The language of love letters is the same as suicide notes, Courtney once wrote.
Jared knows this because he’d had his chin hooked over Jensen’s small doll shoulder the night Jen flipped with careful-fingered devotion through a grunge rock widow’s colorful diaries.
On the outskirts of Winnemucca, Jen finds blood in his panties.
It’s just a smattering of faintly pink little smears but maybe it looks like a Crayola heart to a kid.
“I’m,” Jensen says, looking stunned. Wearing quiet contemplation. “I’m spotting.”
It probably has a lot to do with the carsickness, and the steady supply of regular fuckings, and maybe most blamable — Adrianne’s 9-month-mommy mags that Jared knows for a fact Jen leafs through when he thinks everyone else is only an alien sort of alive on the bus.
But it all starts when Jensen doesn’t scrub the cherry stain out.
Jared always wakes up 10% of a person.
The rest of him is cogs and gears, inborn. Is still lost at dream sea, head almost fully submerged. Is the last chapter of the last paperback he read, or a balled up lyric only half sung. The rest of him gets left behind a lot.
Someone is listening to Social D and it’s got his head itching from inside. The sound is nonmalignant, and distant, but it feels like fire ants. Jared stretches, rubs a comforting stripe down his belly, and tugs the Hello Kitty curtain aside to see what life looks like around him.
An exit sign speeds past through the window tint. He animal cracks his neck. Los Gatos — 9. He’s not in the mood for California, not unless it’s spelled with a K.
Jen’s catcurled on the couch with Mo who’s busy braiding beads into his own beard, and Jen’s picking at a bowl of what smells like leftover veggie fried rice from the 24 hr drive-thru asian bistro.
He’s got a snapback sitting sideways on his head, somewhere between a douche and adorable on the Would Fuck scale, and Jared’s almost annoyed with himself that he’d sit him heavily down on his dick either way.
“It’s noon seventeen,” Jensen says, smiling a For Jared smile when he looks up and sees Jared staring, and it puts Jared at a cool 50%.
Jenny is making a list of blowjob proof lipsticks.
After an inspiring no-instrument jam sesh with the other three, table drum and experimental hmming, Jeff testing Jared’s new words on the open road air, windows slid ajar, Jared finds Jen writing in his pocket journal, purple pom-pom pen in one hand.
Lip products OK to suck dick with, it says in his curly looking handwriting.
The names read like something off a cake shop menu or videos from sites you don’t talk about. Some with girly little hearts beside them, some underlined in childish swirls. They all sound gruesome, dickwatering.
Jensen’s cap, a foam black trucker style eyesore, spells out TEEN MOM in pink rhinestone pseudo cursive.
It’s exactly as tacky as pretty Jenny himself and Jared gets a much better look at it when he tugs Jensen back into their little bus bedroom to pour a love song down his gullet. Full intro, fading outro, repeating chorus. It lasts almost as long as Sister Ray.
Chad gave the cap to him, Jen tells him redundantly, hiccupping milky white.
Jensen Ross Ackles at 15 is an addict’s final poisoning.
He’s all rose scented nail polish, and a bottle of Voodoo Ranger IPA for breakfast. The best lay you’ve ever had and the devoted dear waiting for you at home, how was your day, missed you so much, didn’t even think of squatting down on Mr. Neighbor’s stubby cock while you were out.
He’s cartoon bandaid covered legs; he’s heart print suspenders from Claire’s.
Jared knows, when he catches Jen with a borrowed laptop, that he’s just as likely to be hands-under-chin engrossed in Showgirls as he is the Human Centipede.
A cream pie boy, but one whose eyes go rainy if you tell him, at the exact right moment when you’re still inside him and he’s clutched around your waist and your neck and your unholy heart, when you tell him how sometimes the whole world looks green to you. “The color of,” you say, don’t finish. He’s watching you closely. He knows all the words to all your songs.
He’s cigarette stubs for pedicure toe spacers, and he’s a stupid shirt that says Dolly Parton 4 Prez across the tits. Jensen Ackles gets hungry after watching internal fleshlight come videos.
Jared’s been in and out of rehab centers since his sweet 16th but it’s never really stuck. It was never really going to.
“That color is called ‘Kitten Heels’.”
It’s all over Jensen’s chin when he smiles his cam girl smile.
It’s also smeared all over the base of Jared’s cock, stickily ringed around like a wedding band.
Kitten Heels is a violent shade of red and Jensen can’t add it to his inventory.
A Little Twin Stars themed wall calendar shows up on the bus one day, tacked up next to the touring schedule.
There are red sticker stars marked on certain days. Everyone just sort of silently deems it one of those things that bafflingly wandered on board and never got thrown out, like Chad Murray.
Jared doesn’t think anything at all about it until Chad yells from the guts of the ride, “Yo, A! Is it cool if I use your period planner to write in my D-growth progress?”
“Your what? My what?”
Adri jerks her head out of her butch boudoir.
Chad thumbs over his shoulder. He’s not normal enough to whisper, “I’m using this new water pump to see if I can permanently enlarge the size of my—”
“Oh dude, foul. Foul.”
Her mop o’ crimps disappears again. Then it quickly dunks back out so she can snarl, “And that’s not mine, tool. Ask Jeff. Maybe it’s one of his playthings’ play things.”
“But then why,” Chad says, but she’s gone back to afternoon recluse. He says anyway, like stoner thoughts, “Trippy.” And, “Oh. Wait. Are these someone’s fertilization dates?”
“Ovulation,” Jared corrects, not looking up from where he’s been sitting at the built in table and dragging his finger through hydro every time a pothole fucks up his line, inescapably listening to this alleycat argument.
He’s gonna say more when he notices that Jensen’s summer specked shoulders have gone culprit still.
And his ears are flaming up in sordid, slumber-party-rumor ways. His little face is tight.
Daniel gave him a dyslexic heart, Erica says so all the time, and Jared knows it’s mostly true.
Jared, shit at relationships and always wrong footed at this sort of thing, feels like a fucking Valentine’s Day card when he tells Chad not to write on that, you dick. “That looks special.”
It’s not a big secret, that Jared has a thing for blondes.
Frail, pretty, yellow haired things. By birth or by bottle or by beauty supply store, something sold in bundles and wefts.
Yeah, looking down at his lap, he likes seeing everything from bleached to buckwheat.
It’s not legendary, like Chad says. It just, is.
Erica smugbitch swears it has something to do with the little neighbor boy he defiled when both of their no-nos were still smooth. Dylan was a great first pet pig. Sometimes Jared wonders where he is now, his golden curls and Yes Sir eyes.
It’s crank-yanking, is all.
None of that means he’s never turned out a redhead or three, though.
Or that a grimy little skinhead bitch named Gator didn’t get Jared’s dropout dick all hard and spitting in his ass when Jared was still young and super into fucking sewer rat kids.
That he said no to a dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark-hearted diamond of a boy he found outside of a fag bar in Oregon wearing a ripped up Captain Spaulding half-shirt and yellow cat eye contacts.
Those gingers were all cousins, if memory serves and none of them left without a limp or a rasp. Gator Gonzales probably still has head trauma from Jared pounding him into and against his favorite metal dumpster. And that lovely horror boy became a line in a Fuckpig EP.
They’re all good memories. Them and the other scores of whores Jared’s been with over the years. Jared loves a good whore if nothing else.
But the butterfly blondes.
The soft-stranded, daycare young, nearly hairless little visions pull every stitch out of Jared’s scraped back together soul. One more so than the others. One more than any other.
“The walls of his room were plastered with posters of the Cure,” Jared bites out doggish.
Cutely, Jensen makes a slaughterhouse sound. He clenches his hole like a fight ready fist.
“He had seen them in concert three—” blurry eyes wanting to cross, “—three times, and once he had sneaked backstage to present Robert Smith, the singer, with a bouquet of bloodred roses—”
“Ohmygod,” Jensen says, and Jared can feel him toying with his own babycock, desperate little squeezy motions.
Jared continues selfishly. “...Robert Smith’s lips enlarged several thousand times, smeared with hot orange-red lipstick, shiny and sexual.” Jensen dribbles a drop of pearl wet onto Jared. “The Bauhaus tape ended, and no one put anything else on.”
The boot clompings out in the aisle pause and on the other side of the curtain, someone says ‘um’ with five m’s and Jared keeps going. Jared couldn’t ever stop.
Jared thumbs messily at the pages, vision going for a nightswim, and the blur of Jensen above him looks like stolen art. Jen’s beautiful and sometimes Jared hates that Jensen knows it.
Jeff says, from somewhere closer to the front of the bus, “This one of them queer poetry readings?”
Go rot, bitch, Jared wants to say, petulant, but his tongue is snaking around other nonsense.
“His bleached white-blonde hair fell in long strands over his eyes…”
Jared reaches up and, grossly fond, pushes a limp tangle back behind Jen’s ear. Jenny shakes like a knotted dog.
“Oh, I know this one,” a muffled Jason says, delight thick in the throat. Jared’s already coming deep in his doll by the time Jase finds his thought. “It’s that gothy 90s vampire book, huh?”
Someone’s watching him when he crawls out of his cave for the afterfuck piss. He can’t see ‘em, but he can feel eyes. Adderall blue, he guesses.
“What.” Unsoft. He’s used all his soft up.
