(no subject)

[vamphile]

It’s not like it’s my goal to wait on him hand and foot, but he can’t carry a sandwich back to the couch, or even to the table, and eating standing up is a no-go, because he’s hopping on one foot, so yeah, I’ll take care of him for a little while. He’d do the same for me, and it’s not like I’ve got anything else to do.

A few meetings next week, just your regular, ‘what’s next’ kind of thing… and I’m not gonna pretend I’m not interested in what kind of offers I’m getting, and what kind have been pulled.

And then there are scripts, piles and piles of scripts. I read them and most of them are crap. I have two I’d love Jared to read, his opinion means a lot to me, he knows what I can do, and is honest about what he doesn’t think I can, and he’s a much better career strategist than I am. He told me to make the junkie movie with Danneel, and not to pussy out of the scene where I’m naked, and jonesing and shove her across the room. I didn’t, and yeah, it worked, showed me as something more than how most people had pegged me. But Jared's not up to reading scripts at the moment.

In a couple months I’m going to start doing press for Dead Center: Left of Center the second in the trilogy. But until them, I really don’t have any professional commitments on the horizon.

I bring him a turkey club with that light mayo that he’s insisting on now that he can’t work out for two hours a day, and baked chips.

“No pickle?”

I don’t roll my eyes. He wants a pickle; it’s really not that much to ask.

“Do we have any of that Kabob, orange buzz? The sugar free stuff!” he yells it out to me as I head back to the kitchen.

We’re gonna need a full time housekeeper who can make him a sandwich, because I damn well am not going to go on like this.

“Thanks, man.” He gives me the puppy dog eyes and, goddammit, ten years later they still work.

I sit on the chair so I can see him. He pulls his sandwich apart and then puts it back together in some order only he understands.

“You think you’re gonna be ready to see people soon?”

“What people?”

“Well, Chris called, he’s worried. Danneel, of course, Mike and Tom both called, like they weren’t in the same room when they did it. And needless to say, your mother’s daily phone calls are getting less and less subtle about wanting to either see you or talk to you.” Yeah, I roll my eyes.

He shrugs. “Can’t you just tell them I’m fine?”

“No, I can’t. Can’t you tell them?”

“Maybe later. I wanna wait 'til the bruise on my face is gone.”

The bruise on his face is mild compared to the others, but the doctor said he was lucky. If a blow like he’d received to his ribs had hit him in the jaw, it would have cracked it in several places. As it is, he’s lucky to only have bruised ribs.

I shake my head and feel grateful that he’s as okay as he is.

He finishes his sandwich, yawns and falls asleep on the couch.




A week after I fired the first physical therapist, I’m thinking of firing the third. The second was just too fucking chipper. God, was that how annoying I was when everyone thought of me as an overgrown puppy? Kinda makes me want to apologize to humanity at large.

This guy though, he’s all business, just wants to get the job done. Next week I go in for x-rays, and there’s a chance I’ll be given a walking cast. I’m working on the muscles around my ankle since I still can’t put any weight on it, and around my wrist, although there’s a good chance I’ll get a cast that gives me more use of my fingers.

I promised Jensen I’d call someone today, any one of our friends who continue to call and worry. And my mother. So far I haven’t spoken to anyone except Larry, and that’s just because I don’t want him holding my board upside down and ending up with a sci-fi movie.

I’m sweaty and disgusting by the time I’m done with therapy, but I feel better, I do. Cael, the therapist, leaves, and I go upstairs to shower.





He’s taking forever to get dressed, but it’s probably hard to do with only one foot and one hand. He won’t let me help, but he hasn’t let me help in the last week. It’s like he decided “enough of this shit” and was suddenly Mr. Independent, hopping all over the house, almost falling twenty times a day and not asking for any assistance.

He almost face planted into the kitchen tile trying to eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes this morning. But now we’re going in for those x-rays, and, if all goes the way we’re both hoping, he’ll get reset in a walking cast.



Oh thank god. I leave the door open, and for a brief moment worry that the dogs are going to get out, before I remember that they’re both gone. It figures that the first moment of joy I’ve had in three weeks is marred, but then, they’re always gonna be a part of me, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get over losing Sadie. I loved Harley, no doubt, but losing Sadie was like a knife in my chest. Jensen closes the door and hands me my crutch. “You’re supposed to be using this still.”

