It's Gotta Be the Hat

[raeschae]

Title: It’s Gotta Be the Hat (NC-17)
Author: raeschae
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Jared/Jensen; brief appearance by Mike and Tom
Summary: Jensen doesn't think he really has a thing for cowboys. And then he sees Jared in a black Stetson.
Warnings: None, unless you count the possibility of overheating at the thought of Jared in a cowboy hat.
Word Count: 4379
Disclaimer: I don't own Jared. Or Jensen. Or any human being, for that matter.

So, this is it . . . my first attempt at posting a fanfic to LiveJournal. Oy. I hope this works! I just have to give a HUGE thanks to neutraldeviance for basically holding my hand through this whole process – for showing me how to format and post to this silly thing, and for assuring me that it's not exactly rocket science. You're the best!




It should be his scene, this hillbilly hole-in-the-wall cowboy bar. He's from Texas, after all. But the Vancouver re-creation falls just short of . . . authentic. Maybe it's the straw on the floor, and the peanut shells. Or maybe it's that, for reasons unbeknownst to Jensen Ackles, there are random coils of twine and wire stacked in the corners of the room. As though someone might bother gathering all the crap off the floor and actually try to bail it or something.

The music is . . . well, it's pretty terrible. Not that he has anything against country music. To the contrary, it reminds him of home, and his closest friends, and everything that is good in his life. Still, this is not . . . it's not music, really. It's all screaming slide guitars and twangy voices singing about how much they love this bar, and how great it is to be drunk with your friends. Clearly, whoever wrote that song has never been been drunk with Welling and Rosenbaum. To be fair, they're not so bad most of the time. It's just that they tend to sway just this side of completely humiliating.

Truth be told, the place would probably just depress him, make him more homesick than he already is, if the alcohol wasn't so damn cheap, and he wasn't so desperate to take full advantage of that fact at the moment.

Normally, he wouldn't step out on a work night, tries to be as professional as possible, but the week's just been too damn long. When Mikey called him, invited him out for some good, old-fashioned rabble-rousing - his exact word – he couldn't say 'no.' Mostly because he has no reason to head back home, not with Jared off surfing in Hawaii with his girl-of-the-week.

As it turns out, the Smallville boys are pretty entertaining tonight, standing in the middle of the make-shift dance floor. Jensen's the first to admit that he doesn't do a great job of staying in touch with his past co-stars once he wraps a television series, regardless of how many times he tells the press that he's still friends with a lot of those people. But Tom and Mike refuse to be ignored, and on a night like this, he's pretty glad for that.

t's not like he tried to exclude virtually everyone else in his life over the last four years, but working on a show with two series regulars that shoots about twenty-eight hours a day makes it hard for him to extend his circle of friends much beyond Jared and the guys on the crew. Sometimes it's nice to be reminded that there's a world outside their sets and sound stages. Outside of the house he shares with Jared.

He's not sure exactly when Mike managed to find the huge black cowboy hat sitting atop his head, or why either of the guys thinks they can, or should, line dance with the locals. But when Mike swings to his left, the hat dips low over his eyes, causing him to stumble over his feet and slam into Tom, who's none too quiet about telling Mike just what an uncoordinated fucker he can be sometimes.

It's ridiculous, and immature, and the suits would probably find it embarrassing to the network. It's also hilarious, and Jensen has to take a pull from the beer in front of him to keep from guffawing. He shakes his head and rolls his eyes when Tom turns an eye toward him, seemingly asking for help that Jensen's not even going to consider giving him.

“Ya know, I coulda sworn you said this wasn't your scene,” an amused voice sounds over his shoulder and Jensen doesn't bother turning to look at the man who doesn't bother waiting for an invitation to slide into the seat at Jensen's side. “Jensen Ackles in a fake-ass honky tonk? Really?”

Jensen smirks and lets his green eyes drift from his former coworkers to the young man at his side. He considers himself a pretty jaded, and somewhat reserved, guy. Doesn't swing too far to the left or the right. Just kind of keeps his cool and goes about his business most of the time. But there is something about the careless, bordering-on-reckless, smile that Jared Padalecki has sported since the day they met. Something that makes Jensen's stomach flip and turn like a high school girl with a crush.

Of course, he'd just as soon mutilate his own pretty, pretty face than admit that. Even to himself most days.

