Wish On the Lidded Blue Flames by skeletncloset for <user site=

[springflingmod.livejournal.com]

Title: Wish On the Lidded Blue Flames
Pairing: J2
Rating: NC-17
Any warnings: homophobic slurs, small town mentality, excessive angst.


::
The trailer is muggy-hot and unpleasant on account of his mama and her boyfriend. Anticipating another fight between them-- another lie, another too-true accusation—Jensen makes a surreptitious exit. He knows his mama, better than anyone. The calculated helplessness of her face is meant to draw men to her, like men are moths to the shine of her honey-thick locks, her rosy bright cheeks. But the eyes she cuts to Jensen are the hard gleam of river pebbles, telling him, don’t’cha tell Billy nothin’. Telling him, make yourself scarce.

Jensen’s mama wasn’t meant for parenting. He heard it from her himself. Can see it too. Way too pretty for small town living, she says and it’s the God’s honest truth. She’s the sort of mama that takes to wearing real feathers in her hair and gypsy bangles on her wrists; as likely to walk out before every man Jack and every woman Jane in her daisy dukes as she is without them.

No shame in her. No room left with the devil in her like that, whisper townsfolk, looking, just looking always; dressed in Sunday best, white gloves and sunhats, creased linens and wing-tipped shoes. And her boy--spittin’ image of her. God knows what he’ll do. Fourteen years old, his mama was when she gave birth to ‘im. Hasn’t the faintest clue who the daddy is.

And no matter how many times Jensen asks in just as many ways, he still gets the same stone-faced, off-handed response from his mama. Which is totally unfair given the amount of persecution he goes through daily for and because of her. For the scorned and passive-aggressive, it’s easier to filter hate through their offspring, rather than sully their reputation in public with an uncomely display of unbridled jealousy. Proper Southern ladies don’t do things like that. They leave that up to young boys.

It’s no big deal, since the only person Jensen ever pays any mind to is Jared. If not for his mother’s wicked exploits and Jared’s precocious sense of morality, Jared and Jensen might’ve never crossed paths. Just as 9-year-old Jensen was about to have his ass handed to him, Jared, stranger to local traditions, came down on Jensen’s bullies with an epic molly whoppin’ from God. Didn’t stop to ask questions. Didn’t have to. Three against one is never warranted in a fair fight as Jared saw it.

Five years later and Jared affects Jensen much the same, maybe a little more. Because Jared is some kind of miracle. Some kind of gift. Has Jensen baring his lumbering, clamoring heart on his sleeve like a visible target. Has Jensen heat-flushed with shame, buzzing with joy—all sorts of things Jensen shouldn’t feel.

Jared spends Sunday mornings listening to his father’s sermon, soaking up frankincense and pumping out hymns in a sweetly husky alto for the choir. His afternoons are devoted to Bible study. However, Jared’s evenings are his to spend with Jensen.

Their spot is a twenty-minute bike ride from Jensen’s place. Surrounded by bald cypress and dead-grass, on the bend of a spring-fed stream, Jensen waits for Jared there. It’s completely out of the way, one of the few places Jared and Jensen can piddle the time away, unharried by the local boys.

After casing the place out and setting up, Jensen strips to his drawers and dips his naked feet in the water. Listens to the broken voices of frogs, the strangely electric hum of cicadas. Heat lingers on his bowed head, the avian span of his shoulders; the visible column of his spine. Jensen can all but see his freckles increasing like footprints in a game of demented fairy hopscotch. He decides it best to seek shade.

In the milk crate attached to his bike, he’s got two litres of water, a few ham and cheese sandwiches and most importantly boyfriend Billy’s mason jar of moonshine. On the ground is an army blanket the color of pencil lead and itchier than sawdust, over it, a simple white sheet to shield Jensen from the prickly wool. Except for one terrifying moment when Jensen thinks he’s going to regurgitate moonshine, he does pretty okay entertaining himself.

At some point, Jensen must have fallen asleep. He can tell by the long shadows on the ground that it’s close to five. His hair lies damp over his brow and cheeks. His skin is grainy with fine white dust. The sun has neared the horizon but in front of it--aglow and on fire like a moon in eclipse, Jared’s silhouette bends down and pulls his tee over his head, tosses it in Jensen’s face, slacks close behind. Jensen makes a sound that is pure displeasure at being assaulted by sweaty adolescent boy. Jensen can’t make out Jared’s features but he knows Jared is grinning at him, dimples deep and dark, pitiless as the rapturous curve of his lips, both holy and mad.

He kind of hates Jared for being so God-awful clueless. Hates the way Jared parades himself around half-naked even more. Honestly, it’s no big thing but because Jensen is as wicked as wicked can be, it is most definitely an issue to trump all issues. Especially hereabouts.

Because the only thing more vulgar than the neighborhood hussy and her bastard progeny is a cock-gobbling fag, which Jensen most definitely is. Without a doubt. And the cock he’d like to gobble belongs to Jared Padalecki, who just so happens to be the pastor’s son.

Jensen’s mama has got nothing on him.

