(no subject)

[vamphile]

He’s been listening. Fuck. I kind of wanted to have the plan together, before he heard it, but I should have known; he’s a sneaky bastard. Not sneakier than an eight month old puppy though. She managed yesterday to get the cabinet with the treats open all by herself even though it's got kiddie locks on it so she can’t just bang her paw at the handle. Like I said, sneaky.

Sydney jumps up onto his lap, he oofs; she’s almost fifty pounds now and full grown. Smaller than my usual dogs but still too big to be a lap dog, just don’t tell her that… or Jensen.

I look at him, questioningly. I’m not sure if I want him to explain himself for listening like that, or if I want to know what he thinks.

“There are flaws in your plan. One major one is that you haven’t included me. How is this gonna work if we’re not doing it together?”

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to… I mean, I thought you might want to wait and see if it works, before you commit yourself to…”

He glares at me, and how a man can glare up at you while scritching a puppy is beyond me, but he manages. “I’m in this, period, so if you’re doing this, I’m doing this. Whatever it takes. But Jare, seriously, the skipping any kind of therapy part… I don’t see how that’s going to work.”

“Maybe not everything has to be talked to death. I was okay, you know, it was all good, and then three fuckers that I hired on my set went out for beer on my dime and attacked me. How is talking through that going to make it less true?”

“It’s not about it being less true, it’s about getting you to the point where your hands don’t shake when you talk about it.”

I move to shove my hands in my pockets, but I’m only wearing a pair of basketball shorts. I cross my arms across my chest instead. It doesn’t matter; he’s already seen the shaking, and he’s not wrong. I don’t even know if it’s fear or anger that does it to me or a combination of both, I just know that it kills me.



He tries to hide the shaking, but he can’t. His whole body is trembling. Someone who didn’t know him like I do might be scared; he looks angry, but he’s not, he’s terrified. What happened spooked him, no doubt, but he’s also scared that he’ll never get better. Never be okay again. He needs to see a therapist. I shoo Sydney off of my lap. She follows me to the office. So does he. I hand him a list. “I got this from a reliable and very discreet source. Anyone on that list will see you. You don’t have to talk about your mother and that time you had to sing in public in grade school, just this… you have to work through this.”

He takes the paper like it’s toxic. “Is this some kind of prerequisite?”

“For what?”

“For us… you know, getting back together.”

“We were never apart, so it can’t be. But it is a prerequisite for the rest of your rather boneheaded recovery plan. You can’t just spend more time outside. You need to work through this, but Sydney and I would love for you to join us on our afternoon walks.”

“Really?”

“Stop acting surprised that your boyfriend and your dog like you.”

“Yeah, okay, so, tomorrow, around once?”

“That’s what time we go bug the neighborhood. She likes to bark at the pack of Pomeranians down the street.”

“Serves ‘em right. She weighs more than all four of them put together.”

“And Jared, about the other part. If I thought you were ready, I’d be there in a heartbeat, but you’re not, and that’s just gonna break my heart.”

He nods, and I relax, while feeling a roiling in my stomach. I thought that he was gonna fight more for that. He’s pretty okay with no. More okay than I want him to be.



He’s doing a damn good job of making it seem like he’s not at all scared, but it’s been months since he left the house, and he can’t stop swallowing and then wiping his palms down his thighs. He’s sweating, more than usual even. I offer him the leash, but he shakes his head. He picks up his bottle of water, and we lock up and leave. Sydney starts with her usual energy. We run for a while. His long strides putting him ahead of me, and, Jesus god, his ass looks good in those jeans. He turns around, running backwards and praising Sydney as she runs towards him. After a mile we slow down. Jared takes a long drink of water and hugs Sydney, and then we start walking. It feels familiar and weird, and it takes me a minute to realize why. We’re in Winchester cadence. I look over, and his jaw is tight, he’s concentrating on matching his movements to mine. It’s not the easy rhythm we had by the end of the show and certainly not the organic rhythm we had, before he got attacked. This is something else. We get to the house with the Pomeranians, and Sydney stops to make her daily declaration of superiority. Someone comes out to shoo Sydney away. Some guy, probably security of some kind, considering the gate Sydney’s barking at. I feel Jared tense. Before I can soothe him he shakes his head and leaves. I pull Sydney away from the Pomeranian palace and debate my next move- do I cut the walk short and check on Jared or keep going.

