It's all Jared's fault the first time. Jensen's got his hand on the back of Jared's neck, fingers carding through his hair. He cups Jared's chin with the other, about to lean in for a kiss when Jared tips his head back, and Jensen's mouth lands on the little beat of pulse fluttering under the skin, taut neck muscle sliding right under his fingers.
He feels blood drumming through the artery, Jared's breaths, noisy and deep, against his lips, and for a brief moment, his mind flashes to wrapping his fingers tighter, pressing down, before it hits him, what the fuck is he thinking? Jared's looking at him, half-lidded eyes dark and heavy; he's arching into his hands, bowstring tight, and Jensen snatches his fingers away like he burned himself.
Jared makes a small noise, hmm, like he's about to say something, so Jensen moves fast, kisses him on the mouth like he should have a minute ago, and Jared doesn't say a thing.
It's Sera's fault the next time; Sera's and that other woman's, whose name Jensen doesn't remember, but hates a little already. Maybe Kripke's, too, for liking the pitch, and Kim's, for directing the episode. Jerry's and his crew's, for the harness, and Martin's for his guest appearance, sharp smile and demon-black eyes as he faces off against Sam.
Sam fights and Dean watches helplessly, heavy rope twisted around his wrists. There's this harness rig, so they can lift Jared up, like a rag doll, as Martin, demon du jour, slices his hands through the air, holds Sam up with the power of hell. Sam's supposed to just hang there, struggling for movement and breath, until he's able to break the hold. It's the episode the fans've probably been waiting for -- Sam's powers; does he have them, or doesn't he -- and Jensen's worked with Martin before, even if Jared hasn't.
They're doing green screen, Jared in the harness, and Jensen not actually tied up; Martin and he are just talking at Jared so he can react. Martin's bulked up a bit since Jensen's seen him last; his shirtsleeves are tight over his arms. Jensen glances at Martin's hands, his neat, even fingernails, and they're all wrong for this, wouldn't fit neatly around -- not like his own -- no. No, because neither of them is actually touching Jared. No, because Jared's obviously not being choked. This is just a scene and the shape of his hands is irrelevant, even if Sam's voice is raspy, breathless, as he cuts Dean free from the ropes, and what the hell is wrong with the writers? Why is Sam's neck like some kind of fucking prize, every beastie and ghoul in the land unable to keep their mitts off it?
It's nowhere near the first time he's gotten hard on set; thirty years old and Jared makes him feel half that, fumbling and excited and nervous, like it's those first times, oh, god, please, quick, let me, before my parents get home. Like he's in high school, except it's worse than getting a hard-on in algebra where there were no cameras and you could always ask for the hall pass.
He can't stop staring, can't stop thinking, almost misses the call to break for lunch. Thank god, Jared's blissfully unaware, piling his plate with meat and vegetables, gesticulating wildly with a pair of serving tongs, going on about some article from that morning's paper as he sits down.
"Come again?" Jensen asks, setting his own tray across from him, and watches Jared swallow, the bob of his Adam's apple, the twitch of muscle in his throat. Jared's got one hand on his fork, and the other's fiddling with his collar, popping his button closed, then open again. Pushing an errant strand of hair away from his neck; rubbing at his shoulder as he tilts his head from side to side. Jared's knee bumps his under the table, and Jensen feels like a jackass, knowing he couldn't possibly repeat a single word Jared's just said.
It's a relief when Kim comes up to talk to Jared about some notes, something they really need Sam to punch up, and Jensen gives them a quick nod and retreats to his trailer.
It's not like there's anything wrong with him; he's a healthy adult male, and healthy adult males -- or anyone, for that matter -- fantasize about all sorts of stuff. It's no different than checking out asses, for chrissakes. Zippers. Mouths. Hands. Except it's maybe just a little fucked up that he can't stop thinking about it, the hollow of Jared's throat, the roll of his carotid, the muscle jumping and twitching under his hands.
He knows he gets like this with Jared; always has. Jared just gets to him, into him, completely, immediately, has from the very first time they met, before the pilot. He remembers walking into the lounge, seeing the guy bent over a stack of marked up papers, hair falling into his face, fingers dancing through the pages. The guy lifted his head, blew his hair out of his eyes with a puff of his mouth, unfolded to full height, and that was it, that was all she fucking wrote. Sudden thump of want in Jensen's gut, sudden clench of air in his lungs, and then he was shaking one hot, massive paw, hi, I'm Jared, looks like it's gonna be you and me. He had a strong grip, long, agile fingers, and Jensen had time to notice that Jared's thumbnail was jagged, sharp, like he'd been chewing on it. Jensen snatched his hand away, scalded-quick, but it was too late; Jared was already there, under his skin, like there's no place else he should've been.
