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raeschaeTitle: You Can't Run Forever (A Disclaimer Verse OneShot)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
raeschae
Pairing: J2
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5500
Summary: Jared left Texas with no intention of ever returning, but when Texas comes looking for him, Jensen is left to deal with the aftermath. (About as H/C as this 'verse gets)
Part of the Disclaimer Verse
A/N: For awhile now, people have been telling me that they want to see some hurt!Jared in this 'verse. Being as I've already hospitalized two of the three main characters, I didn't want to injure him. But thenplastacine_star asked me if anyone from Jared's past was ever going to show up in any of the stories, and it sparked an idea that seemed to crash through my current writer's block. It's hurt/comfort, Disclaimer style, so I hope that's okay.
Don't ask Jensen why his heart is racing in his chest and he's driving like his ass is on fire and the only extinguisher in the world is at home. Don't ask him why he just left an important meeting at Grind, down in San Diego, to break the land-speed record in getting back to Santa Monica. And don't ask him how he's going to deal with the meltdown that he's going to find when he walks through the front door.
He doesn't know.
All he does know is that Sophia called him an hour ago and told him to get his ass home. Jay needs him. And the bottom line is that he doesn't need to know any more than that.
The house is eerily quiet when he steps in through garage and into the kitchen. Too quiet. Jared's bike and car are both out front, so he knows that he's here. But there's no music or television. A house with Jay and no sound is like adding two and two and coming up with five.
As if his heart wasn't about to beat a hole in his chest before, now he's kind of starting to panic. On the trip back, he could convince himself that Sophia was being overly-dramatic, and that he was going to get home to find that Jay was kicking back with a beer and just trying to blow off the steam of a stressful day. Maybe a particularly difficult client or something. But this?
This ain't right.
He checks the theater, the pool out back, and the office. The bedroom and the bathrooms turn up zero Jay, too. He's not in Bray's room, or the guest rooms, or anywhere else on the main or upper floor, either.
Shouldering his way into the basement, Jensen takes his first easy breath when he hears angry brush strokes against a canvas. When he rounds the corner and sees Jared hunched over his easel, muscles in his shoulders and arms so visibly tight, they could snap at any moment, he stops short.
He's seen Jared angry plenty of times. Everyone who knows him has seen him angry. But dammit if this isn't different. Whatever's got him all knotted up, it's big. He's bottling emotions that are about to explode like a fucking powder keg, and Jensen's not sure he shouldn't pack a bag and abandon ship. There's no way that he's going to escape this explosion unscathed.
“The fuck're you doin' here?” Jared finally demands, when Jensen doesn't say anything.
“Got done early,” he lies, with an easy shrug.
“Bull shit.”
“Alright, fine. I heard there was a storm brewin' back home. Thought I might oughtta be here for it.”
“You shouldn't,” Jared bites, tone stretched as thin as the tee shirt he's wearing. “Should go back to San Diego, Jensen. You handle your business. I'll handle mine.”
The way he chooses to “handle his business” is apparently throwing the paint onto the canvas, swishing it around a few times, and then growling like it insulted his mother. Or, ya know, someone he actually cares about.
It stops working after a few more swirls, though, because Jensen jumps a little when Jared throws the brush at the easel, upends the entire thing, and then mutters something about goddamn motherfuckers and stalks past Jensen, up the fucking stairs. He doesn't bother stopping to see the paint running across the cement floor, or the way the easel cracks on impact. The easel that Jensen bought him for Christmas, and that he refuses to let anyone so much as breathe near for fear that they'll ruin it somehow.
When the shock of the sight before him wears off, Jensen turns on his heel and tears up the stairs. “HEY!”
By the time he gets to the kitchen, Jared is guzzling a beer and pacing behind the island like a caged lion at the zoo. Jensen's not sure he looked this rabid and ferocious when Brayden was in the hospital a few years ago, and Jared was determined that killing Rick was the best way to make it all better. He's just . . . he's not the same guy Jensen knows and loves. It's scary, and he's not used to being scared of Jared.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
Jared says nothing, just tilts the bottle back and takes another long pull, swallowing hard. “Fuckin' built my own goddamn empire. Nobody fuckin' helped me. Didn't fuckin' give a fuck back fuckin' then. Sure as fuck give a goddamn fuck now. “
To say that Jensen is lost, that he has no idea what's going on, is an extreme understatement. “Jay, man, come on,” he tries to step forward, but Jared just growls and turns, slamming his beer bottle against the counter. It shatters, and he doesn't so much as notice.
“I did this!” The declaration is so loud, so definitive, that Jensen's convinced it rattles the window behind Jared's head just a little bit. “This is my fucking life! Nobody has the fucking right to take it away from me. Fucking star fucking sons of fucking bitches!”
Maybe he should see it coming, but Jensen still startles when Jared's enormous fist goes crashing through the wood of the cabinet behind him. It splinters and shatters on impact, along with seven or eight of the glasses on the shelf inside. He jumps into action without thinking, because what else is he going to do?
It's kind of weird, he thinks, as he makes his way around the kitchen counter and over to the sink, that it's in Jared's most uncharacteristic moment that Jensen can see what's going on here. He doesn't know the details, or what brought it on, but none of that really matters. Because he can see Jared. He knows Jared. And behind the anger, the rage, he sees the pain. Laid bare as if under a spotlight in the ten seconds it takes him to curse the world and pull his hand back from the biting hole in the cabinet.
Jensen's quiet as he fills a towel with ice and then makes sure to keep his voice low as he reaches for Jared's arm. “Hey,” he smiles softly, noting that Jared tenses when he touches his hand, but lets Jensen do it anyway. The knuckles are bleeding against his tan skin, swollen, like an irate replica of Jared's face a few minutes ago. “What'd that cabinet ever do to you, huh?”
When he pulls a lone shard of glass from the middle knuckle, Jared just . . . collapses. Goes down to the floor before Jensen can even try to catch him. “Jen,” he breathes, his head resting against the cabinet as he looks up through his sweat-moistened hair, eyes wide and vulnerable and fucking aching. “It's my life.”
“I know.” Jensen's still at a loss for what exactly is going on here, but he does know one thing. Jared worked his ass off to build this life he has, and he'll be damned if anyone else is going to take the credit for it, which seems to be the problem, from what he can gather. “What's goin' on with you?”
Closing his eyes, Jared unclenches his fist and then draws it back again. He winces and catches his lower lip between his teeth. “Fuck,” he mutters, head rolling back against the lower cabinets, legs sprawled across the distance to the island.
