensen while he’s in New York. Jensen’s working long hours, partially because principle photography is coming to a close, but also because it keeps him preoccupied and gives him something to do while Jared is away. He doesn’t say as much, but Jared can tell from the voice mails that he gets in response to the ones that he leaves.

It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning on his third day in the Big Apple when Jared’s phone rings at his side. Jensen. Eleven in LA. Later than he would normally get home from set, and he fights to control the way his heart speeds a little at the myriad of possibilities.

“Hello?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath and a slow exhale before Jensen’s low, graveled voice sounds. “Hey.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Makes you think somethin’s wrong?”

“You’re calling me.”

“You told me to.”

“If something was wrong.”

“I can’t just call to say hi?”

“Are you? Just calling to say 'hi'? You okay?”

“Yeah.” A beat, and the whispered snick of Jensen’s lighter. “Peachy.”

Jared struggles to sit in the bed, eyes blinking into the darkness of his room. “What’s wrong, Jen?”

“Just me,” Jensen answers, self-deprecating chuckle staining the words. “I fucked up.”

If breathing becomes a little more difficult, Jared won’t admit it. “Fucked up . . . how?” he prods. It’s pretty much a miracle that Jensen called him in the first place. He doesn’t want to cut the call short by over-reacting.

Jensen’s quiet for a beat too long, and then Jared hears the exhale of the smoke again. “Don’t worry. My virtue’s still intact,” he intones, dry and lazy, like inflecting might be too much hassle. Jared’s pretty sure Jensen’s slumped into the center of his couch, ashtray on one thigh and television remote on the other.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened then.” He’s trying – God, he’s trying – to keep his hands from balling into fists at his sides. To keep from shouting.

“Kirby decided to change the baby’s nursery.”

“Again?”

“Hm. Said it should be more whimsical.”

Kirby is the set designer for the film, and he’s forever changing his mind about layouts and décor. The nursery, which will be shown in one scene, and possibly less than five minutes of film, has gone through seven transformations already. There can’t be that many ideas he hasn’t cycled through at this point.

When he doesn’t say anything aloud, Jensen goes on. “I found the sheets he wanted for the bed, and got Behr’s to mix the paint color last minute. Even gave me a discount and shit.” Jared smiles – only Jensen and that charming grin of his could manage to get someone to do twice the work for half the price. “Got every fuckin’ thing he wanted, except this goddamn bunny rabbit mobile. Fuckin’ things don’t even look like bunnies. Look like bears with fucked up ears or some shit.”

The lackadaisical recount of the events, along with Jensen’s too-calm-to-be-true tone, make Jared nervous. Another pause. Another puff. Another chord of tension pulled tighter around Jared’s stomach. His fingers itch to touch the back of Jensen’s neck, to run his thumb over the pulse of his wrist. To calm him down.

“Boutique in Bel Air was sold out. Next closest place was San Diego,” Jensen huffs again, and it sounds sarcastic and biting and all together ugly. “Drove to motherfucking San Diego to get a goddamn bunny rabbit for a dumb ass mobile he’s not even gonna wanna use by the time we start shooting tomorrow.”

“You’re one hell of a PA.” He means it. Jared knows Jensen made the trip without complaining. He’s worked on a lot of movie sets, and he can’t think of many crew members who would drive two and a half hours, probably on his own dime in his own car, and not bitch about it for a week afterward.

Instead of the customary, ‘Thanks,’ in response, Jared gets another huff and he can practically feel Jensen’s eyes rolling across the distance. “Fuckin’ store was closed for the day. Drove all the way to San Diego, and the store was fuckin’ closed for some fucking company baby shower or some shit. Only other place that had ‘em in stock was Miami and I can’t get a fuckin’ delivery from Miami by eight in the morning. Fuckin’ epic fail, man.”

Jensen couldn’t get a mobile, that probably won’t even read on screen in the first place, on a day’s notice, because one store was sold out, another was closed, and another is across the country. Of course, Jared knows it’s not Jensen’s fault. Chances are the director and pretty much everyone else knows it’s not Jensen’s fault. Even Kirby, indecisive bastard that he is, probably knows it’s not Jensen’s fault.