He doesn't remember if there were any more words before they were in with the suits, or trading goodbyes and nice meeting yous later. Filming the pilot's mostly a blur, except for the part where he's rolling on the floor with Jared -- Sam -- catching Jared's forearms against him, feeling the sharp pulse in Jared's wrists before it's flip and twist and change position, floorboards hard under his spine. Jared's huge hand heavy against his chest. He knows there was more to it than that, lines and notes and lights and voices, the waxy smear of makeup on his skin, a just like that and let's try it again, from the top. But his treacherous memory pulls up nothing but Jared Jared Jared, hands always restless, quick fingers pushing floppy bangs out of his eyes, knuckles rubbing under his chin, the back of his hand wiping across his reddened mouth. The makeup girl's chiding voice telling him to stop, Jared, come on, I'm gonna have to touch it up again, and you, Jensen, stop biting your lip. You're smearing the gloss; what is it with you, guys? Jensen remembers blushing, red-hot even through the thick base, trying not to watch Jared lean back in the makeup chair, eyes closed, blunt fingertips resting on his spread thighs. Remembers thinking of those hands undoing his zipper, reaching into his jeans, hot and skilled, as he fisted his cock in the bathroom stall minutes later.
"Five minutes!" one of the PAs -- maybe Brian -- yells, tapping on the door of his trailer. Jensen sighs and picks up Dean's jacket. He forces himself not to watch as they touch up the bruises around Sam's neck, because if he looks at the red and purple marking up Jared's throat, splotches of paint like fingerprints, he's going to do something illegal, or at least highly embarrassing.
They don't really touch on set, not anything beyond what's normally expected of them. Even when it's the usual, jostling and pushing and laughing, suggestive swipe of tongue across lips, a smack on the ass when shoulder would do, it's always just Jensen-and-Jared, overgrown boys attached at the hip. Those two? They're always like that; wouldn't read too much into it. By the time they're done for the day, Jensen's starved for it, wants to lick and stroke and bite, sink into Jared and not come up for hours.
"If you want to shower, do it quick. We gotta get going," Jared says, sidestepping past him and into the bedroom, digging through a drawer.
"What?" Jensen asks dumbly, digging a nail into his palm; Jared flashes smooth, naked skin as he throws his tee in the laundry basket.
"Mike's tonight, remember?" Jared says, pulling a fresh shirt over his head, brushing the lint roller down his coat. Jensen groans, lets Jared herd him outside and towards the car, half angry and miserable and half hard in his jeans.
"Jen, my man," Mike whoops, pushing a beer into his hands; he looks tipsy already. It's too loud, thump of music in the hall and hockey on the big screen. Jared's whisked down the stairs, gotta show you that rowing thing I was talking about, dude, something about personal trainer recommendations Jensen tunes out. The beginnings of a headache are brewing in his skull, pressure niggling at his temples, and he sets down his beer and walks down the hallway to the bathroom, rifles through the medicine cabinet for aspirin. Swallows two and chases them down with a handful of tepid water from the sink.
When he gets back to the living room, everyone's attention is on the TV, slow motion instant replay of the goalie's awkward bent arm and the puck sliding past. Jared looks right at home, sprawled out in an overstuffed armchair -- leaning back, legs apart, hands clasped behind his head, elbows out -- and it takes Jensen a moment to notice his thumbs, on the sides of his neck, not back together with the rest of his fingers, like they ought to be.
His first thought is, that can't be comfortable. Jared's hands, heavy and large, near circling his own neck. Jensen can see the little indents the thumbs make into Jared's skin, like he's pushing his hands in a bit, straining.
His second thought is, Jared's not even keeping them still. Minute movements you wouldn't notice unless you were staring, slight press of thumbpads into the flesh, bend of knuckle, shift of skin. Tiny circles over the muscle, and Jensen grabs his beer from the counter, clutches at it like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
Jensen doesn't usually watch the episodes. Wouldn't even if he had the time. He hates seeing himself on screen, especially scenes he remembers rehearsing time after time, running through lines until he gets them right. It's even worse when they're still off, but end up in the finished product regardless. But he wants to see their scene from Tuesday something fierce; he's watched the dailies already, but it's not the same. He needs to see Jared, without the green screen, without the wires and cameramen. Without Martin breaking his 'evil' face between takes to laugh and joke and talk dog care. Bruises, not makeup, purpling Sam's skin.