Sinking to the floor at his boyfriend's side, Jensen takes Jared's hand again and presses the ice pack to it. Jared hisses, but he doesn't pull away. They've been here before. Done this dance more times than either of them can count anymore. Jared gets worked up and hits something he shouldn't. Jensen gets the ice, asks a few questions, and lets him work it out for himself.
This time feels different, though. Like maybe a few snarky barbs about the stupidity of sticking his hand through a sheet of wood while he depends on that hand for his livelihood isn't going to work this time. “You gonna tell me who's ass I need to kick?”
Jared rolls his eyes and rests his hand against Jensen's thigh. “I need a shower,” he states, but makes no move to get up.
“You're gonna actually have to walk your own ginormous ass to the bathroom then,” Jensen nudges him with a shoulder, fighting like hell to keep the mood light. If he doesn't, he's going to break down and that's not going to help anything at all.
With a grunt, Jared struggles to stand and flexes his hand again. Far as Jensen can tell, he didn't actually break anything, other than the cabinet and most of the glasses Sandy bought them awhile ago, so the physical worry is quickly dissipating.
He watches Jared walk out of the kitchen before grabbing his cigarettes from the bowl on the counter and making his way to the back patio. He's been doing pretty well at cutting back, something he decided was a necessity when he realized Brayden was picking up the habit, but right now? He needs nicotine like he needs air.
Between them, there's not much that Jared and Jensen don't share, but Jared's past is something that stays tightly locked away. It always has been, and Jensen has never pushed him to expose more than he's comfortable sharing. He knows that it wasn't all bad, but it wasn't all good, either. And it's glaringly obvious, to Jensen at least, that there are a lot of unresolved issues that Jared may never get around to addressing.
There aren't a lot of tears shed in this house. There never will be. And the big, emotional conversations are kept to a bare minimum, too. They each have their own ways of dealing with stress, be it boarding, painting, video games, or a plethora of other distractions that hold the emotions at bay until they can be covered and ignored. It's probably not what experts would call healthy or whatever, but it works for them.
The thing is, they're all good with each other. When they're not, they fight it out and get over it. It's all the other bull shit, the external stuff that comes at them individually, that they don't 'care and share' with each other. Or anyone. Sometimes he thinks maybe it'd be better if they did talk about it before it comes crashing down on their heads. Sometimes he's glad they don't.
“Hey.” Jensen turns to see Brayden, backpack gripped against his shoulder as he offers a wave. Jensen exhales and nods, but words feel like too much work. “What's up?” He just shakes his head. “Where's Jay?”
He's a pretty observant kid, Jensen has learned in the last few years. It doesn't take much of a shift in the atmosphere for Brayden to know that something isn't right. It's cool, because they don't have to tell him to tone it down when one of them isn't in the mood to deal with his hyperactive tendencies. But Jensen thinks it's probably a little bit of a curse, too, being as he's just a kid still and he shouldn't have to stop being a hyperactive idiot just because his dads are in a bad mood.
“Shower,” he answers, waiting for the inevitable 'ew' that always accompanies Brayden's assumption that they've been doing something sexual recently, even when they haven't. While he's perfectly cool with the fact that they're crazy in love with each other, he'd prefer not to think too much about what that means. And who can blame him? Who really wants to think about their parents having sweaty, insanely hot, filthy, dirty sex all the time? Jensen, for one, does not, so he tries not to mock Brayden too much about it most of the time.
If Brayden wants to say something, though, he doesn't. Just shrugs his shoulders and shifts his weight from one hip to the other. “Everything okay?”
Jensen doesn't lie. At least, not to his family. Ever. “It will be.”
And with a simple nod of understanding, Brayden excuses himself to the pool house. He hears one of the windows on the opposite side click and swing open and he knows Brayden's about to do exactly what he's sitting here doing. Maybe he should storm in there and demand that he stop before he can't, but Jensen just doesn't have it in him right now. On the list of issues he has to tackle, Brayden's occasional cigarette doesn't really rank among the priorities at the moment.
If it was him freaking out about something, Jared would be up his ass until he talked about it. But with Jared, it doesn't work that way. Jensen has to give him his space. He can't go to the mountain, Muhammad. He has to wait for the mountain to come to him. It might never happen. He might walk back into the kitchen and find Jared smiling and pretending that he never freaked out at all. Or he might walk up to their room and find himself balls deep in the kid's ass before he even realizes his pants have been thrown across the room.
Of all of them, Jared is definitely the best at burying his emotions. Probably because he's had a lifetime of experience.
Dinner is pizza straight out of the box while he and Brayden talk about some new girl Brayden's got his eye on at school, and the deal Jensen is working on with Roxy to design a line of surf gear for women. He decided not to renew his deal with Macy's earlier this year because there was just too much on his plate. But the Roxy thing won't be nearly as comprehensive or time-consuming, and he's pretty sure that he could make a killing down at Grind with surf gear.
Brayden is enthusiastic about the prospect of meeting “hot, little surf bunnies,” but the business side of it bores him and he's not all that subtle about it.
Jared is conspicuous in his absence.
They lay around the theater until nearly midnight, half-assing a 'Mystery Science Theater' mockery of the B-grade horror movie on the screen. When Brayden yawns for the third time, Jensen tells him to get his ass to bed, and he stops by his office to check his voice mail. There are seven messages.
”Hey. Just checkin' it to make sure everything's cool. Call me if you guys need anything.” Sophia.
”Dude, give him his space, but pull his head outta his ass 'fore he gets lost in there. Too much isn't pretty. Trust me.” Chad.
”The chick from Roxy kinda loved that you dropped the meeting for your boyfriend, so we're all good on that end. I'll fill you in on the rest in the morning. Tell Jay we got his back.” Tom.
”Dude, you cool? Wanna grab a beer? Hit me back.” Chris.
”Fix him.” Genevieve.
”Hey, man. Just wanted ya to know we can look out for Bray if y'all need to get away for a couple days or whatever. Let me know.” Mike.
”Soph said Jay left early. Looked like he wanted to kill someone. Hope it wasn't you. So, if you're still, ya know, alive or whatever, call me.” Danneel.
Jensen can't fight the smile as he fires off a text en mass. “We're fine. Relax.” On his way up to their room, he tells himself that it's not a lie. They're all still alive, and aside from the kitchen cabinet, they're still functional. The rest will work itself out.
