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The Denver Marriott is not a Canadian Shack

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The Denver Airport looked like a giant meringue, a giant, plastic meringue with a lot of snow piling up on it, so Jared felt fully justified in being mildly freaked out about his entire situation. If said freak out gave him something to do while he and his luggage inched along towards the door, the door that was letting in a blast of ice-cold air every two minutes, so much the better.

"Wow, aren't you cold?" the person in front of him said.

Jared eyed the man, or what he could see of him inside his puffy coat. "I have this freak metabolism," Jared said. "That's why I wear shorts and sandals in a blizzard." Jared smiled his big, you can trust me smile, and the man nodded and smiled, and they inched along towards the waiting shuttle bus without any more conversation.

The shuttle was packed, people were sitting tight together, luggage stacked on their laps. Families, children, everyone looked miserable, cold, annoyed and frustrated. Jared was just glad to be out from under the meringue roof and its alarming snow load—and out of the wind. He hefted his suitcases and tried not to cream anyone while he looked for an empty seat.

"Holy shit!"

Jared dropped his carry-on onto his foot. The pain was good, he told himself, it meant he had feeling in his toes. The voice on the other hand… He closed his eyes and ignored the impatient huffing of the person behind him.

"Let me guess, there's nothing in those suitcases except loud shirts and baggy shorts?" The voice was still there.

The people behind him were starting to grumble loudly, and he didn't think starting a riot on the bus was going to win him any friends. He sat down and said peevishly, "Most flights from Hawaii to New York don't include a stop-over in a Denver blizzard."

Jared managed to not actually look at Jensen while he helped stack the luggage on Jared's lap. The bus started up, and Jared said, "Do you have any idea what hotel they're taking us to?"

"One that isn't full is all I care about," Jensen said. "I was in that airport for an hour and a half while they tried to find hotel rooms for everyone." He shifted around beside Jared, wriggling and writhing, and Jared stared straight ahead, tried not to notice when Jensen's elbow crashed into him for the third time.

Something landed on Jared's head. Something soft, warm and smelling of expensive cologne. Jared snatched at the something and discovered it was a caramel-coloured cashmere sweater. "Did you just give me the shirt off your back?" Jared said and turned to look at Jensen. He got a good look at the back of his head.

"Just don't stretch it out," Jensen said to the window.

Jared elbowed Jensen at least four times getting the sweater on.

The hotel lobby was packed with confused people, some milling around and some standing listlessly in long lines, no few dressed as inappropriately as Jared. "It's just like the purgatory episode in the last season," Jared said, and Jensen didn't laugh.

A hotel employee circulated among the new arrivals. "Anyone looking for double occupancy, please proceed to the far left line," he said and then moved a few paces away and repeated his instructions.

Jared turned to look at the far left line. It was short and actually moving, which likely meant it was the shortcut to hell. "Should we?" Jared said, and Jensen shrugged and said, "How bad could it be?"

The crowd they'd left behind in the lobby had doubled by the time they were towing their luggage into an elevator. Their room was the smallest hotel room Jared had been in in over a decade. It had one queen-sized bed, a single dresser, a television and a window that looked out onto a snow-covered parking lot.

"I'll pay you a thousand dollars for a pair of socks," Jared said.

Jensen hefted his suitcase onto the bed, opened it up and tossed a pair at Jared's head. "Go get warm, moron," Jensen said.

A pair of sweatpants hit Jared in the back just as he stepped into the bathroom.

A hot shower restored feeling to Jared's toes, but nothing was going to make Jensen's sweats, that ended mid-calf, look any less ridiculous. He pulled the sweater back on, focused on the soft slide of wool on his bare skin, held his head high, and walked out into the room.

Jensen was on the phone, and he paused when he saw Jared, looked him over. "Gotta go," he said into the phone. "I'll call you when I know something."

Jared crossed his arms across his chest, feeling himself up a little in the process and looked back. The cashmere was soft and still smelled of Jensen. "Go ahead," Jared said.

"Ah, I can't even laugh. I mean, you do look like the world's tallest five year old, but it's just nice to, you know."

"Two years is long enough to go without speaking?"

"Too long," Jensen said.

"I like the sweater," Jared said.

"Looks good on you, almost long enough in the arms and everything."

"Smells like you."

"In a gets you hot way or in a shit, he stinks way?"

Jared didn't answer, and Jensen frowned, scrambled off the bed. "Sorry, man," he said, "that was out of line, sorry. I'm just going to try out the shower myself. Um, no minibar I'm afraid." Jensen sidled around him and ducked into the bathroom.

Jared stayed where he was and thought about two years of silence. "More like in a makes me realize how much I missed you way," he said to the empty room.

Jensen came out of the bathroom, hair flat to his head, glasses on, hotel robe undone over an actual pair of striped pyjama bottoms. Jared waved a bottle of scotch at him, and Jensen grinned and ran back into the bathroom for the ubiquitous pair of hotel tumblers.

"I saw your movie," Jared said.

"I read that interview in Rolling Stone," Jensen said.

"I turned on the TV one night, and there you were, fake blood running down your face," Jared said.

"I heard about the, well you know—Perez Hilton," Jensen said.

"Perez Hilton can kiss my hairy ass," Jared said.

"You stopped waxing?" Jensen said, and Jared threw a pillow at his head.

Jared filled their glasses again.

"I missed you," he said.