The only person who will heap the blame for something completely out of his control onto Jensen’s shoulders is Jensen himself. Failing to follow orders to the letter, to make sure that everyone gets everything they want, just the way they want it, on the set is too important to him. He’s not just going to let this one go.

Before Jared can assure him, however uselessly, that it’s not his fault and it doesn’t make him the worst production assistant who ever assisted production, a long, growling moan fills the air in the background of the call. “The hell is that?” he asks instinctively.

Jensen doesn’t miss a beat. “Some stupid porn.”

“You're watching,” Jared starts to ask and then stops himself short. “To keep from going out,” he deduces. Jensen has stress to relieve. Jared told him to call if he felt tense. Ball's in his court now. “It working?”

“What is the exact opposite of 'working'?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse.”

“What are you watching?”

“I don't even know what it's called,” Jensen's laugh is short and not at all humored.

“What's it about?”

“Fucking.”

Jared can't help the smile that spreads at Jensen's matter-of-fact response. “Funny.”

A heavy sigh sounds against his ear. “Well, it's not like there's a lot of plot. Just some twinky blond kid with a studded dildo up his ass and his face shoved into the dirt. He's wearin' dog tags, so it's maybe Army . . . ish? Hair's longer than yours, so it's not, like, authentic.” Jared laughs again, but Jensen just goes on. “Dude's fuckin' him in aviators, man. Doesn't even have body hair. Like even on his arms. It's disturbing. And he's ugly as a mud fence. Twinky here's lucky he's on his hands and knees, I'll tell ya that much. Gotta be fakin' it, too, 'cause drill sergeant whateverthefuck's dick is fuckin' pitiful.”

“Jensen?” All he gets is a distracted 'hm' on the other end. “Turn it off.”

“Dude, it's almost over,” Jensen starts to protest. And then, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Voice pitching lower, Jared finally allows himself to relax as he stretches out on the bed. “Tell me when you're in the bedroom.” Jensen does. “You have your hands-free?” A mumble to the affirmative. “Take your clothes off and get on the bed.” He waits, listening to the rustling of fabric as Jensen sheds his clothes and climbs into his bed.

“Kay. Naked,” Jensen answers, voice skeptical. “Jared, man, this is fucking weird,” he admits after a beat of awkward silence.

“Weird how?” Jared settles himself beneath his covers, legs almost reaching the end of the bed.

“I've never,” Jensen stops, and that's weird, because Jensen's probably the least shy person Jared knows when it comes to sex.

“Never what? Had phone sex?”

“Yeah. It's just . . . bizarre.”

“Doesn't have to be.”

“Just . . . I don't know, man. I go get laid if I wanna get laid. Don't sit around talkin' about it.”

The statement causes of flare of irritation in Jared's chest and he fights to push it down before it spirals out of control. “You wanna come, Jensen? I can make you come. You wanna get laid for real? I'm not gonna waste my time.”

There's a long silence, and Jared seriously considers taking the words back. He doesn't want Jensen to think he has permission, after all. Doesn't want to think about some greasy fucker in a dive bar putting his hands all over what is Jared's. Not when Jensen doesn't really want that in the first place.

“Don't,” Jensen interrupts his thoughts. “Don't want it. Just . . . wound so fucking tight, Jay.”

Jared's fairly certain that nobody else will ever grasp how epic that one statement is. The fact that Jensen is admitting to being stressed is unusual enough. The fact that he brought it to Jared, that he's actually asking for the help he needs instead of trying to fix it on his own? It's everything.

“Don't worry. Gonna get you all loosened up. All relaxed and settled, okay?” Jared's trailing his knuckles over his chest as he considers all of the directions he could take this exercise. “Touch yourself for me, Jen. Like you do when I'm not around. Start slow. Get yourself nice and hard for me.” When Jensen doesn't say anything, Jared goes on. “Tell me what you're doing.”

He hears Jensen breathe on the other end of the phone. “I'm touchin' myself,” he answers, tone clipped like he's offended that Jared questioned his ability to do what he's told.

“How does it feel?” Jared tries another route, reminding himself that Jensen's never done this before. Maybe he needs some more guidance.