I shrug and smile, and I actually feel the smile; it’s not just for his benefit. It’s over, this ordeal is finally over. I can walk; I can make it upstairs without breaking a sweat and spending ten minutes navigating the path. It’s all okay.

I ask Jensen to call Chris, and Mike, and Danneel and Tom, we should have dinner, all of us, and so they can see I’m fine. When I get upstairs I call my mom and tell her that I’m perfect. She sounds tentatively accepting.



Chris is manning the grill. Jared is sitting back with a beer, giving Tom a hard time and Mike an even harder one over nothing in particular. Danneel's helping me make a salad and getting ready to grill me about something. I head to the ‘fridge hoping to find a door to Narnia in the back but no such luck. I settle for returning with cucumbers and red onions.

“He’s better.”

“Give him a break; he’s been through a lot.”

“So have you.”

“Yeah, we both have, and we got through it. What’s your point?”

“Nothing, just, maybe now that he’s fully ambulatory you can take a couple of days, spend some time…”

“Away from him?”

She shrugs and continues cutting the tomatoes, removing all the seeds. “Well, yeah.”

I nod; it’s not like I haven’t thought about it, or dreamed of it in the last three weeks. “I might take a day, but I’m not flying down to Dallas or anything. Just be nice to go to meetings and know the house isn’t gonna come crashing down while I’m gone.”

“That’s your plan for a big day off; you’re going to take a meeting?”

“Yeah?”

She rolls her eyes. “Wild man.”

“And what should I be doing? Picking up some leather daddy in WeHo?”

Danneel raises her eyebrow in that way that means that she’s almost done humoring me. “Those are the options? Moping around the house or picking up some kinkazoid at a club? Serious lack of imagination there, Ackles.”

“So what, should we have a girl’s day, bikini waxes and body wraps?”

I’d keep going except she’s brandishing a knife and looking less than amused. “Do something for yourself, before you start resenting him, and the only functional couple I know falls apart?”

“What about Tom and Mike?”

“They’re married to other people.”

“So? They’re still a pretty functional couple.”

“Yeah, that was the argument you used when you proposed to me.”

“Aww, are you still feeling jilted?”

“I called it off.” She shakes her head and goes back to the tomatoes, and I can tell she’s wondering what she ever saw in me, but then she bumps her hip against mine, and, in an easy moment, we’re fine again. I used to have those with Jared, and that’s what I need now, to find a way for us to be fine again. Should be easy, right?

I love when Chris and Danneel visit. They’re not a couple, but I think they might be friends with benefits. What I do know is that they look out for Jensen, and take up a lot of his time. Sometimes I need that. Need a little break from the togetherness that lately feels smothering more than warm and safe. I got a little beat up, now we’re having steak, it’s time for everyone to back off and let me be okay.

Chris hands me another beer and straddles the chair, sitting so he has one eye on me and one on the meat. “How you feeling’?” Tom and Mike take the opportunity to chime in with their own inquiries.

I sigh, I don’t mean to, and it’s not like I didn’t expect the questions but still. I raise my arms to shoulder height, and puff out my chest. “I’m a-okay.”

Chris isn’t amused He stands up and flips the steaks. “We’re all worried; it’s part of being friends.”

“Yeah, but Jensen's fine.”

“It’s not just Jensen we’re worried about.”

I make some kind of grunt of acknowledgment. They’re good friends, long term kinda friends, but I don’t need it right now. Jensen does. I kinda need to be left alone. I don’t tell them that though just try to keep them in front of me, when I catch peripheral movement it makes me jumpy, but I don’t want to sound like a pussy. Instead I go inside and try to pick up another case of beer to bring out to the cooler.

Danneel ends up carrying it because my arm still isn’t up to the weight. Yeah, no embarrassment there.

I let the rest of them carry the weight of the conversation, and I can see Jensen watching me out of the corner of his eye. Chris isn’t even that subtle.



Two days after everyone comes for dinner Jared spends the day upstairs. He claims he’s really into the book he’s reading, but it’s a thin volume, and he’s still only halfway through when I get back from my meetings. He jumps when I come into the room.

We have one of those stupid and useless space hogging master bedroom suites with a sitting room that we never use but he’s on the couch there, pretending to read. The TV’s on but muted. I touch his shoulder and he jumps.

“Jare?”

“Sorry, just... jumpy.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“I just… I’m… I got sucked into…” I just nod and change out of my meeting clothes and into an old pair of jeans. “I was thinking about going out for dinner…”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not really up for it. Rain check?”