Pushing the bedroom door open with his shoulder, Jensen's not sure if he should prepare himself for a catatonic giant, staring off into the darkness of the night, or a hulking madman, who very well could have broken everything they own.
Jared's sitting on the bed, legs stretched impossibly long and crossed at his ankles. His eyes are fixed on the television, but Jensen's pretty sure he's not actually watching 'Blind Date.' At least, he hopes not. He's wearing a pair of basketball shorts, and where that vision alone is usually enough to distract Jensen, the blank look on his face is enough to zap the 'sexy' right out of the image.
Wordlessly, he gathers his own shorts and heads into the bathroom. Quick shower, and Jared's in the exact same place he was when Jensen left ten minutes ago. More than likely, it's the same place he's been since he came up here hours ago.
Part of him wants to grab the first thing he can reach on the dresser and launch it in Jared's direction. To wake him the hell up and tell him how fucking weird it is to have him locked away in his tower like a fucking princess bitch. To make him get the hell over it.
Another part of him, though, cracks at the sight of his man, the consummate pillar of stoic strength, so empty and hurt. Because try as he might to fight it, Jensen recognizes that look in Jared's vacant eyes. It's not blatant and not just anybody would see it. But Jared is hurting, and probably more than a little pissed at himself for it.
He just climbs into the bed, presses a kiss to Jared's shoulder, and then settles himself against the headboard. He's not tired, and he knows he won't sleep until he's sure that shit's not going to explode during the night.
The silence is deafening, and when Jared does speak, it feels as loud as his shouting did earlier in the kitchen. Makes Jensen flinch a little like that did, too.
“Shane Miller came in today. Brought his parents. They're on vacation. Wanted to go somewhere exotic.” Jared's voice is dead, completely void of anger and every other emotion. “His mom hugged me. Cried. Said she was proud of me.”
“Who?”
Jared huffs. “I was sixteen. So fuckin' over the bull shit, ya know? Just wanted to get the hell out. Don't even know if they noticed when I moved in. Was okay, ya know? Didn't really want another family actin' like they cared if I was there or not.
“Shane was nineteen. Lived in the basement. He was cool enough, I guess. Cool as anybody else I knew back then or whatever. Let me hang out. Sucked me off when he was high.” He tilts his head like he's watching it happen at the end of the bed. “Wasn't so bad at it, I guess.”
“Isn't that kinda, I don't know, against the rules or some shit?” Jensen knows more about the foster system than he ever thought he would, after everything they've gone through with Brayden, but Jared will always be the expert between them.
With a nonchalant shrug, Jared smiles cynically. “Nobody gave a shit about the rules by then, man. I was sixteen. And kind of fuckin' difficult. That's what my social worker said anyway. Fuck if I cared.” He licks his lips, eyes still fixed on the television, unfocused and unseeing. “Shane saw some'a my sketches or whatever. Said he could show me somethin' that would blow my mind. Figured he was gonna give me 'X' again or some shit.
“But he didn't. Had this metal box under his bed. First time I held that fuckin' machine in my hand, I just knew, man. Didn't know shit one 'bout how it worked or what the fuck it meant, but I knew I was supposed to have one. That I'd be good at it.”
Jensen remembers once asking Jared why he became a tat artist. And he remembers the smart ass response Jared gave. This one, the real answer, is kind of better.
With another sarcastic chuckle, Jared tilts his head back against the headboard. “Think I tatted every piece of fruit in the house that summer, man. Stole a buncha shit from this roadside stand on the highway. Sounds so stupid now, but it worked, ya know? Sorta, at least. 'Til Shane was high enough to let me do him. So scared my hands were shakin', but when I got started it just . . . I don't know how to explain it. Just felt like I was made for it or some shit.”
Jensen wants to ask how in the fuck this pertains to Jared hulking out on the kitchen cabinet earlier, but he knows better than to interrupt. There's no telling when he might next get a glimpse into this side of his boyfriend, and any chance to learn more about Jared is one that Jensen's not going to piss away by getting too eager for information.
“They barely knew I was there, man. Whole time I lived there, barely said a handful of sentences to me. Didn't care or anything. Least they weren't bitchin' me out every time I moved or whatever. It was cool. Easier.”
“Easier how?”
Another shrug and Jared finally turns his head to meet Jensen's eye. There's not much more there now, but at least it's not that eery void staring back at him this time. “Didn't notice when I stopped goin' to school, or started stayin' out all night. When I got my first piece. Or the second or third.”
The first, Jensen knows, was the snake and skull on his left shoulder. The second was the 'Live Life Loud' on his hip. Third was the Texas outline and flag on the back of his calf. A couple of them, he could have hidden, but Jensen doesn't need to know who Jared was at sixteen to know that he wasn't trying to hide a damn thing.
“I was seventeen when they pulled me outta the house. Hadn't been to school in a couple months. Can't really drop out when you're in the system, so you just kinda stop goin'. School noticed, pulled me for truancy,” Jared interrupts Jensen's impromptu visual tour of his body art. It's probably for the best. Jensen doesn't do so well at restraining himself when he starts thinking too much about Jared's ink. “Stuck me in some goddamn group home. Dude, I barely went at all during my senior year, and they tried to enroll me in some new place for the last three months.”
Jensen can't help smiling, his hand finding it's way to the tiger crawling down Jared's left right thigh. “Still didn't go, didya?”
“Hell no,” he answers emphatically, reaching one hand to grip at the back of Jensen's neck. Whether it's to ground himself, or reassure Jensen that he's alright now, Jensen doesn't know for sure. “Not like there was much they could do about it at that point. Think they were 'bout as tired of dealin' with me as I was of pretty much everything. 'Sides, I was makin' cash tattin' at parties and shit by then, savin' up so I could get the fuck out. Signed my papers and took the fuck off. Never looked back.”
“Until today,” Jensen whispers so quietly he's almost not sure he says it out loud.
“Appointment was under Shane's dad's name. I didn't even fuckin' recognize it 'til they walked in the goddamn door. That's how much I thought about 'em the last ten years.” His fist clenches, not enough to hurt Jensen's neck, but enough to say that he's not as 'over it' as he seems to think he is. “Spent the afternoon tellin' everybody in my goddamn shop 'bout how they always knew I was gonna be great someday. 'Bout how they love the show and feel like everybody's part of their family or somethin', just like I always will be.”
The puzzle pieces begin to click together and Jensen feels his own shoulders staring to tense. “You do the tat?”
Jared nods. Of course he did. He's a professional. He's worked too hard to build his reputation. No way in hell did he blow it all on some insignificant fuckers who wanna cash in on his success.