“Good. Feels good.”

“What're you thinkin' about?”

“Gettin' off.”

It's all wrong. Jensen either doesn't understand, or he's just getting more frustrated. Since he's not a complete fucking idiot, Jared thinks they're probably dealing more with the second issue and he's going to lose Jensen to some barfly with a leather fetish if he doesn't rein it back in soon.

“Stop,” Jared commands. “Just stop thinking about the end goal, okay? Stop thinking about coming and about what happened today. Stop everything, Jensen.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me what you usually think about when you jerk yourself off.” Radio silence. “Can you do that?”

“Stop talking to me like I'm six,” Jensen snaps back. He gets like this when Jared's pushed him into a corner he doesn't think he wants to be in.

“If you were six, this would be gross,” Jared shoots right back, and he's expecting maybe this is where Jensen's desire to fuck his stress away becomes Jensen's desire to fight his stress away. But now he's half-hard at the thought of his boyfriend all spread out on his bed, fisting his cock just for Jared and he doesn't so much want to fight. “Look, man, if you can't do it,” he starts.

And the barb hits the intended target. “Oh, shut up. I can do it.”

There's another long moment of silence and then Jared hears it. The subtle shift in Jensen's breathing. “Talk to me,” Jared prods softly.

“Feels good. Like when it starts soft. Gets hard in my hand.” He sucks in a quick breath. “Makes me think 'bout how you get hard in my mouth. Start soft and just keep getting bigger. Hotter. Wet in my mouth. Stretches my lips, makes my jaw ache. Love that feeling,” he moans and it's all Jared can do to press the heel of his hand against his groin. Jesus. “Need you to come home, Jay. Need to get your big cock in my mouth.”

Jared's in violent agreement with that statement. Palming gently at his own growing hardness, he centers himself and lets out a long, low breath. “What're you doin', Jen? Tell me how you're stroking your cock for me.”

“Slow. God, Jay . . . not enough.” He almost whines it, but Jared doesn't say anything. Just waits to see if Jensen will go on. “Can I,” he stammers and his breath hitches again.

“What, Jen? What do you want?”

“Fuck . . . wanna fuck.”

“Get the lube.” Jared waits, figures maybe he should have told Jensen to do that before he laid down. But dammit, he didn't know Jensen was going to want to go there. He's never actually watched the guy jerk himself off before.

A strangled grunt interrupts Jared's lazy stroke of his own dick, still through his shorts. He'll get off once he hangs up, once he knows Jensen's okay. This time isn't about him.

“Jesus,” Jensen sighs, going on without provocation this time. “Circling my hole, Jay. Thinkin' 'bout how you rimmed me. Fuckin' love it when you use your tongue.” He draws a sharp breath. “Wanna ride your motherfucking mouth so bad,” he grunts, and Jared knows without asking that Jensen's finger is sliding wet into his own ass.

Jesus. Fuck.

“How many fingers, Jen?”

Another grunt. “Two. Barely. Thinkin' about how you lick me open. How you start all slow and lazy. Drives me fuckin' insane.”

“Slide 'em in, Jen. All the way. Feel that?”

“Fuck. Yes.” It's a hissing sound that nearly kills Jared.

“Another one. Wanna hear three fingers stretch that tight little ass of yours.”

It feels like forever, and no time at all, that Jensen mutters and writhes and moans, working three fingers into himself. “Jesus, Jay. Still not enough. Not like you,” he growls. “Want you. Fucking need you inside me, man.”

“Couple more days, Jen,” Jared promises him. “Gonna come to your place soon as I get home. Push you up against the wall when you open the door.” Jensen whimpers against his ear. “Be all prepped for me, cause I'm gonna slide right in. ’Fore I even say hi. Gonna fuck you until your knees give out. Then I'm gonna get you to your bed, and I'm gonna put your legs on my shoulders. You like that, Jen? When I fold you in fucking half and fuck you so long, so deep, so hard, you can't help the way your eyes roll back in your head.”

Though he's not particularly loud, Jensen's rapidly-speeding string of curse words under his breath alerts Jared that he's close. “Jesus fuckin' fuck.” It sounds like Jensen's teeth are clenched tight, the words bitten from a raw throat, and then a strangled yell, and silence.