“Thought you'd be sleepin' off the jetlag,” he answers, voice low beneath the onslaught of whatever beer-swilling song is assaulting the innocent air around them at the moment.

Jared just shrugs his shoulders, skin deeply bronzed and practically glowing under the dim lights of the bar. God, vacation never looked so good on anyone, Jensen's pretty sure. “My clock's all fucked up,” he says, eyes drifting over the dance floor as he shakes his head at their friends. “Thought I'd see what kinda trouble y'all were getting' into.”

Jensen just smiles into his beer bottle, careful resolve keeping him plastered in his seat. It's been a week since he's seen his friend, and it's so damn hard to not leap over the table and wrap himself inside one of Jared's infamous hugs. Truth be told, he's not sure why he'd rather the younger man didn't know just how much Jensen's missed him this last week.

“Ain't much trouble over here,” he points out. He's not trying to be self-deprecating or anything, but he's sitting in a darkened corner of a crap-ass bar by himself. Trouble, as it were, is still trying to find it's coordination in an inconceivable dance routine under the strobing spotlight in the middle of the dance floor. Fuckin' Rosenbaum.


“So let's go find some,” Jared suggests, expression still hinting at humor, even as his eyes cloud into something far from funny. There's a nonchalant shrug in his massive shoulders and he doesn't bother to turn toward Jensen, or even glance at more than half of his face. Like he's been practicing how to proposition him all casual-like all week.

Jensen figures he probably has been.

Because sometimes Jensen can't help himself. And sometimes Jared's just so . . . Jared. And sometimes it's unavoidable. So sometimes it leads to something other than friendship and work and subtle flirtation. Sometimes the tension just needs to be released.

Sometimes is always on Jensen's terms, though. He nods his head, or shrugs his shoulder, or quirks his lip, and Jared comes to him. Never the other way around. Not because Jensen's such an interminable control freak, but because . . . well, yeah, because Jensen's a control freak. His life, his way. No variations.

So Jared's suggestion throws him off-balance just a little bit. Gets his back up. And though Jensen has every intention of taking him up on the offer, he's not just going to take him up on the offer. One concession would change everything, and he's not about to let Jared think that he has that kind of power in their . . . whatever it is that they have.

Nodding toward the brothers Dee and Dum, now trying to figure out how to grind up on some stringy-haired barfly in jeans that have, apparently, been painted onto her too-bony ass without actually touching each other, Jensen smirks and meets Jared's gaze head-on. “I don't know, man,” he sighs, as though he's kind of considering the idea of leaving alone. It's a stupid facade, since they'll be going back to the same house, but Jared will play along. Because he's an obedient little bottom. Just the way Jensen likes him. “This place has its charm, ya know?” he adds with a wink and it takes everything in him not to laugh outright at those words.

With a roll of his eyes, Jared stands and stretches, drawing the older man's eyes to the perfect jeans hanging low on his hips. Just low enough for Jensen to see the perfect cut of his hip bone as his tee shirt rides over his waistband. It takes every ounce of self-discipline he has not to reach out and pull that hip toward him, to run his tongue along the groove.

Later. He'll do it later.

Before he can snap his thoughts back, Jared is gone, and Jensen shrugs as he settles back into his chair. He'll be back. He always comes back. Until then, he has Welling and Rosenbaum to keep him company. And is not, in any way, noticing the way his shoulders feel looser and more relaxed now that Jared's back in town, in sight, than they have all week without him around.

When he looks back to the floor, the duo have a new partner in stupid-ass crime, and the way Jared is trying to show them how to roll their hips and click their heels against the concrete floor on certain beats of the music is even fucking funnier than when the two had no idea what they hell they were doing in the first place. Mike can't find a beat to save his life, and Tom would rather curse his own mother than let Jared touch his hips. The angry red tint of his cheeks is enough to make Jensen huff out a laugh.

But then he notices that Jared has procured Mike's hat and is standing back to watch the other two perform what is, quite possible, the most fucked up rendition of the Electric Slide ever attempted. Casting a quick look to the corner, Jared winks at Jensen beneath the wide brim of the hat and tips it once with his finger.