I kiss him, but he doesn’t really kiss me back. “Absolutely.”




Okay, I’ve gotta get this under control. Jensen is freaking me out. I don’t mean anything he specifically does it’s just… okay, I’m supposed to be better now, and I’m saying that I’m better, and I’m trying to act better, but I’m not better. I’m still freaked. I woke up with a nightmare last night. I haven’t had one of them since the first week I was home, and now, three weeks later, almost four weeks, later I start dreaming about the feel of a steel toed boot on my back, about the guy with a beard and mustache who was yelling things at me, who spit on my face.

I try to do something, anything not to think about it but it’s like that’s all there is, like I’m right back there in the alley, with gravel scraping my cheek and… I get up as soon as it’s safe and vomit quickly, brushing my teeth.

I need to push past this, just like I used to when I was on set and we had to get a scene done. I can do this; I can put this out of my head and recite my lines. I can do this, no question. Right?



Jared hasn’t been downstairs in two days except for a forty minute stint yesterday. He made a sandwich and took it upstairs. I don’t know how to confront him about this, mostly because I don’t know what’s wrong. He startles kinda easily, he’s plowing through the pile of books next to his bed, the ones he hasn’t had the time to read. He doesn’t leave the house, and he shows no interest in visiting the set, seeing how things are progressing. I have a month’s worth of dailies that he hasn’t watched. I have. The movie’s good.

Determined, I head upstairs. He’s wearing cut-off sweats, a tank top and nothing else. His bare feet are on the large ottoman/coffee table and he’s really spread his shit out in the previously unused area. He could go down to his study, which is now practically empty. He could just join me in the living room, but he seems to be most comfortable here. I wish I knew if that was healthy.

“Hey.”

He jolts and then pulls himself together, like if he does it quickly enough I won’t notice. “I was considering going out to a movie… you wanna join me?”

“Movie theatres are full of your adoring fans, I’m not sure I’m up for it.”

It’s probably the most honest thing he’s said in weeks. I nod.

“You wanna do something, anything, totally your choice.”

“I’m really digging this book, I think I’m just gonna keep reading.”

“You want dinner?”

“I’m not really hungry, I’m sorry. I know I’m kinda a lousy boyfriend lately; I think I just need some time.”

“You’re not a lousy boyfriend; and you can have all the time you need, just… you know, tell me if I can help.”

“I will. And thank you; I’m really sorry.”

I leave, what else can I do? He’s being honest, and he honestly needs time. I go downstairs and play PGA 13, but it’s not the same if I’m not kicking Jared's ass.




I’m afraid I’m going to lose him. I wouldn’t stick around for me, why should he? I’m a lousy boyfriend, a lousy man, and a fucked up freak. He hasn’t even tried to touch me since the accid… the attack, the bashing; it wasn’t an accident, and I need to remember that. Men, men on my crew, who knew me, who were there having drinks with me, they attacked me, with malicious intent, because I’m with Jensen, because I’m gay.

If I were Jensen I’d get as far away from me as possible. That may be what he’s doing, and I don’t blame him. I didn’t think this was how it would end. I thought he’d just trade up to a more newsworthy option once he was a huge star. I think it’ll happen when the second Dead Center movie comes out this summer.



I wish I knew what he’s thinking. He’s scared, and at loose ends, and I get that, or I think I get that, but his method of dealing, isolating like this, it doesn’t make any sense. He has friends who love him, he has me for Christ’s sake. Why does he insist on sitting up in our room, pretending to read books he’s not going to try to option?

I love him so much that I hurt for him. I want to help. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing I can say that won’t result in him digging his heels in further.

Fuck. Goddamned motherfucking fuck!

I’ll make him a sandwich, and bring him some baked chips, and the coleslaw I picked up from D’angello’s. He’s gotta eat, right?




I’m starving, or I was, until he came in without knocking. It’s his room too, he shouldn’t have to knock, I get that, but it freaked me out. I think I may have shown a few too many of my cards when I ducked and flinched at the sound of him behind me.

He sat down next to me, his hand massaging the back of my neck, whispering soothing things to me, and all the while I can’t help but flinch away, remembering what the guy sitting on my back had said, how he’d leaned forward and told me that they were gonna break my pretty head open and then find my boyfriend and do the same to him. Jensen's still at risk and… oh Christ, Jensen's still at risk! I twist away from him and take off for the bathroom, I feel like I’m going to vomit again but I don’t. This is, at least, the one place he won’t follow me.

