The Written Word Jared/Jensen, for dev_earl
Jared sips his Dunkin’ Donuts iced tea and fiddles with his pencil. It’s exactly three days after Valentine’s day. Jensen had gotten no less than three boxes of Godiva chocolates, a knitted scarf, and a stuffed penguin all from the girls in his dorm. Jared made a realization as he watched Jensen wind the scarf around his neck before they went to the dining hall. He’s been carrying it around on the tip of his tongue for 47 hours now, if you don’t count the times he was asleep.
The student café is filled with chattering students and Jensen is late. Jared wishes he could’ve had his epiphany sooner, because then he wouldn’t be sitting in the café worried more about the knot of nerves in his stomach than his ten page anthro paper due tomorrow at noon.
He plays tick-tack-toe against himself and loses every one in a cat’s game.
“Hey, what’s up?” Jensen says, still tucked up in his winter coat. He plops down with a black coffee in hand. Jensen is graduating in only three months—Jared could just keep his secret trapped in his mouth forever. But then he’ll feel like a pussy every time they hang out.
Jensen stares at him, wondering why he’s silent. Jared scribbles on a scrap of paper and spins it around for Jensen to read.
I love you, it says in shaky nervous print.
Jensen looks down at it and then sets his coffee carefully at the edge of the table. Jared waits with his heart in his throat. Maybe Jensen will get up and leave. Maybe he’ll ignore what Jared wrote.
Jensen does none of these things. He leans up out of his seat and presses caffeinated lips to the corner of Jared’s mouth.
“I like the sound of that,” he says to Jared’s stunned face and sinks back into his seat.
What is soft and what is hard? Jared/Jensen, for balefully
Jensen has enough money for smokes, a sandwich at Cosi, and an iced tea today. He is done tricking for the day, and he has enough time to repaint his chipped black nail polish and catch up on his soaps. He’ll even be able to make the rent. Everything looks pretty good.
When they call his number for his tuna melt, he flashes the guy at the counter a grin, and sucks lovingly at the straw in his iced tea. The poor counter guy flushes and ducks his head turning back to a chicken TBM.
And then, as he’s heading back to his seat, he crashes right into a solid brick wall. Well, that’s what it feels like. In reality it’s a guy in a tight black shirt and faded jeans who smells like grass and Kenneth Cole Black.
Jensen can catalogue these things with an astounding accuracy. He has a theory that you can tell a lot about a person by how they smell. Now, he is cataloguing the mess of his tuna melt on the ground—cheese congealing against the concrete and baby carrots everywhere.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he cries, and bends down to scoop it back onto his plate.
“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” the guy says, bending down next to him. “Can I buy you another one?”
Jensen’s voice is chocked as he says, “Don’t worry about it.” He can’t believe it, his eyes prickle unbearably from reigning in unshed tears. He can’t look up at the other guy’s face. He knows he should’ve just gone to McDonald’s—saved cash and this stupid accident.
A hand crosses into his field of vision and wraps around his wrist. “Hey, you’re crying,” the guy says softly.
Jensen looks up into empathetic hazel eyes. “It’s just been a tough couple of days,” Jensen says and wipes furiously at his face. The guy gathers everything up and dumps it into the trash before Jensen can say anything and walks over to the counter to buy Jensen another tuna melt with a crumpled ten dollar bill.
“Whole grain or white?” The guy asks him while Jensen gapes at him.
“Whole grain,” he says softly. Their sandwiches come out at the same time and the guy sits with him at a secluded table in the back.
It turns out his name is Jared, he lives in an apartment with three other guys in Williamsburg, and he’s a freelance photographer who does a lot of magazine shoots while he’s trying to make ends meet.
“Like, what? For Vogue and stuff?” Jensen asks around a mouthful of tuna and tomato.
Jared blushes and scratches the back of his head. “The Keira Knightly spread? That was me.”
“Get out!” Jensen says with wonder. “The June issue?”
Jared lets Jensen get away with not saying what he does. He talks about how sometimes New York feels like it’s going to swallow him up. Jensen nods and thinks more and more that Jared smells like the best thing he’s come across in a long time. He doesn’t wonder, not even once, if Jared’s sizing him up to see how much he’s worth.
He leaves with a full belly and Jared’s number in the back pocket of his jeans.
Accidents Like These, Sam/Dean, for azephirin
Dean hates Sam. His stupid brother makes his life miserable. And everything about this entire situation is all his fault.
Probably the crusades and the holocaust and the great depression are his fault too.
Also Sammy Hagar, Keanu Reeves, and Bush II.
