Log in

Previous Entry | Next Entry

Fic: First Date Part 1

Title: First Date
Fandom: CW/ RPS and SPN
Genre: It's a little bit of everything
Rating: R
Warnings: oh boy, let me see... boys kissing, boys humping each other, boys being tied up, some het, pre-incest, mentions of past drug use, mentions of past depression, character death, mental illnesses of some sort, aliens, cursing, innuendo... i think that's it...
Characters/Pairings: Mostly Jared/Jensen, but there is also pre Sam/Dean, Jared/others, Jensen/others, Misha/Vicki, Jared/Genevieve, past Jensen/Danneel
Summary: There are an infinite number of ways for a frist date to occur. Here are a few examples.
Word Count: 15K+
Beta: the lovely 9r7g5h
Disclaimer: I own nothing- I gain nothing from this, no profit is made, etc.

AN: So what i want to say first and formost is- give the fic a chance? I know that the warning is a bit... odd, but if you even just skim over it real fast, you'll see why! Anyway, this is a response to a prompt the amazing littleworkerbee gave me; the prompt being: J2, first date, Non AU or AU. So thank her! If not for her, this fic would never have seen the light of day! LOL! I hope you enjoy this bb!!! I worked so hard on it for you!!!!!! And I TOLD you it turned into a monster! lol

Before we dive into this, i just wanted to mention real quick that most of these are AUs of sorts, but there is one true NON AU and two specifically from the SPN universe, which is where the Sam/Dean comes in, but I also went with the French Mistake universe... so yeah lol

Hope you guys enjoy it :)

first (furst) adj. before all others in a series

date (dāt) n. a social engagement with another person

There are an infinite number of ways for a first date to occur and stay fairly unique, sharing, perhaps, one or two similarities with other possibilities, but still varying greatly with those it has a general likeliness to. This is because of what a first date depends on. The people involved, the location, the time period, and the universe this first coupling transpires in are the most important factors that play into the occurrence and outcome of a first date. Any one of these aspects can drastically change the dynamics of a first date into something good or something bad.

Here are a few examples.


It really is about time.

They’ve been dancing around each other and that ever growing thing between them for so long that he’d almost given up hope. And while it’s understandable considering everything they’ve been through, he still holds onto the belief that all the drama and headache and heartache could have been avoided entirely if the two of them had wised up the second they’d met.

But that’s just what he thinks. Everyone else up until recently hadn’t even guessed, didn’t even entertain the thought, and had tallied their obnoxiously affectionate natures around each other as some kind of epic bromance that branches off their beautiful chemistry, like a side effect instead of the growing attraction sizzling under their skin. Then the boys dropped the “we’re gonna try dating” bomb and, well…

He so told them so.

Maybe if they had listened to him they wouldn’t have been so blindsided. He’s been saying the two boys were in love for years, after all, their subtle looks of longing weren’t exactly as subtle as they thought, but, of course, no one had believed him. He had been just some new, fresh-faced actor when he had first mentioned it, not even a regular, so why should they listen to him? And then he had become a regular, and by then they all just thought he was being his weird self and playing at the whole boy-who-cried-gay thing. He is Misha after all. It’s pretty self-explanatory. Why should they listen to a man who’s loved, been loved, and been married to the same person long enough to understand when a love is built to endure and consume?

But the thing he really wants to know? Is how that knowledge makes him the better equipped individual to baby-sit his two love sick co-stars. They’re both more than old enough to take care of themselves, but the others aren’t exactly as confidant as he is in concerns to the epic romance the two have going on. So his job? To make sure they don’t end up hating each other, have a fall out, and lose their spectacular chemistry. Seriously? He’s pretty sure those two aren’t capable of ever even entertaining the thought of hating each other. They don’t have a single bone in their bodies that could hate each other. And because they’re both so stubborn, he doubts they would let their relationship extend into their acting career, if it went bad. Which it won’t.


Besides, wouldn’t it be a better choice to recruit the help of someone who knows them both a lot more intimately? Like their parents or siblings or something?

Misha sighs and rubs the prosthetic nose the crew had suped his face up in lightly. His real nose is itching like a bitch, but he can’t actually scratch it without out tearing off his fake face first. The crew takes “undercover” a little too seriously. Whatever happened to the days where a hat, a pair of sunglasses, and a fake French moustache were enough to count as a disguise? He catches his reflection in the shiny dented surface of the napkin holder. The things he does for these people.