“Jare? Hey Jay, you okay in there?”

I’m fine, and I tell him so, but I’m not sure he believes me. When I finally come out, almost a half hour later, he hands me a bottle of water and leads me to the bed. “You wanna take a nap?”

I’m not five fucking years old. I didn’t have a bad dream. I got beat up by people who knew me, by people who know Jensen. I just shake my head and go back to the couch, picking up my book and feigning complete absorption. There’s no way this is touching Jensen. I’ll find a way out.



It’s been two weeks since he wigged out over a sandwich. He was twitchy and nervous the whole drive to the doctor’s, but he got both casts off. He’s still supposed to do some physical therapy on both, but they’re impressed with the healing. They should be. He’s been taking enough calcium, and vitamins and shit to heal a dead man. He’s back to protein shakes, like he lived on during season six. I don’t think that’s a good sign. Season six was not the healthiest headspace he’s ever been in.

He swallows the shake down and heads to the gym. It’s a painfully familiar routine, but then…wait, no… I’m wrong. He doesn’t go to the gym, he heads back upstairs.




I consider working out but my ankle isn’t ready for it, and I’m not sure about my wrist, and I don’t want to end up uneven, with my left side pumped, and my right side as small as it is now. I go upstairs; it’s the only place I feel safe lately, and even that’s relative. I settle myself in bed; the TV angled so I can see it and watch those reality courtroom shows where everyone’s stupid and frustrated. I feel their pain.

I consider showering. I know it’s been two days, and letting myself go a third day without basic hygiene is a bad idea, but I just can’t face it today, the cold, over-conditioned air, the steam from the shower, the private time alone with my thoughts. I feel a little at odds when I’m like that, and I know I’m not going to get it together to shower today. I slump down and let the mind numbing TV do its job, and eventually I almost feel okay, which is of course when Jensen decides to try again. I want to scream at him, to tell him what a waste of time and space I am, that he should find some other project to focus on, find a new movie, or a new boyfriend, or both, but it seems like a lot of work to convince him of that. I decide instead to just use that strategy my mother told me about bullies. Ignore them and they’ll go away.

She was wrong about it working on bullies, but it did often work on girls who wanted me and some guys too.



I crawl into my side of the bed. It’s only four in the afternoon, and it feels weird to be here when I’m not sick. Jared is though, why else would he have skipped taking a shower. He usually takes two or three a day, and now that his casts are off, and he doesn’t have to wrap them first, you’d think he’d be in the shower more than he’s not. I know how much it was bothering him that he couldn’t take one, but he doesn’t seem interested. His hair’s greasy, and his shirt still has sweat marks from yesterday. We’re going to have to change the sheets tonight, and all of that is secondary to why he’s watching bad TV in the middle of the day.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s going on with you?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Uh huh, because this is totally normal behavior.”

I stare at him and wait. He fidgets but then just shakes his head. “I’m still healing. I’m tired.”

“You need anything?”

“People not hovering would be a start.”

“People? I’m the only one here.”

“You not hovering.”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll be downstairs.”

“Okay.”

“I have some scripts. I could use your opinion.”

“Leave them over there. I’ll read ‘em when I wake up. I think I’m gonna take a nap.”

I don’t say anything. He woke up at eleven, and he’s napping at four. Is it time to panic yet? I wish I knew. “Yeah, I’ll leave ‘em for you.”

I kiss his temple, and he flinches away. I leave before I cry, or scream, or throw something. This is not normal. This is not okay.

When I get downstairs I do even more research on victims of violent crimes, on PTSD and depression, and what I come up with isn’t encouraging, like, at all.




Christ, Jensen will just not back down. Is it so wrong that I want to be left alone? I’m most comfortable when he’s downstairs but still in the house, and I’m upstairs. That’s all I want. To be in the house, and know that Jensen's handling everything, everyone who comes to the door, all the phone calls, not just agents and managers, but my family, his family, our friends. It’s a safe, comfortable feeling, and both of those are rare these days.



It’s been two weeks since he’s come downstairs, at all. Three since he last showed his face to make a sandwich. It’s not that I’m counting but… yeah; okay I’m counting, because it’s been three weeks since he last spent any time downstairs. He’s treating me like an idiot, asking for food that has to be ordered and picked up, and then feigning exhaustion so I have to go get it. Soon I’ll refuse to do it, but not yet. I’m afraid of how much further he might regress.