While he's pretty sure he's never really entertained a fantasy of this sort, he's sure as shit ready to save a horse and ride a cowboy now. Motioning to the door with his shoulder, Jensen just gives up on the idea of playing hard-to-get and stands to toss a few bills onto the table. With a final pull of his beer, he leaves the bar without a second glance back. Jared knows the game. Jared will follow.

He toes his shoes off in the entry of the house he shares with his best friend-turned-something more, and then heads down the hall to his bedroom. Dropping his watch and wallet onto the bedside table, he discards his button-down shirt into the hamper in the corner and then turns to remove his duffel from work off of the bed.

Ten minutes later, he hears Jared slam the front door and mumble a hasty greeting to the dogs before his heavy footsteps near Jensen's bedroom door. It hasn't even been a half hour since they left the bar, and Jensen's already half-hard just thinking about what they haven't been able to do all week. Like a fucking teenager all over again. It's kind of pathetic, this desperate need for Jared, and he knows that.

He flicks the button on his jeans before he turns and barely acknowledges the man in the doorway. It's enough of an invitation, he figures, as he shuffles the books and scripts he's been looking through to the desk in the corner. He's not a neat freak, but he doesn't like too much clutter, either. Safer to keep the floor around the bed clear when Jared's around anyway, being as the boy's prone to trip over the only piece of debris in a fifty foot radius.

When he turns back around, Jared is sprawled across his mattress in nothing more than his boxer briefs and that stupid cowboy hat. It's pulled low over his eyes and his hands are tapping a rhythm to some non-existent song against his bare chest.

“You're an idiot,” Jensen laughs. Really laughs. From his gut. It's not long and roaring or anything, but it's a genuine huff of sound that makes Jared's entire face light up in response.

Grabbing the top of the hat, the younger man lifts it from his head and rests it where his fingers were on his chest just a second earlier. “I kinda like it,” he shrugs, affection in his eyes as he stares at the object resting against his skin now.

It's not love, this thing that they have. Not in a romantic sense, anyway. Jared dates a lot of women. A lot. And Jensen would rather focus on his work than worry about being somebody's boyfriend. But Jared's pretty fucking incredible, and he seems to think Jensen is, too. So they do what they do, and it's pretty much better than any of the others Jensen uses to get off on occasion. So much better.

Makes him think maybe that means something. Like he thinks that the fact that they're both from Texas, and both use the same brand of toothpaste maybe means something.

Like maybe it means he's a giant girl for standing here thinking about the meaning of whatever this undefinable thing is while Jared lays there, petting his cowboy hat and stroking himself through his shorts.

Wordlessly, he crosses the bed and grabs both of Jared's ankles in his hands, pulling the larger man's prone body toward the edge. The look on his face is kind of comical as his arms flail and he fights for equilibrium that Jensen's all but stolen away. When his body stops moving, Jared takes a deep breath and punches Jensen's arm. Hard.

“Fucker,” he grits, but it's impossible for the words to have any bite when he's grinning like an eight-year-old on Christmas morning.

Of course, he's pretty sure that thinking of Jared as an adorable kid while his dick hardens in his pants makes him some kind of creepy pedophile, so he shoves the thought away by sealing his mouth to Jared's and gripping the back of his head. Possessively. Like he's owning him. Like nobody else is ever going to do it this way, or better. Like maybe they shouldn't even try.

Jared whimpers and Jensen can feel the brush of felt, or whatever the fuck they make Stetsons out of, against his abs when the other man goes to toss the hat aside. It makes his muscles jump and he thinks maybe that growly, groaning sound is coming from him, but he can't be sure. Jared is licking his way into Jensen's mouth now, and the slip slide of tongues renders any other higher thought completely impossible.

It feels like an eternity that they stay there, Jared barely perched on the edge of the mattress while Jensen leans most of his weight on the balls of his feet, knees bent to catch the full force of the kiss. The kiss that feels like junior high summers at the public pool, knowing that his mom won't be back to pick him up for hours, and his friends are all there, flirting with girls in pink bikinis that don't leave anything to the imagination, even though there's really nothing there to hide, anyway.

And that's when Jensen knows he's in trouble. Knows that this thing with Jared is more than it should be, more than he meant for it to be. More than he ever expected it to be. It's just . . . it's more.