He can hardly see any of himself in the distorted vision; it’s like he’s been replaced by his fugly fraternal twin.

At least his wife is better off.

Vicki twirls a strand of her ashy black wig around a thin, spray tanned finger and smirks at him in a way that makes the prosthetics on her face pull slightly. Her lips are painted ruby red and have this strange enhanced full look to them that rivals Jensen’s bowed mouth; however, unlike Jensen, her lips are a little fake. You can’t really tell unless you look real close though. She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. She’s getting far too much pleasure out of this whole ordeal.

She looks like one of those European supermodels, so he isn’t exactly surprised.

Misha fiddles with his napkin, tearing it into little pieces to throw at Vicki and glancing surreptitiously at his co-stars. They’re situated three tables away and are laughing through mouthfuls of steak and baked potatoes like them on a date isn’t anything new. Like it’s an everyday occurrence.

It almost doesn’t seem like a date too. Everything they do is still just as natural and thoughtless as it’s always appeared to be. If Misha didn’t know any better, it could be like every other time they’ve eaten out. It’s like any minute Tom or Mike or, hell, even Misha himself could be walking in through the doors to join in the fun and shoot the shit like any other normal Saturday night.

But he does know better. In fact, he knows it firsthand and is collecting the money he won in all the bets he’s made over the years off of the two boys and their epic romance (what can he say? He could have either tried to convince the crew until he was blue in the face or he could turn out a profit by being more awesome than everyone else). He can see the way their legs are criss-crossed over each other’s, feet locking into place around the bend of an ankle like those little spaces were custom designed to fit that one person who is sitting across from them now; how their touches linger those extra seconds that make it mean more than just platonic codependency (oh god, don’t even get him started on that portion of their relationship. They’re like the peanut butter and jelly of the human world: you can never have one without the other. Any chance of separating the two of them was killed a swift and merciful death the second their eyes met that first time at the audition for Supernatural. This leads him back to his logical conclusion that Jared and Jensen should have just gotten together forever ago. Just saying; people should listen to him more often.).

He sees the way their smiles are wider but more intimate, like they aren’t in a huge restaurant where more than two dozen people could see the two of them act like love sick fools. How the burning intensity in their eyes grows every time they catch.

They’re like pieces of a puzzle.

“They’re so cute together, aren’t they?” Vicki rubs her oily fingers tenderly along the scarred ridges of his knuckles, a small private smile making the corners of her eyes crinkle slightly under the heavy makeup.

Misha clasps her hand in his and kisses the back. “Not as cute as you are.”

She laughs softly and rolls her eyes. “Well, aren’t you a charmer.”

“Only for you.” He grins. They share a quick and chaste kiss before returning to their duties as baby sitters.

The dinner passes without any incidents, thankfully, let alone any hints that the relationship Jared and Jensen are tentatively building together will crash and burn in epic failure (because those boys can never seem to do anything half way). Actually, the hints show the opposite. Misha and Vicki watch as they become even more comfortable around each other (which he never thought would be possible, but he guesses if he has to wrong on any account concerning the two of them, then it’s a good thing he hasn’t made any bets about it), watches as Jared feeds Jensen pieces of their favorite flavored pie and then leans forward, using his hand to drag Jensen forward so he can swipe his tongue along the corner of the older man’s mouth to get the stray whip cream there when he thinks no one is looking. They watch as Jensen hesitantly curls his hand over Jared’s larger one when the check has been paid for and it’s time to leave, Jared grinning so his dimples appear full force, both of them flushed and happy with their fingers twined together.

They walk the mile home like that; hands clasped tightly, voices soft and their smiles private and warm. Misha thinks it’s a pretty good thing that they both share a house again; it saved them both from depression when the divorce papers were being cycled through and now it saves them the trouble of moving in together as a couple.

Later, in the warm comfort of their bed, Vicki curls up close, makeup and prosthetics washed and peeled away and clogging their shower drain.

Misha will be sending the crew the bill to get that fixed.

“Hmm.” Vicki idly picks at a thread of his sleep shirt with her painted nails.


“Well…” She bites her lip then grins. “Do you think they’d be up for some kind of foursome in the future?”

Misha groans, turning his face into his pillow like listening to her suggest that is a hardship and too much information. He’s smiling though because great minds think alike, but he can’t let her on to that. He falls asleep to the lullaby of his wife’s amused laughter.