That means waiting for the rough cut. Fine. Jensen can wait.
In the meantime, he sucks hickeys into Jared's neck, right into the hollow of his throat, dark, heavy marks that don't fade for days. The make-up girls laugh and warn Jared to stop hooking up with vampires, this much heavy duty paint, over and over, to make them blend in, isn't good for your skin.
He waits for Jared to say something, to bring it up, to complain, to insist that Jensen transfer his sudden need to bite, to suck, to mark, somewhere else, somewhere Sam won't need to show on camera. But all Jared ever does is trace the fading marks with his fingertips when he's in front of the bathroom mirror in the morning. Tips his head obediently when Jensen puts new purple on top of the fading pink, lets him lick over the bruises, and Jensen gets braver. Touches his own fingers to the spots, tries to fit his hand over several at once, thumb stroking over the flutter of beating pulse in Jared's throat.
When they first got together, between hard, breathless kisses and the hot, slick grip of Jared's fist, he told Jared he'd had a thing for his hands. Jared laughed, tip of his tongue swishing across his bottom lip, and said, "Really? I had no idea. What about my mouth?"
Jensen loves Jared's mouth; loves kissing it, rough and sloppy or slow-hot, stubbled cheek rasping on stubbled cheek, catch of teeth over his coffee-sweet lip. Loves trailing his fingers over the softness of it, loves Jared on his knees, looking up at him through messy bangs before Jensen feeds him his dick. Loves leaning back against the wall, watching Jared's lips move, his tongue tease over the slit, shiny spit and Jared's mouth getting darker, redder, stray hair falling into his face.
Usually doesn't push him, though, doesn't just thrust his hips and take, but he can't help it, not now.
Jared looks up at him, like he's asking for permission, and Jensen sees the marks he's sucked into his neck, prints of Jensen's lips wrapped around like a necklace. Feels Jared's mouth wrap around him, and groans, brings his hands down to tangle in Jared's hair.
"Fuck," he whispers, fingers gripping tight, and moves, too fast, too harsh, watches himself sink deep into that hot, slick mouth, and Jared can't do anything but take it, held still by his hands. He pulls back and does it again, again, feels the sweep of Jared's tongue as he tries to take more of him in. The sounds of it, the wet slide of skin, Jared's loud, frantic breaths as he kneels there and lets Jensen take his mouth, make something uncoil in his belly, make him fuck sharper, harder.
Fast, deep, feeling the softness, the tightness of Jared's throat; Jared's face is red, flushed, his hair hangs down into his eyes, sticks to his glistening skin. There's wet over his cheeks, sweat maybe, or, no, fuck, his eyes are wet, shiny droplets clinging to his lashes, and that almost makes Jensen stop, makes his knees go unsteady and shaky. God, he can't, doesn't want to hurt Jared, but Jared moans, sweet, choked sound around his dick, and that's all it takes to send him over the edge, white-hot shudder through his entire body.
He watches Jared's throat working, shifting, as he swallows -- saliva and the stray strand of come he licks up from his lip -- and it's all he can think about for days after, watching Jared drink water from a plastic bottle, his coffee on set, his beer when they're out. He's always liked watching Jared -- the way he gesticulates with his beer bottle, like he forgets it's there, the way he wraps his lips around the rim like he knows exactly what he's got in his hand -- but it's a constant battle now not to snatch the bottle out of Jared's hand and push him up against the first available wall.
Jared sprawls when he sleeps, arms and legs akimbo, hard elbows and knees pushing, claiming more and more mattress. He makes up for it by killing the alarm and letting Jensen sleep in while he gets the coffee going, takes care of the dogs if they're at his place, grabs the paper if they're sleeping at Jensen's. By the time Jensen crawls out of the bedroom, yawning wide, hair plastered to his head, Jared's usually sitting at the table, chipped mug in hand, another one set out on the kitchen counter. Sweetener and a spoon, so all Jensen has to do is pour. There's soy milk in Jared's fridge, even though he grumbles he hates the stuff; french vanilla creamer in Jensen's cupboard, even if he still thinks it tastes like plastic. Jensen can barely imagine waking up to anything else. The world could end at midnight, trains derailing, fire, hail and brimstone falling from the sky, but in the morning, Jared will be at the kitchen table, smell of coffee and plastic-vanilla trailing down the hallway.