Adrianne hums lightly. “Don’t what me. You know.” She sounds smiley. “Just wanna hear you say it.”
“That you were totally just reading to him to get him off.” She makes it sound more vulgar than the fact that he gets hot for a kid who still sleeps with stuffed animals. And that’s metal.
But it wasn’t like that. Or, it wasn’t exactly like that.
“‘He really likes that book.” Poppy’s a pantydropper.
“So I heard.”
Jared shrugs, paused between the lava lamp and the shelf where Chad keeps a sandwich baggy collection of his more memorable used rubbers. “He can’t read when we’re driving, you know, so.”
“And that works, huh?”
She sounds a little impressed. If things ever impressed her, anyway.
He flicks off flaky pieces of dried little boy come on his stomach as proof. “Get a bitch a book,” he mutters, dozy smile. “Bitches love books.”
Adrianne frowns thoughtfully, picks up her phone. Somewhere in San Fran a tiny black-haired girl is opening up a text asking who her author of choice is. Gen’s probably a big Octavia E. Butler fan. Jared goes to pee.
Chad and Jensen are doing ...something.
Jared thumps Chad in the nads with the side of his boot. He resents being shushed.
Jensen fingercurls Jared closer, unfiltered adoration always right there in his eyes like Jared’s at the lip of the stage and Jensen’s on the edge of the moshpit, watching Jared shred strings. But his sights dart right back to whatever’s going on.
Jared, grouchy, takes a seat beside him.
It’s not his fault he’s used to being #1, the very beating center of Jen’s attention. The crux of his Dear Diary thoughts. Jared wonders what he writes in that thing. Obsesses, sometimes. Would cut off his own stiff dick before he ever ever asked, though.
(Well Diary, today I met a boy. He’s only a little bit famous, but he looks like trashcan jesus.)
Snowball is crunching on some organic kibble stuff, tail swishing lazily. Chad and Jensen don’t speak for two goddamn minutes. Something gets pushed discreetly closer to the cat’s turned back.
Jared leans over to whisper at Jen. Ugh, obedience. But he still wants Jen to put out, so.
“Why is there a dildo next to Snow?”
It’s delightful how sudden Jensen’s silk smooth skin pebbles up with the shivers at Jared’s voice.
Jen’s lashes swish at his cheeks when he says back, small and secretive, “it’s supposed to be a cucumber.” Weak shrug. “Best we could find.”
Veiny on the top half and ridged on the bottom, it’s definitely not a fucking cucumber. But it’s a dark army green. It looks like one of Momo’s.
When Snowball finishes his second supper, he starts up the tedious process of licking crumb remnants from his ivory whiskers, stands up very princely. He turns and steps over the double ended anal destroyer and wanders over to the bunks, hops into Jared’s. It’s very unremarkable.
Jensen pouts prettily. Chad picks up the dildo and flings it away in annoyance.
There’s a leftover ashtray roach that’s maybe worth the effort and Jared tries to fit his fingers around it. It doesn’t work, so Jensen leans over and does it for him. He’s tiny everywhere.
“Was something supposed to happen?” Jared asks, mumbling, dragging in.
“Cats are, like, scared of cucumbers.,” Jensen says, watching Jared suck. “I dunno. I mean, we watched this compilation vid and Chad laughed himself sick, he almost puked, and we thought, all you had to do was place a cucumber—”
“That’s not a cucumber.”
“But still!” Chad says. He’s talking in his tweaker voice, nasally and abrupt. That explains a lot, then. Jared smiles small at Jen. Jen smiles back, huge.
Jeff and Jase are out looking at price-slashed pawn shop equipment. Jared doesn’t think Jason would mind if they borrowed his cucumber for just a little longer. And he doesn’t even have to say so out loud. Jensen does a cheer squad skip over to go find where it flew behind the couch.
Jared always makes sure Jensen gets his vegetables.
Everyone gets real used to Jensen monopolizing the mirror, real quick.
Kissing tomato red lips at his reflection because in another life he’s Amanda Lepore. Jen talks handkerchief wistfully about a scrapbook he had back home — her stuff with LaChapelle, laminated nudie pics.
Rolling his thigh highs off for the night, he reaches for the baby oil to slick up his cabaret legs. Waits for whistles, and peacocks when they come.
He takes inventory of his own features a lot. Two hours too long in the sun, one chicken nugget too many for his paranoia. It’s his thing. Pretty things wanna stay pretty.
But usually he’s got a modicum of clothes on when he does it.
Jared has to go and get Jensen when Momo’s fun for the night has a wind-up doll laugh as they ask, “Is that kid okay?”
Jensen’s only had his usual amount of ziploc opiates, eyes clear and bright, but he’s skinned himself down to only the bead bracelets on his arms and a little pink satin thong and he’s pooching out his nothing-tummy, trying to make it look bigger. Punching it when it doesn’t.
The sleeveless black Goatwhore shirt Jared wore on stage is rank as shit but he reaches one arm behind his head, fists up the fabric, and yanks it off. He’s nothing close to a gentleman but he feels specifically gentle when he drapes it over Jen. It looks like a little dead girl’s dress.
He carefully tangles their fingers together and drags him somewhere more private.
Nobody’s gonna laugh at Jen. Not some dew-eyed, fair-haired thing from the Shady Breeze RV Park. Not anybody.
“You really like him, huh?”
Jared wrists residue off his nose and looks at Chad, annoyed. They’re walking into 7-11 at two a.m. to get slurpees. This is no time for maudlin.
But Chad’s gotten laid twice in a row and his words are crusty. He spills most of his drink on his airwalks. He won’t remember shit come tomorrow’s sun.
“Yeah,” Jared says, ears ringing with it. He bought the cotton candy flavor for Jen. “Guess so.”
There’s a consignment shop near the Mexico border that Jason wants to stop in at.
The outside’s earned the charm of years of overlapping graffiti, and a few mounted animal heads adorned with garish items sprinkle the doorfront. A chrome pink tiara on a jackalope, the craft store gold glitter unicorn horn glued above a brown trout’s marbled eyes.
Jared slums the junk aisles, picks through the VHS tapes to see if anything good’s there. Not much. He ends up only getting a couple of weeping virgin statues and a big spool of black cord to rethread his boots with.
Adri spends the outing showing the cute cherub girl who’d been on register how fast a drummer’s wrist can go.
Jensen looks like he’ll just burst if he doesn’t, so he tries on an old bridal veil that he digs up from the hat bins. Embroidered roses, haphazard tulle all over the place and it looks like it might’ve last been worn when Jeff Morgan was still thumbsucking in the womb. It smells like Skoal.
“Bonita,” Jared says, just passing by, wearing a groom’s grin.
Jensen, because he’s got the spirit of a sweetheart in him, gets that ‘just rubbed cream blush all over his cheeks’ look.
The little thing’s done a 5 boy daisy chain with a calm and sure mouth, unflappable, and still one unexpected compliment from Jared can turn him all the way inside out, a pile of girlboy pink innards. It’s like G rated gore.
Warm in his veins, he leaves Jensen standing in front of a Playskool vanity looking like a strawberry. His freckles float like little golden seeds.
Momo buys a vintage harmonica. He’s a big James Cotton fan.
Nobody asks what Jeff was doing in the children’s clothing section, or why he’s wearing a Catholic confessional smile.
“You runnin’ butch now?” Chad says, eying Jensen’s stash at checkout.
It’s piled up with $2 tees in baggy, overlarge shapes. Jensen sniffs, rolls his eyes. He’d rather die. Crop tops and mascara 4 life.
“I’m making something. Don’t look.”
He turns out his pockets and pays for it all himself. With real, earned cash, too. None of the sugar money Jared tries to line his backpack with. (“I heart you for free,” Jensen giggled once, just once, hell-high on crushed up snorted tablets. Jared can’t think about that night a lot.)
And when they leave, Jensen spends all of his spare time butchering up his purchases.
They’re all graphic tees, from what Jared can just barely see, because he might try making babies with a baby but when Jen says don’t, Jared doesn’t.
They’ve all got bad habits.
Tooth rot, arm scab, fuck-you-to-death cravings. Dependencies, for some.
But Jensen’s peculiarity comes in the form of checking his calendar with a clockwork aggression.
It’s not a big deal, Jared decides. Not when he thinks of all the other little sparkleboys Jensen’s age being herded off to church camps, expected to take part in kneepad-helmet recreation against their will, anything vaguely threaded with affection suffocated out by the birth right bro code.
Jared catches Jensen pressing a thoughtful finger to a certain date, counting something off in his head, and then scribbling a secret note for himself on a different date, and Jared feels OK about it.
Until Jeff clamps down on the back of his neck all scolded pup, catching Jared catch Jensen.
Jeff laughs, an ashy no-sound sound. “Just wait til he starts wanting sex only on ‘calendar days’.”
“Fuck off,” Jared says weakly, head wool woozy from the thought of not getting his promise of nightly pussy. When Jeff goes, his un-laugh echos off every twist and bend in the road.
Jared feels his body drain itself white, stricken. That wouldn’t happen.
“No, it won’t fucking happen,” Jason says, an hour later, placating. “Your missus is a dickslut.”
He rubs a knot of dread out of Jared’s shoulder. Even if he maybe wants to, a little, Momo doesn’t laugh at him. He wears a grin that’s kind at the corners, and leans in.