At first, Jensen thinks it’s just another one of those stupid pranks everyone, from hardcore directors to baby-faced PAs, all partake in when boredom begins to set in and makes people do crazy, hilarious shit to each other. But no one he knows of would have done something like this, not as a prank anyway.

Pink, heart shaped post-it notes have been stuck to all sorts of surfaces in his trailer, different messages curving around in a vaguely familiar loopy script on the paper in sparkly blue gel pen. The ones that are stuck to the mini fridge are the only ones he actually takes the time to read instead of just skimming over and they have You’re so cute and Be mine, Jensen on them.

He can’t really tell if the notes are meant to be condescending or sarcastic or what, and that’s definitely one of those things that annoys him. Unless a person comes right out and says it, the tone the message has could be anything. E-mails, texts, and letters could all say one thing and mean the exact opposite and that leads to misunderstandings and pain and yeah. He will always prefer talking to someone in person so he can get the right message across and not some warbled babble.

He stares at the two little messages with a look of confusion on his face because he can’t really believe anyone would do something like this. Love lives are one of those unspoken and off limit subjects when it comes to pranks, but maybe one of those new PAs didn’t understand that? In that case, he thinks, he won’t give them the satisfaction for falling for it, and promptly removes every sticky-note he can find and throws them away without a second glance.

But then a week later, Jensen finds more of those blasted monstrosities taped to the make-up mirror in the hair/make-up trailer so that they form one big, broken pink heart of notes, all saying the same thing. You dick, throwing away a person’s admission of affection is a terrible thing to do.

“Did you really...?” Shannon trails off, eyebrows raised.

He glances at Jared, who is sitting obliviously in the ‘hair’ chair and eating those sugary sour candy worms with those white plastic finger tong things, as content as one can be at four AM, and then shrugs, looking back at Shannon. “I think this—” he waves his hand at the mirror, “is all just some messed up prank.”

Jared turns to him, mouth stuffed full of candy, and says, “Or someone just really likes you and wants your attention.”

Jensen frowns, but doesn’t reply. Maybe someone did like him. Possibly, but not the most likely reason. And if that is the case, then who is it?

Over the next couple days, post-it notes continue to find their way into the most obvious and obnoxious of places and even a few inconspicuous ones only he and a special few know about with increasing frequency. From his work schedule (they’d need to plan accordingly if they wanted to get it all done while he is away from whatever place they plan to stick the damn things) to the familiar path he stumbles along in his trailer early in the morning, blurryeyed and half asleep (he’s either really predictable or this person’s done a great deal of homework), the person clearly knows him intimately or is some kind of creepy stalker.

For some reason though, whenever he brings it up to anyone, they don’t voice the same concerns as him. Instead they make some kind of excuse to leave, even Jared, eyes rolling around in their sockets and a sigh of disappointment escaping. And he is left there, like some kind of an idiot, with no idea as to what has been going on but with some suspicion that everyone else knows exactly what’s been happening and why.

The only blessing he seemed to have is that the person either doesn’t know or chooses not to sneak into his house with those offending sticky notes.

And now, on a normal Friday night where filming has wrapped early, he’s snuggling with Jared (and what a weird name for a girl? But it’s about as weird as naming a kid Jensen so it all pans out alright), her head resting comfortably against his chest and hand low on his stomach, his arm around her shoulders, thumb running absentminded circles on her bare shoulder, and the dogs lying at his feet like giant feet warmers (he’s been used to all the casual, snuggle-y affection Jay hands out like skittles for a long time and he thinks maybe it was her plan all along to bring out the cuddler in him).

They’re on the couch in their house watching Letters to Juliet because Jay wanted to and what she wants, Jensen can’t help but give. Sometimes, he can’t believe she’s got him wrapped around her little finger, and yes, he can own up to it like a man, knows his friend has got him more whipped than any girlfriend he’s ever had. He never hears the end of it from friends and family, both his and Jay’s, but it really isn’t as bad as everyone makes it.

The only thing he wishes was different would be the whole “friends” part. They’ve been best friends for nearly three years and he’s been in love with her for more than two. He hadn’t noticed at first, hadn’t felt the swell of emotions he only got around her or recognized how he would get a little depressing to be around when she’s been out of his vicinity for more than a day or two. But then one normal day on set, he had just looked at her and she had smiled that special soft smile she reserves only for him and he knew he was as good as flat-on-his-face in love with her. He wouldn’t dare put himself out there though, not unless he knew for sure, one-hundred percent, that she loved him too, otherwise he would be risking the best friendship he’s ever had for nothing.

