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The Apocolypse Is Upon Us (better write some pr0n) » Blog Archive » Texas State of Mind (CWRPS)

Texas State of Mind (CWRPS)

Categories:  CW RPS

Pairing: Jensen & Jared
Rating: Adult
Summary: Jared’s homesick.
Word count: ~3000


If you were to ask Jensen how they finally hooked up, if he were inclined to share that information, it would be a tale as big as Texas, just like all his stories, and would go something like this…Jared’s off-key vocals are the first thing Jensen notices when he steps through the wide, rough, wood-framed doorway of Pancho and Lefty’s.…good country music from Amarillo and Abilene,
the friendliest people and the sluttiest women
You’ve ever seen…

The small group of roughnecks and bar regulars gathered around Jared make noises of appreciation ranging from snorts and snickers to loud outbursts of barking laughter.

Jensen smiles.

Okay, he isn’t much of a Jerry Jeff fan, and anyone from Texas knows those aren’t the original lyrics. He also knows they’re standard issue in San Antonio.

He stands just inside the dark coolness of the bar and leans on the back of a scuffed up old barstool that sways precariously when he puts too much weight on it.

Jared doesn’t see him and Jensen takes a few moments to study, unobserved, the easy smile that follows him to sleep each night. He sort of wishes he’d joined Jared now when he invited him, but he knows mostly what Jared needed was to just drink and sing it out. Sure, Jensen gets homesick too, but when Jared starts missing home, it’s a whole different ball of wax.

Jensen misses sweet tea and BBQ ribs and lolling on the patio of his parents sprawling porch, jumping in the swimming pool every five minutes ’cause the humidity/temperature ratio is always 90/100. He misses the smell of the steaks his dad grills and the sound of his sister’s laughter, like comforting bells ringing at the church. Sometime he even misses going out with his buddies from school, piling everyone in his car and bursting on the scene of the latest club like a gang of frat boys high on money. Richardson isn’t exactly Hicksville when the medium income is well over $100k.

So, Jensen’ll get a little wistful, he’ll call down to the house and talk to whoever happens to be home for about four hours, then sit on the sofa and pick at his guitar until his fingers burn. The next day he’ll pick up all the empty long necks, clean the kitchen and everything’ll be okay till the next time.

Jared is more Texas than Jensen. Okay, maybe just a different kind of Texas. Jensen has always known that Dallas and San Antonio are about as different as Atlanta and Boston. But until he and Jared’d gotten so close that they shared clothes (well, t-shirts, mostly) and drank out of the same beer bottle, well, he hadn’t realized just how wide the gap was. And wasn’t.

When Jared gets homesick it’s like a fever. He’s pissy and pouty and Jensen wants to smack him up side the head and then pull his head down and kiss him stupid.

Over the last few months Jensen’s listened to Jared talk about the pork tamales he used to buy by the dozen in the Mercado, how the Riverwalk stinks in the summer and there isn’t a bar better for hanging and drinking and dancing than The Hanging Tree just north of his folks’ place. Jensen hasn’t been to Jared’s house yet, but he knows when he’s invited, it’ll be just like going home.

But a phone call and broody night at home won’t fix Jared. He needs to be around the kind of people that make him feel like he’s still got a little bit of Texas nearby and Pancho and Lefty’s is about as close as Texas gets to the 49th parallel.

The song’s repeating and Jensen can only guess how many times it’s played, but if Jared’s rocking right up next to the jukebox and the gestures he’s making while singing are any indication, it’s about time to give it a rest.

… Well, it’s cold over here
And I swear I wish they’d turn the heat on…

Jensen steps out of the shadows and moves toward the small gathering, skirting around two girls playing pool and a kid — who has to be underage — bouncing a pinball machine, and how he hasn’t tilted the son of bitch yet is a miracle, until he’s next to Jared.

That shit eating grin gets bigger, if that’s possible, when Jared spies Jensen and the volume of his singing grows louder and Jensen wouldn’t have bet that was possible at all.

…’Cause when a Texan fancies, he’ll take his chances…

Jensen finds himself singing the rest of the damned song with Jared and by the time they’re finishing the last chorus, Jared’s draped himself around Jensen and telling his new friends that this guy right here? He’s Texas and Jensen is unreasonably embarrassed and feels himself blushing hotly at the real affection he sees in Jared’s eyes.

And that’s all she wrote.

Jensen decides then and there that he’s tired of waiting for Jared to buy a clue and if he’s reading him right tonight, maybe there’s a bit more of Texas Jensen can give him than a long neck and a ride home.

They don’t so much stumble outside as sort of sway along to the tune in Jared’s head that he’s still humming/singing, albeit softly. Jensen’s fairly sure that won’t be in his rotation anytime soon. He can manhandle Jared into walking straight and getting right into the truck if he wants to, but Jensen’s feeling benevolent tonight.

This time Jared isn’t so maudlin about home. He’s just mellow and easy-going, having put himself in a Texas state of mind, thanks to the music on the jukebox, circa 1983, and about a dozen beers (Jensen wonders if they were Corona or Coors tonight). Thank God Jared didn’t carry his Texas obsession to the point of drinking Lone Star. He’d have to disown the boy.