I have nightmares. Every night I wake up dreaming that something is sitting on my chest, or my back, re-living the moment that I was trapped, that the guy with the scratchy beard whispered all the horrible things he was going to do to me. I still feel it, sometimes the nightmares happen when I’m awake, and yeah, I’ve done enough research to know that’s PTSD, but I can push past it. I can get past this, have to, it seems to be the only option I’ve got. At least 'til I get Jensen out of here.

There are some options, some kind of drastic options, but I can’t choose one of those while Jensen's downstairs. The anger and blame on his face… I don’t want him to hate me that way; I don’t want him to hate himself that way. And I know Jensen, he won’t let this go if I do that, so I’m stuck, trapped and that’s the worst part of all. Thinking about it frustrates me 'til I’m on the verge of tears, which of course is when he comes in and tries to make me feel better. Tries to make it all okay, but it isn’t, and it won’t be. I take a bath, not because it feels better, but because I’m so tired I don’t think I can take standing in the shower. He’s waiting for me when I come out.

“I want you to talk to a professional.”

“A professional what?”

“Don’t play dumb, a therapist, a counselor, whatever.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

“Help me change the sheets.”

He does, standing on the other side of the bed and telling me everything I already know about PTSD, and therapy and violent crimes.

When the bed is made, crisp white sheets, brand new pillow cases, everything clean, pristine, I drop my boxers, will myself hard and crawl across the bed, stopping an inch in front of him. I pull him in to a deep kiss. “Please, want you.”

“Want me, or want me to shut up?”

“Want you. It’s been so long.” And it has. The last time we fucked was the night before shooting, almost two months ago now. I realize asking isn’t gonna get us there, he’s too hesitant. I get demanding instead, and I get what I want- he fucks me. He doesn’t flip me on my stomach, for which I’m grateful. I couldn’t bear to be in that position today. But I’m on my back, and he tries to maintain eye contact, which is a little more intimacy than I’m ready for, so I arch my neck, stare at the ceiling and moan like he likes. When he comes I force myself to focus and come too, and then he’s lying by my side. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.” And I did. The sacrifice is totally worth his feeling that I’m making progress.

He turns on his side, staring at me. “Are you really getting better?”

“I have to, right?”

He nods. “I’d like you to. Will you let me help?”

I sit up and pull my boxers back on. “I don’t need help, I’m better, see.”

He shakes his head and kisses my back. “I love you. Just tell me what you need.”

I can’t, because I need him to stop loving me.



I feel sick the moment it’s over. He won’t meet my eyes. He won’t talk to me. I think I just had sex with a corpse. I try to get him to talk about it but he closes off the moment I bring it up. It’s almost time to bring out the big guns, whatever those are; because when he starts faking sex… we’re in real trouble.

I meet Chris two days later for lunch, and he stares at me like I’ve got something on my face. “You sleep?”

I shake my head. “Jared's having nightmares, but he won’t talk about them.”

“And that means you don’t sleep?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You look like shit, Jen, maybe you should consider taking one of those jobs you’re getting offered. At least you’ll get a trailer to sleep in.”

I laugh, but it’s not a thought that hasn’t occurred to me. “I’ll be okay.”

“No shit.”

We eat and talk about Chris’s upcoming tour. He’s got three dates in Dallas, and I’d love to go, see my family, see Chris play, but I’m not sure if I can leave Jared. It feels… dangerous.

When I tell Chris that he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say much else.

Danneel joins us for coffee, and her advice is so close to Chris’s. I’m beginning to wonder if my life has become their pillow talk. Then again it’s exactly what Danneel would tell me, with or without Chris. They all love Jared. They don’t think I should leave him, just… they both seem to be in agreement that I should force the rehab… which would work if he were a junkie, but he’s just a guy who got hurt, bashed, and now has trying to make that fit into his previously positive world view.

I go home feeling a little buoyed by the care and support only to find the maid weeping and leaving, and Jared shaking at the top of the steps. Well great.

Jared disappears into our room, and when I try to talk to him he just throws a pillow at me and tells me to leave him alone.

I sleep in the guest room that night and miss Jared like I lost both my arms.