"I was an idiot," Jensen said.

"You had help," Jared said.

Jensen said, "It would probably be a bad idea if we…"

Jared nodded. "When we, you know, stopped, we said that was a good idea."

"We did."

"Only thing we agreed on," Jared said.

"We're idiots."

"Yup."

They sat on opposite sides of the bed and sipped their drinks.

Jensen stood abruptly and dropped the robe off his shoulders. He stood still, chin up, watchful.

Jared slowly stood on his side of the bed. He drained his drink, set the glass to one side. He ran his hands down the front of Jensen's sweater, palms flat against the soft wool. He watched Jensen's eyes track his motion. He peeled the sweater off slowly, inhaling deeply of the scent of Jensen and hotel soap. He set the sweater on the dresser behind him. He was never giving it back, he had already decided that.

Jensen had his hands on the waist of his pyjamas. Jared hooked his thumbs in the waist of his borrowed sweats. He slowly pushed the pants down, revealing skin, all of it tanned; he'd enjoyed a very private beach in Hawaii. Jensen pushed his pyjamas down and they both encountered obstacles at about the same time, and Jared started laughing first, then Jensen grinned, and they gave up the show in favour of speed.

"You leaving your socks on?" Jensen said.

"Damn right," Jared said.

Jared had forgotten how strong Jensen was, how easily he could get inside Jared's reach and overpower him. Or maybe Jared was just willing to be laid out on the bed and loomed over.

"I'll pay you ten thousand dollars if you kiss me," Jared said.

"Moron," Jensen said.

Jared closed his eyes, the taste of whisky and the heat of Jensen's body and the same scent, spicy-sweet, that had clung to the sweater, was all there was of the world. Jared let his legs fall open, let Jensen sink deeper. He stroked his hands along planes and angles and squeezed the curves of Jensen's ass.

"I have—" Jensen said, just as Jared said, "In my—"

Jensen pushed himself up to his knees. He quirked a brow and said, "lube," and Jared grinned and said, "suitcase, there's condoms."

Jensen collected essentials and Jared rolled over.

"You like it when I do all the work," Jensen said, and Jared spread his legs and smiled into his crossed arms and didn't say anything at all.

Jensen kissed him first, soft brushes of lips to his skin, his ass, his thighs, a quick slick brush of tongue down his crack that finished with a swirl of wet heat against his balls. Jared hissed in a breath, he could almost come from that alone, and Jensen knew it. Jensen laughed, face pressed against his thigh.

Slick fingers pressed in, a smooth slide, and Jared pushed back, focused on the sensations that seemed to crawl up his spine. He could feel himself trembling, muscles twitching. This was always nearly too much, and he was still a little afraid of the way it made him feel. Jensen kissed him again, the back of his shoulder, the small of his back; he licked a slow stripe up Jared's spine.

Jared wanted to writhe away from the touch, pull himself back together. He pushed out a long exhale and drew in a shaky breath. Nothing felt as good as this, nearly too good to bear. Nothing except—

"Now—you have to do it now," Jared said, and Jensen did the cover up and slick down fast enough that Jared was just up on his knees when Jensen was there, ready, pressing against him.

"Slow," Jared said.

"I know," Jensen said.

Jensen's fingers pressed into his hips, hot sharp bursts of pain, and Jensen pressed inside him, and there was nothing else. He forced out his breath, a long slow exhale, and he pressed back, and Jensen grunted, and the grip on his hips tightened, but Jensen was all the way in.

"Hard," Jared said, "fast."

"I know," Jensen said.

Jensen slammed into him, again, again, again, and the pleasure was exploding inside him. He did not touch himself, could not bear to, but he was bursting with need, and Jensen said, "I know," before he could say, "Harder," and then Jensen was doing that, fucking him even harder, and Jared was coming and gasping and grasping for purchase. He was falling, and Jensen let him drop.

Jensen grabbed him around the hips again, pushed him this way, that way, then slowly stroked in and out, and again, and Jared said, "I can't."

Jensen fucked him so slowly and gently that he knew he was going to die from this, he couldn't do this. "I can't," he said again.

"Make me stop," Jensen said, voice deep and dark.

Jared shuddered and felt his cock start to grow hard again, and Jensen slid deep and then out, again, again, again, and Jared was nothing but his sparking nerves and pounding blood. He had to come again, he had to, and he jacked himself as hard as he could stand. He clenched around Jensen as he came, begging with his body's own pleasure for it to be over, for it to be enough, and Jensen grunted and thrust into him twice more before he lost his grip, and Jared fell flat to the bed again.

Jared heard sounds, little noises, and then he smelled the sharp alcohol and smoke scent of the whisky. He opened his eyes and Jensen pulled the glass back from his nose so he could struggle up to his knees. Sitting was out of the question. He held the glass in both hands and took a long sip.

"No one else. No one but you," Jared said, and Jensen said, "I know."

Jensen's elbow hit him in the back for the second time, and he cursed the damn bed. He rolled over, and they found a way to fit together.

"Jesus, I forgot how fucking annoying it was sleeping with you," Jared said.

"I'll pay you a thousand dollars if you stop snoring," Jensen said sourly.

"Fuck off," Jared said.

Their breathing slowed. Their bodies relaxed as they remembered how to have no space between them.

"Did you know I live in New York now?" Jensen said.

"Your building allow dogs?" Jared said.