So he sits back and miserably watches as she goes out with other men (though she hasn’t for a couple months for some reason. Lord knows men and women alike love to hit on her, much to Jensen’s displeasure), some longer than others. An achy knot of tension and sadness that has become a permanent resident pulls taut in his chest whenever he thinks about how that could be him kissing her neck hello or holding her slender hand in his own while they walk around Vancouver.

Even when her boyfriends and dates end up kicked to the curb, he doesn’t let himself hope, only keeps up his vigilant watch for her well being and eventually, he forgets to even look for the signs of attraction he had watched for so meticulously, just content and settling as best he can with what he has, what she gives him. Jensen even goes out a few times too (he’s attractive for a twenty-nine year old after all. Who wouldn’t want someone like him?), with a gorgeous red head named Danneel Harris who turned out to be the best girlfriend he could have possibly had, could have been the one, except he was, is, hung up so high on Jay, that the relationship had ended, albeit they’re still close friends, which is better than he could have ever hoped for.

He grabs his beer with his unoccupied hand, the condensation on the bottle leaving a little pool of water on the end table, and has it halfway to his mouth when he starts noticing all the pink, heart shaped post-it notes floating around. On the coffee table, on top of the mantle, even on the fucking TV, the hand writing varying between his own slanted script and Jared’s curly print.

He nearly drops the bottle in shock. It can’t be.

But of course it is. The looping curves of Jared’s cursive looks exactly like the ones on the notes. And now that he thinks about it, that blue gel pen reminds him of the gel pen set he gave her a couple months ago when she had been complaining about the lack of color in her pen repertoire.

He suddenly feels very, very stupid. Or, at least a little oblivious because shit, how could he have not noticed before?

Jensen eases the bottle back onto its place on the side table before he really does drop it and shifts just a bit, swallowing thickly, throat gone dry with guilt at his idiocy and a bit of fear. His voice is raspy, like he hasn’t talked for quite some time, when he asks, “So, how much of an idiot am I?”

She doesn’t bat an eye at the question, just cuddles closer and replies, “A pretty big one.”

Jensen sighs and grumbles, “Well, you could have been a bit more straight forward.”

She pinches his stomach, not hard enough to really hurt, but enough to let him know she could, that if she wants she could slip that hand just a tad lower and ruin all chances of him having children anytime in the future. “Jen, honey, if I was anymore straight forward you would have had a heart attack or something.”

“Hmm,” he hums in disagreement but doesn’t pursue the argument sitting on the tip of his tongue. “So, how hard is it really to stick post-it notes all over the place?”

Jay huffs a laugh, “It wasn’t easy, let me tell you.”

“Maybe some other time,” he murmurs. They sit quietly, the movie continuing on, the dogs snoring and snuffling in their sleep.

He drags her closer even though the only way that would happen is if he were to take her inside him, keep her locked away behind a wall of bone and muscle and skin, caged in by his ribs and tangled blood vessels, never again to leave him, and squeezes her arm, breathing in the sweet scent he’s always associated with Jared. Her cherry blossom hair products and that dab of perfume she insists she’s not wearing.

He clears his throat, breaking the silence. “So. Hey, do you want to go out sometime?”

“Well, technically we’ve been dating for weeks.” She idly picks at some link on his shirt. “All those movie nights and dinners. But we can count this one as our first if you want.” She leans back and looks at him, long, messy bangs over mischievous eyes and dimpled smile already pulling at the corners of her mouth.

A surprised laugh wells up and bursts from his throat and he pushes his face into the juncture of her graceful neck. “Yeah. Okay.”

And that horrible knot in his chest loosens and loosens until it’s nearly gone. Nearly, because he doesn’t know for sure how she feels about him quite yet, knows she likes him at least a little if she’d gone to all the trouble to get his attention, but for right now, nearly is amazing. Nearly is perfect for him, and he is happy.


Jared’s a little nervous.

Okay, make that a lot nervous. He wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans and tugs awkwardly on his collar. His t-shirt sticks uncomfortably to the planes of his back and sides, and no amount of fidgeting will dislodge the clinging fabric. People stare at him as they pass by with similar expressions of equal parts curiosity and caution, probably wondering why some freakish sweaty giant is standing so stiff just inside the shadowed alley that runs between Applebee’s and some weird department building that has cat pictures super glued to the inside of all the windows. They probably think he’s a creepier or a serial killer or something equally disturbing. He’s beginning to regret letting Chad talk him into a date, let alone a blind one, so early after his break up with Sandy McCoy.