I check on Jared. I find him half way back to the house, leaning against a fence post, sweat dripping. “Jare. Jare? You okay?”

He just turns and walks towards the house. I fill Sydney’s water bowl, give her a cookie and find Jared sitting on the bed. “Hey.”

He doesn’t respond.

“So it wasn’t a rousing success, we’ll avoid the little yappy dogs next time.”

“It wasn’t the dogs, and you know it.”

I reach out to put a hand on his shoulder. He stands up and peels his shirt off, “I’mmna take a shower. I’ll be okay.”



If he believes I’ll be okay he’s stupider than I thought. I don’t think I’m ever gonna be okay again. I shower and don’t bother to get dressed in more than boxers or go downstairs. Some cooking channel is marathoning shows on comfort food. I watch people cook with more butter in one dish than I eat in a week. He doesn’t come back to try to talk to me. I’m gonna pretend I’m relieved.

He knocks on the door, it used to be our door, it used to never occur to him to knock, but Sydney’s been up here for hours, and she needs to go out for her last walk of the day. “You coming?”

I shake my head. “You take her. I’ll…”

”Dude, she’s your dog. Walk your fucking dog.”

“She’s just as much yours as she is mine.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t spend the day in my underwear feeling sorry for myself!”

“Well fuck you. You don’t know what… you don’t know…”

“What? I don’t know anything? I don’t know how you feel? No one understands your pain? Well boo hoo. Talk to someone! I don’t care who as long as it’s not your dog, she can’t give you rational answers. I’ll listen if you want to talk to me, or any one of the therapists I called in several favors to get the names of, or hell, the psychic friends network, go on Tyra! I don’t fucking give a shit, just do something, and while you do, walk your fucking dog!” And he threw the leash. I caught it mid-air and threw it back at him. It was leather and chain because Sydney was still chewing on her leashes and hit him, slammed against his chin and shoulder.

He looked really surprised, and hurt, like both kinds. I tried to apologize, I didn’t mean to. I would never… but he just turned and walked out. “You’re cleaning the rug if you don’t walk her.

I walked her. Even she seemed to glare at me accusingly.

I want to go out and join them. He didn’t hurt me. Well, okay, he did but it was more surprise than physical pain… and I get that emotionally he’s all over the map right now. He used to be ten feet tall and bulletproof, and that was less than a year ago. Now he’s more comfortable spending the day in his boxers.

Don’t get me wrong, he looks awesome in his boxers. He’s working out a lot, packing on the muscle without his face changing shape every three months. It’s hot, and if I thought my advances would be welcomed I’d make them, but I’m pretty sure they’d be tolerated at best and rebuffed at worst.

He’s standing against the fence, letting the dog run off leash, and we need to talk.

When he comes in he won’t make eye contact. I try, going as far as reaching out to touch him. Not something I used to have to consider, something that used to be as automatic as breathing.

He shrugs away before I can make contact. “I’m sorry.”

I nod. “I know, me too. Maybe…”

“If you tell me to talk to someone, I swear to Christ…” he leaves the threat hanging because there is no real threat. He won’t hit me, and he can’t withdraw any further without moving out. He finishes his bottle of water. “I’ll call, alright?”

“Yeah.”



It takes me five and a half days to get the courage to call someone. The office is across town, and I don’t know how I’m going to get there, but the next one I call is much closer, and I make an appointment.

Jensen does his best not to respond when I tell him, but I can feel the relief in the way the tension in his shoulders seems to dissipate.

