nilchance | FIC: Marley Was Dead to Begin With

Title: Marley Was Dead to Begin With
Author:

nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Misha Collins/JDM
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff is a dom, Misha is his boy, Jensen is complicated. Finally, that holiday party about a month too late. I owe my soul to

poisontaster and

mona1347 for checking this over for me and keeping me from wailing too much.

Jeff wakes to a weight on his chest, the sweet smell of coffee. He lingers with his eyes closed until he remembers, a tangle of darkness: blood on Jensen's hands, glass on the floor, Misha choking on the stink of brine. For a minute, he can't breathe.

"Jeff?" Misha curls against his side, their legs twining under the blankets. His feet are (as always) cold. "You awake yet?"

But it's Christmas morning, and Misha is with him. He has reasons to get up.

"'m awake." Jeff pries his eyes open and Misha is all he can see, hovering like a kid waiting for presents. Despite himself, Jeff smiles. "Merry Christmas."

Misha lights up. He's no Christian, Jeff knows, not religious at all. This holiday is still Misha's thing, a day of generosity and warmth and friends and food. "Same to you. I've been up since eight. The turkey's already in. Did I wake you up?"

"No," Jeff lies, and leans over to kiss Misha's scratchy cheek. Misha turns into his mouth and the kiss becomes hotter, open-mouthed and slow. Jeff's cock gives an interested twitch until he reminds it firmly that Misha's probably in no condition for morning sex.

That 'probably' is confirmed when Misha is the first to pull back, breathing hard. He glances at Jeff's face, anxious until Jeff gives him a rueful smile. Misha relaxes, nosing Jeff's cheek, and sits back. It's such a funny, silent kind of perfect that Jeff's chest hurts with relief; at least the supernatural weirdness of the past week hasn't changed that. He looks away, down at the breakfast tray on his stomach. Coffee and toaster waffles smothered with butter.

It's Christmas, a special occasion and all, but Jeff still asks, "Okay, what do you want?"

Other boys that Jeff's had, they would shy and act coy. Misha just shrugs. "I've had some time to think. Want to drink your coffee first?"

"Is it that bad?" Jeff teases, but he takes the coffee. Sips. It's good, rich with chicory and caramel. Jeff makes a mental note to switch pots before the hoards arrive and drink all his good coffee. "All right, hit me."

"I think Jensen's living in his car," Misha says bluntly. "I'd like to offer him a place here. We've got a couch, and that cot, and I'm afraid he's going to hurt himself if we don't do something."

"Mish." Jeff puts his mug down and cups Misha's face between his hands. "You don't have to save the world."

"I know." Tilting his head so he can watch Jeff with serious dark eyes, Misha says, "And neither do you. And neither does he. But we're all trying, aren't we?"

It's not meant to be a barb, but it still stings. Jeff sighs. "Point. Maybe he can keep you safe."

"Us," Misha says firmly. "Until we learn how to protect each other, yeah. That's not the only reason to invite him to stay with us."

Jeff could pretend Misha means that the other reason is Renee, or simple charity. But it's more complicated than that. Jensen is an unknown factor, a guardian between them and darker things, a possible psychopath, but he's also a man who saved Misha's life. Who took the water from Misha's lungs so he could drown himself, and who shied from Jeff's hands. Who, to put it frankly, Jeff wants to put on his knees with an intensity he hasn't felt since Misha.

When Jensen saved Misha, he became one of Jeff's, for better or worse.

"No," Jeff says. "That's not the only reason. He'll balk, you know."

"I'm sure I'll find some way to convince him."

"Waffles?" Jeff teases, and watches the subtle tension drain from Misha.

"No. I only burn waffles for you." Moving carefully, Misha drapes himself across Jeff's hips. "Now drink your coffee so I can suck you."

Jeff twitches and nearly sloshes coffee. "You're hurt, I didn't..." When Misha just looks at him, Jeff sighs. "We'll be late for our own party."

Misha grins. "Make it worth your while?"
***
The first knock finds them rumpled and limp, only half-dressed. Somehow Jeff ends up being the one to answer the door.

Jason looks him over, one eyebrow raised. There's a duffel bag in his hand, bread poking over the top. "Well. Somebody already got his present."

"Shut up," Jeff says, but there's no heat in it. He reaches out and drags Jason across his threshold for a hug. They don't do this, him and Jason; two heap big doms hugging it out? Their reputations are at stake. But it's been a hard week, and there are weary lines on Jason's face.