“So fuckin' hot, Jen,” Jared murmurs into the phone when Jensen starts to pant against his ear again. “So fuckin' good. Miss you. Can't wait to see you again. So fuckin' glad you called.” He keeps cycling through words of affirmation, praise, and encouragement. Assuring Jensen that he did the right thing tonight, that he's okay. That he's good. To Jared and for him. Just . . . good.

“Jensen?” It's about five minutes later when Jared realizes that Jensen's not saying much anymore. “Go to sleep, okay? I'll call and wake you up in the morning.”

“M'kay,” Jensen agrees. “Night, Jay.”

He sounds so peaceful. Always looks it, too, in those moments right before he drifts off. Jared can see it in his mind's eye, and if he wasn't still so blindingly hard from listening to Jensen come like a fucking freight train a few minutes ago, he would spend a few more thinking about how innocent and untouched Jensen is in those seconds right before he falls into a deep sleep.

Instead, he settles into his bed and thinks about how he's going to make good on every promise he made to Jensen over the phone.

Jared keeps his word and wakes Jensen the morning after their phone sex, and then he doesn't hear from him again for the remainder of his trip. Not one call. No answers to Jared's calls and voice mails. And it probably shouldn't bother him. After all, Jensen's a busy guy. It's entirely possible that he working sixteen or eighteen hour days and then going home to collapse in sleep until it's time to do it all over again.

Possible, but Jared's pretty sure it's not probable.

His mail is resting on the kitchen table when he stops by the house to drop off his luggage. When he'd asked Jensen to come over and grab it, as well as pick up the papers from the driveway and water the plants while he was away, he had no doubt it would get done. He kind of hoped that Jensen would be here, waiting for him to make good on the vow of fucking him through the wall as soon as he got back into town.

He's not. Jensen's not at Jared's, or at his own apartment. He's not on set, either. He's not answering his phone, and Jared doesn't want to feel the uneasy nausea building in his gut, but it's there. It's pretty undeniable, growing as he passes a couple of bars that they've hit together in the last couple of months.

By the time he parks next to Jensen's car outside the last bar he wants to find the guy in, he's nearly shaking with anger and fear. It's the place where he first laid eyes on beautiful, drunken, reckless Jensen, and Jared knows now what he's going to find inside. It's not even the situation as much as the motivation that baffles and terrifies him all at the same time.

Why in the hell is Jensen here? Why is he doing this? What the fuck changed in the last forty-eight hours?

He nods toward the bouncer at the door way and shoulders his way into the loud, rowdy room. Eyes zero in on the bar, on the place where Jensen is flirting shamelessly with yet another less-than-interested patron. He supposes he should be glad that Jensen's clearly looking for a fight, not a fuck. But he promised. Swore he wasn't going to do this while Jared was gone. That he was done with it. That he hadn't even thought about it since Jared.

What the fuck?

The guy's off his stool by the time Jared reaches them, and it's like deja vu all over again as Jensen turns and starts down the hallway, fist pounding into his open palm as he rolls his shoulders and works himself up for a fight.

Jared catches the guy's shoulder and he nearly takes a hook to the jaw on instinct. When the guy looks up, up, up into Jared's eyes, he just shakes his head. “I wouldn't,” Jared glowers. “Touch my boy and I won't hesitate to break every bone in your hand.”

“Your boy needs to learn to keep it in his pants then,” the guy spews back and Jared looks up to see Jensen watching him from the hallway, green eyes flashing with anger and disdain.

“Yeah, he does.” Without a backwards glance, Jared makes his way down the hall, reaching the door just seconds after Jensen throws it open and steps into the back alley. “What the fuck are you doing?” he barks.

Jensen doesn't turn to face him, just moves to the dumpster and pulls back to swing. Jared catches his hand and Jensen wheels on him so fast, it stuns Jared for a second. “Get off me,” Jensen jerks out of the hold Jared's got on his shoulder and distances himself quickly.

He doesn't follow, but he watches Jensen carefully for a minute. He sways and staggers as he moves. Drunk. Wound up. Looking for relief anywhere he can find it. Regressed eight weeks in the span of two days.

