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[personal profile] elohvee
and he makes it fast with one more thing.
CWRPS. Jensen Ackles/Jeffrey Dean Morgan. R. Yeah, I don't know either. Approx. 500 words. Unbetaed. Title from the Dire Straits. For Kate, just because.


It's not like either of them would ever even consider the notion of cuddling, situation like this, but the post-fuck cigarette's still perfectly all right.

No, not the first time, because the first time is right before a three-AM call, with Jensen's spine grinding into the back, outside wall of Jeff's trailer and with Jeff's hand in his pants, not enough time and the night-morning air freezing in his lungs. Not then, because with ten minutes to cameras rolling, there's no time for a smoke. No time even for reciprocation, and when Jen comes all over Jeff's fist with his eyes shut tight and his mouth open, Jeff grins and says, You'll pay me back later, baby, and then he wanders back to the set tasting his fingers.

Jensen's acting is shot all to hell the rest of the day.

::

Jeff doesn't carry a lighter, but he keeps barroom matchbooks in a bedside drawer, and he rolls over before they're even breathing right, reaches for a light and the pack of smokes. He takes a drag and blows it back out, less an exhale than a challenge that Jen can't quite understand.

Jeff holds out the cigarette and Jensen shakes his head. I don't smoke, he says. It's harder to admit than it should be.

Jeff's eyebrows go up and he laughs, deep and liquid in his throat, and he says, You still playin' the choir boy? I thought you'd've given up after—

And Jensen makes a noise like a growl, and he grabs for the cigarette.

::

On hiatus, they go their separate ways, a plane to Texas and one to Washington. Jared talks nonstop, like he tends to do, on their way through the terminal, and he returns Jeff's small wave with a movement of his hands that reminds Jensen of some cracked-out, flapping bird.

He doesn't wave back, but he nods and smiles, tight-lipped and thoughtful. He's not used to this. He doesn't brood much. Usually. Ever.

On hiatus, he spends two weeks sleeping in his parents' house, in his old bed. After dinner, after family story time, when everyone else is asleep, he jerks off digging his fingers into the bruises left on his thighs, his shoulders, his back. And when it's over, he lies awake and shivers with some sort of perverse nicotine withdrawal that only shines through after he comes.

::

Lying in Jeff's bed with a bottle on the nightstand and a saucer-ashtray beside it, smoke rising like steam up towards the lazy ceiling fan, Jensen starts laughing at the whole fucking situation, and it takes him too long to stop.

He drags a hand over his face, says something like, Some father figure you are, and Jeff snorts, shakes his head, and reaches across Jensen to take the bottle.

He says, That's it, boy, no more for you.

Jen cocks an eyebrow and challenges, No more, huh?

And Jeff smirks and says, Liquor, baby. I meant the shots. Roll over.
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