“But maybe go test the theory if you want, I dunno. Today’s a No day, yeah? See if he turns you away?”
Jared nods. Everything sounds like a new, good, great idea when you’ve had six hits of Jason’s favorite strain.
He goes to find Jen, who’s messing with the button maker machine Gen leant to him, taking care to get the pink pig faces centered in the circle. He’s got a movie on, too. Jared asks what he’s watching.
“Showgirls,” Jensen says, bubble gum bliss. “It doesn’t suck.”
Five minutes after that, Jensen’s clutching the impossible span of Jared’s shoulders and making babygirl noises. Softwetdeep. Momo sends Jared the pregnant chick emoji in a text.
Jared’s bitch almost gets them yanked from an outdoor show near Phoenix.
He gets in a small brawl with a pair of cunty miscarriages who are only there for the other bands, being loud and derisive about how “pig guitarist couldn’t even tune Dimebag’s amp” and security finds he has weapons on him, brought in from outside.
Jensen sits at side stage for the rest of the show, sending catty looks to the girl and putting a curse on the boy between songs, probably.
It’s not really true anyway, what they said. Jared’s a murderer with his axe. If this was still prime Kurt Loder years, he’d already have had his own blurb in Rolling Stone. Whatever.
And even if they’re right, Jensen’s not sitting on Pantera’s dick, so. Once a band aid, always a band aid. Jensen is every girl at Woodstock ‘69 who threw her bra to the mic stands in tribute to a one-night-only love.
“Let’s just try, okay?” Jensen says. It sounds like please.
His tiny red-nailed toes curl excitedly, like they do when Jared does that thing with both tongues.
Jared’s almost just past the point of pillowed walls to mash his cranium into, institutionalized when it’s proven at last that there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Jen, no line he wouldn’t blur.
“Let’s try it, Jared,” Jensen says, because he’s all about percentages and even the slimmest chance. He’s got more dedication than a budding flower pushing up through cold concrete.
Jen only took Biology for a few months but he’s big on development theory. He’s been probing online articles.
They’ve got thick towels and big, black, body-hiding garbage bags spread out on Jared’s mattress.
He remembers the sort of shit he was into when he was Jensen’s age. Cannibal Corpse and noosing shoelaces around his balls. Jared’s not the judgy type.
Jared nods. It already wants to come out, a little. He clutches the tip of himself while his legs shake with the pain of holding.
Having to piss and wanting to fuck are excruciating coupled together.
Jensen’s gloryholed open, creamy and agape, face kissing the pillows, ass up like a heart shape. They’d had thorough missionary sex for an hour. Jensen said it could increase odds. He looks like if you touched him, your fingers would come away with a fever.
“You gotta go?”
Jared’s been able to feel every pore in his body for the last twenty minutes. His bones feel scabby. “Yes,” he grits.
His belly’s biting with the 6 pack of 20 oz. Big Red bottles that Jensen gave him to chug.
“Okay, just.” Jensen’s kisser is all fat from constantly licking at it, peeking over his shoulder at Jared, at Jared’s hanging dick.
“Just start going, a little, and then,” hottest little cherrypop sigh. On the first splash at Jensen’s tailbone, he says, hands holding himself spread, “put it in.”
Jen had read something about sperm being found in urine, some sort of sad medical issue.
It’s fine, Jared doesn’t need an excuse to do it.
Using the world’s most beautiful boy for a private toilet bowl is satisfying enough on its own that it makes him double over, collapsed on Jensen’s back while Jared releases into him what feels like one of God’s floods, so like an orgasm that it makes Jared jerk like something caught on a hook.
To come back to a soft stunned voice beneath him going, “oh god, I can feel it, I can feel it, Jared,” to reach down and rub Jen’s tum, find it feeling four months along, a low little bump under his innie, Jared catches himself sharing Jensen’s delusion, wondering if maybe … maybe baby.
“Big news,” Jeff says, a couple of cities after Mesa.
Jared finishes tying his hair up, snaps the red rubberband once for security. This feels like it’s gonna be a triple cig convo.
It better not be about missing runaways or Have You Seen Me? posters in mini-marts.
Jared digs up a pack from somewhere. Not his brand but he’s a gutter kid where it counts. Scraps can mean everything. Jeff colors the tip for him, tosses the communal lighter back near the stack of fast food napkins.
“That was Manns.” Nods at his phone. “It’s not gonna be today, not tomorrow. But how do we feel about radio play?”
Jared’s been leeching on Reds and menthols since he was ten years old and creeping into his dad’s garage stash and he almost sucks the stick into his left lung.
That’s probably the reaction Jeff was pushing for, fucking bastard. He grins like every devil in every bible and takes a sip of Casa Noble.
“Who the fuck is gonna play us?”
Any place named after a Wes Craven creation is somewhere they’re gonna put the bus in Park for.
It’s a small tattoo emporium that also sells vials of frankincense and snuff spoons in a little corner. The whole band gets 30% off when they namedrop Gen Cortese. Jen gets an extra 10% cuz he’s cute.
The pink-haired Jane Jones girl who transforms his nipples into actual hearts with her tattoo gun has a thing for Jensen as soon as he says hi. It’s futile and fleeting and she refreshes Jared’s knuckles for free when she sheepishly realizes what’s what. “Oh. Oh, fuck. Sorry. Uh, you two are really beautiful together…”
Jeff roars like a grizzly when Jared’s face goes perfectly mortified.
They like the place, though. They all leave The Last Shop On The Left with something new and/or shiny on their travel-tired bodies.
A 17 year old that Jeff sticks his dick in on occasion has a sister that grows her own magic shrooms.
Her birth name is Ziggy and she wears stripy tube socks with her birkenstocks and small clumps of flowers in her hair. She calls herself a freefall nonconformist, hardcore loves boba tea, and doesn’t mind getting fingered out by Adrianne. Or Momo.
She’d brought some of her garden on board and Jensen’s being whimsical because of it.
He’s already covered reincarnation, giggled himself to fits, and grown somber over Tupac’s genius.
Jensen says, “I used to imagine kissing you,” when Jared already feels upside down. Jared’s still seeing colors of pinks and purples where there aren’t any.
“In school,” Jensen says, tugging on the loops of Jared’s snakebites. “Like at my desk. Or at home. In the car. In Danni’s parents’ bed when they weren’t home. My binder was collaged up in torn out pics of you.”
“I’d think about you so much,” Jensen says, doesn’t blush. He doesn’t know to be embarrassed.
The bus tumbles over a series of plastic speed bumps and Jared says, “Just kissing?”
His built in bunk shelf used to be lined with stolen library books and extra packs of Ernie Ball strings, handwritten thank you/I love you/goodbye notes from boys he’d never see again.
That stuff’s still there, minus the starfucker letters, but now it’s also filled with tubes of glitter gloss and fake diamond anklets and Jensen’s cutesy collection of bebichhichi dolls.
“No.” Jensen smiles bigly, smacks Jared’s naked knee like Jared’s being dumb, instead of dangerously close to the edge of something. “I wanted to know how your dick tasted the first time I saw you on stage. At Dead of Summer Fest? But kissing’s where it really started.”
It’s not just Jared’s squeals-on-wheels bedroom that’s changed. It’s his life.
Ziggy’s mushrooms are hitting way, way too hard.
“Cuz.” Shrug. “Kissing’s special.” Jensen loves Pretty Woman. “I just wondered, that’s all.”
Getting your tongue cut in half is nothing compared to splitting your own heart in two, Jared had decided, the night before he finally let himself talk to that honey looking kid that was always hanging around the tail lights after each show, Jared drunk on his beauty before they’d ever even met.
Ordinary places are the ones that make Jared feel the most uncomfortably extraordinary.
Like the picnic areas at rest stops where 2-parent 2-kid families suck salt off their fingers and leash up their purebred pets for a stroll. The kind of people who, whole feet shorter than him, look at him like he’s something to crunch under their boating shoes. Eww, is it dead yet?
Not yet, Jared thinks, superior, grieved.
Probably have good media headline names, too. Banana Republic white people names. Richard Ramirez victim names.
He retaliates the animosity by fucking a darling faced boy in the wildly echoing small brick alcove just behind the tourist pamphlets and the informational plaques, and has to carry the boy out in his arms when his little Barbie legs are shaking so bad after he sobbed Jared’s name three times when he came.
Banks are weird too.
Between his scowl and his growl, and his body covered in hell-black ink, neck to arms to knuckles, they always peg him as Someone To Watch. Like he’s gonna hold the place up, or couldn’t possibly have enough money to open up an account with their esteemed establishment.
He feels like the hooker in a Rodeo Drive boutique a lot. A lot. Jared hates ‘people’ kind of people.
It’s why he does all his banking online.
It’s easier to just do life from afar.
So when he finds himself in aisle 22 in the pharmacy section at a Target in Tucson, squished between the One a Day multivitamins and a professional housewife type reaching around him to snatch the last box of her figure-helping laxatives, Jared feels wet at the armpits queasy.
He doesn’t do big business corporations. He prefers his slimy food trucks and co-ops back home.
For a nonfluctuating reason.
It’s 4:39 on a Monday afternoon. This is how to make a grown man barf himself.