Doesn't really have time to ponder the epiphany, though, as Jared's hand leaves his waist and slips into the open fly of Jensen's jeans. Like the fucking tease that he is, Jared rubs softly, gently, against the cotton fabric of Jensen's shorts and swallows the moans that he's not even trying to hide anymore. What's the point? He may be the top in this relationship, but when it comes to Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles is well and truly fucked.

He's spastic and frenetic most of the time, but it's nothing compared to the speed with which Jared flips their postions and pushes Jensen to the bed. The older man doesn't even know how his jeans ended up in a puddle over there, or where his underwear went, but it really doesn't matter. Not when Jared pushes Jensen's knees wide and keeps his hands anchored there while he sinks to the floor.

The wet hot heat of Jared's mouth is familiar and new all at the same time and Jensen's head falls back automatically. He hears himself groan a 'Yeah, like that,' in encouragement as the kid covers his teeth with his too-soft lips and slides down his shaft, but Jensen's not really focused on the words tumbling from his mouth. Not focused, or worried, or concerned about a damn thing but the slippery suction of hollowed cheeks and a tongue fucking made for sin around his cock.

His hand finds the back of Jared's head and he scratches blunt fingernails against the younger man's scalp, eliciting that moan that sends just-right vibrations zinging through every nerve ending in his whole fucking body. It's so hard to remember not to thrust his hips forward, and when he hears the slick 'pop' and Jared's jagged whisper of 'just fuckin' do it, man,' he doesn't bother remembering anything at all.

He fucks into Jared's pliant mouth, one hand on the back of his head and the other digging into the mattress at his side. Jared wraps a hand around the base of Jensen's cock, stroking the portion that he can't take into his mouth, and when Jensen manages to pry his eyes open, he can see the twitching movement of the other man's shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills away the image of Jared jerking himself while he sucks and jerks Jensen in identical motions. If he lets his brain go there, he'll never last.

It only takes a few more seconds for the pleasure coursing through him to zap his strength and Jensen lets his elbow collapse, falling back against the plush mattress like a spineless lump. Jared pulls off, and the hand wrapped around his shaft tightens at the base, staving off any kind of satisfying completion. Not that Jensen wanted to blow his load this early, but it's hard to remember why when Jared's just sucked most of his brain out through his harder-than-granite dick.

“Gimme some room, man,” Jared orders, and the tone is just enough to snap Jensen back into the moment and out of his own head.

He calls the shots here. He's the one in charge.

But another glance at the young man standing up and shimmying onto the bed lets him know just how wrong he really is. The way Jared's mouth is all red and slick, and his tongue is traveling over his lower lip to catch the Jensen-flavored spit at the corners? Jensen's not in charge of a goddamn thing anymore, least of all his senses.

Once he's situated, shoulders and neck supported against the headboard, Jared straddles his legs and reaches for the bedside table.

“You wanna do the honors?” he asks, in that jubilant voice that says there's nothing better in the world than this right here, in this very moment.

His face is so open, so vulnerable and excited, that Jensen can only stare as he lets his head loll from side to side, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “You do it,” he says, and it's kind of a command, but not really. Moving his hands to Jared's hips, he licks his lips and adds, “Wanna watch you open yourself up for me.”

The lust that clouds Jared's eyes is unmistakable, and Jensen knows the exact moment that he breaches himself without ever looking away from the younger man's face. There's something so intrinsically sensual about that moment. The mixture of the pain and the pleasure and the toomuchnotenough of it all.

His long fingers flex against Jared's hips, and the kid will be bruised in the morning, for sure. Not that anyone else will ever see, or even really know, but Jensen will. His mark will be there, and that thought alone makes his hips roll in eager anticipation.

Muted sounds of pleasure roll off of Jared, and Jensen can't help responding in kind. He's about to politely suggest that Jared pull his damn fingers out of his ass and fuck himself on Jensen's cock when Jared does just that. Wipes his hand on the sheet and crawls forward on his knees, his chest pressed against Jensen's as he lowers his head and pulls Jensen's lower lip between his own.

He's not sure which sensation causes the heady, disconnected feeling – Jared lowering himself desperately onto Jensen's cock, or Jared sucking so gently on his lips, it feels like a chick flick – but either way, he's pretty much teetering on the edge of obliteration and Jared damn well knows it.

When his hips press flush against Jensen's, he stills, allowing himself to adjust to the fullness. This is the moment where Jensen has to convince himself that it doesn't make him a total ass if he's a little proud that his not-inconsequential size takes a little getting used to.