“Motherfucker had the audacity to ask for the family discount 'fore we started. Came all the way from Texas to let everybody know how fucking influential they were on my life and career, and wanted it on the cheap.” Jared's smile is wicked, and almost proud. “Charged him double for it, but he doesn't have to know that.”
The laugh that escapes from Jensen's throat is too loud in the quiet of the room, but he's too glad to hear the normal tone of Jared's voice returning to care. “Well, obviously.”
“Oh, and you shoulda seen his mom's face when she asked where all the television cameras were and Katie told her we're on haitus. It was priceless,” he barks a laugh of his own and Jensen can't help smiling right along with him, though the sound is hollow and a little pained. “Thought Soph was gonna rip her throat out.
“But the best part was when Shane asked where you were.” Jensen wishes, more than anything, that he had been there. At the same time, he knows it's better that he wasn't. Otherwise, they would be having this conversation through plexiglass and one of those plastic phones down at the jail. “Winked at me. Made some dig 'bout how he taught me everything I know.” When Jensen is the one making a fist now, Jared just dips to kiss him, quick and hard, before soothing his hand over the back of Jensen's neck. “Relax. Gen told him to fuck off. Then she told me I really traded up.”
“I've always liked her,” Jensen aims to keep his voice light, but it doesn't so much work. Jared falls silent again, and all Jensen can think to say is, “Dude, I'm sorry.”
If there is one constant in their world, it is that this room, this bed, hidden away from the rest of the world and off-limits to everyone, is the only place they both feel entirely comfortable shedding every inhibition and appearance. They're pretty genuine guys, for the most part, but never as raw, vulnerable, and wide open as they are here, together.
Drained, Jared lets the remnants of his grin fade, tipping to rest his head in Jensen's lap. Hasn't happened in awhile, and probably won't again for another couple of years, but once in awhile, he just doesn't have the energy to hold himself upright and mighty anymore.
Jensen feels the squeeze tight in his chest and the tears building, but he blinks them back anyway. When Jared puts himself in Jensen's hands like this, lets him run his fingers through his hair and forgets that they're supposed to be joking or fucking their problems away, it's kind of overwhelming. But he's been taking care of Jared, in some way or another, for a long while now. And Jensen might still not be convinced that he's the right guy to care for a seventeen-year-old kid, he knows exactly how to handle this twenty-nine-year-old man.
“Don't give a fuck about the shit I got, Jen,” Jared's voice is small, far away and pleading for understanding. “Never have. Just . . . outside'a you and Bray, I earned every goddamn thing, ya know? Nobody gave me a fuckin' thing.” He takes a breath and Jensen can feel his shoulders vibrating with the restrained emotion. “Never asked for it, either. Just fuckin' worked for it. Didn't do shit with my life before, but,” he stops again when his voice cracks.
Jensen doesn't say anything. What can he say? Sure, he can remind Jared that the people who know and love him don't question for a second that he's a self-made millionaire. That he's fought for every inch he's gained. They've all watched him do it. In spite of everything, he's defied the odds, and they've all been privileged enough to watch it happen.
It's his 'fuck you' to every single person who ever said he couldn't, or wouldn't, or shouldn't try to make something of himself. To everybody who looked at him as some poor, foster kid. A slave to a life he never asked for, but that would never be able to do him any favors.
It's why Brayden is so important to him, Jensen knows. Why he fought so hard against it in the beginning, and why he gave himself so completely to making it happen when he couldn't fight it anymore. Why he sometimes looks at Jensen like the sun itself shines directly out of his eyes or some shit.
Jared has spent the better part of the last fifteen years building this castle with his own two hands. Refining and perfecting his skills, and devouring the information necessary to keep it all together and functioning. He's shared just enough of his past for Jensen to know he never once doubted that he could do it, or that he deserved to have every fucking thing he worked to have.
But he's also given Jensen enough of a glimpse inside the walls of that castle, enough of himself, for Jensen to know that Jared is still that confused kid who carries everything he owns in a trash bag, and feels like he doesn't fit anywhere sometimes.
He spent his entire life looking for a place to belong, and when he couldn't find it, he created it himself. Filled it with the people who take him for exactly what he is and never expect any more, or less, than that. He's not just safe here, but loved. Unconditionally and unequivocally.
For anyone else to try and lay claim to that? It drags him right back to San Antonio, and scares the shit out of him. All Jensen can do is assure him that they can't.
His fingers dig into Jensen's thigh and Jensen moves his fingers from the crown of Jared's head, to his neck, and down the length of his back. “I gotcha, kid,” he promises.
And that's all it takes to break the damn wide open.
“Hurts, Jen.”
Jared doesn't have to say that he hates it, that he doesn't want it to hurt. He knows that he's right, that this isn't his fault. That he has done everything in his power to avoid being a victim of circumstance. That he's everything he was never supposed to be. It pisses him off and embarrasses him that he's crying about it, and Jensen knows that. Because Jensen's the same damn way when his own shit catches up to him.
But you can run forever, and never be free of your past. If anyone knows that, it's Jensen. And you can plant your feet and clench your fists, refuse to budge when it finally catches up to you. But it's relentless, and it beats you down until you just can't fight anymore. Until all you can do is find a safe place to admit defeat.
When the shaking stops, Jensen presses his hand to Jared's shoulder and a kiss to the back of his neck. “Love you,” he whispers, because sometimes, showing it isn't enough. Sometimes, he needs to say it.
“Girl,” is the muffled response against his leg.
Jensen would be offended, but when Jared sits up, his eyes are puffy and he's wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I'm not the one with the pretty, tear-stained cheeks, Princess,” he winks, brushing Jared's hair away from his face.
Instead of his usual, sharp-witted comeback, Jared slumps back against his pillow and stares for a long while into Jensen's face. “Love you, too, ya know?”
He just nods. Because he does know. Knows that, even if someone could take everything Jared's worked for away from him, nobody could ever take this. It's the things he didn't do shit one to earn that mean the most to him. To both of them.
“You should probably take these off,” Jared nods as his fingers tug at the side of Jensen's shorts. “Think I got snot on 'em.”
With a roll of his eyes, Jensen says, “Dude, last night, I had your jizz on my face. I think I can handle a little of your snot on my shorts.” But he's shimmying out of them anyway because he's pretty much a complete whore for this guy.
This guy who proves, at every turn, that he can do whatever it takes to get just about anything he wants. This guy who, despite it all, only really wants his family.