Jason tenses for a second, like he might punch Jeff for this, then relaxes and drapes around Jeff like a huge cat. The scent of incense follows him, clinging to his hair, tangling with the good smell of baked bread. He's intensely warm in Jeff's arms.

"N'aww," Misha says from the living room.

With a snort, Jason pulls away and shakes himself. He notices Bisou sniffing around just in time to yank the bag out of reach. "Ah, ah. What's my girlfriend doing, huh?"

Bisou likes Jason, Jeff knows, from all the times Jason used to come over to get help with yoga or to crash on their couch. Jason always brings her something good to eat. She woofs and allows Jason to rub her down, her tail flogging Jeff's leg. Scratching under Bisou's collar, Jason nods at Misha. "Hey, midget."

"Fuck off," Misha says amiably. "Come help me untangle these lights."

"For the non-denominational holiday tree?" Jeff deadpans.

"It could be a Yule symbol," Misha says, drawing the lights to his chest like Jeff might make a grab for them. "Or a Hanukkah bush. Go check the short ribs."

Jason opens his mouth, thinks a minute, and wisely shuts it.
****

"I'm not leaving," Ever says, her arms crossed over her chest. Jeff sighs. She, Zach and Jeremy have only been here for x minutes and already Jeff's put his foot in it. Her tone is sharp enough to draw Jeremy's attention from stringing popcorn; he frowns, a silent question, and Ever shakes her head. Zach and Jeremy had accompanied her to the door like her damn honor guard.

Jeff says nothing, because he knows Ever's backbone and that she can't be pushed, but he looks at her.

"I know." Irritable, Ever swipes her hair out of her face. "Two dead women so far, cops everywhere. Don't think Jeremy didn't try to tell me. God, what they did to Renee... but no. No, I'm not going. That's what this bastard wants, us scattering and hiding from him. People ran from Jack the Ripper and he still found women to gut, didn't he?"

There's no point in mentioning that Jack the Ripper killed prostitutes. Jeff doesn't know if locked doors would stop this murderer anyway.

Ever seems to take his silence as censure. "I knew Renee," she bites off, "I fucked her, poor screwed up kid, I could've taken her in as mine and--" saved her, she doesn't say, but swallows several times. When she can speak, it's low and deliberate. "No. I'm not letting this bastard run me out of my own home."

It won't matter to the killer if one more woman stays, but it matters to them. The survivors. Jeff reaches out and takes her cold hand between his own. Ever closes her eyes, and the oscillating lights dance across her upturned face. Then she takes her hand back and swipes angrily at her eyes. "Fuck, turn on some music. What is this, a wake? Zach! Sinatra!"

As Zach gets up to do her bidding, untangling himself from Jeremy on the couch, there's a knock on the door. Jeff barely hears it over the creak of the oven as Ever checks the roast, but Misha perks up. Gently nudging Jason's head off his lap, where Jason is being stroked like a large house-cat, Misha bounds to the door and flings it open.

Jensen stands in the doorway, drawing attention like a gunshot, a narrow figure in black from boots to turtleneck. He looks like a hired gunman in a bad movie, except devastatingly pretty. His eyes dart to the couch and he blinks, surprised. Having Misha embrace him doesn't seem to help. He meets Jeff's eyes from across the room, a glancing blow, before redirecting his attention to the full couch. He doesn't look like he's slept since last night.

"Jensen, hey. I didn't think you were coming." Holding Jensen at arms' length, Misha beams at him. "I'm glad."

Ever leans into Jeff, catching his attention. She speaks low, sudden predatory interest. "Who's that? He's darling."

"He's off-limits," Jeff says.

Ever glances at the mistletoe hung from the eaves and bites her lip, eyes heavy-lidded. "We'll see."

Jeff opens his mouth to say... what? That Jensen is still raw from grief? That he's Jeff's? Both are true, to a degree, but more complicated than Jeff can explain. Ever is a woman, and he's fairly certain that Jensen wouldn't hurt more than her pride. Still, he catches her on her way into the living room. "Ev," he says, pitching his voice low, "he knew Renee and it's kind of a sore subject."

Ever stops, frowning at him. "She fucked him over too, huh?"

Jeff sighs. "Not my story to tell and for the love of God, don't you dare ask him. Just-- be gentle, okay?"

"Damn," she says, "I'll have to put away the nipple clamps."