Jared, oblivious to Jensen’s inner turmoil, leans right over him, nipples brushing against Jensen’s belly to get to the Mason jar. He sniffs it and takes a swig. His eyes squint and water, and his nose scrunches up in offense. “What the hell is this? Battery acid? No wait--Lighter fluid!” he gags. “Oh Lord, help me.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Jensen responds haughtily. “I don’t see you pilfering your Daddy’s wine cabinet.”

“Point,” Jared concedes with a gasp. Then because Jared doesn’t see the point in filling people in, he says something along the lines of “I finally did it,” or something equally mundane and painfully vague. Or maybe, Jensen missed the entire anecdote because he’d been too distracted by the unruly, dark hair growing from Jared’s armpits, the unevenly seeded pubes cutting down the middle of his belly-- scant but undeniably present, irrefutably masculine—to pay any real attention.

“Oh?” Jensen isn’t articulate at the best of times. While he’s always been self-conscious, he’s never been as much around Jared. The onset of puberty has not only rendered him an ungainly creature with long skinny legs bowing outward from him like a spider and a voice that cracks like a radio between stations, it has managed to kill the few remaining brain cells that had any sense.

He rubs his elbow, absently. “Did what?”

“Kiss her.”

“Who?” Of course, Jensen knows, however this is self-punishment. There is no apology Jensen can come up with suitable enough for his special brand of deceit.

Although, in his own defense he can remember a time when he noticed Jared no more than he noticed a change in weather or the earth beneath his feet. Which is to say, he’s felt Jared in a more offhandedly visceral way, tangible and intimate and unquestionably present every day of Jensen’s life since Jared has been in it.

Jared throws his hands up in the air. “Krystal. Wellborne? Remember?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jensen’s face heats so quickly his eyes burn from it.

Jared settles closer next to Jensen-- thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder--his bare skin making grand sweeping gestures against Jensen’s bare skin and stiff and scratchy sounds on the bed sheet. Jared runs hot, so hot it takes very little to set him off sweating, like he burns on the inside, like he can’t help but smolder and glow in a way Jensen will never be able to. In a way Jensen can’t understand, but would die a hundred deaths if he could in some way hold it inside for one brilliant, luminous moment.

“Do you think it means we’re officially going out?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her like a normal person?”

“What? And admit that I have any insecurities? Oh, hell no,” Jared wraps one lean, newly muscled arm--strung and corded and so very, very defined-- around Jensen’s shoulders,. “I must remain casually aloof. When you’re my age—“

“You’re nine months older—“

“—you’ll come to understand you must never disclose any weakness to the fairer sex. It’s like, suicide or something. Death by manipulation.”

“And you would know this how?”

“Real Housewives of Atlanta.”

Jensen’s eyebrows disappear underneath his hairline. “Your Dad lets you watch that?”

Jared smirks at him with an overconfident, if subtle, huff. “No. But--” he pauses for added effect, “what he doesn’t know, can’t hurt me or my social life.”

“So why are you telling me any of this?”

“Because you’re my best friend and best friends tell each other everything.”

Try as he might, Jensen cannot bring himself to mock Jared’s brazen declaration of affection. It means too much and not enough at all, all at once. Like his relationship with Jared. He’s stuck in an internal tug of war that has nothing and everything to do with hormones.

Unused to Jensen’s silence, Jared bumps his elbow. Jensen pointedly stares at his own naked feet, long and pale. The skin is delicate, not quite translucent but seemingly nebulous in the heat. It’s like that in all his softer places, all the secret bits unbaked by sun, those that hold none of the riotous, saturated color of full-grown desire.

Jared’s skin however retains the afterglow of sunset all over. The heat rations out Jared’s scent to the air like curls of hickory smoke to fill all the shadowy voids in Jensen’s small, insignificant life. Jensen is the opposite of Jared.

“Jensen . . .” Jared whispers and someone should have told him to keep his hands to himself because the contours of Jensen’s cheek fit flawlessly into Jared’s palm.

Might as well let the cat out of the proverbial bag and since Jensen has never been much for words, he leans into Jared’s hand, closes the round of his mouth over the tip-end of Jared’s thumb. There, Jensen tastes ash, smoke. The phantom nucleic heat of them on fire.

Their faces so close, their breath comes off as puffs of cooler air, relative to the afternoon heat, and Jensen shivers out in goosebumps, his body’s futile attempt to communicate everything Jensen cannot. Leaning back, Jensen brings Jared down with him, spreading his knees and laying him atop, front to front, touching everywhere. The terrain is new to Jensen, obscurely threatening. This Jared is new to Jensen and Jensen is both eager and hesitant to relearn him.

He searches for the Jared he remembers, and finds him. Here, a boyish ripple of ribcage. There, further up, between his shoulder blades, the bony protrusions of Jared’s spine. Jensen keeps his hand there, momentarily centered and pacified.

It’s uncoordinated and clumsy but they’re both unaccustomed to it. They know the basic mechanics, but lack technique. That changes, as soon as Jared closes his mouth over Jensen’s, pushing into him with his tongue until he’s deep, deep inside, driven by the crucial and brutal knowledge of the transitory nature of good things--that you must surrender completely or not at all.