Free Counter
Author:
raeschaePairing: J2
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5500
Summary: Jared left Texas with no intention of ever returning, but when Texas comes looking for him, Jensen is left to deal with the aftermath. (About as H/C as this 'verse gets)
Part of the Disclaimer Verse
A/N: For awhile now, people have been telling me that they want to see some hurt!Jared in this 'verse. Being as I've already hospitalized two of the three main characters, I didn't want to injure him. But then
plastacine_star asked me if anyone from Jared's past was ever going to show up in any of the stories, and it sparked an idea that seemed to crash through my current writer's block. It's hurt/comfort, Disclaimer style, so I hope that's okay.Don't ask Jensen why his heart is racing in his chest and he's driving like his ass is on fire and the only extinguisher in the world is at home. Don't ask him why he just left an important meeting at Grind, down in San Diego, to break the land-speed record in getting back to Santa Monica. And don't ask him how he's going to deal with the meltdown that he's going to find when he walks through the front door.
He doesn't know.
All he does know is that Sophia called him an hour ago and told him to get his ass home. Jay needs him. And the bottom line is that he doesn't need to know any more than that.
The house is eerily quiet when he steps in through garage and into the kitchen. Too quiet. Jared's bike and car are both out front, so he knows that he's here. But there's no music or television. A house with Jay and no sound is like adding two and two and coming up with five.
As if his heart wasn't about to beat a hole in his chest before, now he's kind of starting to panic. On the trip back, he could convince himself that Sophia was being overly-dramatic, and that he was going to get home to find that Jay was kicking back with a beer and just trying to blow off the steam of a stressful day. Maybe a particularly difficult client or something. But this?
This ain't right.
He checks the theater, the pool out back, and the office. The bedroom and the bathrooms turn up zero Jay, too. He's not in Bray's room, or the guest rooms, or anywhere else on the main or upper floor, either.
Shouldering his way into the basement, Jensen takes his first easy breath when he hears angry brush strokes against a canvas. When he rounds the corner and sees Jared hunched over his easel, muscles in his shoulders and arms so visibly tight, they could snap at any moment, he stops short.
He's seen Jared angry plenty of times. Everyone who knows him has seen him angry. But dammit if this isn't different. Whatever's got him all knotted up, it's big. He's bottling emotions that are about to explode like a fucking powder keg, and Jensen's not sure he shouldn't pack a bag and abandon ship. There's no way that he's going to escape this explosion unscathed.
“The fuck're you doin' here?” Jared finally demands, when Jensen doesn't say anything.
“Got done early,” he lies, with an easy shrug.
“Bull shit.”
“Alright, fine. I heard there was a storm brewin' back home. Thought I might oughtta be here for it.”
“You shouldn't,” Jared bites, tone stretched as thin as the tee shirt he's wearing. “Should go back to San Diego, Jensen. You handle your business. I'll handle mine.”
The way he chooses to “handle his business” is apparently throwing the paint onto the canvas, swishing it around a few times, and then growling like it insulted his mother. Or, ya know, someone he actually cares about.
It stops working after a few more swirls, though, because Jensen jumps a little when Jared throws the brush at the easel, upends the entire thing, and then mutters something about goddamn motherfuckers and stalks past Jensen, up the fucking stairs. He doesn't bother stopping to see the paint running across the cement floor, or the way the easel cracks on impact. The easel that Jensen bought him for Christmas, and that he refuses to let anyone so much as breathe near for fear that they'll ruin it somehow.
When the shock of the sight before him wears off, Jensen turns on his heel and tears up the stairs. “HEY!”
By the time he gets to the kitchen, Jared is guzzling a beer and pacing behind the island like a caged lion at the zoo. Jensen's not sure he looked this rabid and ferocious when Brayden was in the hospital a few years ago, and Jared was determined that killing Rick was the best way to make it all better. He's just . . . he's not the same guy Jensen knows and loves. It's scary, and he's not used to being scared of Jared.
“Dude, what the fuck?”
Jared says nothing, just tilts the bottle back and takes another long pull, swallowing hard. “Fuckin' built my own goddamn empire. Nobody fuckin' helped me. Didn't fuckin' give a fuck back fuckin' then. Sure as fuck give a goddamn fuck now. “
To say that Jensen is lost, that he has no idea what's going on, is an extreme understatement. “Jay, man, come on,” he tries to step forward, but Jared just growls and turns, slamming his beer bottle against the counter. It shatters, and he doesn't so much as notice.
“I did this!” The declaration is so loud, so definitive, that Jensen's convinced it rattles the window behind Jared's head just a little bit. “This is my fucking life! Nobody has the fucking right to take it away from me. Fucking star fucking sons of fucking bitches!”
Maybe he should see it coming, but Jensen still startles when Jared's enormous fist goes crashing through the wood of the cabinet behind him. It splinters and shatters on impact, along with seven or eight of the glasses on the shelf inside. He jumps into action without thinking, because what else is he going to do?
It's kind of weird, he thinks, as he makes his way around the kitchen counter and over to the sink, that it's in Jared's most uncharacteristic moment that Jensen can see what's going on here. He doesn't know the details, or what brought it on, but none of that really matters. Because he can see Jared. He knows Jared. And behind the anger, the rage, he sees the pain. Laid bare as if under a spotlight in the ten seconds it takes him to curse the world and pull his hand back from the biting hole in the cabinet.
Jensen's quiet as he fills a towel with ice and then makes sure to keep his voice low as he reaches for Jared's arm. “Hey,” he smiles softly, noting that Jared tenses when he touches his hand, but lets Jensen do it anyway. The knuckles are bleeding against his tan skin, swollen, like an irate replica of Jared's face a few minutes ago. “What'd that cabinet ever do to you, huh?”
When he pulls a lone shard of glass from the middle knuckle, Jared just . . . collapses. Goes down to the floor before Jensen can even try to catch him. “Jen,” he breathes, his head resting against the cabinet as he looks up through his sweat-moistened hair, eyes wide and vulnerable and fucking aching. “It's my life.”
“I know.” Jensen's still at a loss for what exactly is going on here, but he does know one thing. Jared worked his ass off to build this life he has, and he'll be damned if anyone else is going to take the credit for it, which seems to be the problem, from what he can gather. “What's goin' on with you?”
Closing his eyes, Jared unclenches his fist and then draws it back again. He winces and catches his lower lip between his teeth. “Fuck,” he mutters, head rolling back against the lower cabinets, legs sprawled across the distance to the island.