Meanwhile, Misha has succeeded in dragging Jensen inside and shutting the door. He has Jensen by the wrist, guiding him towards the couch, with Jensen getting more tense the closer they come. Jeremy glances up from stringing popcorn and smirks. "What, Jeff, you invited the narc?"

Jason, still draped across the couch where Misha left him, raises his head to look at Jensen. Something electric and silent passes between them; Jensen jerks away from it, Jason smiles. When Jeff chooses to lean against the back of the couch, he leans over Jason. It's purely accident, he tells himself, and drops the bowl of salted edamame onto Jason's stomach with unnecessary force.

Jason grunts.

"He's not a narc," Misha says with enviable patience. "This is Jensen, he'll be joining us for dinner. Jen, that's Jeremy, Ever, Zach over by the stereo, and I guess you know Jason."

"I guess," Jason drawls, teasing.

Jensen doesn't look at him; he looks at Misha and drops his voice, probably trying to salvage some privacy. "I just need to talk to Jeff, sign some papers, I'm not--" When Misha turns the full intensity of his hound-dog eyes on, even Jensen falters to a stop. He starts again, almost pleading. "I didn't bring anything."

"Dude, don't worry about that." Jeremy, bless him, scoots over and thumps the couch cushion beside him. "Jeff always cooks too much anyway, and I brought Manischewitz. Cream concord."

"A sheynem dank, bitch," Zach calls from the stereo.

Jeremy flips him off, then reaches over to steal some edamame from Jason. "Stay," he tells Jensen. "You'll learn all the local gossip about people you don't care about."

Jensen pauses, lured by the promise of information, then shoots a look at Jeff. Flight or fight reflex. Jeff holds his stare, trying to look like it doesn't matter, but he remembers the flowering bruises on Jensen's torso and the gaunt reef of his ribcage.

"And he can help you string popcorn," Ever says dryly, folding herself into Jeff's armchair. When Jensen glances at her, she winks.

Unrepentant, Jeremy grins at him. "And that."

A moment later, music pours into the room. Cranking the volume down to a tolerable level, Zach returns to the couch and flops onto the floor at Jeremy's feet. Bisou quickly crawls across his lap, commando style, seeking food from her soft-hearted people. Zach rubs her ears and tells Jensen, "Don't eat the tofu. By the way, you aren't really a narc, right? I brought some, uh, herbal remedies."

Slowly, all feral cat nerves, Jensen settles onto the edge of the couch beside Jeremy. "No," Jensen replies. Even his 'trust me' smile is skittish. "CIA."

It's not really a joke worth laughing at, but Zach does, and that easily their little group shifts to let Jensen in. Nobody asks the real questions (who are you? where are you from?), but in their subculture, a lot of folks have hard stories they're trying to outrun. If Jeff wants to let Jensen in, they figure he's harmless.

The next time Jeff looks at Ever, she's thoughtful, studying the wedding ring on Jensen's hand.
****
Dinner is good.

No. Dinner is epic.

Jeremy did bring wine, reds and whites and blushes, a mix of the obscure and the cheap. Peach wine, raspberry wine, blackberry wine, a wine that tastes like summer, like fingers stained from fresh-picked berries, the burst of sweet juice on the tongue. Sharp cheese and salty, dense salami (that Zach brought "to go with Jeremy's wiiiiine," he said, and grinned) that they tear off into irregular wedges and sneak to Bisou as the scent of braising meat fills the loft.

There's bread rescued from Jason's bag, the crusty white that tears open to reveal its soft yeasty inside, the richer thicker breads sweetened with honey and oats, a Hawaiian sweetbread made from his grandmother's recipe. There's melting butter, bought from a farmer's market and brought to their table still wrapped in wax paper, yielding to the butter knife, mellow and creamy. Jeff sees Misha gently pressing bread and cheese and salami on Jensen's, passed warm between their hands like a secret.

After a while, Jeff checks the oven and dinner is good, just as darkness is cooling outside their windows. He gathers them to the table, resting a hand on Jensen's side before Jason could touch him. Jensen flinches a little beneath his hand, but doesn't strike out or move away. He lets Jeff guide him to a chair at their table, tucked safely between Jeff and Misha. It doesn't go unnoticed, judging from the way Jeremy and Zach exchange a sidelong glance.

"Who wants to say Grace?" Ever teases.

They look at each other, their small patchwork group, their rag and bone family. They're alive, for the moment, and they're together, and there's good food to eat and good wine to drink and later, good weed to smoke. There have been worse years. Misha reaches over Jensen and takes Jeff's hand, squeezes it hard.