I didn’t mean to make Cecilia cry. I thought I was alone, and then there was noise, and Jensen didn’t tell me she was coming today, and I’ve lost all track of days, and suddenly there I am, hovering over her and yelling for her to get out before I kill her. I didn’t know who she was. I thought she was… okay, I don’t know what I thought, I wasn’t thinking. All I know is she spooked me, and I guess I spooked her back even harder. I was still shaking, pissed off and scared, when Jensen tried to sort the whole thing out. He gave her a fist full of money and walked her out to her car. When he came back in he had that look on his face, the one that says that he’s ready to ‘handle’ me, humor me. I got so pissed off I threw the first thing I could find at him. Good thing it was only a pillow. He ignored it and tried to talk to me, but he was using that low calming tone he used to use with Harley when he was growling at a little dog. I slammed the door in his face.

He never came back, not to shower, not even to sleep. My nightmares were worse but at least I could react to them in private instead of having to pretend it wasn’t that big of a deal.



In the morning I knock on his door… his door? Our door. He’s cursing, and when I crack the door a couple inches I see him curled up on the bed, glaring at nothing and swearing that he won’t let it happen again. He stands up and paces and then just seems to collapse onto the bed, rolling over and taking the blankets with him. He’s situated diagonally, like he doesn’t even miss me, like he’s been waiting for me to get out of his way.

About an hour later, when I’m reasonably sure he’s asleep I get some clothes, a few pairs of jeans, socks and underwear, shirts and shoes, and I move myself into the guest room. If I cry, well, you know, fuck you, that is none of your business.

I go online and book a round trip ticket to Dallas around the time of Chris’s shows.

If he doesn’t want me here… well, I don’t have to be here.




We’re living like roommates now, and that’s for the best. I make myself a protein shake and am well into my work out by the time he’s up and dressed. I have no idea what he does during the day, since he’s not preparing for a role, or filming something. I’d guess he goes to a lot of meetings.

After I work out I go back upstairs and stay there. There’s no reason for me to come down. I’m not needed.

We meet on the stairs today, and I take great pains not to touch him. I don’t want to get him sweaty, I don’t want to be reminded of how good it feels to be in his life.

He leaves a note on the protein powder.

“Went to Dallas to see Chris play. Back on Wednesday.”

I have to check the calendar to even know what day it is. He’s going to be gone for five days. It shouldn't make a bit of difference, it’s not like we’ve spoken to each other in weeks.



I leave the note the only place I’m sure he’ll see it, and I go. It’s fun, I catch up with a few friends from home, a few friends of Chris’s that I’ve known for a long time. I stop in and see my family; my mother isn’t quite as kind as everyone else. “You look like hell.”

“Mom.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Out and Proud, hot shot movie star, should I pretend you look fabulous? You don’t; you look like you haven’t slept in a week. I haven’t seen dark circles that big since your nephew had colic, and your brother stayed up with him… for three months.”

“I don’t have colic.”

“Does Jared?”

“What?”

“Well, is he keeping you up at night?”

“No, I can categorically say that he’s not bothering me at night.”

She stares at me, and maybe I’m a momma’s boy, or maybe I just need someone who’ll listen, or maybe I’m at my wits end, but one long glance and I’m telling her everything while she’s handing me tea and making me my favorite- a tuna club sandwich with thick sliced tomatoes and really crispy bacon.

I eat, and I talk, and, okay, maybe I shed a tear, and she just listens and eventually walks me to the guest room and pushes me into the bed. “Sleep. It’ll be okay.”

I’m exhausted, so I sleep even though it’s only four in the afternoon. When I wake it’s nine in the morning, and she’s calling me for breakfast.

The advice she gives me is, for the most part, good. I relax a little, because a plan is always helpful. Also because Josh and the kids are there, and nothing puts your bullshit problems in perspective like a six and three year old arguing over the Lego.




I sit and stare at the wall for five days. I work out more, because I need to be back where I was, not before the attack, but before the show ended. No one would have attacked Sam Winchester. No one would have taken me on when I was 235 lbs of solid muscle. I made a promise to Jensen when I stopped, that I wouldn’t start with the steroids again, and I haven’t, but I have a sick feeling that my promises to Jensen won’t mean anything soon. When they go home to their mother, that’s a hint that it’s all falling to shit, that it’s over, right?

I stare at the wall some more, refusing to take that last step, to put the nail in the coffin myself. I still have hope, and it’s the only thing keeping me going. I have to find a way to talk to him, to tell him I love him… to find our way back, because I feel like I’m free-floating through the world… like anything outside our bedroom is strange and alien. I stay right here where I know he can find me.