Yet lately, Jensen finds himself waking up earlier, watching Jared stretched out on his belly, face buried in the pillow, noisy breaths against the cotton. Jared's arms are wrapped around a bunched up blanket, the rest of his body shamelessly bare, the curve of his ass, smooth lines of shoulder blades and spine. Legs spread, one knee bent up. Jensen props himself on an elbow, traces his hand down Jared's back, cups his ass, kneads at the hot skin, listens to Jared murmur something, coming out of deep sleep.
Another deep, rasping breath; Jared yawns, shifts, but Jensen stops him, presses his hand between Jared's shoulder blades.
"Stay like that," he whispers, leaning in, tries to remember what he did with the lube last night, maybe shoved it under the pillow or in the bedside drawer.
He wonders if Jared understood what he really meant, whether he will stay exactly like that, head down, or if he just thinks Jensen wants him on his stomach. He finally finds the lube on the nightstand, flicks open the cap and slicks his fingers, strokes a hand down Jared's side, his thighs, nudges his legs further apart. Slides two fingers in, no warning, fucks Jared lazily, slowly, adds a third, listens to his muffled breaths and little stifled moans. Jared keeps almost completely still, only shifts ever so slightly when Jensen withdraws his fingers and moves between his legs, lets his cock ride the crease of Jared's ass as he stares at the back of his neck, soft wispy hair curling down to the nape.
He covers Jared with his body, presses him down into the mattress and rubs against his ass, feels his cock slide against slick heat. Shifts his hips a little, but doesn't push in, just teases at Jared's hole, at the crack of his ass, lets his weight hold Jared down.
Jared stays. Doesn't try to push Jensen off, doesn't move his head to the side, just twists his hips under him, rubs up into his cock, short, sharp breaths into the pillow. It's not exactly what Jensen wants, but it's so fucking close; he brings his hands up, slides them up Jared's arms, finally settles them on his shoulders and holds him down as he continues rutting against Jared's skin. Lifts one hand again, slowly, carefully, traces Jared's shoulder with a fingertip, moving up and center, draws nonsensical patterns into the nape of Jared's neck, plays with the fine, baby-soft curls there.
Jared's breath hitches, and he seems to sink further into the bed, so relaxed, so pliant under him, and Jensen can't take it anymore, has to get inside now, before he comes all over Jared's back. He brings a hand down to line himself up, slides in and has to bite his mouth, hard, to stop it from being over just like that. When he puts his hand back onto the nape of Jared's neck, it's his whole palm, open, fingertips curving just slightly where throat meets shoulder. He feels the pulse under his hand again, doesn't know if it's really Jared's pulse he's sensing, or his own, frantic and fast. He snaps his hips a few times in rhythm with Jared's breaths, and then it's all just too much.
He feels his fingers tighten as he comes, but can't stop himself.
When he's able to move again, he realizes Jared's looking back at him over his shoulder, that both his hands are lying flat against Jared's skin, not anywhere intoxicatingly dangerous, but has no idea when he shifted. He knows he should clean up, or, no, Jared, he woke Jared up for a fuck and didn't even get him off. He should do that, let Jared move to his back, suck him, jerk him off, something, anything, god, as soon as his brain is working properly, in concert with mouth and hands.
He rolls to the side, stiff and clumsy, and Jared smiles, all dimples and sharp, white teeth.
"Should let you be my alarm clock more often, if that's how you do it," he says, stretching, cracks his back with a loud click before walking across the hall to the bathroom. Jensen hears the shower running and stares dumbly at the wet spot on the bunched up comforter Jared had been lying on.
It's not hard to get his hands on the episode. It is hard to find the time to sit down with it, no calls, no people, no Jared, lights off and curtains drawn.
Jared flies down to LA on Friday, won't be back till Saturday, late.
"Meetings," he announces cheerfully as he throws a bag together. "Have you seen my green shirt?"
"You threw it in with my laundry," Jensen tells him, wrinkling his nose. "It bled all over my socks."
"Better green than pink," Jared nods sagely, and then he's out the door, swirl of cold air and car horn honking.
Jensen sits on the sofa, socked feet drawn up, plays his fingers over the buttons of the remote.