His office is attached to his house. I’m nervous driving there, and hate myself for how much it spooks me just to be out of the house, in my own car. I want Sydney there, but I can’t leave her in the car for an hour. I knock hesitantly on the door, unsure of everything and really wishing I could just get in the car and drive home, but Jensen's there, and he’d know that I didn’t go. I have to do this. For him. For us… if there still is an us… god I hope there’s still an us. He greets me, an average guy in every way. Khaki’s, navy blue sweater, about six feet, salt and pepper hair and a genuinely warm smile. He must practice that. The office is generically soothing with expensive lithographs on the wall and old magazines in a stack next to the sofa.

I fill out a bunch of paperwork, mostly checklists, and then sit inside the office. I give him the whole story. I can’t imagine it’ll take long; there isn’t much to tell, so I’m surprised when we’re still talking, and the hour is up.

I go, twice a week, and for a while Jensen offers to come with me, drive me, whatever. I’m drained at the end of an appointment, and I know he wants to be part of this, but he isn’t part of this, and I think that may be one of the things that bothers him so much. There’s something in my life, for the first time in a long time, that he can’t be a part of, can’t get near, and can’t touch.

I hope he never can, I’d like to keep him from ever getting anywhere near this. He shouldn’t have to bear this load, just because he agreed to come out, just because I wanted to be out, and now I’ve destroyed myself, but the second Dead Center just broke records. He’s doing fine, and I’m not jeopardizing that.



He’s going to therapy, other than walking Sydney, that’s ALL he’s doing, but he’s going, twice a week he showers, gets dressed and leaves the house. A month ago that would have been considered an accomplishment… and it is, I know it is, but I just can’t help but wonder why he won’t let me help him. I was there for all of it. For the coming out and the bar. Is he mad, because I wasn’t there to help when he was attacked? Should I have known? I was there at the hospital, and through all the physical healing he did… and I watched him fall apart, and now he’s building himself back up without me. What if this new version of him doesn’t need me? What if he never needed me… he never did need me, and what if this new version doesn’t even want me?

I shake my head and consider calling Danneel, she’s usually good for a smack upside the head and a reality check, but there’s more to it than that. There’s me sitting there in the guest room, jerking off alone, while my boyfriend, my motherfucking life partner refuses to acknowledge me in our own room, the room we happily shared for years.

I call a therapist with an office across town. Apparently, even the sane one in this relationship is crazy. I say it out loud and toss a piece of ham to Sydney. Yeah. I need help, because I’m doing it wrong, and if I’m going to do this, if I’m going to help him. I need to make sure I’m doing it right. It’s too important to risk fucking it up, and I feel like I’m precariously close to fucking it all to hell.



It’s so stupid I sometimes have to shake my head and just marvel. We’re paying thousands of dollars a month so that I can talk to some guy, and he can talk to some guy and neither of us is talking to each other.

We’re sitting on the couch; Sydney wants to try my Kung Pao chicken. Jensen pauses the movie and comes back with two more beers. It’s all normal, except for the huge motherfucking elephant in the room. We sit carefully, we probably look relaxed, but he’s not touching me, no part of him in any contact with any part of me, and vice versa. We’re as careful as siblings who are trying not to cross the fictional line in the middle of the back seat.

The movie’s terrible. The kid starring as the hero looks about fifteen, and the effects are for shit, but stuff blows up, and neither of us were asked to have anything to do with the production, so we don’t have to analyze-it’s suckage for what we’d have done differently. We still do it, but we don’t have to. I take my food back to the kitchen when I’m done. My appetite isn’t what it used to be. Jensen hands me his as I’m walking past. I think about making a snide comment about his legs not working, but he’s functional and I’m not so… yeah, I’ll put the leftovers away.