Sinking to the floor at his boyfriend's side, Jensen takes Jared's hand again and presses the ice pack to it. Jared hisses, but he doesn't pull away. They've been here before. Done this dance more times than either of them can count anymore. Jared gets worked up and hits something he shouldn't. Jensen gets the ice, asks a few questions, and lets him work it out for himself.
This time feels different, though. Like maybe a few snarky barbs about the stupidity of sticking his hand through a sheet of wood while he depends on that hand for his livelihood isn't going to work this time. “You gonna tell me who's ass I need to kick?”
Jared rolls his eyes and rests his hand against Jensen's thigh. “I need a shower,” he states, but makes no move to get up.
“You're gonna actually have to walk your own ginormous ass to the bathroom then,” Jensen nudges him with a shoulder, fighting like hell to keep the mood light. If he doesn't, he's going to break down and that's not going to help anything at all.
With a grunt, Jared struggles to stand and flexes his hand again. Far as Jensen can tell, he didn't actually break anything, other than the cabinet and most of the glasses Sandy bought them awhile ago, so the physical worry is quickly dissipating.
He watches Jared walk out of the kitchen before grabbing his cigarettes from the bowl on the counter and making his way to the back patio. He's been doing pretty well at cutting back, something he decided was a necessity when he realized Brayden was picking up the habit, but right now? He needs nicotine like he needs air.
Between them, there's not much that Jared and Jensen don't share, but Jared's past is something that stays tightly locked away. It always has been, and Jensen has never pushed him to expose more than he's comfortable sharing. He knows that it wasn't all bad, but it wasn't all good, either. And it's glaringly obvious, to Jensen at least, that there are a lot of unresolved issues that Jared may never get around to addressing.
There aren't a lot of tears shed in this house. There never will be. And the big, emotional conversations are kept to a bare minimum, too. They each have their own ways of dealing with stress, be it boarding, painting, video games, or a plethora of other distractions that hold the emotions at bay until they can be covered and ignored. It's probably not what experts would call healthy or whatever, but it works for them.
The thing is, they're all good with each other. When they're not, they fight it out and get over it. It's all the other bull shit, the external stuff that comes at them individually, that they don't 'care and share' with each other. Or anyone. Sometimes he thinks maybe it'd be better if they did talk about it before it comes crashing down on their heads. Sometimes he's glad they don't.
“Hey.” Jensen turns to see Brayden, backpack gripped against his shoulder as he offers a wave. Jensen exhales and nods, but words feel like too much work. “What's up?” He just shakes his head. “Where's Jay?”
He's a pretty observant kid, Jensen has learned in the last few years. It doesn't take much of a shift in the atmosphere for Brayden to know that something isn't right. It's cool, because they don't have to tell him to tone it down when one of them isn't in the mood to deal with his hyperactive tendencies. But Jensen thinks it's probably a little bit of a curse, too, being as he's just a kid still and he shouldn't have to stop being a hyperactive idiot just because his dads are in a bad mood.
“Shower,” he answers, waiting for the inevitable 'ew' that always accompanies Brayden's assumption that they've been doing something sexual recently, even when they haven't. While he's perfectly cool with the fact that they're crazy in love with each other, he'd prefer not to think too much about what that means. And who can blame him? Who really wants to think about their parents having sweaty, insanely hot, filthy, dirty sex all the time? Jensen, for one, does not, so he tries not to mock Brayden too much about it most of the time.
If Brayden wants to say something, though, he doesn't. Just shrugs his shoulders and shifts his weight from one hip to the other. “Everything okay?”
Jensen doesn't lie. At least, not to his family. Ever. “It will be.”
And with a simple nod of understanding, Brayden excuses himself to the pool house. He hears one of the windows on the opposite side click and swing open and he knows Brayden's about to do exactly what he's sitting here doing. Maybe he should storm in there and demand that he stop before he can't, but Jensen just doesn't have it in him right now. On the list of issues he has to tackle, Brayden's occasional cigarette doesn't really rank among the priorities at the moment.
If it was him freaking out about something, Jared would be up his ass until he talked about it. But with Jared, it doesn't work that way. Jensen has to give him his space. He can't go to the mountain, Muhammad. He has to wait for the mountain to come to him. It might never happen. He might walk back into the kitchen and find Jared smiling and pretending that he never freaked out at all. Or he might walk up to their room and find himself balls deep in the kid's ass before he even realizes his pants have been thrown across the room.
Of all of them, Jared is definitely the best at burying his emotions. Probably because he's had a lifetime of experience.
Dinner is pizza straight out of the box while he and Brayden talk about some new girl Brayden's got his eye on at school, and the deal Jensen is working on with Roxy to design a line of surf gear for women. He decided not to renew his deal with Macy's earlier this year because there was just too much on his plate. But the Roxy thing won't be nearly as comprehensive or time-consuming, and he's pretty sure that he could make a killing down at Grind with surf gear.
Brayden is enthusiastic about the prospect of meeting “hot, little surf bunnies,” but the business side of it bores him and he's not all that subtle about it.
Jared is conspicuous in his absence.
They lay around the theater until nearly midnight, half-assing a 'Mystery Science Theater' mockery of the B-grade horror movie on the screen. When Brayden yawns for the third time, Jensen tells him to get his ass to bed, and he stops by his office to check his voice mail. There are seven messages.
”Hey. Just checkin' it to make sure everything's cool. Call me if you guys need anything.” Sophia.
”Dude, give him his space, but pull his head outta his ass 'fore he gets lost in there. Too much isn't pretty. Trust me.” Chad.
”The chick from Roxy kinda loved that you dropped the meeting for your boyfriend, so we're all good on that end. I'll fill you in on the rest in the morning. Tell Jay we got his back.” Tom.
”Dude, you cool? Wanna grab a beer? Hit me back.” Chris.
”Fix him.” Genevieve.
”Hey, man. Just wanted ya to know we can look out for Bray if y'all need to get away for a couple days or whatever. Let me know.” Mike.
”Soph said Jay left early. Looked like he wanted to kill someone. Hope it wasn't you. So, if you're still, ya know, alive or whatever, call me.” Danneel.
Jensen can't fight the smile as he fires off a text en mass. “We're fine. Relax.” On his way up to their room, he tells himself that it's not a lie. They're all still alive, and aside from the kitchen cabinet, they're still functional. The rest will work itself out.