Maybe it's stupid that he hasn't told Jared. Jared would probably say it is, smile his big wolfish grin, boy-next-door dimples and sly eyes.
"You know, all you'd need to do is ask."
Ask. Sure, but how do you ask for something like that? How do you say, I love you so much I want to pin you down, hold you and fuck you and bruise you, breathe your breath and make you feel me for days? How do you say those words and still mean but I'd never hurt you?
It still looks pretty rough when he presses 'play' -- the timing's off, and the effects are basic, but it's enough, Jared's darkened face in the air, slick mouth hanging open. Scratchy, low rasp of his voice as Sam throws the demon back; his own reddened skin in the frame, rope being sliced away from his wrists, and there, oh god, gorgeous stark handprints purpling Jared's neck. Jensen moans, too loud in the empty house, frantic hands already popping the buttons of his jeans. He feels dizzy, desperate, as his fingers catch in the slit of his briefs, fingertips just brushing against his dick, rock-hard and trailing wet over the tight cotton. He squeezes the head roughly, so it almost hurts, so good, slides his fist down, shivering, once, twice, fingers a ring of tight heat. Sweat's trickling down the back of his neck, little rivulets down his spine, and he moves his hand faster, squeezes harder, feels his orgasm slam up through his balls, his belly, his chest, leaving him gasping and breathless against the couch cushions.
He watches it again the next morning, and again in the afternoon, glare of sunlight reflecting off the screen. Thinks about calling Jared, mid-meeting with a director, leaving a string of filth and a miss you on his voice mail.
He doesn't. Watches it one more time, instead, almost detached, beer bottle muggy on the coffee table, strokes his cock absently through pants and boxers, but doesn't come.
Late in the evening, he grabs his keys and wallet, gets in the car and drives over to Jared's, punches in the code with shaky fingers. The house is dark and empty; sometimes Jensen stays with the dogs when Jared's gone, but this time Jared dropped them off with the sitter. Her numbers -- cell and home -- are taped over the phone downstairs, scrap of notepaper with a doodle of a scruffy cartoon dog underneath the digits. Jensen did it a few months ago, on hold with the vet.
He doesn't bother turning on the lights, just makes his way right to the bedroom and strips out of his clothes, crawls into Jared's unmade bed, stretching out under the heavy quilt. The pillows smell faintly like Jared's shampoo, and he's asleep within minutes, waking up only when he hears the door bang shut downstairs, then water running in the bathroom and Jared's heavy footfalls up the steps.
"Jen, you awake?" Jared whispers loudly from the doorway, and Jensen sits up, clicking on the bedside lamp.
"Hey. How'd it go?"
"Good. Missed you," Jared says, sliding under the covers next to him. He's naked, his mouth tastes like toothpaste when Jensen kisses him, and his feet are cold.
"Do not -- man, get your damn toes away from me," Jensen protests when Jared pushes up close, wiggles his icy feet under Jensen's for warmth.
"It's my bed," Jared tells him, like that excuses anything, and Jensen kisses him again, runs his fingers down Jared's scratchy cheek, cups his chin in his hands as he licks over Jared's lip.
Jared arches against him, presses in closer and Jensen can feel the smooth drag of Jared's cock at his hip, not fully hard yet but getting there. He mouths at Jared's bottom lip, nips at the baby-soft skin, and Jared groans into the kiss, his dick twitching in interest against Jensen, filling, thickening.
"Wanna fuck you," he whispers against Jared's ear, bites at the tender skin below, feels the roll of muscle under his teeth, the little drumbeat of Jared's pulse.
"I know what you want," Jared whispers back and lets his head loll back against the pillow, baring his throat.
"I've seen you looking, Jen, for days. Biting your lip the way you do, staring every time you think I won't notice, and then the other morning..." Jared trails off and breathes in deep. "Come on, do it. Want you to."
"Yeah?" he asks, mouth gone suddenly dry, but Jared doesn't answer, just reaches for one of Jensen's hands, takes it between his. Strokes his thumb over Jensen's knuckles, soft skin, but the nail ragged, sharp, like he's been chewing on it. Lifts Jensen's palm up to his neck and sets it there.
"Want you to. Trust you to," he says, eyes wide and impossibly bright, thin sliver of dark around the iris, and for a moment, Jensen can't breathe, can't move, hand pressing into Jared's hot skin and his dick so hard it hurts. This is Jared's bed, Jared's house, Jared's fucking life under his fingers, and Jared just lets him in, no reservations, no questions, just the two of them slotting together, easy, like it's the way they've always been.