Six months is not enough time to get over something that Jared had thought to be one of the best things in his life, something that would last forever, no matter what dumb, stupid, unsympathetic Chad says.

Jared swallows thickly and briefly toys with the idea of just going home and returning to the semi reclusive life he had begun living when things with Sandy went bad. It’s not like whoever his date is will mind much at this point seeing as she’s already nearly twenty minutes late. He’s probably being stood up—which is what he gets for trusting Chad to set him up.

He sighs and kicks a rock so it bounces across the cement and into the darker, shadier places in his little alcove, leaning tensely against the brick wall of the restaurant. He’ll give his date five more minutes and if she doesn’t show? He can move on with his life and return to the routine of days before involving super sized tubs of Chunky Monkey ice-cream and soap operas that don’t make him cry, damn it—there’s always something in his eye, okay?

A guy runs past the mouth of the alleyway, double takes, then double backs to where Jared is standing.

He’s kind of pretty, in that male model kind of way; bright eyes with long lashes, a mouth that most women would kill for, the body of someone who works out consistently but not overly, and the legs of someone who’s done nothing but ridden a horse their whole life. There are other things about the guy that pings on his radar, like how his hair is spiky and looks ridiculously soft, so much so that Jared really wants to run his hands through it, or how good that blue button-up looks on him, rolled up sleeves hugging the taunt muscles of his arms and clinging close to his chest and pulling in perfectly at his tapered waist...

And he’d be pretty damn attractive, if Jared were into guys. Which he’s not. This guy is just really aesthetically pleasing, has him thinking weird freaky thoughts he normally doesn’t think about.

“Dude, are you—” the guy cuts himself off and rubs a hand absently over his mouth before asking, “Is your name Jared?”

Jared suddenly feels like he swallowed a rock. No. Chad wouldn’t, would he?

“Uh, yeah?”

The guy tentatively smiles and holds his hand out. “My name’s Jensen. I guess I’m your blind date?”


“Sorry I’m late,” Jensen continues when Jared finally gets over the shock of it being a man and not a woman in front of him and relinquishes to the pull of manners his mother has firmly instilled in him and shakes his hand. “My little sister was hogging the bathroom.”

Dropping Jensen’s hand, Jared clears his throat and nods. “Um, yeah—that’s okay. I know how it is. I have a little sister too.”

Jensen raises an eyebrow. “Really? Huh, guess we have a lot in common already.” He smirks and leers playfully.

Jared flushes and quickly stutters out, “Um—I’m not gay.” And he’s not. Never in his seventeen years of life has he ever looked at another guy and thought I’d tap that or god, he’s so hot. At least not consciously; everyone knows anything thought subconsciously doesn’t count. So what if he likes to wear pink while most guys wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole unless it was on the girl they were doing? Doesn’t mean anything.

The leer disappears and Jensen looks a little disappointed, but his smirk doesn’t dim. “Yeah, when you didn’t suddenly fall into my arms, I kind of figured you weren’t. Can’t blame a guy for trying though.”

Jared chuckles awkwardly but stops when he notices that Jensen isn’t joining in. “Does that really happen to you?”

Jensen shrugs, hands stuffed into his jean pockets. “Sometimes.”

He says, “Man that sucks.”

“Yeah, well, what can you do?” Jensen wipes at his mouth again and looks at him with a curious tilt of his head. “So… Are we going to go in and eat or part ways?”

Jared’s stomach chooses that moment to grumble irritatingly, demanding sustenance. Jensen laughs this deep, warm sound that makes Jared want to smile; but he doesn’t, choosing instead to pat his tummy and say, “Yeah. Dinner sounds good. Um.” Jared peers at Jensen from beneath his bangs. “Friends?”

Jensen smiles slightly and nods. “Of course. Now, let’s go eat something. I’m starving.” And together they make their way into the restaurant.

They’re seated quickly and order their food, sharing small talk while they wait for it to arrive, and all the while Jared finds himself getting increasingly more comfortable with his not-date as the conversation shifts to more personal, but not overly so, things. The food arrives steaming hot and smelling like heaven but neither of them really notices right away, too tangled up in their heated debate of whether the Spurs is the best basketball team Texas has to offer or the Mavs. The Spurs obviously! And it’s during this when Jared figures out something very important.