It's not that hard to catch up to him, to lead him in the direction of the car. Jensen's mumbling for Jared to get the fuck off of him, digging into the pocket of his jacket until he produces car keys that he promptly drops onto the ground at his feet.

Jared swoops in to grab them before Jensen gets a chance to fall on his face. “Not lettin' you drive home like this,” he says. Jensen can be pissed at him, and whatever's going on can be resolved later. There's no fucking way in hell that he's letting this man get behind the wheel of a car right now. When Jensen staggers again and trips into the side of Jared's car, he sighs and looks at the man in front of him. “What are you doing?”

“Coping,” Jensen smiles lazily, digging into his pocket again and producing a cigarette. A couple of guys happen by and Jensen winks at the one who stares a little too long. “Got a light?” he asks, hazy eyes lidded as he pushes off of the car.

Jared's hand in the center of his chest sends him stumbling back again. He glares at the guy over his shoulder and then back to Jensen. “Come on,” he snaps, jerking the passenger door open. “Get the fuck in the car.”

Jensen shakes his head, unlit cigarette dangling between his lips. “Not goin' anywhere with you,” he insists, petulant three-year-old routine firmly in place.

“And why's that?”

“Ask your friend Chad.”

For a brief second, Jared is confused. But only long enough for the confusion to give way to searing anger. “Motherfucker,” he growls, pulling his phone out of his pocket and hitting the speed dial.

Chad's been his best friend for nearly eight years. He's a screen writer, and a waiter, and a sometimes bit player in some theater in Burbank. He's also got the biggest fucking mouth of anyone Jared's ever met.

He notices the way Jensen licks his lips and rolls his hips in the direction of another guy heading into the bar, but one look from Jared, enraged and possessive, sends the guy scurrying away faster than the first guy bolted.

“Jay!” Chad greets exuberantly.

“The fuck did you say to Jensen?” He doesn't have time for small talk. Something is seriously wrong with his boyfriend – the same one that was blissfully happy with him not forty-eight hours ago. If that something is Chad, Jared might actually consider breaking his pact to never punch his friend in the fucking face for anything more serious than video games.

For a moment, Chad is silent. “Who's Jens-?” he starts and then, “OH! Your new boy toy,” he deduces. “Yeah, I stopped by the other day to drop that new script off that I was tellin' you about. He was waterin' your plants like a good little housewife.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jared heaves a sigh, fingers flexing against the soft cotton of Jensen's dress shirt as Jensen starts to push off the car in pursuit of some redhead in a mini-skirt who's totally not even trying to be subtle in her flirtation. “You didn't say that, did you?”

Chad's sigh is heavy. “What, am I retarded? I just said hi. I was very polite.”

Chances are, Jared's pretty sure, that Chad does think he was being polite. Whatever he said to Jensen was probably not intended maliciously. Still, Jared needs to know why Jensen's still flirting at everything that walks by while blowing his smoke into the humid night air and categorically refusing to look at Jared.

“Chad, please,” Jared pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Just tell me exactly what you said to him.”

“I don't know, man. I didn't memorize the conversation or anything. Just,” he stops and Jared hears the clicking of his keyboard cease, as well. “It was basic. Pretty much the same welcome speech I have for all your little flings.”

Oh, Jesus.

The truth is, until Jared knows exactly what Chad said to Jensen, he can't figure out how Jensen misinterpreted it. But the picture is becoming a little more clear, and Jared doesn't really need a map to find his way from here.

“I gotta go,” he sighs into the phone, hand still splayed against Jensen's chest as he tries once more to push off the car door. He's still drunk, but the fresh air seems to be doing him some good. At least he's not bobbing back and forth like a blade of grass in the wind anymore or anything.

“Jay,” Chad calls out. When Jared gives him an impatient “what?” he asks, “We cool, man?”

If he thought that Chad was trying to scare Jensen off, or that he'd said anything to purposely freak the guy out, they would not be okay. As it is, he's just Chad. “Yeah, man. I'll call you later.” After he's convinced Jensen he's not some meaningless little fling.