Jared tells him he needs to come to San Antonio with him after shooting ends and he’ll take him armadillo hunting. Jensen makes the appropriately grateful noises expected of him and asks Jared if he wants to go home or back to Jensen’s.

Jared exhibits a moment’s melancholy and tells Jensen that’s not his home. His home is waaaaaaay south of here. Jensen decides his own apartment is the best bet tonight.

And just before Jensen pours Jared into the cab of his truck, he feels those large, warm hands caress the back of his neck and tug him in and he’s almost afraid to look into that boyish face.

“I love you, man.”

Yeah, he’s gone.

Jensen chuckles, ruffles Jared’s shaggy head and pushes him down so he won’t bonk his skull on the door. The loud grunt of the engine warming up drowns out the last verse of London Homesick Blues and Jensen decides it’s time to change tracks.

He doesn’t have a lot of country in his truck, but he jabs at a couple of buttons on the console and Kane’s mellow tones fill the cab. He always has one of Chris’ CDs handy.

The distraction works and Jared shuts up and stares at the stereo like he can see the music, but Jensen can tell he’s not sure about it. “Who’s that?” He wants to know and Jensen tells him for the fortieth time and Jared crows “Oh yeah!” Then settles back on the benchseat and lets go a heavy sigh.

He thinks Jared might have zonked out for a few minutes along the way, but when the truck stops at the curb, Jensen can tell he isn’t asleep. Jared unfolds his impossibly long legs and body out of the truck, stands on the damp grass, and stretches up to the stars.

Jensen thinks he can almost reach them.

Jared’s not nearly as swervy now and Jensen even suspects he wasn’t as drunk as he let on back at the bar. Maybe that made him feel like home, too.

Keys get tossed, jackets get dropped on the couch and Jared is headed for the kitchen. He’s rustling through the tiny pantry closet pulling out bread and peanut butter, then turns to the refrigerator to scavenge it. Jelly and milk join the rest on the counter and Jensen decides he’ll have a beer while Jared eats. He’s not sure how a tall glass of milk is going to sit on all that alcohol, but apparently the boy knows what he’s doing.

Jensen leans back against the kitchen counter, legs crossed at the ankles and arms over his chest, beer fitted loosely in one hand. They chat amiably and laugh loudly when Jared relays a joke someone told him at Pancho’s. It’s all so comfortable Jensen begins to doubt his earlier decision to kick things up a notch. He’d hate to ruin a perfectly good night – and friendship.

He’ll think about it while taking a quick leak. Jared’s already taken his sandwich and milk to the couch and is racing through the channels faster than Jensen can tell what’s on.

Standing in the dimly lit bathroom Jensen curses when he realizes that damn song is still in his head. He’ll have to think of something sufficiently evil in retaliation. Jared’s iPod is going to get fiddled with next time he leaves it alone with Jensen.

Well, I decided that I’d get my cowboy hat
and go down to Marble Art Station.
(Randomly, Jensen wonders where that is.)
‘Cause when a Texan fancies, he’ll take his chances.
Chances will be taken, that’s for sure.

He stops humming long enough to shake and zip, hoping that goddamned song has finally jumped the loop, and heads back to the sound of Jared screaming at the TV.

In true form, Jared has reverted to high school. Hockey isn’t exactly football, game of the gods in Texas, but Jared has taken a liking to it, thus he’s stopped flipping channels at the Flames/Oilers game. Jensen drains his beer, decides to get another before joining him on the couch, and has to grin when he hears Jared animatedly cussing at the ref’s decision to send a Flame to the box.

Jared looks up in time to see Jensen opening the fridge door and yells for him to grab an extra beer. Ok, now that’s just sick and wrong. Beer on top of milk on top of beer? Ew.

When Jensen walks in, Jared, with the short-attention span of the pleasantly inebriated, has dismissed the TV, having opted for musical entertainment. Thank the Lord Jensen doesn’t have any Jerry Jeff Walker.

“You better not have peanut butter on your hands, asshat.” Jensen walks over to where Jared is kneeling on the floor in front of his stereo.

“Dude! You call yourself a Texan?” Jared’s voice is full of playful scorn as he flips haphazardly through Jensen’s music. And before Jensen can respond, Jared holds both hands up, over his head, twisting them back and forth so Jensen can inspect them for peanut butter.

Jensen snorts and takes a healthy swig of his beer, keeping Jared’s just out of reach.

Most of the CDs are being banished to a growing pile on the floor to Jared’s right, with only two so far making the distinguished stack that will be played on his left, and one of those isn’t even Jensen’s but got left when Mackenzie came to visit last month. Jensen stands behind Jared who reaches blindly out for his beer, knowing it will miraculously appear in his hand.

“You keep judging my tunes and you can get your own beer, hoss,” Jensen says, negating the threat when he places the cold bottle in Jared’s open palm.