He’s having a good time, and he still isn’t gay, not that he’s (consciously) aware of, but he’s pretty sure he’s got a new best friend.

Jensen is way better (and hotter, some tiny insignificant piece of his brain mumbles) than Chad is anyway.


Never, in all his twenty-six years of life, did Jared Padalecki ever think he would be sitting next to his childhood best friend, watching the new Green Lantern at the movie theater, and having thoughts like God, he’s gorgeous go through his head.

The first time this happens, he just blinks, a little startled, but brushes it off. He’s used to being attracted to men, has accepted that he’s a bit odd and likes girls and guys on occasion—he even had a crush on that Tom Welling guy who was the star quarterback of his old high school’s football team and on his head cheerleader girlfriend, Genevieve Cortese. But never before has he ever thought anything less than vanilla happy friends forever thoughts about Jensen. He might have been projecting his liking for Ryan Reynolds on him. Yeah. That’s it.

But now, some dirtier and erotic thoughts about Jensen and what his mouth could do later, he’s pretty sure that’s certainly not the case. So instead of watching the movie he has paid ten dollars to see (and what the hell is up with that? Ten dollars to see a movie—geez—he might as well just wait to buy it when it comes out on DVD, but Jensen was adamant, had said, “It’s the perfect way to catch up after seven years of nothing but e-mails and texts, dude.” And Jared, he-who-cannot-deny-Jensen-almost-anything, agreed, even though he doesn’t quite understand how watching a movie together in a theater where they can’t really talk at all means they’re catching up. Dinner at one of their old haunts would have been a better idea for that.), Jared finds himself watching Jensen.

He watches the flashing color of explosions dance across the older man’s face, throwing the line of his nose and jaw into high relief and emphasizing how bright his green eyes are; watches when a particularly big explosion makes Jensen grin excitedly, the inner pyromaniac in him delighted even though most of it is CGI and graphics and special effects.

Jared swallows hard against the lump that’s suddenly made itself at home in his throat. How could he have been so blind to how attractive Jensen is until now? How much of a reaction he can pull from him without even doing anything except being himself? The feelings welling up and fizzing under the surface of his skin makes everything tingle and ache, like it’s all been sitting and waiting for Jared to notice them for years.

What if he’s already missed his chance, was so oblivious and ignorant, thus losing the only chance at happiness with someone he’s always cared about but didn’t know on what level? Just the thought makes his heart throb uncomfortably in his chest in such a familiar way he’s surprised he’s only now begun figuring out why it happens and what causes it. He’s always thought it meant he missed how life used to be, young and easy and with people who support him within arms reach whenever he needs them, when really it’s Jensen he’s been missing all this time.

He feels so stupid.

Jensen glances at him, eyes open and vulnerable, like he can sense that the only thing Jared is thinking about is him, that he’s all that he has thought about for practically the whole movie, and catches his eye. His smile is amused, perhaps even affectionate with an age old fondness that doesn’t appear to have dwindled any despite the years of change drifting between them like a sea of awkward moments and half remembered memories of the glory of their younger years (years of Jared following Jensen like an overzealous puppy because the green-eyed kid was four years older and therefore four years cooler than anyone Jared’s age; it didn’t hurt that Jensen welcomed the companionship of the younger boy and never turned him away, not even in poor health), and the corners of his eyes crinkle with lines of age and laughter. And it feels like a punch to Jared’s gut because he wasn’t there to see when they got there, when they started digging into softly freckled skin, like he was supposed to be, meant to be.

Seven years, most likely more, wasted all because he’s a fucking moron.

Jared doesn’t regret a lot of things, mostly because he likes to make peace and move on, hates the disgusting feeling of it weighing down on him like sludge, but right now, he regrets losing contact with the man he now knows he’s pretty much always been in love with. And isn’t that just wonderful (yes, I would like sarcasm for two-hundred please?).

By now the smile has slid off Jensen’s face, leaving only a concerned and slightly confused expression in its wake.

“You okay?” Jensen asks, quietly. His body has shifted to face Jared, all his attention focused on him and not Ryan Reynolds blowing shit up with his ring of power. Considering how much Jensen tends to appreciate things like hot guys in spandex running around and blowing stuff up, Jared lets himself feel a little hope that starts burning low and faint in his veins, waiting patiently like Jared never really is.