He comes home on Wednesday as promised, and he knocks on the bedroom door. I can’t find my voice to let him in. I do open the door. His eyes do a quick scan, like he’s expecting damage. I can… I can’t take care of myself; I guess that’s part of the problem. “How was your weekend?”

I shrug. “I stared at the wall” doesn’t seem like the kind of answer he’s looking for.

He nods. “I’ll be downstairs. Wanna watch a movie?”

I shake my head. What I want is to pull him into a hug, but he doesn’t want to touch me, he’s making that clear.

“The maid needs to get into the bedroom. She’ll be here tomorrow morning, can you go work out or something, let her air the room out, it’s starting to stink.”

I nod again and then turn away, before he lists more demands, ones I can’t meet.



All I wanted to do was hug him, touch him, anything that proves that he’s still my Jared, the solid, present guy I love, but he can barely look at me. He keeps his body angled away from mine, which… my publicist always said was the thing that was gonna give us away, body language, no matter what we were doing, we were oriented towards one another…and now, in our own bedroom, he can’t even look at me.

I tell him about the maid, because I’m being petty, and the room really is starting to smell like a locker room.

I can’t talk to him while he’s working out. I used to be able to, but now… now it’s like he’s on a mission, like he was before Friday the 13th , hopefully without the performance enhancement, but I can’t even count on his word anymore.



It’s harder than it should be to concentrate on working out when I know I can’t go upstairs, at least not for a while. I didn’t argue because he’s not wrong, the room needs to be cleaned I’m just worried about what I’m going to find. I’m afraid all of his stuff is going to be in the guest room by the time I go back upstairs. I’m not sure what I’d do if he’s gone for good. What if it’s not in the guest room? What if it’s just gone. He could leave. I’m… I’d leave me at this point. I steel myself to make the effort and try something, anything to show him I’m okay.

After I work out, I shower and get dressed. I sit carefully next to him in the living room, but don’t touch him. “Hey.”

“Hey. You goin’ somewhere?”

“Yeah, I guess being dressed is pretty rare for me these days. I was thinking we could go to lunch. Nothing high profile, just… you, and me and a couple burritos at The Mustard Seed.”

I wait, and I feel like everything is hinging on his answer. He seems to consider me, trying to decide if I’m serious or not, but he nods. “You wanna drive?”

“Nah, you can.” I can’t stop smiling; he’s willing to go to lunch with me.



I’m not sure what brought on his sudden desire for grilled chicken breast, steamed spinach, scrambled egg whites, and Spanish rice with roasted potatoes, but apparently it was enough to get him showered, and dressed and talking to me. I’m certainly not going to say no to that. Any overture is appreciated. I miss him.

He’s a little quiet on the drive, but he sings, badly and almost under his breath, along with the radio, the way that he always does, the way that drives me nuts.

It’s beautiful out, sunny and seventy one degrees, but he shies away from the outdoor patio, and I follow his lead. We get a table inside and order. Everything’s fine, he’s digging the protein infused grapefruit juice, and I’m just enjoying being out with him, plus they have the best omelets in LA so double bonus win.

A couple of guys are taking their three beer lunch to the fourth beer, getting loud, and I see him flinch, but he centers himself so quickly that, if I didn’t know what I was looking for, I wouldn’t know what I’d seen.

He’s antsy, playing with the silverware and the salt and pepper shakers, the infused olive oil bottle, and anything else he can get his hands on.

I make a tactical error. Some heavy, bearded guy to our left lets out a long deep laugh at the same time I put my hand over his to still it, and he backs away and stands up like he’s been burned.

“Jared, hey, Jare.”

But he’s turning and running. I drop money on the table for food I’m pretty sure we’re never going to see and follow him outside. He’s leaning against the wall across the street. I tell the valet to get my car and go meet Jared, whose hands are resting on his knees; his body bends double, his breathing rapid and shallow.

“Jared, c’mon man, breathe for me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay, that’s the Jared I know. Cursing me out. That’s good, hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

I try to touch him, but he stands up and walks away. I’m left standing with my hand out, feeling stupid, and hurt and confused.

The car comes around and I motion with my head.

He nods and gets in; before he even closes the door he looks at me. “Can we not talk about it?”

I don’t know what else to do so I nod. “Sure. But…”

“Don’t mention a therapist.”

“Nope, wouldn’t dare.”

We drive home in silence.




He wants to talk; I don’t. I disappear into my room and don’t come out, not even to exercise, for two days. On the third day he knocks on my door. I almost ignore it but mutter something and leave it for him to decide.