“Texas isn’t all country. Not all of us grew up on a fucking farm.” Jensen knows Jared didn’t grow up on a farm but that’s beside the point and Jared doesn’t even bother correcting him.

“Oh, yeah? Then why do you say ‘ya’ll’ all the time we’re not on set? Huh?” Jared has his head bent backwards, looking at Jensen from what has to be a very odd angle.

“It’s ’cause I hang around your sorry ass so much.”

Jared’s turn to snort.

The banter’s fun and energizing and Jensen’s feeling really good and really content. He leans to put a hand on Jared’s shoulder, who picks that moment to twist around, and awkward doesn’t begin to cover it when he realizes he’s chin to crotch with Jensen.

Jared’s kind of tilting, still on his knees, so Jensen does this move where he grabs Jared by the shoulder and just sort of drops to his knees too and, all in all, he thinks it was rather smooth.

Beer breath lingers between them and Jensen can’t imagine a better time to make his move.

“Just how close to Texas you want to be tonight?”

And damn if it doesn’t get easier, because Jared is leaning in, mouth slightly open, looking for all intents and purposes like a man about to do some kissing.

Balance is lost along with Jensen’s worries about ruining a friendship. Jared’s lips are moist with his last swallow of beer and his hands are warm on Jensen’s shoulders. It’s not all messy and sloppy like Jensen thought it would be, but rather timid and soft, asking permission.

“I thought I was going to have to be the one to start this,” Jensen’s murmuring the words against Jared’s lips while trying to inhale and catch his breath. But, Jared’s mind isn’t on anything resembling talking and he pulls Jensen back in and now that Jared can see he’s not getting smacked anytime soon, the kiss is getting down and dirty.

They both topple over, in spite of Jensen’s attempts to keep them upright. But Jared’s just a big boy and his weight pulls them to the left, where they list a few seconds before Jensen gives up and lets them roll to the floor, all jean-covered legs and heavy boots, with mouths working like catfish to resume the kiss.

Jensen feels a zing up his spine that literally has him lurching into Jared, hips grinding to the beat of manly grunts. They’re both guys, no mistaking it, and that means it’s down to business in .6 seconds flat.

Despite the thickness of the denim, Jensen can clearly feel the length and thickness of Jared humping in the crease of his thigh and when Jared places his palm over Jensen’s hard dick, it’s Katie bar the door, cause Jensen doesn’t think he’s come that fast since he and his female lead in Cannery Row caught a quick fuck backstage during intermission a hundred years ago.

All in all, the whole zipperless fuck takes about two minutes before they’re both flopped out on the floor, panting like dogs. How goddamned embarrassing. Jensen’s only consolation is that Jared was about ten seconds behind him with an orgasm that made Jensen wonder if he was ever going to stop.

Which reminds him of his own rather sticky state and he lolls his head to the side so he’s facing Jared and squints in the dim lamplight. “Wanna take a shower?”

Jared doesn’t even bother looking, just continues that pained expression he wears even when he’s not in pain but feeling really intense about something, and jerks his head in a couple of nods.

Finally, Jared does a loud, finally-caught-his-breath exhale and coughs once before heaving himself up and holding a hand out for Jensen to grab. When they’re both vertical, Jensen stares at Jared, mouth open. Jared just laughs with that goofy lop-sided grin and pulls him into his chest and Jensen is just about as content as he’s ever been with his nose buried in Jared’s neck. Except there’s that whole Hello! Cold, wet underwear thing going on.

So, he pulls Jared with him through his bedroom, and when he realizes there’s not room for both of them to maneuver in his tiny bathroom, they strip in the hallway, leaving jeans, socks, boots and three layers each of shirts on the carpet before sliding into the shower stall.

They knock elbows into ribs and once Jared’s chin makes an audible thump on Jensen’s head, but they managed to soap up where it counts and the inevitable happens again when hard-on meets hard-on. This time it’s Jensen kissing wild and nasty, slurping up the drops of water on Jared’s neck and chest just before biting down kinda hard on one brown nipple, and he just had no idea Jared knew how to talk that dirty and God, it turns him on. He comes to the squishy sound of Jared’s soapy hands pumping their dicks together, accompanied by his low-pitched moans of completion.

It’s easier to clean up this time, being already in the shower and all, and by the time they’re standing outside in Jensen’s bedroom, still dripping wet, there’s no hot water and Jared decides he wants to know what Jensen tastes like. Good thing the bed is only three feet away.

By the time daylight intrudes on their little love nest in the bed, they’ve pretty much run through Jensen’s repertoire and Jared’s still whispering notions in his ear that he would have declared filthy in his pre-LA days. But now? Now, all he wants to do is run down the laundry list of suggestions Jared’s making and damn, someone’s going to have to run out and get more lube soon.

…and that’s how those two Texas boys hooked up and it was all good from there.

The end

Notes: Pancho and Lefty’s is said to be the closest thing to Texas in the Vancouver area. Yes, it’s a real place. Since I’ve never been there, no doubt the description is wrong wrong wrong. If someone has been there wishes to correct me, I’d welcome it.

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