He sits up, pulling the blanket down and off as he goes, steadies himself as he watches Jared shift, stretch, muscles playing under the tanned skin. Jared's cock is hard, flushed red between his legs, cockhead already leaking shiny-slick. Jensen wants to taste it, lean in and lick, trail his tongue down over Jared's balls, to his hole, leave behind messy streaks of spit as he spreads Jared open with his tongue. Wants to feel Jared on his cock, so tight and hot inside, wants him to moan and bite at his mouth and come apart, but most of all, he wants this.
He rifles through the bedside drawer, comes up with the little bottle of lube and tosses it on the bed next to them, moves in and sucks Jared's cock into his mouth, runs his tongue over the head.
"Yeah, just like that," Jared gasps, and Jensen pulls off a little, tongues at the slit before swallowing Jared down again. Wraps one hand around the base and strokes in time with his lips and tongue, until Jared's fisting his hands in the sheets, gnawing at his bottom lip with his teeth.
Jensen pulls off again and reaches for the lube, gets his fingers dripping wet before he slips them between Jared's thighs, circles his hole.
"Move up a bit," he says, and Jared obeys, bends a knee and scoots back on the bed, makes room, legs spreading wider. He looks so good, spread out on the bed like that, face flushed with a sheen of sweat, an errant strand of hair caught in his dark pink mouth.
He fucks Jared fast and rough with his fingers, feels his own dick pulse, impatient, and growls deep in his throat, a low, greedy rumble that Jared responds to in kind.
"More, more, come on, fuck me," Jared begs, and his voice is hoarse and rough already, fucked out and desperate. Jensen pulls out his fingers and slicks his cock, fits his hips against Jared's and rubs up at his belly, his balls, before nudging at Jared's hole. Jared hisses as he pushes inside, air wheezing through his teeth and lips, and Jensen blinks his eyes shut, keeps them closed until he's all the way in, fever-hot clutch of muscle around him.
He rocks his hips, a slight, short thrust, and looks up, over the cut of Jared's flat belly, rise of his chest, hard little points of nipples dusky-dark, and, oh, god, there. He brings up a hand and traces over Jared's ribs, up to the sharp ridges of his collar bones, dips his fingers into the hollows between neck and shoulder. He can feel the vibration through his fingertips when Jared moans, low and soft, tips his head back farther, bares his throat to him again, and Jensen has to move, has to do it now.
He gives another shallow little thrust and tries to angle himself better, braces against the humid, hard body under him, and lays his other palm against Jared's throat. Feels the quivers of a deep breath before he presses down with both hands, and snaps his hips, hard.
Jared's mouth is open, perfect little 'o', tip of his tongue working soundlessly, painting his lips with shiny spit as he lifts himself into Jensen's thrusts. The skin of his throat is so soft under the grip of Jensen's fingers, slick with sweat; he can feel every breath Jared's struggling for, noisy rasps as Jensen loosens his fingers, then squeezes again, harder. And maybe it's wrong that it feels this fucking good, to hold Jared's heartbeat in his hands, his eyes, open wide, deep pupils locked with his, and maybe it isn't. Doesn't matter, because Jared's letting him, wants him to, and it's a sweet, gorgeous high to know how much Jared trusts him, wants him. Loves him.
"Jared, fuck, Jared," he keens, feels Jared work a hand between them, knuckles brushing his belly, and fucks deeper, faster, squeezes his hands tighter, rushing drumbeat of Jared's pulse so tantalizingly good. Jared arches under him and comes with a choked off sound that Jensen can feel to his core.
He's melting, burning up, skin electrified everywhere they connect, hands and throat and hips and cock, Jared's fingers and the slick mess of his come between them. Jensen thrusts in one more time, twice, and then he's letting go, live-wire rush through his spine, collapsing over Jared, weak and boneless.
Jared nudges him off after a minute, and he goes, rolls over and tucks himself into Jared's side, unwilling to spare the movement to even clean up.
"So," he says, "um," and Jared smiles contentedly, wraps the blanket around them both.
"So," Jared nods, "my neck, huh."
"Guess so," Jensen nods back, buries his face in the crook of Jared's arm, breathes in warmth and salt and Jared.
"Huh," Jared says again, and flips off the light. "How do you feel about my chest? I've been thinking about getting my nipples pierced."