"Here, I'll do it." Jeremy sloshes wine into his cup and half-stands, ready to beat Zach to the stuffing. Clearing his throat, he says, "Dear God--"

"If there is a god," Zach says.

"-- thank you for letting us be here today. Thank you for Beltway Liquors and for Misha's garden, and for whatever grocery store Ever knocked over for that pie--"

"Hey, I can cook, jackass."

"And thank you, Zach, for dumping that vegetarian bimbo so we don't have to eat tofurkey this year."

"Amen," Zach and Jeff say as one. Zach grins and kicks Jeff under the table.

Jeremy continues, knowing he's secured his audience, but his voice is more sober than before. "Thank you, maybe God, for new friends, and for letting me be here today with my favorite deviants. And please look after Cynthia and Renee."

Jensen sits very still, staring at nothing.

"So yeah, let's eat," Jeremy finishes, out of steam, and sits down.

Zach bumps shoulders with him, comforting, then says, "Hey, I got a gig out in front of the Chinese?"

The spell is broken. Misha lets go of Jeff's hand. They dig in.

Misha serves vegetables straight from their own garden, so fresh that Jeff saw him gathering them this morning. Carrots, vivid as a crossing guard's jacket, and red peppers with their sweet crunch. Snap beans. Asparagus, steamed with olive oil and a little sea salt. Grape tomatoes dressed lightly in balsamic vinegar, candy-like, grounded by nubs of mozzarella. Squash roasted in the oven, butter, brown sugar and whiskey simmering in the half-moon of its insides until the flesh peeled away in golden strips, messy and delicious.

Potatoes, peeled and cooked by Zach's guitar-callused hands and brought to their loft in a bucket, mashed with cream and butter and garlic until it feels like they stroke the mouth and warm the belly, light as cement. Ever resists a little but lets Zach glop a hearty serving onto her plate. Zach presses it on each of them in turn, fussing like a foul-mouthed Jewish grandmother.

The meat: Jeff's proud of it, recreated from his mother's recipe. Beef spare ribs, slow cooked in red wine and vinegar on the bone until the meat dissolves away, greasy and good. Jeff digs in, ready to spoon a steaming bone onto Misha's plate, and stops.

Jensen stares at the food, looking stricken by it. The sheer volume of it, the crush of people. The absence of his wife. He looks like he'd bolt if he could, but trapped between them, he can only sit there and feel his loss, the enormity of it shivering through him. How long has it been since he ate, let alone at a table like a real person? How long since he's been expected to act normal? Does this dinner remind him of his family, or of his wife's wake?

Jeff looks at him and thinks: God, you must be so lonely.

"Jensen." Misha sets a laden plate in front of Jensen. "Here. Grew the vegetables myself."

Twitching out of his gaze, Jensen hunches in on himself, looking like nothing so much as a wounded animal. He darts a look at Jeremy, Zach and Ever, but they're busy with their own plates by accident or design. He swallows thickly, looking down at the food, and picks up his fork.
****
They're barely finishing Ever's peach pie (which is most excellent, particularly with ice cream and Jeremy's snide cracks about Ever's preference for pie) when Jeremy sets up a gravity bong. Zach keeps up a running commentary on all the things Jeremy's doing wrong, even while he holds the putty in place for the bowl.

Slouching with his back against the couch, between Misha's knees, Jason asks, "How many stoners does it take to screw in a lightbulb?"

"One to screw it in, one to hold him up, and one to make a bong out of it." Ever sits on the floor with Bisou's head in her lap, rubbing Bisou's ears. "Is that almost ready?"

"You can't rush genius," Jeremy mutters, packing weed into the bowl.

"Well, yeah, that's why I'm rushing you."

Zach snorts. "She told you."

They've clustered onto Jeff's couch, their small crew, except for Jensen. He hovers at the edge of the couch, watching every move Jeremy makes. Jeff gets the feeling that he'd be gone if Misha didn't have one hand resting on Jensen's back, deceptively lazy but probably ready to snare Jensen if he tries to bolt. Misha apparently has no intention of letting Jensen leave before he offers up their couch. Jensen must be too full of good food and wine to snap at him.

Jeff doesn't ask himself why he positioned himself between Jensen and the door.

Glancing up at Jensen, Jeremy misreads his expression and asks archly, "Jeff, you sure he's not a narc?"