“Come on, Jay,” he grits out when Jared sits still a little too long. The grin on the younger man's lips, the one shining mischievously in his eyes, tells Jensen that all systems are go, and now Jared's just being a brat. “Move that ass,” he adds, smacking Jared's thigh to accentuate the order.

Jared just reaches an arm behind him and then swings it around to rest the cowboy hat on his head. “Yes, sir,” he drawls slowly, and Jensen can't really help the chortle that rips from his throat at the sheer ridiculousness of the sight.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he shakes his head, but Jared starts to roll his hips and whatever the next words out of his mouth were going to be have disappeared into the rush of pleasure that rolls over Jensen in a giant wave. “Fuckin' ridiculous,” he manages to roll his eyes, but seeing as they're kind of rolling back in his head of their own volition, he's pretty sure it doesn't quite get his point across.

Teasing, taunting, and making fun are fine and good as foreplay, and sometimes Jared will crack a pretty decent joke in the middle of sex, but at the moment, there's nothing funny about the way he raises up and slides back down in perfect rhythm with the slow, deep thrusting of Jensen's hips. It's maybe the most perfect sex anyone's ever had, ever in the history of sex. Not that Jensen's going to say bull shit like that out loud or anything.

“Fuck,” Jared sighs, though it's hard to hear over the squeak that immediately follows when Jensen's long fingers slide between their bodies to wrap around Jared's cock. “Jesus Christ,” he laughs at the sensation and doubles his frantic pace, impaling himself in time to Jensen's insistent strokes.

He knows he's pretty much done for when he starts muttering things like 'fuckin' love takin' my cock' and 'come on, Jay, come for me.' He's really not much of a talker in the bedroom. Until he's about to fall over the razor's edge into blissful orgasm, at which time he starts babbling everything he's ever heard in any porn he's ever watched. It's not conscious, nothing ever is in that state, but it's definitely a sign.

When Jared spills over his fingers, and his ass starts to twitch and clench around Jensen, he can't help but follow the younger man over the edge. There's a lot of grunting and groaning, and possibly a high-pitched squawk that neither will ever claim as their own, and then Jared is falling boneless against Jensen's chest and that stupid fucking hat is filling Jensen's vision.

With all of the strength his loose and sated limbs can muster, he manages to knock the thing onto the bed beside them and then flick at it with his finger. It doesn't budge, just sits there, staring back at him. Mocking. “Stupid fuckin' hat,” Jensen breathes into the silence, barely audible over the panting of both men.

Mustering just enough energy to pull himself away from Jensen, Jared flops onto his back on the other side of the bed and stares at the ceiling. “You totally love the hat, you kinky bastard,” he laughs weakly, and it dies into a satisfied sigh on the humid air between them.

Jensen bites back the amendment to that phrase – I love you – and struggles hoist himself into a seated position, lagging heavily against the headboard for support as he ties off the condom and drops into the trash can next to the bed. “Damn thing reminds me of my uncle Ken,” he pouts like a petulant child.

And Jared's laughter rings loudly, bordering on obscenely so, through the room, bouncing off the walls and echoing back. “So you got off thinkin' about fuckin' your uncle, huh?” he asks, innocent eyes wide as he rolls his head against the pillow to blink definitively in Jensen's direction.

The most he can manage is a smack of the back of his hand against Jared's chest, and how it turns into the soft caress of his knuckles against Jared's sweat-moistened skin, he's not sure. “I need a shower,” he says, in lieu of anything remotely intelligent or appropriate to offer in the post-coital moment when words aren't really necessary at all.

“It's alright, ya know?” Jared responds, pulling himself up onto his elbows. “I mean, I don't judge. My ass is happy to help you through your incestuous, repressed feelings for you mom's brother, man.”

Grabbing his pillow, Jensen smacks Jared as hard as he can and then rolls off the bed, his legs insisting that it's not yet time to move. He wobbles and sways before regaining his balance and tosses another look back at the young man hugging the pillow on the bed. “I hate you,” he intones before turning for the shower.

Jared's joyous laughter follows him into the bathroom and Jensen can't really deny it when he hears the other man call out, “You love me and you know it!”

Can't deny it, but he's certainly not ready to admit it, either.