He slips the phone into his pocket and yanks the passenger door open again. “Get in the car, Jensen.”

Jensen rolls his eyes and reaches into his pockets again. “Can get my own ass home,” he insists. “Don't need you,” he goes on to mumble under his breath. “Don't even want you.”

If he wasn't drunk off his ass – and also, if he didn't sound more like he was trying to convince himself – Jared might be worried. Instead, he just jingles Jensen's car keys in front of his face, reminding him that he's already fumbled them in a drunken stumble. “Come on,” he nods toward the open door again and leans there until Jensen rolls his eyes and sinks into the leather seat.

The entire drive back to the apartment, Jensen mumbles shit about taking care of himself, not needing a babysitter, and getting treated like a motherfucking little kid. Jared says nothing, but realizes when they pull up to the building that his knuckles are white against the steering wheel and his breath is coming shorter.

He can't remember the last time he felt like this. Like the whole world is going to end in about three minutes. Like he's powerless to stop it. Like he has no control over what happens next. That scares him. Jensen's scaring him. Jared is scared, and that never happens.

He shouldn't be surprised to find that the apartment is in total disarray. In two days, Jensen has managed to drag every magazine back out, leave his laundry all over the love seat again, and there are Styrofoam cups from gas station fountain drinks on the floor around the coffee table. The air reeks of stale cigarette smoke and microwave popcorn.

“You gonna tell me what the hell?” Jared's words sound harsh, like an accusation. And maybe they are. Two days ago, everything was fine. Now Jensen's a fucking train wreck and Jared's confused as hell.

Shrugging, Jensen drops onto the couch and props his feet up. Lights a cigarette and pulls the ashtray onto his thigh. “I'm not what you want,” Jensen informs him, voice flat and devoid of any emotion at all. He's thrown up his wall, and now Jared's going to have to work twice as hard to get around it.

“What are you talking about?”

“Not into the shit you like.”

“What shit do I like?”

“All that fetish shit or whatever. Not my thing. Collars and diapers and butt plugs and shit. Can't wear a butt plug. Walk around too much durin' the day. Hurts like hell.”

Jared doesn't bother to ask how Jensen knows that. Has a feeling he really doesn't want to know. Instead, he focuses on the other words. Fetish. Collars. “Jensen, what the hell did Chad tell you?”

“Not much,” Jensen shrugs again, like none of this is any big deal to him at all. “Just said I didn't look like your usual boy toys, all tiny and twinky and shit. Said he never woulda pegged me for your type.” Jared feels his stomach sink as Jensen's eyes lazily raise to meet his. They're hard, cold, and distant. He's gone, and Jared's not sure he can convince him to come back.

“First of all, Chad doesn't speak for me, okay? He's a douche. Half the time, he doesn't know what he's sayin' his damn self. So if you wanna know something about me, ask me. Not Chad.” It's not what he was planning on saying when he opened his mouth, but it's not untrue, so Jared lets his words hang there for a second.

Jensen stands from the couch and rakes his fingers through his hair, cigarette burning between his fingers still. “Don't need you to break me or train me or whatever, okay? I'm not gonna be your pet project. Don't need you to mold me into whatever subby little bitch you want me to be.” He sucks in another drag and practically spits the plume off to the side with a jerk of his head.

“What the fuck, man?” Jared asks, his voice climbing in confused desperation. For thirty seconds, he would like to feel like he knows what the hell is going on. “You're not a fuckin' horse. Why the hell would I wanna break you?”

Jensen nods to the laptop on the couch. “Cause that's what you guys do. That's your thing.” He narrows his eyes and stamps his cigarette into the ashtray. “Train me to wait for you at the door, naked on my knees with my hands behind my back and my head bowed. Call you 'sir' or 'master' or whatever the fuck? Well, fuck you. I'm not doin' it.”

“Master?” Jared shakes his head and throws his arms out to his sides. “What the fuck kinda research are you doing?”

Without waiting for a response, he steamrolls on, letting his thoughts pour out as they jump into his head. Jared doesn't do this. He thinks before he speaks. But Jensen is pushing him too far, and he's slipping away, and Jared can't let him go. Not without figuring out why the hell it's all crumbling when he wasn't even here to crush it. His heart is racing at the thought of walking out the door, of never having what it almost felt like they had a couple of days ago.

