disclaimer: myth, lies, and make-believe.
Listen good, kid. This is it.
Jared says the words to himself, dimples a grin through the foam of toothpaste coating his teeth. He spits into the sink, swishes and gargles, morning motions routine and soundless.
This is the story of the rest of your life.
Jared smiles with the thought, blinks sleepy cat eyes toward the bathroom mirror and sees himself there. No, not a kid anymore, not really. All sleep-mussed hair and flushed cheeks, muscled body and honey-brown skin.
Twenty-seven years old and still growing, lost in the story of everything he's ever wanted.
Jared pads barefooted and naked from bathroom to kitchen to bedroom and back again, the cool press of varnished wood floors against his feet.
The house is a mess after a week spent hiding out indoors, clothes flung hither and thither, his babies' muddy paw prints forming a trail from playroom to backyard.
On autopilot he walks the path of mornings before and mornings to come, finds things lost amongst the things found weeks before, mismatched tennis shoes and threadbare sweats, bottle caps and CD covers, monopoly money and pizza crust. There's a haphazard trail of hastily discarded briefs (Jensen's) and boxers (Jared's), evidence of what the two men spent most of the past week doing (each other).
In the foyer, Jared finds his Nana's quilt. He runs fingers over the checkered patterns, remembers wrapping Jensen in the quilt's thick folds last night when he fell asleep during their CSI marathon.
In the living room, Harley and Sadie whine and jump and bark good morning, press wet noses into Jared's big palms. He lets them out, refreshes their bowls with food and water. While in the kitchen, Jared picks up the broom, sweeps doggie kibble and popcorn kernels into a pile in the corner. He unloads the dishwasher, places the plates and pans and cups away carefully. He puts on the coffee, takes out the sugar for Jensen and the cream for himself.
While Jared waits, he hums a tune to match the sound of percolating coffee, leans against the sink and surveys his backyard through the kitchen's billowing Better Homes & Gardens-style curtains (a gift from Mama).
The window's cracked open an inch, and Jared drinks in the cool breath of the coming morning, smells the hint of autumn rain in the air. Through the dusty windowpane, dawn's still trimmed in twilight's blues; the infinite expanse of the backyard looms, the miles of green grass wave.
This is it, kid.
It's summer's end, and they get to shake back the world for just one more day. Jared reflects on the lazy spread of the past week, the last free week of summer hiatus.
Jared and Jensen milked it for all it was worth. Now, the laundry room is full of laundry not yet done. Clothes are piled high in giant domed mountains -- white undershirts and Jared's pink button-downs in one pile and cuff-frayed denims and Jensen's black band tees in the other. Too lazy to buy detergent, too lazy to even leave the house, they spent most of the week running around the house bare-ass naked, checking the mail in wash-worn flannel pajama bottoms.
Simply put: a week of fucking, cuddling, and sleeping late. And like the dogs, they rolled around the floor and licked each other. Humped each other's legs and ate table scraps.
Jensen smoked a pack a day and Jared guzzled Tropicana orange juice straight from the carton. Neither bothered to shave and sometimes they forgot to even bathe, content to simmer in their own funk and spunk and body heat.
Jared and Jensen, two of a kind; they're each other's favorite bad habit.
In this business, so many times they’ve gotta fuck-n-run, play hide-n-go-seek between flashbulbs and televised make-believe. Maybe that’s why they don't talk about futures.
But in Jensen’s kisses, Jared hears the story of their past together. Bruised lips recall that first kiss (pressed against Jensen's trailer door after they finished filming Something Wicked); that first Iloveyou (Jared's sitting on Jensen's chest following an impromptu wrestling match for his PS2 controllers. Jensen's begging for mercy, and then suddenly he's yelling: God, I fucking love you, you giant freak.); and that first fuck (their second Vancouver winter, cold bodies seeking warmth in a shared bed, drunken kissing turned to rubbing turned to sloppy hand jobs).
Sometimes the story goes like this: during the day they're brothers, in the evening they're best friends, and in the night they're lovers. Roles played, roles lived.
Sometimes Jared wonders if Jensen can see it like he does. Wonders if some future day Jensen will look back and remember them like this, here. The two of them, wholly undefinable and imperfectly true.
Falling in love with his best friend?
Maybe it's just the trick of the light, a Trickster's delight.
Or maybe...maybe it’s the only true thing Jared’s ever done.
Jared listens to the banging of the upstairs bathroom door, the creak of old floorboards as Jensen retraces Jared's path from bedroom to bathroom and back again. A few minutes later, Jared makes his way back up the stairs, slinks quietly into their shadow-drunk bedroom. On the side table, he sets down their two warm coffee mugs (twin I ♥ Texas cups, gifts from Megan).
In the bed, Jensen is already coiled tight, wrapped and snug in the covers, butterfly in a cocoon. But his ash-white feet poke out from the blankets, dangle over the edge of the mattress. And Jared smiles, giggles with silent glee, can't help but spider-walk his fingers along the soles of Jensen's feet. Right on cue: Jensen's tragic yowling and moaning, his feet quickly retracting back under the blankets. Then Jensen grumping and grunting, GoddammitJaylemmesleep.