“Hey.” Jensen puts his hand, calloused from hard labor but invitingly warm, on Jared’s bare arm, griping firm but loose enough that Jared could pull away if he wants too. Which he doesn’t. “Do you want to get out of here?” And Jensen has always been able to read Jared, even with those years of hardly any contact outside weekly how are you doing? I’m still alive and well emails, and when they met up in person for the first time a couple weeks ago, they fell back together like pieces of a puzzle, awkward in some places, a bit frayed and dingy with play and age in others, but still totally in sync when it comes down to it.

They even each other out, like weights on opposite sides of a scale: where Jensen loves to eat healthy and nutritiously, Jared is a candy loving fool; where Jensen can be quiet and reserved, Jared is loud and boisterous; where Jensen thinks out his actions and how to respond accordingly should there be any consequences, Jared can get a bit impulsive if he feels strongly enough about something. Which is why no one can really blame him for what he does next.

After thinking and fantasizing about Jensen’s mouth for over an hour, the slick press and slide of it over his own is like a shock of cold water to his entire system. Not in a bad way or anything, but certainly in a this is kind of weird but I fucking love it kind of way, like it’s exactly right in every possible way, like this is how it’s always been meant to be and now it’s time to play catch up because dumbass, you could have had this all along—it was always yours for the taking, and then it’s like a dam breaking and spilling out, the rushing tide dragging him down and under. And what’s even more amazing is that Jensen is kissing him back, pressing in and deepening the kiss until lips part and tongues come out to play, teasing and plundering and taking and owning in such a possessive way it sends shivers of want down the line of his spine.

They neck like teenagers for what seems like hours, licking and sucking and biting, while the movie continues to play without heed to its losing two members of its already small audience (a buzz of noise on nearly deaf ears and flashes of color behind closed eyes; the smell of popcorn and mildew permeating the air but going unnoticed under the strong smell of sweat and unique scents distinct and familiar of the one person they’ve known nearly their whole life; the cold darkness on one side comforting to the warmth of two bodies pressing frantically closer, seeking out only something the other can give), but is really only a few minutes, swapping spit back and forth restlessly, desperately, like this is their only chance to freely give and take before thought needs to come into play, before feelings need to be shared and understood and parents need to be informed and life needs to go on, however it ends up going.

But for now, when they’ve parted and the credits of the film are rolling and the lights of the theater have brightened, with his forehead pressing fever hot against Jensen’s, the both of them smiling like love-struck loons with matching stubble burns on their cheeks from all the nuzzling they’ve both been doing and clinging to each other like if they didn’t the other would float away, be swept away by a tide neither of them can or want to stop, Jared feels a rush of something that feels familiar, that feels like acceptance, that feels a lot like love, exploding white hot and intense through his body.

It feels a lot like coming home.


Sam is eight years old when he goes on his first date. It’s nothing special, just a normal afternoon of hanging out with his older brother, something they’ve done countless times before, except that it’s not. Normal, that is. Not to Sam at least.

Though he wishes for normal on a daily basis, lies quietly under the scratchy motel duvet feigning sleep and listening to the heavy buzz of the ancient air conditioner turning over and prays that Dad doesn’t make them move again, not this time please. Because he’s read a thing or two about children and the necessary stability they need and the consequences that come to pass if these requirements aren’t met. And what his Dad provides is so far below the minimum that Sam lives in near constant fear of being taken away from them, from his family, from Dean. Dean, who has always watched out for him, even when he doesn’t really need to. Dean, who is that solid warm line against Sam’s back on nights that leave him chilled and shaking and covered in sweat, protecting him from the nightmares that haunt his dreams. Dean, who is perfect in every way Sam both wants to be and admires.

Sam honestly doesn’t think he could live without Dean. And he doesn’t ever want to.

In the end, Dean will never fit into that normal cookie cutter image; and if Dean won’t fit, then Sam doesn’t want to have any part of it.

Dean nudges Sam’s side with the jagged edge of his bony elbow with eyebrows raised. The question is in the vee between his eyebrows, the crooked twist at the corner of his mouth, the tilt of his head. Are you alright, dude?

He smiles in response, an answer found in the dimples of his cheeks, the flaring of his nostrils, the squinty edges at the corners of his eyes. Yeah, I’m fine.