But Jensen’s down at the end of the section, chewing one perma-fat lip and comparing boxes, turning labels over and over, putting one down, picking another up, frown so spoiledly upset.
Jensen in his red fishnet half-shirt, his Docs and ruffly socks combo. Lip shaped glasses pushed up on his head to keep his hair out of his face. A string of blonde falling down against his cheekbone anyway, rebellious as he himself. Maybe there are worse places Jared could be.
He’s quiet as a milk-full kitten when Jared reaches him, when Jared puts a hand on his skinny bare hip.
Jen startles but stays stoic. He’s fighting a bloodrush to his face, Jared can tell it easily by now, and he looks so good and so young and so Jared’s that Jared feels his stomach cramp with how much he wants this kid.
“Gettin’ somethin’?” he says, just to prove to himself that he can still use his throat.
Squirm, fidget, right boot pressed coyly on top of left boot, combat Lolita. Jen squares his half-formed shoulders, hardens his princess voice to Queen. “Maybe. Maybe, yeah.”
Brave, determined; daring anyone at all to fuck with him. He always has his lipstick knife on hand.
Jared knows only minimally about this sort of stuff but crap like Clearblue and First Response is self-explanatory. So’s the printed text talking about fertility and monitor, and when he looks down at Jen, when Jen looks up at him, Jensen looks like he was born of poured cement, like nothing in the world could knock him down. Nothing except Jared.
“Mm,” Jared says, passive. He presses his nose to Jensen’s hair to get at that thick sweet scent of him. Lavender baby shampoo, body sprays that smell like slices of summer fruit.
Jensen sighs. He picks up a lower tiered box.
“This one’s six bucks.”
It’s the store brand. He’s probably thinking about all the coins in his change purse. Or if these things have censors.
There are make or break moments that exist if you can catch them and they only last for a blink, a spare second between think and go. The finicky space of time from a fist thrown to a brass punch landing. When your first boyfriend says three small-huge words to you and you hesitate, wondering if you should say it back, if you’ll seem uncool or desperate or if he’ll be bored of you the instant you repeat it. Jared had said it. Jared’s not a pussy.
Move or get a rearranged grill.
Jared gets another of those moments, in the family planning aisle in a Super Target where they only stopped because Chad needed popcorn flavored jellybeans and Adri ran out of mouthwash.
It’s easy to walk away. It takes next to no effort to detach himself from what started out as his hottest groupie and go find a bottle of something that passes for hard in this watered down consumerist hole, forget the potential for ugly humiliation in the prettiest eyes he’ll ever see.
Jared’s always been great at breaking pretty things.
Instead he picks up one of the digital readers. It’s $35.99. It doesn’t use + or — symbols.
“This one’s got happy faces.” His voice fades, adam’s apple clicking. Jared can feel his heartbeat down near his liver. If Daniel could see him now, would he smile? “It’s more you.”
Everyone always thinks of Jensen as a lap poodle, and it’s true. But only Jared knows, selfishly, hotly, that Jenny’s got the bite of a K9.
When his teeth are in, he’s not letting go ‘til you rip his head off. Jared’s Jensen doesn’t fracture easily.
Jen’s eyes are shining under the halogen ceiling lights, now, so Jared puts the pregnancy test in the little red shopping basket at Jensen’s feet. Moment caught.
Jensen’s knees knock.
It’s been ten years and a hundred million miles since Jared’s felt this wasted. This dick drunk, this fucking eager. It nags at him, but he manages to snuff it out smoothly, the gnawing unease.
For a while.
Jeff’ll tell him later, on a cherry cigar exhale caught somewhere between pitying and proud, “boy, that’s one of the earliest symptoms.” Of a disease Jared never thought he’d catch again.
I wanted to make my parents happy and get an A in Home Economics, but boys and rock and roll had altered my priorities.
Pamela Des Barres wrote that, and Jensen Ackles copied it word for word onto the inside cover of his used, abused, and love-confused notebook. A crusader of sex, music, and backstage breeding and Jensen thinks that, although he’ll never know her, she’s his fairy ho godmother.
When they pull in behind the Rainbow Lounge three hours til set time, Jensen knots off the last thread of his design.
He gets a goodbye kiss and a tit-squeeze from Jared before the band heads out to talk to the club owner and shoot premier smack, probably.
Sound check won’t be for a while.
Jensen puts his garments on as sensually as a stripper takes hers off, and getting dolled up for a show always gets him a little wet in his short shorts. Deciding if he’ll go with bare legs or battered nylons. If he’s feeling nu metal or kinderwhore. Doing something adorable with his hair.
Jared enjoys the pigtails the same way he enjoys Jensen’s ears.
He goes with shimmer hairspray for tonight’s gig, swipes peach lipgloss on his born-swollen mouth.
Finishing touch is his handmade masterpiece, the revamped vest he’s bled at the thumbs working on. He tugs it on against his bare back and hurries out to help Chad unload the gear.
“Aww yo, that came out fuckin’ sweet.”
Jensen’s just stood up again, holding Jared’s guitar case to his chest, right to his fucking heart. It’s almost bigger than him. Jensen smiles like he’s just been nutted in.
“Do you like it?” he says, three notes too high, and anyone else might think he’s flirting with Fuckpig’s mankiest roadie.
Jensen’s just a brat and talks with his eyelashes a lot, one of the few good things his mama gave him.
“You kidding?” Chad’s got a smoke jammed between his lips popeye style, arms full of cables and part of a drum set. “I’m jealous. Why the fuck didn’t you make me one?”
“Cuz I’m special.” Jensen blows a smacky sounding kiss, resituating Jared’s guitar in his good girlfriend arms. “Plus you have to earn it. Master the cuntwrecker, get the ensemble.” He trails off, la la la.
The back of his customized white pleather vest says ROAD (HEAD) CREW in what looks like magazine cutout letters, ransom note. The front lapels are twinkling with spikes and studs.
It kind of took him a while to piece together and he’s chin-jut proud of it. His smile jumps off like bad techno when he sees how Chad’s blanching.
“What? No. Don’t even.”
Murray doesn’t do quiet. Not unless he’s wearing one of Jeff’s homemade gags.
“When!” Jensen tries to keep the whine on a leash, but, “Chad!”
Chad has enough animal dignity to look him in the eye at least. “Long before you came on board, I promise. And it was only two and a half times. Don’t worry about it, doll.”
Jensen’s not — he’s not worried. Gross.
He eyeballs Chad. “Did you swallow?”
“Oh, jesus,” Chad says wandering away, heading into the safety of the sweltering club. “I ain’t talking with you about this. You’ll just try to put a pillow over my face when I conk.”
“Ugh, so that’s a yes,” Jensen mumbles, kicking at a mashed beer can. Life sucks then you die.
He screams at Chad’s fleeing back, “Sucking on the tip isn’t called mastering!”
Big girl panties from now on, he reminds himself, lugging Jared’s other baby into the Rainbow Lounge.
The venue uses Minnie Mouse stamps to distinguish minors.
One perk of slow-boning the guitarist from the headlining band with no condom is that you don’t have to go through front door security. Even if he looks 11, no one’s gonna hassle him when he wants something that burns his throat worse than dick snot.
But they’re cute, so Jensen asks to get the hand stamps anyway.
He likes this place. Likes the glittering, crackling thrum of energy, the lust for sound in the air, the trashy neon lights, the spinning stripper pole in the middle of GA.
He likes it even more when he discovers the floor to ceiling pink wall in front of the restrooms that’s covered in signatures and V-finger tongue drawings and permanent marker declarations of luv.
He likes the place a little less, though, when the sound malfunctions through the first band’s set.
It takes fifteen minutes to get it back to solid but it pushes the schedule back and as it is, it’s already tight. There’re a couple of on-air DJs from satellite radio in house tonight and FP’s doing it big for their setlist. Jensen’s heard the talk. Jeff might cover Motörhead.
It’s exciting, course it is, but he hasn’t had a chance yet to do the new pre show ritual for Jared.
It mainly consists of a slimy throatfuck, kissing Jared’s fingertips like a virgin’s blessing, and very little else. But rituals are important.
Jared’s already said that they’re gonna hang out at the merch table when lights come back on. To sign autos and personally hand out their own tees, become IG hashtags.
Social media grows success stories, an old Proverbs once said.
Jensen’s been feline snarling his upper lip and filing his little nothing claws in anticipation of all the scents he’ll have to hump himself all over Jared, after, just to make dissipate.
All those facepaint overdose boys who’ll sigh like old school sock hops and get too close and too handsy and no, no, no. Jensen plays his anthem in his jewel crusted headphones, starts walking fast. Debbie Harry always feeds him big bravery.
He worms his way backstage where he belongs, not having to flash the pass hanging from his lanyard because event staff already knows who he is and who he came with and whose wad he’ll have blown in his pussy like a personal afterparty.
Jensen cracks JAILBAIT knuckles. He’s made Jared Padalecki come in under a nickel before.
“What are you humming?”
Jared’s not a sex-talker so when he says something, it feels really important.
“Blondie,” is maybe hard to understand when it’s spoken around a mouthful of porn cock, and all it does is make Jared jostle the 1100 watt subwoofer system stack he’s braced against and moan like mutilation.
He’s so beautiful with his pants down.
There’s crew and talent buzzing around behind them, getting cool bottles of water ready, hurrying out to tape set lists to the floor.