Pushing the bedroom door open with his shoulder, Jensen's not sure if he should prepare himself for a catatonic giant, staring off into the darkness of the night, or a hulking madman, who very well could have broken everything they own.
Jared's sitting on the bed, legs stretched impossibly long and crossed at his ankles. His eyes are fixed on the television, but Jensen's pretty sure he's not actually watching 'Blind Date.' At least, he hopes not. He's wearing a pair of basketball shorts, and where that vision alone is usually enough to distract Jensen, the blank look on his face is enough to zap the 'sexy' right out of the image.
Wordlessly, he gathers his own shorts and heads into the bathroom. Quick shower, and Jared's in the exact same place he was when Jensen left ten minutes ago. More than likely, it's the same place he's been since he came up here hours ago.
Part of him wants to grab the first thing he can reach on the dresser and launch it in Jared's direction. To wake him the hell up and tell him how fucking weird it is to have him locked away in his tower like a fucking princess bitch. To make him get the hell over it.
Another part of him, though, cracks at the sight of his man, the consummate pillar of stoic strength, so empty and hurt. Because try as he might to fight it, Jensen recognizes that look in Jared's vacant eyes. It's not blatant and not just anybody would see it. But Jared is hurting, and probably more than a little pissed at himself for it.
He just climbs into the bed, presses a kiss to Jared's shoulder, and then settles himself against the headboard. He's not tired, and he knows he won't sleep until he's sure that shit's not going to explode during the night.
The silence is deafening, and when Jared does speak, it feels as loud as his shouting did earlier in the kitchen. Makes Jensen flinch a little like that did, too.
“Shane Miller came in today. Brought his parents. They're on vacation. Wanted to go somewhere exotic.” Jared's voice is dead, completely void of anger and every other emotion. “His mom hugged me. Cried. Said she was proud of me.”
“Who?”
Jared huffs. “I was sixteen. So fuckin' over the bull shit, ya know? Just wanted to get the hell out. Don't even know if they noticed when I moved in. Was okay, ya know? Didn't really want another family actin' like they cared if I was there or not.
“Shane was nineteen. Lived in the basement. He was cool enough, I guess. Cool as anybody else I knew back then or whatever. Let me hang out. Sucked me off when he was high.” He tilts his head like he's watching it happen at the end of the bed. “Wasn't so bad at it, I guess.”
“Isn't that kinda, I don't know, against the rules or some shit?” Jensen knows more about the foster system than he ever thought he would, after everything they've gone through with Brayden, but Jared will always be the expert between them.
With a nonchalant shrug, Jared smiles cynically. “Nobody gave a shit about the rules by then, man. I was sixteen. And kind of fuckin' difficult. That's what my social worker said anyway. Fuck if I cared.” He licks his lips, eyes still fixed on the television, unfocused and unseeing. “Shane saw some'a my sketches or whatever. Said he could show me somethin' that would blow my mind. Figured he was gonna give me 'X' again or some shit.
“But he didn't. Had this metal box under his bed. First time I held that fuckin' machine in my hand, I just knew, man. Didn't know shit one 'bout how it worked or what the fuck it meant, but I knew I was supposed to have one. That I'd be good at it.”
Jensen remembers once asking Jared why he became a tat artist. And he remembers the smart ass response Jared gave. This one, the real answer, is kind of better.
With another sarcastic chuckle, Jared tilts his head back against the headboard. “Think I tatted every piece of fruit in the house that summer, man. Stole a buncha shit from this roadside stand on the highway. Sounds so stupid now, but it worked, ya know? Sorta, at least. 'Til Shane was high enough to let me do him. So scared my hands were shakin', but when I got started it just . . . I don't know how to explain it. Just felt like I was made for it or some shit.”
Jensen wants to ask how in the fuck this pertains to Jared hulking out on the kitchen cabinet earlier, but he knows better than to interrupt. There's no telling when he might next get a glimpse into this side of his boyfriend, and any chance to learn more about Jared is one that Jensen's not going to piss away by getting too eager for information.
“They barely knew I was there, man. Whole time I lived there, barely said a handful of sentences to me. Didn't care or anything. Least they weren't bitchin' me out every time I moved or whatever. It was cool. Easier.”
“Easier how?”
Another shrug and Jared finally turns his head to meet Jensen's eye. There's not much more there now, but at least it's not that eery void staring back at him this time. “Didn't notice when I stopped goin' to school, or started stayin' out all night. When I got my first piece. Or the second or third.”
The first, Jensen knows, was the snake and skull on his left shoulder. The second was the 'Live Life Loud' on his hip. Third was the Texas outline and flag on the back of his calf. A couple of them, he could have hidden, but Jensen doesn't need to know who Jared was at sixteen to know that he wasn't trying to hide a damn thing.
“I was seventeen when they pulled me outta the house. Hadn't been to school in a couple months. Can't really drop out when you're in the system, so you just kinda stop goin'. School noticed, pulled me for truancy,” Jared interrupts Jensen's impromptu visual tour of his body art. It's probably for the best. Jensen doesn't do so well at restraining himself when he starts thinking too much about Jared's ink. “Stuck me in some goddamn group home. Dude, I barely went at all during my senior year, and they tried to enroll me in some new place for the last three months.”
Jensen can't help smiling, his hand finding it's way to the tiger crawling down Jared's left right thigh. “Still didn't go, didya?”
“Hell no,” he answers emphatically, reaching one hand to grip at the back of Jensen's neck. Whether it's to ground himself, or reassure Jensen that he's alright now, Jensen doesn't know for sure. “Not like there was much they could do about it at that point. Think they were 'bout as tired of dealin' with me as I was of pretty much everything. 'Sides, I was makin' cash tattin' at parties and shit by then, savin' up so I could get the fuck out. Signed my papers and took the fuck off. Never looked back.”
“Until today,” Jensen whispers so quietly he's almost not sure he says it out loud.
“Appointment was under Shane's dad's name. I didn't even fuckin' recognize it 'til they walked in the goddamn door. That's how much I thought about 'em the last ten years.” His fist clenches, not enough to hurt Jensen's neck, but enough to say that he's not as 'over it' as he seems to think he is. “Spent the afternoon tellin' everybody in my goddamn shop 'bout how they always knew I was gonna be great someday. 'Bout how they love the show and feel like everybody's part of their family or somethin', just like I always will be.”
The puzzle pieces begin to click together and Jensen feels his own shoulders staring to tense. “You do the tat?”
Jared nods. Of course he did. He's a professional. He's worked too hard to build his reputation. No way in hell did he blow it all on some insignificant fuckers who wanna cash in on his success.