He wants to say something, but it seems like a major breach of contract. Words are complicated and unnecessary. So, he moans and whimpers and cries out into Jared’s mouth, locks his ankles over the low of his back and shoves both hands into Jared’s drawers to wrap his fingers tight around him, skimming down to squeeze a little tighter around the base of him to gently nudge at his balls with his knuckles, the wiry sparse pubes.

Bucking and groaning, Jared takes a bite of Jensen’s lip. His fingers scrabble and tremble and claw at the rounds of Jensen’s ass. Hauling them both into a seated positon, Jared tugs roughly at Jensen’s backside, until Jensen is certain if someone were to run up on them, they would see straight through the warped cloth of his briefs to the smallest indentation at his center; not much of a hole at all, shuttered and hesitant, a natural do-not-enter sign.

The thought sends the smallest shudder through him, a most delicious thrill. He takes one of Jared’s strong, delicate-boned hands, brings it to his mouth, whispers a prayer into his palm as though it were stone and not flesh, and slicks his fingers up with spit.

“Put it in,” he hisses into Jared’s ear. “Put it in me,” and guides his hand underneath the waistband.

It’s strange but not painful. Shy and inquisitive, Jared’s fingertips snag at the uneven skin shutting him out. Has Jensen red-knuckling his impressive dick with both hands, from base to tip. Jared squirms the tip of his fingers into the unforgiving stretch of Jensen’s wriggly little ass. Pushes into Jensen, pulls away, and advances again. Each time a little more room, a little more give until Jensen cries out and Jared’s palm is flush on his spine. He moves two fingers inside Jensen and Jensen hisses.

“You’re so small,” Jared laughs, curls like a hook inside him and tugs. Jensen surges forward to get away, but he really doesn’t want to. He groans into Jared’s jawline, breaks his teeth tenderly over the smooth skin there and experimentally rocks his hips back with an, “Oh.”

And another, because one can never be enough for something like this. Not with Jared’s long, careful fingers. “Oh,” Jensen is so, very happy about this turn of events, positively vibrating with it. “Oh,” on the inside. “Oh,” on the outside. “Oh,” shimmies and shakes. “Oh,” trickles down to slow burning ache. “Oh,” is raw animal honesty. “Oh,” is undeniable pleasure.

“Can you—can you?” Jensen isn’t sure what he’s asking for but he’s sure Jared would know.

And of course, he does. Jared rocks them forward. Sets Jensen down underneath him. Tugs Jensen’s briefs just as Jensen lifts his hips to him. Pushes away his own. Jensen guides him back with a spit-wet hand wrapped protectively around Jared, possessing him. Jensen knows he’s teetering dangerously on the edge of something he doesn’t know. But he wants it. Wants it so bad his knees shake and his toes curl. He tries not to think how a few fingers compare to the real thing but he wants it. Slick bubbles out of Jared’s dick right up against Jensen’s hole, make him gleam and glitter and blush as Jared slip-catch-slides out of Jensen. Jensen thinks he’s going to lose his mind or cry.

He doesn’t mean to resist. Truly he doesn’t. And then, suddenly he feels himself grip Jared, spasming until—until –the tip of Jared’s dick disappears inside him with a judder and a pop that gets Jared a quarter of the way in. Jensen howls, breathy and sweetly around the thick-veined shaft, jerks and comes all over his little belly. Just like that, clutching the broad head of Jared’s dick.

They were both a little unprepared for it. Humiliated, Jensen can barely meet Jared’s eyes, but Jared doesn’t seem bothered by it. He keeps staring at the slick pooling in Jensen’s navel. Gathers what he can and coats himself with it. He doesn’t surge forward and force himself on Jensen like he might want to. Instead he coaxes the tough muscle surrounding him to gain more ground and Jensen wants it more than anyone, but as soon as Jared realizes Jensen is trying his hardest not to cry, he stops and pulls out. Jensen feels like he might have taken Jensen’s heart with him.

“S’kay, Jen,” Jared reassures him, thick-voiced, already snapping his hips into his fist so hard his balls careen forward to slap against his knuckles. “Gonna let me come inside you?” he grits against Jensen’s teeth. “Can I, Jensen? Can I? You gonna let me? Please, please--” and comes.

Jensen cannot be any messier if he tried: he’s a boy-shaped Rorschach test in semen and good intentions. Jared’s face is half in shadow, concealed by damp curtains of hair. He was mostly hovering over Jensen, looking at him, suddenly, beautifully shy.

It could stay a game, as long as neither one of them talks about it. The supple spongy head of Jared’s half-hard cock, such a proud and magnificent thing, truly, dips into Jensen’s belly and it’s promptly more real and too late for denial and lies. It consumes Jensen with such an overwhelming rush of emotion, he gathers all of Jared to himself, cradles and kisses his face all over until Jared begins kissing back.

“We’ll be okay,” Jensen tells him. “We’ll be okay.” Because everything has changed now. And it’s not so scary anymore, not a bit, because Jensen has changed with it.

“What they don’t know can’t hurt us.”