We’re sitting, still and careful when I make a move, it’s small; I let my hand cross over the space, until my fingers are resting over his. He doesn’t pull his hand back. He doesn’t look at me, but I look at him. He’s awake, he knows I’m touching him, and he’s not pulling away.

We stay like that. Like nervous kids on our first date, for longer than I care to admit, until he moves his hand, sliding his fingers between mine. He looks over at me without moving his head, just a quick sidelong glance and a smile. I relax back into the sofa and just enjoy holding hands with Jensen.

If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be thrilled to just be holding hands with my boyfriend on the couch I’d have laughed and said I’d rather fuck him over the back of it, but now I can’t even imagine doing that.

I can imagine this though. This is nice. This is, I think, progress.



When he joins Sydney and me for our afternoon walk, he’s stiff, and his eyes scan the street over and over. We never brush shoulders. Our hands never bump against one another. And I get that it’s not just that he won’t do it. I really think it’s that he can’t. He freezes up, breaks out in a sweat if he thinks anyone’s watching us. Sometimes I really just want to find the fuckers that did this to him and kill them, but most of the time I just want to hold him and promise it’ll be alright.



He still won’t touch me. He’ll let me touch him, but he doesn’t reach out to make contact. We talk, thank god. I don’t know what I’d do without him, what I would have done. I feel, sometimes, like I can see a light somewhere down the line, like there’s an end to this cloistered existence, but then I remember that I’ve frustrated all of my friends, and pretty much driven us to living like roommates. The easy affection is gone, I drove it away, and I don’t know how to get it back.

I try sometimes. We bump shoulders when we’re walking around the yard talking but when we’re out in public, even on the quiet street where we live, walking our dog, I just can’t bring myself to reach out, or let his occasional attempts reach their target, not where someone could see. Not where he could get hurt. Not where I could.




This is bullshit. This thing where we’re each other’s dirty little secret, inside the house, behind a privacy fence. I think about it every morning and get more and more angry. But I calm myself down because anger scares him now. My gentle giant isn’t so much gentle as terrified at this point. I’m due at brunch with Danneel. I’m not looking forward to answering her questions about Jared's progress. How many times, how many ways can a person report “no major changes” before their friends start to recommend making a change. They haven’t yet, but I know it’s coming, and here’s the thing, it’s not an option.

Roommates with Jared vs. a relationship with anyone else… no contest. I’ll stick with the man I love. I ransack the bathroom looking for my pomade, the only stuff that keeps my hair the way I like it and find the tin in the trash… fuck, I forgot I was out. I’m running late so, without thinking I walk into the master bath, what used to be our bathroom but is now his. He looks up at me, surprised.

“I think I have some pomade in here.” He takes a step backwards, and as he does I move forward and see it on the counter. I’m standing directly behind him. As I lean to pick up the tin I curl my hand around his hip. I look up, panicked, but his expression in the mirror isn’t upset, it seems… wistful, and he doesn’t move away from me. I lean forward for a better grip on the hair product, it puts my chest against his back, and I can see his expression in the mirror. He’s okay with it. I smile, and he smiles back, and this should feel normal and comfortable, but mostly it just feels new again, and good, very good.



When he leaves the bathroom I can still feel the residual warmth where his hand rested on my hip, where his chest was against my back. My body missed him. As close as we’ve come, several times, to hugging, this was better, more organic or something. I get dressed and have a feeling that like a teenaged girl with her first kiss, I’m going to be going over every nuance of that interaction today, well, except I’ll be talking to a licensed therapist.



It’s been a week since the ‘incident’ in the bathroom. A week and sometimes he’ll let my hand rest on the back of his neck when we’re watching TV. Sometimes he’ll actually take the initiative and rest a hand on my thigh, or over my hand, but we’ve moved very little beyond that. I want more. I want him to feel safe around me.

