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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R
Pairing: Jensen/Jared.
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: This is totally fiction and I don’t know what these guys really do.
Notes: Happy birthday, alethialia!
Summary: Because you can never have enough drunken, twisted, real-self/character-self boyfic.
***
“So okay, like, Sam?” Jared indicated something roughly in the direction of Saturn with his right hand. Or maybe Neptune. At any rate, it was swooping in a sweet, sweet tight curve that…reminded Jensen of…something. Right. “Philosophy major.”
“I call—” This stupid pillow interrupted. After Jensen had picked himself off the floor and thoroughly humiliated the pillow with an Indian rub, he got back to his point. It was a really crucial point. The rest of the season’s success might depend on it, or so Kripke said, and the messageboards said Kripke was God. Like. God-like? Whatever. “I call total bullshit on that. Total. He so would’ve been an English major, man.”
“Dude, he would not. He might’ve wanted the normal life but that doesn’t make him a wuss. Philosophy. It makes sense! English means you make up all this crap and it’s fiction, it’s not real, but see, Sam’s obsessed with the truth. He wants to know.” Sage nod, stupid flail. The boy just couldn’t hold his liquor, and on top of that, he had to go flopping his lanky-ass self around so he knocked over the beer-can pyramid they’d been working on. “Epistemology. Shit.”
Jensen sighed and shifted around till whatever had been poking him in the hip ceased poking him in the hip. He let one arm drop over the side of the couch and, since he could hold his liquor like a Budweiser semi, totally grazed a full can of goodness that he’d strategically positioned earlier for this moment. Flick of the wrist and the open top was stroking beer into his mouth. “God, Jared, watch where you’re falling. You know, Dean is crying right now. Crying. He can’t believe years of training and you can’t protect an innocent pile of cans.”
“He can’t protect crap. He totally screwed up when he was little and let somebody steal Sammy’s lunch, and John let him have it, and now he’s over-compensating out the ass.” That last word slithered out of Jared’s mouth accompanied by some serious relish. Seemed like Jared’s mind wasn’t completely on their homework anymore, though exactly where it’d gone was beyond Jensen. Boy had turned himself around on his chair so his legs were crooked up like broken pretzel sticks and his slack-jawed idiot-grin face was more or less aimed at Jensen’s ass. “You know?”
Oh, God, not that again. So okay, Sandy was okay with it. And okay, Jared was okay with it. But that did not mean Jensen was okay with it—A did not equal C even if A equaled B and B was associative with C, or whatever his old algebra teacher had said. “Yeah, moron. It’s canon.”
“What?” Jared stopped staring at Jensen’s ass for a moment to blink and stick out the lethal weapon he called a lower lip.
“Shtriga?” Jensen drank his damn beer. He’d told himself last time that they weren’t doing this again and they weren’t. He was strong. He could hold the ground, and a lot of other things, and that didn’t include that strip of skin between the top of Jared’s sock and the cuff of his jeans. And shit, now Jared’s shirt was riding up his chest. Fucker.
With a slow, curiously graceful roll, Jared got off the chair. His feet didn’t realize what they needed to do after that, so he ended up knocking over a lot more bottles and cans, gangly limbs going all over the place till finally he got to the solidity of the couch. “Oh. Oh, yeah. That kid did not look like me.”
“Nah, he made you look good,” Jensen snorted. He finished off his beer and aimed the empty for the table. It got within two inches, so he figured that was a success. And then he concentrated on defending his couch from the six-fourish man-wart trying to disfigure it. “I’ve seen your kindergarten photos, man, and I gotta say, I haven’t—dude, no. No. No.”
Jared wasn’t listening. Jared was crawling up on the couch and up Jensen and his big-ass hands were touching things and getting rid of Jensen’s buttons and gah, fucking cold fingers poking at Jensen’s belly. But he accidentally curled up so Jared’s fingers were trapped there and then they kinda slid down, and Jensen’s jeans sucked. They really did. They were supposed to be hard-case indestructible denim that the gold-rushers had worn and here they were totally giving up the fight against keeping Jared’s hand from Jensen’s dick.
Jensen hit Jared’s shoulder. “Dude, are you even listening?”
“Not really,” Jared mumbled, his mouth suddenly arching across the pulse in Jensen’s neck. He nibbled a bit and sucked a bit and licked a bit, and then he kind of raked his teeth down while his hand pushed up against Jensen’s dick, and he was a total asshole. “What?”
“No,” Jensen snapped. This time he tried smacking Jared’s head.
It seemed to get through: Jared hissed, then jerked up his head to stare, all hurt and annoyed and confused, at Jensen. He took his grabby hands with him but didn’t put the clothes back so the cold air could get in and what, Jensen couldn’t help shivering? No reason for Jared to look at him like that.
Jared’s eyebrow went up. “No? Are you serious? No?”
“No,” Jensen firmly said. He paused because the teeth of his open zipper were catching sensitive parts and he needed to adjust things so they weren’t. Which would’ve been easier if Jared wasn’t sitting on him like a big, dumb, pouty lump. “Goddamn it, no. Not again. Not—Dean doesn’t bottom, damn it. Dean has never bottomed in his entire fucking life, and I don’t know why I let you talk me into that last time, and it’s totally, completely, absolutely not--”
Jared blinked. Cocked his head as some probably not-good-for-Jensen realization spread over his face like a shit-eating grin. No, wait, that was a shit-eating grin.
“—not—” Jensen faltered.
Then Jared was down again, tongue dancing over Jensen’s stomach and hands plowing their way between Jensen’s skin and too-tight denim, his fingers everywhere and ruthless and when Jensen tried to move, to do something, Jared reached up and ground his wrists into the cushions. Then the son of a bitch rose up, still smirking his ass off, and his weight was down on Jensen’s wrists, which hurt, and Jensen kind of gasped and Jared definitely mauled him for it. Mouth to throat, lazy and hard and holy-God-good.
“Dean wants Sam to be happy, right? He’d do anything. He’d do things for Sam he wouldn’t do for anybody else,” Jared purred. Lips brushing over Jensen’s throat, fingers bruising up the tendons on the inside of Jensen’s arms, knee crushed down between Jensen’s legs.
Jensen needed to say something. “This is fucked-up, you know. You’re fucked-up.”
“But is it still a no?” Jared swirled his tongue against the spot behind Jensen’s ear. “You’re totally avoiding the subject, man. Sammy doesn’t like it when people do that.”
“Sammy can go fuck himself.” Which made Jensen briefly very proud of himself. He still had balls. Even if they were being sorely tested by Jared’s knee.
Said knee slowly, achingly slid downwards till it was thigh muscles tensed hard as steel pushing against Jensen. He squirmed, trying to relieve some of the pressure, or get up enough friction to get over the crisis point, and promptly got shaken hard. His teeth hadn’t stopped rattling before Jared’s tongue was forcing its way between them, and oh, holy fuck, Jensen needed to get—
“What about Jensen?” Jared asked.
Jensen ground his teeth, then went limp with a groan, looking up at Jared. After a moment, Jared grinned again.
“Knew you’d come round. Dean would’ve run off to hide with his gun-cleaning kit.”
“Asshole, shut up and find the lube already.”
***