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nicotine for breakfast.
CWRPS. Jared/Jensen. R. Approx. 670 words. Because drunken boys have more fun. Title from the Dire Straits.

      Last time I was sober, man I felt bad—worst hangover that I ever had
      It took six hamburgers, scotch all night, nicotine for breakfast just to put me right

Kind of ironic if you think about it, because the first time they're both sober and wide-awake, nobody's judgment's impaired and they haven't really got—don't really need—a single excuse except for I want to. I'm doing this 'cause I want it.

They're in Jensen's kitchen and he's bent double to get to the six-pack at the back of the fridge. All Jared does is step up to try and grab something to eat, too, but when Jen turns around they sort of bump and catch and there's an awkward tumble and shift before it all slides into place, like this, this, Jensen's tongue in Jared's mouth and Jared's hands frantic at the hem of his shirt.

Yeah, yeah, kitchen sex, big fuckin' cliché, they know. But with Jared's back against the fridge and Jensen's tongue curling around his cock, Jared moaning something like aw, fuck, jen, jesus christ, all Texas and sliding vowels—like this, they don't really give a damn if there's some fancy French word for them or not.


Jensen's not a big meet-and-greet-party kind of guy, and he tends to make a point of showing up late. Every so often it means Jared's already hit the bar, had a drink or six. Sometimes it means Jen gets to show up, smile for the camera, and leave, because he's got a totally plastered costar to take care of—boy never could hold his liquor, he says and grins bright for another flash. Mama brought him up to look out for his friends.

Jared drops into Jensen's bed giggling about something that's only funny with BAC above point-oh-nine. He slurs c'mon man you wanna—and nudges Jen's thigh with his knee, and Jensen rolls his eyes and laughs.

Inebriated, he murmurs into the skin of Jared's throat, nudging past his drooping collar: fuckin' plastered, man.

Jared's breath stutters with the laugh. Insisting, that, that don't change a thing, he grabs a fistful of Jen's shirt and in the dark, tries to feel his way to the buttons.


Like they don't see each other enough, they spend practically half the hiatus crashing on each other's couches and in each other's beds.

Jensen spends two solid weeks in San Antonio before he declares he's going insane. He drops dramatically into an overstuffed armchair and throws an arm over his eyes. He says, swear to god, don't know how you live down here, man.

Jared knocks back another shot, laughs and says, you really wanna leave? and he drops a wide, open hand onto Jen's thigh.


The notion's to drive back north, to get a feel for their characters' lifestyle. It's two-thousand, three-hundred miles from Dallas to Vancouver, and that means thirty-five hours worth of arguing about the music and where to eat, where to sleep.

They try the twenty-dollar motel thing once, and end up leaving at three in the goddamn morning because Jared hates cockroaches and Jensen won't stop bitching about the busted A/C, something about the stuffy air and asthma and the dust in the room. Jared teases him for the next two hundred miles at least.

In Oregon, they break down and get a nice hotel, then get drunk on room service champagne. Jared laughs long and loud about it, two Texas boys who can't take a little heat and a few bugs, who let themselves fall so far that they're sitting here with sparkling wine instead of beer or Cuervo, 'cause what the hell's up with that?

And Jensen shakes his head and mumbles, shut the fuck up, man, and opens his mouth over Jared's cock.

In morning, they've got twin hangovers and matching loose, happy smiles that have nothing to do with the sex and everything to do with the liquor and the road.

They get their coffee and it's business as usual. Jensen mocks Jared's five-minute order that leaves the poor barista frantic, and at noon, in the middle of nowhere, they pull over on the side of the road and move into the back seat.
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