“Motherfucker had the audacity to ask for the family discount 'fore we started. Came all the way from Texas to let everybody know how fucking influential they were on my life and career, and wanted it on the cheap.” Jared's smile is wicked, and almost proud. “Charged him double for it, but he doesn't have to know that.”
The laugh that escapes from Jensen's throat is too loud in the quiet of the room, but he's too glad to hear the normal tone of Jared's voice returning to care. “Well, obviously.”
“Oh, and you shoulda seen his mom's face when she asked where all the television cameras were and Katie told her we're on haitus. It was priceless,” he barks a laugh of his own and Jensen can't help smiling right along with him, though the sound is hollow and a little pained. “Thought Soph was gonna rip her throat out.
“But the best part was when Shane asked where you were.” Jensen wishes, more than anything, that he had been there. At the same time, he knows it's better that he wasn't. Otherwise, they would be having this conversation through plexiglass and one of those plastic phones down at the jail. “Winked at me. Made some dig 'bout how he taught me everything I know.” When Jensen is the one making a fist now, Jared just dips to kiss him, quick and hard, before soothing his hand over the back of Jensen's neck. “Relax. Gen told him to fuck off. Then she told me I really traded up.”
“I've always liked her,” Jensen aims to keep his voice light, but it doesn't so much work. Jared falls silent again, and all Jensen can think to say is, “Dude, I'm sorry.”
If there is one constant in their world, it is that this room, this bed, hidden away from the rest of the world and off-limits to everyone, is the only place they both feel entirely comfortable shedding every inhibition and appearance. They're pretty genuine guys, for the most part, but never as raw, vulnerable, and wide open as they are here, together.
Drained, Jared lets the remnants of his grin fade, tipping to rest his head in Jensen's lap. Hasn't happened in awhile, and probably won't again for another couple of years, but once in awhile, he just doesn't have the energy to hold himself upright and mighty anymore.
Jensen feels the squeeze tight in his chest and the tears building, but he blinks them back anyway. When Jared puts himself in Jensen's hands like this, lets him run his fingers through his hair and forgets that they're supposed to be joking or fucking their problems away, it's kind of overwhelming. But he's been taking care of Jared, in some way or another, for a long while now. And Jensen might still not be convinced that he's the right guy to care for a seventeen-year-old kid, he knows exactly how to handle this twenty-nine-year-old man.
“Don't give a fuck about the shit I got, Jen,” Jared's voice is small, far away and pleading for understanding. “Never have. Just . . . outside'a you and Bray, I earned every goddamn thing, ya know? Nobody gave me a fuckin' thing.” He takes a breath and Jensen can feel his shoulders vibrating with the restrained emotion. “Never asked for it, either. Just fuckin' worked for it. Didn't do shit with my life before, but,” he stops again when his voice cracks.
Jensen doesn't say anything. What can he say? Sure, he can remind Jared that the people who know and love him don't question for a second that he's a self-made millionaire. That he's fought for every inch he's gained. They've all watched him do it. In spite of everything, he's defied the odds, and they've all been privileged enough to watch it happen.
It's his 'fuck you' to every single person who ever said he couldn't, or wouldn't, or shouldn't try to make something of himself. To everybody who looked at him as some poor, foster kid. A slave to a life he never asked for, but that would never be able to do him any favors.
It's why Brayden is so important to him, Jensen knows. Why he fought so hard against it in the beginning, and why he gave himself so completely to making it happen when he couldn't fight it anymore. Why he sometimes looks at Jensen like the sun itself shines directly out of his eyes or some shit.
Jared has spent the better part of the last fifteen years building this castle with his own two hands. Refining and perfecting his skills, and devouring the information necessary to keep it all together and functioning. He's shared just enough of his past for Jensen to know he never once doubted that he could do it, or that he deserved to have every fucking thing he worked to have.
But he's also given Jensen enough of a glimpse inside the walls of that castle, enough of himself, for Jensen to know that Jared is still that confused kid who carries everything he owns in a trash bag, and feels like he doesn't fit anywhere sometimes.
He spent his entire life looking for a place to belong, and when he couldn't find it, he created it himself. Filled it with the people who take him for exactly what he is and never expect any more, or less, than that. He's not just safe here, but loved. Unconditionally and unequivocally.
For anyone else to try and lay claim to that? It drags him right back to San Antonio, and scares the shit out of him. All Jensen can do is assure him that they can't.
His fingers dig into Jensen's thigh and Jensen moves his fingers from the crown of Jared's head, to his neck, and down the length of his back. “I gotcha, kid,” he promises.
And that's all it takes to break the damn wide open.
“Hurts, Jen.”
Jared doesn't have to say that he hates it, that he doesn't want it to hurt. He knows that he's right, that this isn't his fault. That he has done everything in his power to avoid being a victim of circumstance. That he's everything he was never supposed to be. It pisses him off and embarrasses him that he's crying about it, and Jensen knows that. Because Jensen's the same damn way when his own shit catches up to him.
But you can run forever, and never be free of your past. If anyone knows that, it's Jensen. And you can plant your feet and clench your fists, refuse to budge when it finally catches up to you. But it's relentless, and it beats you down until you just can't fight anymore. Until all you can do is find a safe place to admit defeat.
When the shaking stops, Jensen presses his hand to Jared's shoulder and a kiss to the back of his neck. “Love you,” he whispers, because sometimes, showing it isn't enough. Sometimes, he needs to say it.
“Girl,” is the muffled response against his leg.
Jensen would be offended, but when Jared sits up, his eyes are puffy and he's wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I'm not the one with the pretty, tear-stained cheeks, Princess,” he winks, brushing Jared's hair away from his face.
Instead of his usual, sharp-witted comeback, Jared slumps back against his pillow and stares for a long while into Jensen's face. “Love you, too, ya know?”
He just nods. Because he does know. Knows that, even if someone could take everything Jared's worked for away from him, nobody could ever take this. It's the things he didn't do shit one to earn that mean the most to him. To both of them.
“You should probably take these off,” Jared nods as his fingers tug at the side of Jensen's shorts. “Think I got snot on 'em.”
With a roll of his eyes, Jensen says, “Dude, last night, I had your jizz on my face. I think I can handle a little of your snot on my shorts.” But he's shimmying out of them anyway because he's pretty much a complete whore for this guy.
This guy who proves, at every turn, that he can do whatever it takes to get just about anything he wants. This guy who, despite it all, only really wants his family.
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