Sam loves how they don’t have to actually talk in order to communicate. Loves how intimate it is to know someone’s facial expressions down to the twitch of his nose or the curl of his mouth. Loves that only the two of them ever know what the other is not saying, that not even their dad can crack the code. That this will always be the one thing that sets Sam apart from all those weird girls who endlessly pine over Dean and fall all over themselves for his attention; oblivious Dean who has always had his sights focused on Sam, much to Sam’s utter pleasure.

Dean returns to the arcade game with a nod and a quiet little smile. Sam likes him like this best, soft and real and completely Sam’s instead of that confident stranger with bravado rolling off him in waves that walks the educational halls of school beside him on a day to day basis.

He’ll always like him though, even when he’s weird and different and cocky, because Sam loves his brother, with all his heart and all his being because Sam can’t just do it half-way, he has to give it his all, one-hundred percent.

And it’s because he loves his brother that makes their outing a date.

At least, that’s what Karin Weebley matter-of-factly said though through mouthfuls of peanut butter and jelly. That as long as you really like the person you’re going out somewhere with, then it’s a date.

He doesn’t exactly understand this logic; perhaps it is a girl thing? But whatever. Any reasoning that puts Sam into a closer position to Dean has to be right.

He shifts closer, knocking his arm companionably against Dean’s and leaves it there, resting so that the fine hairs on his arm catch slightly on the thicker hatch that’s seemingly developed overnight on Dean’s.

Sam doesn’t really understand the weirdness his brother has started going through, and he doesn’t pretend to either. Sometimes, though, Sam wonders just how different his brother is going to turn out to be once this whole strange transformation is done. Dad says it will take years, and his father hasn’t really lied to him yet, so Sam hopes he’ll still recognize his brother when it’s all over.

The game proclaims Game Over in blinking letters and Dean is rubbing his hand lightly over the back of Sam’s neck, dragging him out of his thoughts.

A quirk of the eyebrow. Are you ready to go?

A tilt of the head. Can’t we stay a bit longer—please, Dean?

A huff of a laugh escaping from a grinning mouth. Maybe next time, Sammy.

Sam sighs, but doesn’t argue. He follows Dean out of the little arcade squirreled away in the diner they’ve been frequenting since moving to, as Dean puts it, Bumfuck, Indiana. Sam thought they were in Hammond, but Dean is older and probably knows that stuff better than him.

They get about halfway back to the little house they’ve been renting when Sam finally bucks up the courage to reach out his hand and thread his sweaty fingers with Dean’s. It should have been really simple and easy as breathing, but Dad has been getting kind of edgy and upset whenever Sam does something like this.

Dad is always saying about how he’s getting too old to be coddled, to be close to Dean like all normal brothers supposedly aren’t, though Sam doesn’t understand why not. Dean is amazing, why wouldn’t he want to always be close to him, always be his center of attention? Then again, not all big brothers are like Dean. Which is too bad for everyone else but that just means Dean is his, like it should be.

Dean indulges Sam on occasion though, when Dad is gone or not within line of sight, and it’s those occasions he cherishes the most of his memories of Dean. And while sometimes people look at them weird, have been known to stare at them like they’re some kind of puzzle they can’t figure out because too many of the pieces are missing, like what Sam and Dean are doing is wrong and bizarre, but after being the new kids in a different town every other week, it doesn’t really phase them much anymore.

The closer they get to their house, the louder the Metallica beat singing through the air gets. It’s still fairly early and Dad was planning on washing the car, though by now he is probably sitting on the stoop with a beer in hand, watching vigilantly for their return.

Before they can walk up and over the hill, the only barrier preventing their father from seeing their whereabouts, Sam digs his heels into the sidewalk. Dean turns around, a confused and surprised expression on his face.

Before his nerve can fail him, Sam uses his hold on Dean’s hand to drag Dean’s face to his height (and what’s up with that? Dean hasn’t always been this tall) and brushes his lips, soft and pliant, against Dean’s cheek. He pulls back and smiles, face flushed and warm. “Thanks for today, Dean.” He squeezes Dean’s hand between both of his own.

“Sammy?” Dean has one hand pressed to where Sam had kissed him and the other holding firm to Sam’s. A blush is steadily working its way up his neck, his ears red with what Sam hopes to be happiness.

Sam grins and lets go of Dean’s hand, “Race you home?” and takes off up the incline.

He hears Dean’s sputtered reply of “Hey, no head starts!”, but when he looks back Dean is chasing him down, a bright smile pulling the ends of his mouth up.


Part 2