Jensen pulls off, a line of sugarspit connecting his glossy mouth to Jared’s weighted prince albert.
“My song,” he says, horribly shy.
Jared gives a critical hit groan, eyes like grey smoke plumes.
Of course he knows what song it is, because of course Jensen overplays everything he loves to shit, and of course Jared grabs him by his ears so he doesn’t mess up the hair and slides him back down onto his 10 inch pulsing heart, says “keep going.”
Some punx not dead looking kid won a meet and greet with the opening act, and it’s happening near enough that Jensen can hear the convo. But sorry, Jensen Ackles consumes cock like nourishment. Free peep show.
Three minutes and fifty-one seconds is what it takes to have Jared’s face creasing this time and a warm fat load burbling up on Jensen’s cupped tongue. I’m gonna be your #1, Jensen thinks, gulping thick and determined. Putting Jared’s babies in his tummy one way or another.
He does a slut strut back out looking like Barbie® Glitter Hair Doll, but the white trash version.
He made sure to peck all ten of Jared’s fingers before he zipped up and went stumbling to the stage door, hands exalted and ready to make a guitar scream.
They go on when the lights are null and nobody but the Front Row Hos even knows they’re on stage yet, opening with Felcher and making the room come alive like a cult.
He’s glad he didn’t wear a shirt underneath. The crowd is its very own beast tonight.
Feral for it, Jensen thrashes in the meat of the mob, sweating and swearing and losing three spikes on his vest in the birth of the pit and someone else gets the piss whipped out of them enough to lose a tooth by the second song. It’s metalcore as fuck.
Jared looks like the Patron Saint of 1994 Seattle, up there on stage.
Hair in a loose half-knot, something flannel tied thoughtlessly to his substance abuse waist. There are cherry burns on his hands and brutalized looking hickies from a little blonde brat boy vampired up his throat, standing out stark in the flashing purple lights.
Seeing his bruises on Jared now, here, is the equivalent of Jensen pinching his own thin nothing thigh.
By the time they wrap up with Coke Dick, Jensen’s hugging the barrier in front of Jared, sticky-mouthed, heart-eyed, and shaking in a way that’s got nothing at all to do with the FOH speakers. They’ve been together twelve weeks, today. Jensen’s out of his mind in love.
“We all packed?”
Jeff’s got an arm slung around something that’s probably still in JROTC, a hardboned baby face.
Jensen nods, playing tetris with the last of the band’s cases. Chad thumps Momo’s second bass, licks off upper lip sweat, yeh.
“Good to go then?” Adri’s plans involve a pretty knockoff Fallon Bowman waiting by the bus.
“Yeah. Yeah, just. Lemme.”
Jensen hurries back inside, the soles of his gunky red all-stars bitchslapping the floor at a run. He jacks a marker sticking up out of someone’s backpack purse, either gonna go with classic initials or a four line embarrassing poem about skinny boys over 6 feet tall, he hasn’t decided. He just, has a lot going on in his heart. His sneakers squeak when they stop too fast, rip rubber.
Jared seems shocked, a little, to see him here, but it dies quick. He gives Jensen the diablo smirk that always gets him on his back so easy. He’s just finished writing on the pink wall.
Jensen doesn’t ask can I see? Can’t stop his feet from pigeon-toeing closer anyway. And—
“You fucking asshole,” Jensen laughs, silly, breathlessly silly.
He loves Jared’s shit handwriting.
JENNY A. DRINKS JIZZ OUT OF SIPPY CUPS
That shouldn’t make him wanna weep like a bitch. It shouldn’t.
He hides it with sorority giggling, tucks himself under Jared’s stage-sweat armpit and it feels like the best acid trip when Jared wraps veined out arms around his tiny middle, rests his chin on Jen’s crown in front of whatever stragglers are left skulking, waiting to get a photo or a pick or an unthought ‘hey’ from Jen’s dude.
Just for fun, for shits, Jensen thumbs the cap off his pick pocket marker and adds a little ♡ under Jenny A., and under that, he tremblingly lets himself write Jared P.
Jared says nothing, but then, Jared usually doesn’t. He takes the sharpie out of Jensen’s hand and writes the date underneath. It looks very like a tattoo and feels acutely more inescapable.
When you’ve been sitting on dick since just before 7th grade picture day, you learn how to hold your squirts.
Someone pauses near the driver’s seat. Or it sounds like it, at least. Jensen’s not really of a mind.
“Whose g-string is this?” That’s Jeff. “Who couldn’t get ten steps on board before their panties fell off?” Proud daddy grin voice.
“Sick, I think that’s Chad’s.” Adri, taunty. “Oh, Jase, put it down! Don’t touch thaaaat.”
Momo isn’t squeamish about much. He’s definitely touching. “Okay, this isn’t even a g-string.” It’s funny to hear a man the size of a monster giggle. “They’re cotton 101 Dalmations?”
“Still probably Chad’s,” Adri says, interest waning. Everyone knows they’re not. Chad mutters a whatever passing by, knuckle thumps the bunks. The sound is near Jensen’s ear.
So is Jared’s mouth when he dips down and says “you dirty fucking whore” right against the side of Jen’s face, so so sweet sounding and said through a smile. Jensen gasps.
Jared’s all the way all-the-way in him. The bus isn’t moving yet and Jensen feels turbulent.
And there’s nothing he can do to control his premie O when Jared hikes Jensen’s legs back up onto his shoulders when they start to slide off from getting the shakes, when Jared grinds in deep, stays there, breathes chainsmoker breath against Jen’s lips and says, “Happy three months.”
Jensen leaks from a lot of places on this night and texts Danni all about it, about how he didn’t even think Jared had remembered, well and deep into dawn.
It’s in Las Cruces that Jensen decides to stop drinking like an alchy. And in El Paso, he swears off everything altogether. He knows it’s not, that he’s not, that he could never be—
But dreams are good to have. Dreams can take you places. A dream’s what got him this far.
Vitamin C, D, and B12 become his main consumptions. And water. And boyjuice. Those are givens.
“As long as you don’t start making us ‘emit harmful toxins’ out the windows,” Adri says, docking her last Kamel with a new one. “Do you, little boo.”
Jen’s brow lifts in a quiver. He hadn’t thought of that.
“No,” Jeff says. And that’s efficiently that.
Jared, half hungover, smiles warmly sympathetic from the sorriest end of the couch. He shrugs at Jen, hair matted to his face all doofy looking. And, oh god, Jensen wants to make a dozen babies with this guy.
Jared’s working on a song for their next album.
It’s not under wraps or anything but he’s also never been known for oversharing. Jensen doesn’t ask, because the idea of hearing no from Jared gives him phantom agony pains.
All he knows is that it’s called Local Midnight Angel and that’s only because he saw the rough draft sheet scribbles once, when he was digging around for the washed out, bear-shaped, repurposed honey bottle he likes to keep their lube in. There weren’t lyrics then, yet.
Jeff keeps calling it a ballad, even though there’s a ton of hybrid picking and shit that sounds bonecrushing even acoustic. Jared hisses his double tongue through his teeth and stinkeyes Jeff, but he keeps writing, keeps plucking, keeps having secrets unshareable with the one who shares his bed.
Jensen, young and pathetic, makes himself miserable wondering what it’s about. Or who.
Choco banana pocky is Jensen’s favorite.
It’s his go-to snack when he doesn’t wanna feel full like pudding cups make him, and they’re light and airy enough that he can eat them guiltlessly. Jensen likes banana anything. Duh.
He’s crunching on a pocky stick, thinking idly about stealing the TV remote batteries and taking his pink glitter vibrator into the bathroom to get some relief until Jared reanimates his corpse.
Jared fell asleep on the couch with his boxers crumpled around one knee and he’s still there now, middle of the afternoon, when Jensen would be in his Computer Applications 5th period class. Jensen’s been waiting all morning to get fucked. It’s a beautiful day for conception.
He hadn’t conscionably registered that he’d pulled down the blanket Momo covered Jared with last night until Adrianne wanders by looking for her kneeling lady bong and finds him dazedly admiring the sleep soft plump of cock resting against Jared’s thigh. It almost makes Jensen the lyrical type, too.
Always makes him hit the high notes, anyway.
“You got that look on your face,” she says, full scrutiny.
Jensen chews thoughtfully, not tearing his eyes away from Jared. Not for the world.
Adri groans, goes back to flipping up chair cushions and pushing aside balls of clothing with the side of her foot.
“The same gooey eyed shit you wore the night we met.” Something falls off a shelf. Jared’s breathing pattern doesn’t change. “I know what gone looks like on a girl.”
Lost and weird and kind of exposed, he’s hurtfully not looking at Jared’s beautiful cock anymore.
“When Jare wouldn’t stay and sign and you were all Tori Amos about it, like someone had just walked up and blew a hole between your tits. Remember?”
She doesn’t have to say remember. Heartbroken children don’t forget.
“You look at J like that every day.” Casual, maybe, but it makes Jensen’s eyes cut hard to the couch to see if he heard, if he’s awake, if he knows, too, if Jensen’s actually that laughably obvious, if. “It’s a good thing, dude. Don’t freak.” Jared snuffles. Stays dead.
Adri finds her ceramic girlfriend.