He opens the door with… with a puppy in his arms. A little brown and white and black spotted dog. Clearly part Australian Shepherd. I just stare at him. He loved Harley and Sadie, but he’s not really a dog person. He likes to sleep.

“I um… I called A Dog’s Life. Told them that you were… home, and we don’t have to keep her, we can just… foster her, but she needs a home. She’s part Aussie, and they think part Chow, cause of her tongue. She’ll be smaller than what we’re used to, but…"

He puts her on the bed, half on my lap. She curls herself up and then paws her way to my chest. She’s small, only about twenty-five lbs.

I look up. “She’s…”

“Yours, if you want her, if not, we’ll foster.”

“But…”

“Look, I know it’s not the ideal way to get a dog, but she’s a puppy, and she needs you, and I think you need her, okay, and she needs to go out four times a day, so that’s four times more sunlight than you’re getting now.

“I want my boyfriend back, and maybe you’ll never be the same, but there has to be a happy medium between what you were and… I thought she’d help. And you get to name her.”

“I do?” I’ve got a tear or two going, but it’s more about Jensen wanting me than about the dog, although she is a sweetheart. Too cute for words, and she needs some love. I’m not stupid; she’d be good for me.

He puts a bag down on the bed. “Leash, food, treats, all the stuff she had. And yeah, you get to name her.

“So what’s your name, girl?”

I lift her up and her black tongue takes a swipe at my face. I laugh. She’s definitely a chow mix, but so much of her is Aussie. “Sydney, huh? Well, okay then, girl. Sydney it is. C’mon, I’mmna put some pants on, and we’ll take a walk out back.”

I hand her to Jensen. “Don’t put her down,”

Jensen holds her and is clearly a little smitten, and maybe I should just let him take care of her, but I don’t think he’d let me neglect this duty, not when he actually went to a lot of trouble to get her. I donate to A Dog’s Life; doesn’t mean I get to just pluck dogs from their roster for adoption, and it certainly doesn’t mean Jensen does.

When we get outside I walk her around the perimeter of the yard and let her sniff every blade of grass. She does what she’s supposed to, because she’s a good girl, and I resolve to be a better man.



He’s walking, outside, in the sunlight, and everything I’ve read says he needs that. He’s got something to lavish with affection, something he can give affection to, and Jared needs that. I don’t have to read a book to know that it’s one of Jared's most primal needs- touch. He can’t or won’t touch me anymore, but maybe this… maybe Sydney can give him some of what he needs.




For months he joins me every morning and every night to walk Sydney. They’re long walks even though we just circle the yard, over and over and talk. He’s not working, all he’s got on his plate is local interviews to promote his movie, so I know he’s waking up early just to join us. It means a lot. Once she’s done her business I take her off the leash and let her run around the yard. He and I keep walking, and talking, and, at first, it’s about nothing, stupid stories we remember about stupid friends. Nothing.

He takes Sydney around the neighborhood for her afternoon walk. We don’t talk about it, but about two weeks after we get her he just starts, because I can’t do it, and she needs to be okay outside our yard. She can’t be the shut in I am. And yes, I’m aware that when you don’t want your dog to be as pathetic as you are it’s time to make some changes.

She’s good company though. She listens when I talk as I work out. Jensen used to do that sometimes, but I guess he’s not willing to do it anymore. She curls up in her bed in the corner of the weight room and watches me like I’m nuts, but she listens.



He thinks I’m not listening. Just because I’m not leaning against the door and responding doesn’t mean I’m not listening. He used to run lines for the really difficult scenes while working out, had some bullshit theory about full body memory and pumping the blood to his brain while learning them that made the emotional part easier. Like I said, bullshit, but then I realized he just had an easier time dealing with heavy emotions if he was talking them out with free weights in his hands. So I sit quietly, just out of range while he’s in the weight room and listen.

He’s planning his recovery, and his plan is for shit, but I’m letting him talk and plan, because it’s the first time I’ve heard him talk about recovery and, in my book, it qualifies as a win. Eventually he’ll come to me with his idea, and then I can help him modify it so it’s not so doomed to failure. That’s assuming he’s going to want my input at all, going to consult me. It’s funny, months of this communication breakdown, and I’m still used to the way it was. I move, and Sydney hears me, barks and must get up to come see me, because he’s standing next to her, one eyebrow raised, and I’m caught red-handed, eavesdropping.

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