He's not even sure what he's saying. Jensen's eyes are blank, and Jared can't read him. “I have never asked you to do anything that you don't want to do, Jensen. I have never expected you to be anything other than you. You need a reason, and I like being that reason. What we have? It works just like it is. Or, I thought it was working.” Jensen curls his bottom lip between his teeth and reaches for another cigarette. “Before you talked to Chad, were you happy? With the way things were going? With what we had?”

Jensen can say whatever he wants, and Jared knows that he will. He'll either be honest, or he'll lie through his teeth with perfect sincerity. Either way, he knows that Jensen holds the cards and if he wants out, he's getting out. Jared doesn't get a say. If he's honest with himself, he knows he never really did. He may be the one who issues the orders, but Jensen's the one who decides when the game's over. Jared's all in. Has been since day one.

Instead of answering the question, Jensen smokes half of his cigarette while pacing the length of the counter separating the living room from the kitchen. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, but far from weak or even timid. “Never met anyone like you, Jay. It's like you know me when I don't say anything, and you get it, ya know? You care when I don't give you a reason to, and you stick around after we fuck, and you actually fuckin' care if I like what we're doin'.” He stops and looks up, like he's trying to figure out if he should go on. “It's like, I don't know, man. It's fuckin' overwhelming.”

Like a punch to the face, Jared gets it. Whether he talked to Chad a couple of days ago or not, Jensen would have been in that bar tonight, looking for a fight. He's had too much time to himself, to think and over-analyze and freak the fuck out. He knows this is real, that it's not some fling until shooting ends, and he's scared to death of what that means. His survival instincts are kicking in, and he's doing the only thing he knows how to do – running as fast as he can in the opposite direction.

Crossing the room, Jared pulls the cigarette from Jensen's hand and drops it into a half-empty coffee cup on the counter behind Jensen. Hands on his shoulder and the back of his neck, Jared stares hard until Jensen raises his eyes to meet the gaze. “This thing we have? They don't write about this shit on the internet, Jen.” When he uses the nickname, he can feel Jensen's shoulders ease a little. “It's ours, only ours, and we make the rules, okay? Both of us. I'm not your puppeteer. I'm not your daddy or your master or your fucking Dom. And you're about the furthest thing from a subby little bitch I've ever seen.”

Running his thumb across Jensen's lower lip, he smiles when Jensen rolls his eyes. He won't say it, because Jensen won't listen, won't believe, but Jared's a little overwhelmed himself. Sure, he's had his share of submissives, at clubs and for a couple of nights here and there. He's done it formally, and informally, and it's scratched whatever itch he had at the time.

But Jensen? He's beautiful, and he's fragile as glass, and strong as a motherfuckin' oak tree all at the same time. He's kind of perfect for Jared, and he's not exactly sure how it happened, or when, but he knows that he would give Jensen the fucking world if Jensen needed it to calm down and be happy.

“Bottom line?” He clears his throat, surprised by the emotion bubbling up suddenly. “You don't need me. You told me months ago that you can get by on your own, and you're right. You can. You're perfectly capable. But you're happier when you don't have to.” Jensen looks like he's going to protest, so Jared just rests his fingers over those plush, warm lips and shakes his head. “I don't need you, either. But guess what? I'm happier than I have been in a long time when you're around. When you're loose and comfortable and relaxed.

“It's not about need. This whole thing would fall apart eventually if we couldn't live without each other. Doesn't matter how many movies they make about it, that shit's not healthy. Only works when we both wanna be here, man. All you gotta know, Jen, is if you wanna be here. That's all.”

His eyes drift closed, and when Jared moves his hand away, Jensen's tongue trails their path against his lips. “No leashes or anything?”

Jared can't help the laughter that spills out of his throat as he dips lower, forehead resting against Jensen's. “No leashes. You're free to be you, man.” Jensen smiles, and Jared can feel the corners of it more than see them. “Say 'no' whenever you want.”

“Really?” It's a skeptical question and it makes Jared smile.

“I'll take it under advisement. Really,” he smirks.