We’re watching some stupid cop show, because Chad got a recurring character role, and, well, that’s pretty much the only thing that would make us watch a show this dumb. It’s on HBO, and watching Chad call someone a motherfucker is kind of funny to me, I don’t know why; I’ve heard him say it a thousand times. They’re not close friends anymore, but man; he used to be like a barnacle you just couldn’t scrape off.

Before the opening credits some guy pays his tab at a bar, and you can hear the footsteps behind him in the alley leading to the parking lot.

Jared's hand was on mine, now it’s not.

Someone comes up behind the guy and brains him with a tire iron. Blood spatters, and Jared's suddenly shaking.

I turn off the TV and put myself between Jared and anything else, crouching in front of him. Jared has slid off the couch, and I push the coffee table back so I can be on the floor with him while he shakes and tries to breathe.

“C’mon, deep breaths.”

Jared shakes his head, and I grab his hands, squeezing, letting him know I’m here. Letting my foot rest on top of his for a second before I scoot closer. Our legs interspersed, one hand finds his shoulder and squeezes again.

“Don’t leave.”

“Not going anywhere. Right here.”

He whimpers, and my heart breaks. Breaks wide. “Jared, look at me.”

His head is down, staring at the carpet, my feet. I move my hand slowly, until it’s under his chin. “Jared, c’mon dude, right here.”

“Jensen.”

“Yeah, c’mon”, I pull him closer, one hand on the back of his head, pulling it to my chest. Yeah, not the most comfortable position for either of us, but it’s the contact that matters to me now. I will not sit helplessly by and watch him suffer like this. I won’t, I can’t, and I want him to know I’m here. To breathe and feel me here.

“Gotta…”

“Nope, you gotta stay here and breathe. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jen…” his voice is choked, he’s sweating, and shaking, and his grip on my hand might do damage, and I don’t fucking care; I’m not leaving. “Jared, c’mon man,” I start shushing and just repeating things like “right here,” and “not leaving,” and “just breathe,” while he rides out the worst of it.

When it’s over his breathing is slower and more even, he looks up, his face still damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his head. I’m still holding his hand; my other is on the back of his neck. I move it to his shoulder but don’t let go.

“Sorry.”

I shake my head. “It’s okay.”

“But… how did…?”

“You’re not the only one with a therapist at his disposal. I might have asked for a little insight into how to help.”

“Really?”

“I’d do anything to help you” and he knows it’s not a lie. We’re both sort of crammed into this spot on the floor, but I’m not ready to give up the contact. “You’re pretty fucking amazing.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Seriously, I don’t think I could handle what you’re going through.”

“I can’t handle it. That’s why I’m going through this shit.”

“Is that really what you think?”

He shrugs, and I just keep looking at him, waiting for and answer.

“It’s hard, really hard sometimes.”

“Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry. I think… I fucked up, and I’ve been making it harder.”

He shakes his head adamantly. “You didn’t; you haven’t, I just… I thought if you touched me I’d… I’d freak and hurt you.”

“I trust you.”

“I don’t trust me.”

“Okay, but I do.”

“Jensen.”

“Hmmm?”

“If I don’t stand up soon I’ll lose all feeling in my legs.”

I laugh, and we stand up. I bring us both a couple of beers, and we sit back and decide to lie and tell Chad he was awesome. No way in hell we’re watching this show.



He’s amazing. I don’t even think he knows how amazing he is. When it happens, when I’m awash in panic like that, I feel like I’m alone, and drowning and so far from anything or anyone safe, and he just cut through all of that, took something that would have lasted all day and made it a blip on the evenings radar. I’m still shaky, but I feel like I could eat popcorn and not puke it all back up. Like I can breathe, like maybe I can sleep tonight without the fear of nightmares. Maybe.

He follows me around, not too close, but close enough that he’ll be here in a second if I need him. We sit, touching casually, a stroked arm here, a hand on a knee there, for the rest of the night, and when it’s time to go to bed I want him with me. Not for sex, well, not just for sex. I want him back, but I’m afraid to ask. It’ll kill me if he says no.