“I know you’re worried about what’s gonna happen after Waco. But hey, don’t be.”
He blinks three times. Because, yeah, she’s not wrong, fuck, she’s very not wrong.
“That’s why you were asking Mo about sleeping bags and how big his living room was, yeah?”
Jensen is best with his mouth open but he can’t say anything now.
Jensen’s hard cringing at being so blatant, throat filming with a small sweat.
Adri comes closer, a mercy, bends at the waist to level him right in the eyeballs, and quieter,
“Leave that side ho mentality on the road, k? When we park, you gotta let your nuts drop. Stay steadfast. He’s not gonna want you anywhere else but next to him. If I’m wrong, shit, I’ll suck his dick.”
She makes a barfy shudder and Jensen’s laugh whooshes out of him, teeny and embarrassed.
“Anyway!” she says, over it. She white-grips her bong and grins. “Please don’t try putting that pocky thing in Paddy’s dick hole. One Urgent Care visit per tour is enough.”
Odessa is rife with picketers.
With a lineup of band names that sound more like sludgy underground porn titles, it’s almost anticipated. Kind of nauseating, kind of flattering. Wholly, wholly amusing.
There’s a guy with a megaphone spouting some verses from Leviticus and punching his anti-homo sign in the air very wrathfully as the bus rolls up, GAY SEX IS DEMONIC.
It makes Jensen actually unseat himself off Jared’s cock and go peek out the windshield.
There’s at least fifty of them rallying together. Some brought actual crosses.
“Oh my god.” He lives for this shit. Public indecency laws were made for skanks like him.
Jensen uses his Betty Boop eyes on Jeff, who tells the driver, sigh, yeah, go ahead and stop here for a sec. Don’t take the key out of the ignition, whatever you do.
Jen finds a good spot up against one of the middle windows, climbs up on the bench and raps on the pane until a few of them turn to look, then more, and when he has a deserved amount of attention, he smiles cutthroat pretty and turns around, presses his pierced up taint to the glass.
Reaches back and opens wide. He was always a favorite at the dentist.
He licks the corners of his mouth, halfway to purring, watching Jared watch him, Jared still holding his own frothy dick in a fist, just toying, waiting for Jensen to be done with his fun time.
Let them eat cock.
The muffled shouts all outrage and condemnation outside spur him to stick a finger up inside himself, play around in there for a bit. Just for a bit. He hums happily, and then waves goodbye when the wheels start rolling again.
“Sorry,” he says, when he’s wifed back up on Jared’s dick. “I just can’t resist that shit.”
“I know,” Jared tells him, kind, goes back to filling him full of demons.
They don’t hear back from the radio program director whoever whoever until almost the last stop.
The DJs in attendance had a hard on for them. Called them gritty and satyric and the kind of music that makes your nose bleed. Or at least that’s what Manns said. And he waters things down a lot, so. It feels huge.
FM radio is too pussy to play Jensen’s favorite band but they might find a real home somewhere on XM. Maybe soon, maybe never. Nobody wants to jinx shit, but everyone’s kind of hoping for the Octane channel. Possibly Liquid Metal.
Corporate has some concerns about saying comeguzzler on-air, though.
It’s still too far away to really think on in for real terms but the first feelers have been put out there at least.
Being in a band means you get to privately fuck with your BFFs in public.
Like that one time, in the very beginning of Jensen’s memoir fairytale, when Jeff signaled something to Adri and the next minute they were elbow-punch deep in the middle of a Tommy Tutone song with a stunned Jared dragged along to pick up some thirty seconds in and start playing too, forced into background vocals with pinking cheeks like a cabbage patch doll.
Jenny Jenny, you’re the girl for me.
So Jared’s not expecting it again and, jesus, neither is Jensen, when Momo switches to his flame guitar in Sweetwater, Texas and cancels out Jared’s opening riffs of Load It Up and hammers in on something from another scale of different. The non-Jared members join in quick.
Jensen never thought he’d ever hear Jeff Morgan do Ace of Base, is all.
A minute in, a minute of Jared standing there with eyes darting around confusedly and not doing anything but standing on his side of the stage with a frown in his beard, Jensen realizes they’re messing with both of them. Jeff’s singing about a girl who wants a baby. Jensen LOLs.
They don’t play it the whole way through, no synthesizers and no sax, and a crowd that came for fat lip hard hits, but Jensen bangs his head and sings along anyway, new-mom glow.
It’s all that he wants.
“Even got ‘em on your dick,” Jared says, teasing. “Very cute.”
Jensen hasn’t had a drink or a drug or a drag in nine days and his head’s achingly clear when Jared unearths his smile, not the stillborn thing most people usually see, and not his grin-and-bear-life stock image amusement.
It’s not even his screwing smile, just after he’s come a gangbang’s worth.
“There’s this one and this one and this one.”
Jared runs his decorated fingers over Jensen’s dick. He makes it blurt out a drip.
“Jared?” Shaky, unsure.
When you got a crush, everything has the potential of hurt.
Jensen hated his freckles, for a time, when he used to get elementary teased, all the chicken pox taunts. Just before his enlightenment. Learning how young and — celibate they made him look. The sudden awareness that all of the poor registered sex offenders in his neighborhood were in a constant state of starvation, eating their own hearts out every time he passed by. Prime pedo bait.
Of course he has them down in his secret spots. He’s beautified with them everywhere. Eyelids, belly, cute ones right near his cunt. He’s never had more than mild consideration for his dick frecks.
But when Jared, soft, counts them like a galaxy, Jensen sees full color stars.
They’re in a half-lit Super 8 motel room and Jared’s petting him.
He’s got his panties sitting at the tops of his thighs where Jared nudged them down and it makes him feel good, feel like the town tramp. Like he doesn’t know how to properly close his legs.
Jensen sends a thank you out into the universe for little miracles like Jason and Adri needing somewhere big enough to house a dressing room’s worth of topless dancers. Jeff’s next door with some long-haired, pale-bodied boy. And Jared’s different when they’re alone.
“They’re nice everywhere.” He kisses the bitty bump on Jensen’s nose. “Here.”
Crawling the collarbone, practically clandestine. “Here.”
Both ears of course, one for each, kiss kiss, bang bang.
The prominent one sitting pretty right in the center of Jenny’s bottom lip. Jared lingers there especially long. Jensen’s used to come baths and the asian cowgirl and being a walking jizz stain. He has no idea what to do with this.
Sex with Jared is beautiful even when it’s disgusting, maybe because it’s disgusting. But this doesn’t feel like that. It doesn’t feel like anything Jensen’s ever done before — and that needle spikes his pulse.
Jared doesn’t roll call the last one and Jensen forgets to listen for it anyway.
His feet go scrabbling at the bed, toes spreading out in alarm when Jared slips further away and stops with the top of his chest pressed to the crotch of Jensen’s soaked panties. He smiles into Jensen’s pubic bone, noses at the clean lines of the Beat It Creep ink that lives right there.
“Jared. Jared, what,” ragged, “what are you doing?” His thighs almost slam shut when Jared delicately takes Jensen’s cock into his mouth and starts sucking.
Crosseyed, Jensen gets out a sobby, “no, I can’t, I can’t,” because. Because Jared hasn’t—Jared doesn’t, and Jensen’s beside himself with what’s happening, nothing makes sense. It feels like Jared’s tugging his heart right out through his dick.
Jared’s molested him a thousand different ways on a hundred different nights but he’s never done this.
I’m going to love you forever, he thinks, when he no-warning comes in Jared’s mouth at the end.
Back on the bus, Jeff throws something small and square at him.
Jensen’s preoccupied with one of his lucid fantasies, the one where he’s standing naked in the middle of a cornfield, wearing yellow crime scene tape like a scarf. Jared’s always the perp.
The box lands in Jensen’s lap. He stops absently stroking Snowball’s tufty tail.
“Worth a shot,” Jeff says, a blend of awkward and altruistic. He doesn’t stick around.
TTC by Astroglide uses a photo of an infant straight out of a subscription motherhood magazine. Jensen feels dried up and leathery, like he hasn’t had a smoke since the last blood moon.
He could super use one now.
The box rattles a bit and he finds it full of little pre-filled turkey baster looking things. Some sort of sperm friendly lube applicators, adjusted pH levels.
Jensen needs to snort something potent for this shit ‘cuz it can’t be what it sounds like it is. He flips the thing over in his small hands. Formulated for couples who are trying to conceive.
He’s not sure if he wants to hit or hug Jeff.
Scooping his hair off his neck and putting it up in a teensy pony, Jensen runs barefoot all down the aisle til he finds Jared at what’s lovingly dubbed the crack pipe table, greasy headed, changing out the beaten up strap on his guitar to a new pink one with red lip prints on it.
Jason and Adri are huddled near, all three discussing the merits of scarification vs. branding.
“We need to try something,” Jensen says to Jared, wild. Right here even, maybe. He’s unzipping Jared’s two week unwashed jeans before he’s done talking, picturing a tadpole with mercury eyes and dimple dots in the cheeks.
Jared likes magic tricks.
That’s one of the secret things about him that no one really knows.
But Jensen knows it, because more than he’s Jared’s favorite wet hole, he’s his real good boy. And more than Jared’s his highest quality fuck machine, he’s Jensen’s friend.