Even though Jensen doesn't say anything, Jared fucking feels the moment it all clicks. When Jensen gets it. Accepts it. Relaxes fully into the counter and pulls Jared forward to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw. He meant everything he said – he never meant to turn Jensen into anything other than exactly who he already wanted to be. Whomever he doesn't have the motivation to become.

Of course, he still smells like a week-old ashtray, and his breath is thick with tequila and menthol. Pulling back, Jared keeps his hands firmly on the sides of Jensen's head and breathes, “Go take a shower. Brush your teeth. Meet me in the bedroom.”

Jensen looks at him for a second and then shakes his head. “Nah.”

There's humor behind his eyes, happiness that makes Jared hard faster than some of the other intentionally sexy shit Jensen pulls. Sucking at the place behind Jensen's ear that turns him to Jell-O, Jared pulls back and growls against his ear. “Promised to fuck you long and hard when I got home,” he reminds. “Remember?” His licks and nips at the stubble along Jensen's neck and jaw.

“No,” Jensen teases, but his voice catches in his throat when Jared's teeth scrape across the sensitive skin there.

“Alright, fine,” Jared steps back, hands in the air in surrender. “You don't want me to lick your hot little asshole until you beg and then fuck you 'til you can't stand up? Your call.”

With a roll of his eyes, Jensen pushes off the counter and pops the button on his jeans. “Give me twenty,” he concedes, walking toward the bathroom.

“You've got ten,” Jared barters, working his own jeans open as he moves toward the bedroom. When he hears Jensen call 'such a toppy fuckin' bastard' through the door, he laughs.

It's not the kind of relationship they make mainstream films about. Their story will never be a summer blockbuster that appeals to the masses. Hell, it's not even something Jared can make his best friend understand. It's complex, and messy, and far from happily-ever-after, even now.

But when Jensen appears in the doorway, squeaky clean, freshly shaven, and smelling like heaven? Water dripping from the ends of his hair, and the fucking sunshine blasting out of his eyes? Jared could give a fuck less if anybody else gets it.

He stares for a minute, just appreciating the fact that this is his. Jensen is his. He's sticking around, and they're going to be okay. So fucking beautiful. He's so goddamn lucky. With an outstretched arm, he motions and says, “Come here.”

“Yes, sir,” Jensen mocks and Jared rolls his eyes, pulling Jensen's arm until he collapses, naked and damp and slightly chilled against Jared's bare chest.

“Fuck you,” Jared teases, hands cupping Jensen's cheeks as they share another one of those looks that would probably make anyone else uncomfortable, were there anyone around to see it. “Better yet,” he flashes a wicked grin and rolls until Jensen is under him with an 'oomph.' “Think I promised to lick you.”

Jensen's fingers grip his shoulders and he writhes, like he's trying to get away. “Jay,” he gasps.

He trails his tongue down Jensen's chest and stomach and then stops, eyes flicking up to meet those intense jade orbs staring back. “Right here. Not goin' anywhere. Relax. Just,” he scrapes his teeth along Jensen's hip bone and then looks up again. “feel this. Can you do that?”

There's a gasp, and Jensen's eyes flutter shut before snapping back open, glimmering with sarcastic intent. “I'm on it,” he shoots, and then he laughs when Jared rolls his eyes and pinches his thigh.

It continues like that, laughter and teasing and gasping and coming, until they're both sated and ready to pass out. It's the most perfect sex Jared can ever remember having, and he's happy. Truly content and just . . . happy.

“Glad you're home, Jay,” Jensen mutters sleepily against his shoulder.

He's fading fast and Jared just tightens an arm around him before dipping his head to press a kiss against the crown of Jensen's shampoo and sweat-scented hair. “Me, too,” he whispers. “Missed you.” Jensen 'mmph's in response, and Jared adds, “Rest, Jen.”

“You, too.” The words are slurred against his chest, but Jared feels them shoot through to his spine.

He's not entirely sure that he realized how restless he had been before he met Jensen. It's not like he was doing stupid shit and feeling like he couldn't ever find that release. It was more subtle, the tension thrumming through him. Like something was missing.

It's not anymore.