I watch him through the evening, reveling in the return of casual contact. I consider asking to join him in his room, the one that used to be our room, but I don’t know what I’d do if he said no, so I just go to bed and think about how lost and scared he was, and hope I did the right thing interfering.

In the morning we walk Sydney. I have to fly out to New York to do the Daily Show and Letterman. Promos for the DVDs, and my agent says that it’s good for awards season. I’m not winning any awards for the Dead Center series, but I get a piece of the DVD sales, so it’s in my best interest to go. I’ll have my phone, so Jared can call, but I’ll bet he barely leaves his room, let alone the house. I’ll only be gone 36 hours, and Sydney will live without her outside the fence walk, but I still worry about Jared. He flexes his muscles and tells me I’ve got nothing to worry about. I just shake my head. I want to tell him so many things, not the least of which is that this didn’t happen just because he’d stopped working out obsessively, but instead I take an even bigger risk and kiss his cheek before leave to get in the cab to the airport.



He’s nervous on The Daily Show but less so on Letterman, I can still see him fidgeting with his coffee cup, and the way his eyes are wide and bright. He’s scared. It’s not like him to be nervous in at an interview lately, especially not a one-on-one gig these days. When he gets home he’s still fidgety. I hug him hello, the way I used to, about as much contact as two people are ever gonna get with their clothes on, and he melts into me. I’m so relieved that he did, and I realize he’s relieved that I did. He thought the kiss was too much.

Fuck this. Its time to talk.

“Jensen. You’re allowed to touch me. You know that, right?”

“I just… you have to know… I mean… you know I’m sorry, right?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I left, I shouldn’t have left, I should have… stayed. I should have…”

“Walked me home? Made sure I got to my car okay? Jensen.”

“I’m serious, Jared. I didn’t even think about it, about the risks. I wanted you at my premiere, I wanted to be with you at yours and…”

“Hey, hey… we both wanted that. We both wanted to be there for each other, and we both wanted to own a lot of tuxedos. We were on the same page, and… and now we’re not.”

“But we are.”

‘No, we’re still not; because you don’t… you think this is your fault.”

“It is.”

“Jensen, I wanted all of those things, I asked you to do it when I didn’t even think that I was the one taking the risk. We made this call together and…”

“And it was the wrong one.”

“Wanna hear something funny?”

“I’d love to.”

“I’m not sure it was the wrong call. The bar was the wrong call. Inviting the whole crew was the wrong call, leaving through the back, because the door was closer was the wrong call, but declaring that I’m stupid in love with you is not the wrong call, it never could be.”

“Even after all this?”

“Even after all this.”

“You have any idea how much I miss you?”

“Can’t be as much as I miss you. Will you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“And Christ, the past year has proven that.”

“Jared, I mean it. Anything.”

“Will you come home, you know, back to our room, back to us?”

He looks like he’s about to fall, I cup his elbow. “Jensen?”

“I just… I never thought… I mean, I hoped, and god, Jared, you stupid moron, of course I’ll move back to my bedroom, with my boyfriend.”

We walk upstairs together, and he seems almost shy about stripping down, which is so unlike him I don’t even know what to do but smile.



I sleep naked, always have, but tonight, I get to my boxers and I’m standing there like a virgin who forgot the liquid courage, fiddling with the waistband, until Jared rolls his eyes and smiles. It’s that full smile that I thought was extinct, the one that shows off his dimples and perfect teeth. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

I roll my eyes, drop my shorts and get into bed. The feel of him, strong and solid against my back, his arms around me, one of his knees between mine, the position I thought I might never get to experience again, a closeness that’s just about contact, and love and not at all about sex. He kisses the back of my neck “I’m so sorry.”

I take his hand and kiss his knuckles. “We have to stop apologizing... if it wasn’t my fault it sure as hell wasn’t yours.”

He nods and I fall asleep wrapped in him. Hopeful.