Spellwork, vodou, even the lame crystal ball carnival readers. Jared loves black art.
“Ever had a handjob with no hands?”
It makes Jared look at him like he’s being an asshole. Adorable.
“Really. Have you?”
“This about your amputation fetish again?” The birth of his smile will probably always be a scarce thing. It’s thin, but there.
“No,” Jensen says, bratty mope. “Shoulda never told you that crap. God.”
A bird shits on the window and Jared grunt-chuckles at Jensen’s souring mood. “Don’t be a baby,” he says, plunking two fingers gracelessly down the back of Jensen’s shorts where he’s all swamp ass. “Were you gonna offer something?”
Jensen’s never been very good at putting Jared in any doghouses. “Yes!” Jensen exposes the tender pink of his belly too easy. “Want me to show you?” Bitch at heart.
“K.” Jared leans back on the sofa, smiling fuzzily.
It’s cheating, technically, but not really. Because he only uses his thumb and his pointer and Jared doesn’t call him on it. Jared pants up at the roof of the bus, mouth dropped down like he’s doped up.
Jensen keeps on with his fingerjob until the slit’s all runny, dragging sloppily through it, thumbing at the underside, focusing only on the wetdream head. It takes raw willpower from him.
‘Sex milk’ would make a good song title, he decides. He’ll mention it to Jared later.
Jared’s big when he’s soft, huge when he’s hard, and just — really threateningly thick in that perfect moment right before he blows. When his dick swells and starts flexing, born to fuck nasty.
“What the fuck happened in here?” Chad wonders, wandering by in the aftermath.
The couch is gonna need to get reupholstered soon and Jensen’s got goop in his eyebrow.
“Magic,” Jared says, haunted, still breathing kinda funny. Jensen buries a grin in Jared’s hip.
Jared Padalecki’s got a treasure box of ways to make a pussy weep.
They don’t all involve his cock — the thing that helicopters all by itself when he’s just tumbling out of bed in the morning, or his mouth — which never says he loves you but makes your spidercrawl skin feel like maybe he does, maybe for tonight he does, or his hands — huge and deathrow mean and so, so, so talented.
People probably cry and come at the same time just from being ignored by him. Jared leaves a lot of texts on Read.
But one of the quickest ways he’s got to kneel an entire room and get em damp where their body splits, is to do what he does in Abilene, a thing he doesn’t do everywhere.
They’re in a club that’s more a bar, the kind that’s probably got a special hole in one of the stall walls, but the place is at capacity and this is Vinnie Paul’s hometown.
People here might wear Ford caps like black tie, but they know what music sounds, looks, and sometimes tastes like.
Jared’s got on his scuffy green Doc Martens with the soles unflapping. He hasn’t shaved in a month.
When he turns his back to the crowd halfway through a B-side song that only original, there-from-the-demo fans know the words to, he sticks his guitar behind his head so the crowd sees the peeling Hello Kitty and Anthrax stickers stuck to it, and finishes the song out like that.
Most people in the audience, after final chord, are probably hoping he’ll give them a pregnancy scare.
At least one person for sure.
Jensen, up against a flyer-specked pillar, feels like he might start lactating from three spots.
He accidentally walks in on something he was never supposed to see.
Scary thoughts don’t come as often when you’ve got the calming arms of an executioner holding you soft while you sleep.
It’s more comforting than putting a chair under the doorknob and keeping a switchblade beneath your plushy pillow. That barrier between you and the thing that’s come to put its hand under the covers and touch you over the clothes and remind you shh, this is our little secret, okay? Shh.
Jensen wakes from a bad dream at four in the morning and the bus is quiet as a morgue. The body that lives beside him, usually, covered in more ink than newspaper obits, isn’t there.
Hasn’t been a thumbsucker since he discovered that’s what cocks are for but if Jensen grabs his teddy bear and humps it a little, mollifying, he’s the only one awake in the world to know it.
He leaves the bed still sleepyish, goes searching through the dark vehicle.
There’s a snore in every bunk, soft sleep lullabies coming from Jason’s. Momo likes ocean sounds.
Jensen’s nosy but he’s not intruding. On important things. Often.
But he knows the second he gets close enough to the L-shaped couch in the back and overhears a quiet murmur, that he isn’t supposed to be there. All the lights are off, the voice is dim.
But it’s Jared’s voice.
Jensen can’t just walk away; he can’t unroot himself. He once sucked a hogbellied trucker’s asshole for a hitchhiking ride to try to meet Fuckpig’s guitarist. Love makes you act weird.
Love also makes you stand there stiff in the dark wearing one of your boyfriend’s old Ibanez promo tees, your hair all a mess, your devotion choking at your throat, listening to him sweet talk someone else.
“You’re drunk,” Jared says, and he laughs. He laughs. He’s on the phone. “You know I fucking miss you too.”
Love makes people commit murder-suicides with trickling eyes and a steady hand.
“If you can find a way to get here, yeah. Quit being a shithead. Come to a show.”
His chest frissures. Jensen can’t go back to the freshmen hallways. Can’t go back to his parents’ Chevy Traverse. Won’t. But he probably can’t stick around here either.
“Obviously.” Jared’s tone shifts like a mood ring into solemn. “He’ll be there, too. Yeah, so?”
Is Jared, are they, are they talking about—
“Jensen won’t care.”
Jensen, who had internet print-outs of Jared’s lyrics taped inside the New Testament book his parents gave him for Christmas and made him read on Sundays, cares a lot.
And Jensen hollowly wonders over his being so minor and inconsequential to Jared’s life that Jared doesn’t even have to work around him, but just step right on him like old gum.
“Okay, one — fuck you,” the tenderest fuck you Jensen’s ever heard, “two — you’re not taking him to no fucking spa.” A near cackle. “Cuz I said.”
Jensen doesn’t say um out loud.
“Nah, no brazilians. Can you stop being a cunt for like half a minute?” Frustrated and fond. “Yeah, alright, yes. Cuz his pussyhole’s already smooth. Now you coming to see me or not?”
Nonpermissive, Jensen’s feet shove forward. His eyes peek around the accordion curtain.
There’s a flash of fresh-bleached hair, a ruby red mouth smiling, nursing a glass bottle. It’s Erica, it’s just Erica, oh, and Jensen almost slides down the privacy barrier shaking with relief—
“Shut the fuck up,” Jared says, smothering hiss. Not angry but like — like, afraid.
Jared’s facetiming Erica and Jensen can’t hear what she’s saying, not clearly, but it makes Jared hunch his shoulders in and scoot further down into the cushions. Just the top back of his head visible, the ratty knot of it. What scares Jared, the most macabre person Jensen knows?
“Don’t say shit like that. You’re embarrassing me, dude. Leave off.”
Erica bares her teeth on screen. She’s got new fangs installed. Jensen has to squint to see it, but he does, twisting the hem of his tee to try to read bright, overlined lips.
“I am not,” Jared spits, then seems to remember where he’s at, who he’s talking to. Dials back the venom. “I’m not falling in—” He stops. Like he can’t bring himself to say, to say.
Whatever Erica sing songs next, it makes Jared yank out his hair tie, run a hand through the thick mess. Makes him tilt sideways til he’s laying down, til Jensen can’t see him, makes him sound like he’s the one who’s fifteen years old when he says—
Something that Jensen never hears because he’s raced back to bed on a thief’s footsteps.
The deal was for Jared’s dick and nothing else. Jensen has never expected more.
Some songs are better when you don’t know all the words.
Whataburger is chicken soup for the Texas soul.
Whether you’re there for the lunch rush chicken strip sandwich or the late night cheesy taquitos, it’s a place reserved for reverence and worship. And to steal a table tent number for your years accumulated collection.
Chad sticks the plastic thing into his baggy pants when no one’s looking and Jensen sips on his chocolate milkshake like he’s Sasha Grey.
The late afternoon sunshine makes everyone’s facial jewelry glint. It makes Jared’s eyes look like an oilspill.
The southern fried smell fills the outdated dining area, in a town too small and grotty for a remodeling to be anyone’s most pressing issue, and a young mom walks in with a yellow rose tramp stamp and a baby on each jutting hip. She looks like she couldn’t buy wine coolers yet.
A toddler trails behind her, grabbing at the pocket hanging out of her denim cut offs, mom’s flip flops smacking the linoleum.
She’s got a bulimic body to go with her teen pageant face and when she tries to pay with her food stamp card, a dribble of chocolate cream clings to Jensen’s mouth, all his slurping forgotten.
“You okay there, gumdrop?” Jeff’s grinning at him. Jeff sees all.
Jared, who’d been snarfing his #5 no onions add avocado, is squirming on the bench next to Jen, holding his food in one hand and the edge of the table with the other, seized, eyes shut.
There’s a cock in Jensen’s grip, which is normal, but this time he’s not sure how it got there. Looks like he’d put down his styrofoam cup to palm at Jared under the table, trance like.
Jared’s hard now, because he’s dreamy like that, and he’s probably runny in his pants too, and Jensen’s still rubbing the shape of him, the obscene weight of it all thick in his hold, solid. Virile.
“We’re so gonna get thrown out,” Adri says, popping a fry in her mouth and her boots on a chair.
The handicapped stall is out of order but it’s moot. They don’t get past the hand dryer fixtures by the sinks.