"I'm not a narc," Jensen replies, deadpan. At least he's speaking to Jeremy now instead of staring at him warily.

"Yeah, all right," Jeremy says, skeptical, but he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a baggie of weed. "I'm too pretty to go to jail."

"Not that pretty," Zach says.

"You two always have to do this at our house?" Jeff asks.

"You have wood floors," Jason explains. He tips his head back against Misha, seeking touch, and closes his eyes as Misha scritches him. Jensen narrows his eyes at Jason, then glances at Jeff, frowning. Jeff shrugs. If Jensen expects him to bound to his feet to defend Misha from Jason, he'll be waiting a long time.

"All right!" Jeremy sits back from his completed bong, clapping his hands together. "Light it up, Zach. Who's first?"

"I'm out. Designated driver," Ever says, rubbing under Bisou's chin.

"Just because you set your hair on fire last time," Zach grouses. "Jeff?"

Jeff's attention skids to the patch of floor where Misha lay dying last night, and he shakes his head. "Cough. Don't want to be plague-bearer."

"Jesus, you're all getting old," Jeremy says, but readily unscrews the bottle's top and puts his mouth to the hole.

He eases the bottle back down into the water, pushing the pot smoke into his lungs, then sits back, eyes closed. Zach takes the next round, swallowing back against a cough, and then Jason. Jensen watches it all with keen attention.

"Shit," Jeremy says with real admiration, smiling. "That's good. Narc, you want any?"

"He's going to call you that forever," Misha says to Jensen.

"He doesn't--" Jeff begins to say, but he doesn't get to finish.

"Yeah." Almost aggressively, Jensen sits down on the floor, his knees bumping Jason's. "Yeah, okay. I'll do it."

Misha shoots Jeff a quick look, less alarmed than speculative. Jeff gives up on subtlety and goes to sit by Jensen's other side, which has Zach and Jeremy exchanging another knowing look. As Zach picks up his lighter, Jeff leans into Jensen and murmurs, "You want me to hold the bottle?"

"I watched them, I'm not stupid," Jensen whispers back. "I know what I'm doing."

"It's a lot of smoke, Jensen. Have you ever even--"

Lighting up the bowl, Zach sits back on his haunches. "Okay, go time!"

Smoke fills the interior of the bottle as Jensen kneels up. He takes hold of the bottle sternly like it's a loaded gun and uncaps the bottle. Technique in hand, Jensen puts his mouth to the bottle's cap, going down, and Jeff has to shake off a brief filthy image of Jensen's mouth wrapping around other things. Jensen inhales-- and immediately coughs, bubbling up air and smoke, spewing water over the edges of the pot. Jensen drops back, coughing fiercely, as Jeremy hoots out laughter and Zach fumbles the bottle closed again before the smoke gets out.

"Your boy needs lessons," Zach drawls, mopping up the mess.

Thumping Jensen on the back, Jeff says, "Not from you, you'll fucking corrupt him. You all right, sweetheart?"

"Jesus," Jensen wheezes, palming his watering eyes. "Jesus Christ, you do that for fun?"

Which prompts another round of hysterics. Jason grabs the towel from Zach and swabs at Jensen's face, rumbling comfort. Jensen blinks at him, swaying a little as he does, flushed and ludicrously pretty.

Christ. Jeff rubs circles on Jensen's back and resists the urge to smack Jason away. "S'okay. Misha nearly set the couch on fire once."

"Yeah, and thanks for reminding everyone. My turn." Misha clambers over Jason and over the table, forcing Jeff to make room for him between him and Jensen. "C'mon, hit me."

Zach, the keeper of the flame, does. Misha takes his hit like a pro, a long slow inhale, and sits back. Then he reaches over, cups the back of Jensen's neck, and kisses him. Jensen jerks, eyes opening wide and then closing as Misha breathes the smoke between their mouths. By the time it's done, Jensen's leaning into Misha, kissing him slow and hazy.

"Fuck, that's pretty," Jason says, and Ever hums agreement.

Misha strokes Jensen's cheek and sits him back upright, steadying him a little. Jensen stays where he is for a moment, half-lidded and mouth slack, before blinking his eyes open. They're mostly pupil, green around the edges like an aurora.

"There," Misha says softly, "that's better."
***
The stereo is off. Zach sits on the floor with his guitar cradled on his lap, playing Hotel California with a solemn concentration Jeff only sees when Zach is wasted. Ever is curled up with Jeremy on Jeff's armchair, her cheek resting on his shoulder as Jeremy combs lazy fingers through her hair.