Dean knows without a doubt that it is Sam’s fault that he is wearing high heels, makeup, a pasted on beauty mark, and a ten pound wig. Not to mention tights and some twenty-two layers of silk.
Sam also should’ve known the King’s brother was partial to stable boys when he decided to hide out with the Hostlers like a gigantic idiot. But he didn’t know this, because, as mentioned, he’s a gigantic idiot. Dean hopes that if he thinks, “it’s all your fault,” at Sam hard enough he will get down on his knees and grovel. However, Sam doesn’t even have the good sense to do that.
“I mean the prince no disrespect,” Dean says, standing before the silent guests readying to go out on a hunting party. “But I have already laid claim to this boy.”
Sam looks pretty pissed at being referred to as a boy, but he also nearly got walked straight into Louis’s brother’s bed so clearly he’s an ignoramus and can’t tell how Dean is trying to help him.
“Oh yes?” Phillip, The Duke of Orleans asks, not about to lose a prize so easily, “what claim is that? Is he your mother’s ill-begotten bastard?”
Dean figures Sam will like being called that even less, but as the brother obviously born on the right of the bed, he is quite willing to go with the flow. “Yes—yes, that is the—uh—claim I meant.”
“Well, no matter, I will award him a small plot of land for his services, and you will no longer have to worry about the stain he puts upon your good family name.”
Dean’s eyes bug out. Sam growls. Dean elbows him hard in the stomach. Sam should clearly have never been accepted to Stanford, it was all a gigantic mistake, because Dean is finding more and more evidence that he actually has a block for a head. “Shut up, do you know how close you’re coming to the guillotine?”
“They don’t use that yet,” Sam growls back. “It’ll be breaking on the wheel.”
“FINE!” Dean snarls back, “Do you know how close you are to getting broken on the wheel?”
The prince and his courtiers glance back and forth between them.
“Alas, your majesty,” Dean finally speaks up, “that is not the claim I meant.” Sam looks at him horrified. Hah, like he has the brainpower to tell where this is going. “I have already accepted the boy er—between my own sheets.”
Phillip laughs. “Your own flesh and blood?”
Sam puts his head in his hands.
“Uh—yes—that is how we do things in…Winchesterlande.”
Phillip’s expression turns serious and he looks askance at his brother Louis who is being hoisted on to his horse by three footmen. Louis sends a forbidding glare back. He ignores it and tugs at the ruffles at his throat. “I believe it not.”
“Must needs I prove it?” Dean stutters. The Duke of Orleans nods back. Sam’s face looks both mournful and resigned as Dean tugs him in by his homespun collar and kisses him with a loud smack. When he steps away again, Sam makes a face and starts scrubbing at his mouth with his sleeve. Indiscreet bumpkin, Dean thinks and turns back to the group with a falsely huge grin.
Phillip looks astonished back and forth between Sam. “Uh, well—I believe that merits complications far too large, even for me.”
Sam bows his head respectfully as the onlookers march past, ready for sport. “ ‘That’s how we do things in Winchesterlande,’” he parrots scornfully under his breath when he catches Dean's eye as he struggles up onto his own gelding.
“Oh, shut up.”
Antithesis, Jared/Jensen, for finn21
Everything about Jared makes him want to kill himself, from his stupid dogs to his K12 ski-jump nose. When Jensen hears him stumbling about on set, he wants to spill the blanks out of one the firearms in the Winchester arsenal and start shooting at people for real. He wants to dye his too long hair blue and hang him upside down from the bridge they’re supposed to be diving off.
Which…doesn’t really explain why he’s stripping every layer of Jared’s clothes off desperately, while Jared lays sprawled out beneath him, eyes intent on Jensen’s mouth. It doesn’t explain why Jensen wants to fuck Jared’s mouth with his tongue and tug him to release just so he can know what his come-face looks like.
Jared’s palm runs up and down his side. He shudders into the touch and sucks a hickey over the spur of Jared’s collarbone.
So Jared makes Jensen want to kill himself, but he also makes Jensen feel like he can step off a building and fly.
1. I wasn't quite sure how to interpret this one, so I just went with "the first to figure out they're in love." I hope that's okay.
2. I wanted Jensen to be like the gayest freakin' hooker on the planet. Like he came to New York to model and was doing fine, but he refused to blow some dude, and then got kicked out onto the streets, where in the biggest of all ironies, he became a hooker. *cough*
3. Yeah, um, azephirin and I might have scripted this out in comments. THAT'S WHY IT'S SO BIZARRE, OKAY?
4. Ashley, I hope you don't mind that it's so short. I guess after writing the Fortress of a High Mind, I'm all hate sexed out!
There will be more tomorrow, holy cow!