“Yeah,” Jensen says, lip sucked between his teeth, brow folded in good hurt. “Yeah, do it,” he says, even though Jared’s already doing it, shoved up in him and mounting Jen to the wall.
Every time Jared opens him, it feels like rebirth. Jensen can see their reflection in the grease-smudged mirror. Employees must wash hands. Gonna have to mop in here, too, soon.
They look like they were meant to be together, Jensen thinks while he’s getting fucked brainless. Not like Olan Mills, but like Anal Gape Vol. 3.
“I’d have all of your babies,” he gasps, while Jared’s pushing into the soft pink of his body.
Jared pulls back to look at him. He’s only got his dreamboy dick out, pants sliding half down his ass, and Jensen’s boxcutter-shredded black daisy dukes are all the way off and dangling cutely on one ankle, twisted around his red sneaker.
“That what you want?”
Anyone could come in. Anyone. And 9 months from now, Jensen would remember this exactly.
He’d pinpoint it and say, that was the day it happened.
Furious nod, “god, yeah,” Jensen breathes, clawing a hand into the back of Jared’s shirt, curling his leg more securely to his waist. “Over and over. Don’t wanna be able to walk.”
“Just gonna keep having my kids?” Jared says, quiet, back to nailing him good and thorough.
Jensen’s back bounces up the wall and he flails an arm out for stability. Jared speed-fucks him and sucks high up on his neck, above the bondage collar Jensen likes to wear as a choker.
It makes Jensen whimper like a porn princess, hide his face under Jared’s beard, coming in throbby unrelenting gushes, shocked by it. First love can be so nauseating.
Jared has to take off his tee and walk out into the orange Whataburger lobby with it balled in a fist, shirtless, sex hair.
Jeff asks if he needs to get cigars ready.
Jen shuffles out in ginger little steps, asshole clenched against the squelch, not wanting to lose a single sacred drop. Jared gave so much of himself to Jensen. Maybe enough for twins.
In ATX, Jensen’s dolls and his makeup and his sneer faced attitude move from the bus to a crummy little duplex off Oltorf street.
Adri is the least sentimental motherfucker there and she doesn’t break face, not when the first stop after they roll into town is Jared’s place and he starts packing up all of his and Jensen’s crap. But she lifts a brow at Jen, punches him on the tit. It stings. And feels really, really good.
There’s still a lot to do between last tour and next. Practicing in Jason’s garage. Time in the studio. Regrouping the street team and performing at local basement shitholes just like the fathers of punk intended.
Maybe Jensen will take his GED classes, let his parents know he’s still alive. Or maybe he’ll just fuck a lot.
“Why are we here?” Jensen is standing under an awning next to a nail salon. There’s a pigeon nest above him. They might be mating. And Jared’s holding a flower. “Are you saying my polish looks shitty? I’ve been doing Danni’s mani pedis since she wore a training bra—”
“Shh,” Jared says, half-happy and half-annoyed. “You talk so much.”
Sulky, Jensen crosses his arms. Doesn’t take his eye off Jared’s gerbera daisy though.
Jared crosses the parking lot, stops near a curb. Invisibly leashed, Jen trots after him.
There’s a plaque in the ground, nestled amongst the rocks, and Jared says, “Wasn’t always a nail place.”
Jensen gets closer to read the names, trying to figure out if any sound familiar. They don’t. “Oh. Did you. Did you know these people?”
“Nah,” Jared says. He puts the daisy on the ground beside the memorial, next to some other candles and cards and sun-faded offerings. “This is where the yogurt shop murders happened. In there. 1991.”
Jensen looks back at the nail salon, squints inside. Like there might still be blood. Four girls would make a lot of blood.
When Jared doesn’t say anything else for a long time, for so long that Jensen worries he might have slipped away from his body again and gone somewhere else with the someone else that Jared never talks about, in his head probably, in his heart definitely, Jensen goes silent, too.
“Hey,” Jared says, nudging him. “What do you think?”
The quiver in his voice is almost imperceptible, if you’re not obsessed with his every inhale and exhale, the way his reptilian tongues catch and drag on certain sounds against his teeth.
Jensen shies a peek up at him, finds Jared’s eyes clear and in focus and with him. Right with him, tangled up in thorns.
“It’s,” Jensen says, swallowing a piece of candy shell from his lollipop. “It’s incredible, Jared.”
Jensen’s half-assed dressed in his Spitters Are Quitters crop tee and an underage bare face, three week roots growing in, unlaced boots over bare feet. Jared’s looking at him like he’s a love track on vinyl.
Jared brought him here to share this with him. This dark, weird, off kilter part of himself. With Jensen.
“Can we go inside?” Jensen looks at his nails. They’re kinda chippy anyway?
Jared rolls his eyes, looks incredibly juvie. “You’re such a bitch.”
He puts his hands on Jensen’s shoulders, crunches down, and kisses him on the mouth, zero tongue, in the soft gleam of a waning evening sun. The kind of kiss Jensen used to press to his magazine photos of FP’s beautiful, baleful guitarist.
Jensen feels like a murder scene, too. The contents of his heart are sprayed everywhere.
The bathroom in Jared’s place is just the way Jensen pictured it.
It’s a dude’s house, yeah, kinda grimy with its wastebasket full of beer cans and syringes, but it’s artful too, just like Jared. A hung wrong painting of the virgin Mary, sky blue wall tile.
There’s an old Sublime flyer taped to one corner of the medicine cabinet mirror.
“How long does this sort of thing usually take?”
Jared’s sitting on the toilet lid, swiping ointment on a new tattoo. A green fly in a spider’s web around his elbow. He didn’t have to be in here, Jensen told him, but he is anyway.
“Package says three minutes,” Jensen says, reading the pamphlet again even though he’s got the dumb thing memorized. He scratches the jut of his dick, anxious. “But I’m gonna wait five.”
He’s curled up on the black velvet smoking chair, thighs defensively up near his belly, his temple resting on his knees. He feels film noir. Black and white. He’s sad.
Jensen thumbs joylessly at the antique ballerina in her open music box, her face painted like a member of ICP. A definite ‘Chad was here’.
Jared brings him a bottled malt beverage and they share a line off the coffee table, nasals numb. Not like it matters anymore.
“Well,” Jared says, after a while. “I was breech.” He doesn’t touch Jensen, but he looks like he wants to. “And the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck.”
“Okay,” Jensen says, babyish, melodramatically being mean.
“Just saying. There can be a lot of stops and starts?” Jared closes his eyes and Jensen watches him do it. Night is starting to come in, the mourning moon casting him a pale blue. He’s really pretty. “Sometimes it can take a few tests, too.”
“Okay,” Jensen says again, but sunnier. He begs to see some of Jared’s baby photos.
“Tell me something romantic,” Jensen says, with the Human Centipede 3 on in the background.
It’s late, or early. Life is timewarp sometimes. Jared has to meet up with Jeff in the morning to scope out some locations for an upcoming shoot. They’re gonna look at an old crematory and an abandoned kiddie park that’s still got some of the old see saws and pastel-and-rust bouncy horses.
“Why,” Jared says, smeared against Jensen’s neck.
“Don’t ruin it. Just make something up, I don’t care. C’mon, tell me.”
“Great, I’m losing my boner,” Jared says, but he’s lying. His dick feels bigger than ever, inside Jensen. Jared pulls reluctantly out of him, a little, gives a hint of dimple. “Hmm.”
“Fuck,” he says, when Jared takes an age. “Now I’m losing mine, too.”
The pond of watery precome in his navel grows bigger. They’re both fuck-happy piece of shit liars.
“Okay, here.” Jared dances a couple of lover-like finger tips through the mess, writes sticky words and shapes on Jensen’s chest, where it’s crushing in the hardest. “In a room full of assholes—”
This is the worst pillow talk ever.
“—yours is the only one I’d wanna fuck.”
Jensen laughs, because he’s supposed to, twists the barbell in Jared’s nipple. On screen, some of the inmates are being butchered noisily. Jared’s really good at sex, but Jensen still would’ve settled for a lie over a joke.
The sheets rustle and bunch, fall further down the thinness of Jared’s waist where they’ve been puddled. Jared’s head bows between his shoulders, something unhinged sitting in the sockets of his skull, watching Jensen, and Jensen curls a hand in Jared’s hair, soothing.
Jensen Ackles would do anything to make sure Jared Padalecki gets off.
He knows what words like vore and snuff and erotophonophilia mean.
Jensen combs fuck-sweat hair off his forehead as best as he can, keeps his bad girl legs in the air so Jared can get at his good girl clench, savors these seconds. The weight of Jared on him always makes him gush like crazy, inside and out. It’s okay, he doesn’t need pink romance.
“Hey,” Jared says, brokenly, while he’s doing him. “I mean it, though.” The old wrought iron head board gouges at the wall. “Just yours, Jen.”
Jensen clicks off the film, turns down the lamp, smokes two in a row sitting at the window seat with his black manicure fingers twitchy. He stares at the outline Jared’s body makes in the blankets, his innocently upturned nose, only a straining streetlight from outside flickering in.
It didn’t sound like best pussy in the world. It sounded like only pussy in the world.
Jared doesn’t say much about much, wasn’t assembled that way. But when Jensen pays careful attention to the audio, Jared gives him full, detailed confessions. Jensen just has to hit record.