And then there's Jensen.

"So Mephistopheles, right," Jensen says, his hands weaving patterns as he speaks. "He feels for Faust, I mean, Marlowe writes Faust as a total selfish asshole, because Marlowe wasn't known for his faith in humanity-- he wasn't like Shakespeare, he only put one good character in every play, mostly women, and then he killed them horribly, and--" Stopping short, Jensen ducks his head. "God, I can't shut up. Sorry. Sorry."

Misha, who's been watching with fond indulgence, lifts his head off the prop of his arm and touches Jensen's shoulder. "No, hey, I'm listening. Keep talking."

Peeking at Misha from beneath his eyelashes, Jensen straightens out of his hunch. "I, um. Okay. So there are two versions of the play, the A text in 1604 and the B text in 1616 with 676 additional lines..."

Jeff gives the rest of that explanation up for a loss; he flunked college English twice. He doesn't need a liberal arts degree to read Misha's expression, the growing warmth. There's no way Jeff's getting in the middle of that, not until he figures out where his head's at.

He drops off a mug of tea for Misha, and Jensen cranes his head up, following Jeff as he talks. Jeff's cock tugs at him, wanting him to cup his hand over Jensen's long pale throat to see what Jensen would do. Would Jensen be like this in bed after being fucked, loose-limbed and talkative?

Jeff hesitates, wanting to run his hand over Jensen's hair, wanting to touch his mouth. Instead, he retreats to the kitchen, his hands aching from their emptiness.

He's not yours. Not really. Hell, he's planning to die before this is over; do you want to collar and keep him? Will you watch him die?

Will Misha?

No, that's a slippery slope. Misha is Jeff's boy, his bottom and his friend and his life, but life isn't a scene; Jeff can't regulate it to be sure Misha doesn't get hurt. Misha is an adult, he makes his own decisions.

Funny how repeating that to himself isn't comforting.

Jeff gathers up another few plastic cups of lukewarm wine and heads into the kitchen. Jason is already there, shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows as he works at the sink. Giving Jeff a sidelong smile, Jason nods at the bottle of Manischewitz. "You gonna finish that off?"

"It's tempting. Hey, thanks for the dishes."

Jason shrugs. "My mom would kill me if I showed up at a party without helping the host."

"Still." Dumping the cups, Jeff grabs a dishtowel and joins Jason at the sink. "Here, I'll dry."

"That'd be awesome."

They slide into a comfortable silence, broken only by the strum of Zach's guitar. Back when Misha first brought Jason home, Jason would've flinched when he bumped into Jeff, but now he doesn't react. It's clear that Jason's attention isn't on the dishes, anyway; in the reflection of the window, he watches Jensen talk about Faust selling his soul.

"Listen, Jason," Jeff says after a while, working water out from the inside curve of a mug. He keeps his voice low, though he tells himself there's no reason to hide what he's saying. "Jensen is... he's going through a really hard time right now. He doesn't need--"

Jason sighs. "I'm not stupid, Jeff."

"Meaning what?"

Pausing, Jason turns to look at Jeff. His eyes are piercing. "You and Misha. It's all over but the collaring."

The thought of collaring Jensen seems so unnecessarily filthy; the bared line of his nape, the way he'd glare at Jeff, defiant even as Jeff thumbed the lock closed. It flushes through him like a shot of whiskey, warming his chest and his belly. Jeff squirms like he hasn't since he was a kid. "It's not like that."

Lifting his eyebrows, Jason hums. "Can I ask what it is like?"

Jeff huffs out a laugh. "I don't even know, man. Messy. You've got no idea."

"Mm." Jason goes back to the dishes, dunking his hands back into the soapy water. His eyes are concealed behind a loose dread as he says, too casually, "Lot of ravens around this year, huh?"

Jeff freezes inside. Can't breathe. He only stares, numb hands on a mug, and thinks of the knife drying within reach.

"Hey!" Jeremy drops his arm over Jeff's shoulder, absorbing his flinch. "We're gonna head out. Think your boy's about toast over there, man."

Jesus. Putting the mug down, Jeff glances at Jason, who keeps his face tilted down. "I, uh. Yeah. He was fine a minute ago."

Jeremy snorts. "Yeah, a minute ago he wasn't falling asleep in the middle of King Lear. Which is a natural reaction."