Jared laughs, wide and wild and wicked even though Jensen's entire body has now disappeared under the comforter, leaving behind a man-size lump in the middle of their California King. Jared jumps on the bed, sends the mattress dipping, the boxspring creaking, and the frame rocking.
Jensen's too busy moaning and thrashing to firmly verbalize his complaints as Jared crawls over him, tickles him through the layers of blankets, noogies and pokes and prods and demands, until they're both laughing and hiccuping.
Jensen's wounded mewls are muffled by the bed sheets, but Jared's laughter booms throughout the bedroom. Minutes later, exhausted, Jared rolls onto his back, head lolling against his pillow. When Jensen finally peeks out from underneath the blankets, his face is set in a familiar scowl, pillow-creased and rose-flushed.
G'morn, baby, Jared says, all sugar-sweet innocence and morning-person cheer.
Jensen blinks twice, a slow closing of wide, moon-struck eyes, before he grunts and hides back under the tangle of blankets. Only a tiny slip of freckled skin remains, pale against the rumpled sky-blue sheets.
Jared works his way under the covers too, the sheets and blankets a welcome warmth against his cool naked skin. When he's finally buried underneath layers and more layers, he finds Jensen's body, slides right into place. Like a key fitting into the right lock, his curves and grooves line up and match Jensen's own. Together, they click.
Go away, m’sleeping, Jensen protests weakly even as he wraps a leg around Jared’s waist, pulls him closer with a tight clench of thigh muscle and a sleep-rough growl of Crazymotherfucker.
You know it, Jared whisper-breathes across Jensen cheek, licks at the red-golden bristles along Jensen's jawline.
Jensen's fingers grasp at Jared's body, mapping skin and hair and heartbeat. Jared fastens his lips and teeth on Jensen's collarbone, nibbles and sucks and tastes, makes new marks to match yesterday's long-labored bruises. Jensen laughs and huffs, his fingers running along Jared's cheek and jaw, blunt nails scritch-scratching in Jared's hiatus-thick beard, before twining in the lazy mop of Jared's untamed locks. He pulls Jared closer.
They kiss, sleep-sour mouths and curlicue tongues, motions muted, soft and languid. They kiss, and it's everything and all they are together; it's the rest of the world falling away with the meeting of cool, morning-dry lips.
They kiss, and it echoes down down down, a bounce-slide-glide along smooth skin. Tongues follow a well-worn trail, coax out low moans and deep groans.
Jared curls closer, hooks his legs with Jensen's, and nudges his thick cock against Jensen's thigh. Blowjobs typically replace breakfast, but sometimes they go with a soft morning fuck, and sometimes just a heavy make-out session.
Or sometimes it goes just like this: it's hands and spittle, grasping and pulling and stroking. It's warm, sleep-slow fingers curling around aching cocks. It's a slow slide and a perfect flick of the wrist. It's the tight pull of muscle, the friction of rutting hipbones. And after, it's always that too-soon come down; it's wet hands withdrawn from softening pricks, fingers licked clean with gentle laughter.
This is their story, and they're sticking to it.
Yesterday, they spent hours on the back porch, gorged themselves on Thai take-out and Rocky Road, matched tangy lips to open-mouth kisses.
Today, their last free day, they'll spend in bed, make a lunch of grilled cheese and Campbell's tomato soup. Kiss until their lips know nothing else.
Tomorrow, they will head back to work. An early morning and a late night. A new script to read over noontime coffee, lines to learn between Guitar Hero smack downs. The two of them will find Sam-n-Dean's rhythm once more, a down-beat tempo as familiar as their own.
But first, they will focus on today, this moment: the three-way bulb in the lamp by the bed flick-flickering. The sheets unwashed, but still soft. The bed warm from body heat and morning sunshine.
At Jared's side, Jensen lies long and sleek and sated; he watches Jared with glazed eyes and a soft, satisfied smirk.
What? Jared asks, leans in to mouth at the shell of Jensen’s ear. He runs his nose along the pink skin of Jensen's shoulder, inhales the mix of sweat and sex and Jensen. His home.
Maybe I just like watching you breathe, Jensen says, and goes back to the task of it.
Jared chuckles deep, inhales even deeper. Just breathes and breathes and breathes.
Truth is, this is the only story they know how to tell.
This is the press of Jared’s forehead into the warm hollow of Jensen’s neck. This is Jared's wide hand wrapped in Jensen’s own, fingers tangling and lacing together, finding their place over syncing heartbeats. This is mornings spent under crisp sheets, bodies bathed in grey and blue shadow. This is the steady meeting of toes, chests, arms, legs, elbows, arms, thighs, and groins. This is the key finding the right lock.
This is the story of the rest of their lives.
*written for spn_t00bs