Jeff turns Jeremy bodily so he can see the couch. Jensen does indeed look wilted, tipped mostly against Misha while Ever crouches down at his side.

"Poor narc," Jeremy says warmly.

There's a pop of the sink beginning to drain, and Jason asks, "Do you need help getting him to bed?"

That starts up some snickering from Jeremy. Jeff studies Jason, but there's nothing in Jason's expression to tell whether his random observation on ravens was a threat or a secret password. Jeff is entirely too drunk to guess. He knows Jason, he's known him a long time, and it's not fair to have him and Misha turn out to be part of some story Jeff hasn't read.

"No," Jeff says, a little sharper than intended. "I've got it."

"No poaching," Jeremy teases, but lets Jeff prop him up against the stove.

Coming back to the couch, Jeff steps over Zach (returning his guitar to its case) and stands over Jensen. Jensen leans back to look at him, blinking owlishly, and almost slides off the couch.

"Hi," Jensen says softly, and smiles. Like he doesn't blame Jeff for Renee, or whatever other resentments crackle away in Jensen's brain when he looks at Jeff. "Hi, Jeff."

Despite himself, Jeff smiles back. "Hi, sweetheart. You feeling okay?"

"Good," Jensen murmurs, nearly purring the word out. He stretches, baring a strip of skin between his pants and his shirt. "Doesn't hurt. I was talking about Faust."

Misha hides his smile against Jensen's shoulder.

"I heard," Jeff says. "You ready for bed?"

"Bed," Jensen echoes. "I was going to-- my car."

"Bed's more comfortable," Ever points out, her voice rich with the laugh she's holding back.

Letting his head roll to the side, Jensen considers Ever for a long moment before he says, "Okay. Are you coming?"

Zach snickers. Ever grins. "Want me to?"

"Yeah," Jensen says, and closes his eyes.

In the end, it takes Misha and Jeff to pour Jensen into bed, balancing him on unsteady legs and getting him down the hall. Ever hovers behind him, giggling every time they nearly lurch into the wall. Up close, Jensen smells like Jeff's soap and is hot to the touch, his heartbeat like Jeff's holding a small wild thing in his hands. As soon as they get him to the bed, Jensen drops onto it and curls up on his belly, still clothed and on top of the bedspread.

"One hit wonder," Ever teases, and punches Jeff in the arm. "Good luck, and here's hoping weed makes him horny."

"Out, harridan," Jeff says. "Could you send Jason in here?"

"I think I saw him headed out the door," Ever says. "Why, you afraid he'll steal your boys away? I don't think you have anything to worry about."

If only you knew, Jeff thinks sourly.

Ever wanders to the edge of the bed, reaching over Jensen to stroke Misha's hair back. "Merry Christmas. Great party."

As she draws her hand back, Jensen strikes out and grabs her wrist. Hard, it must be hard, because Ever hisses out a breath. Jensen peers up at her with clear green eyes, swallows, and whispers, "Renee?"

The air hums, electric with ghosts.

"No," Ever says. "Oh, honey, no. I'm sorry."

Jensen blinks, sighs and lets her go, burrowing back into the pillows. Ever lingers beside him, her hand trembling, then wraps her arms around herself and turns on Jeff.

"You son of a bitch," she says, trying to be quiet and failing. "What are you doing?"

"I can't tell you."

"The fuck you can't tell me."

"I can't," Jeff bites off, "I won't let you get hurt. He's just looking for answers. It's fine. It'll be fine."

"You're crazy," Ever hisses, but some of the venom is gone. She wipes a hand over her face. "Jesus Christ. You fuckface."

"I know," Jeff says. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Asshole." Ever sniffs, scrubbing her hand on her jeans, then looks over at Jensen and Misha tangled on the bed. "You be careful. All of you be goddamn careful. I'm gonna call you and ream you later."

"I know," Jeff says again, and inches forward to pull her into a hug.

She tries to squeeze his lungs out, fierce as anything, then holds him out at arms-length. She starts to say something, but Jeremy calls from the living room, "Ev? You done molesting his boy-toys yet?", and she's gone. Jeff stays where he is, listening to their voices and then the closing of his door.

It's the night after Christmas, and they're alone.

Jeff sits on the edge of the bed and unties one of Jensen's boots, and then the other, putting them under the bed. He watches over them for a minute, just counting their breaths, the white grip of Misha's hand on Jensen's belt loop. Then he locks the front door, turns out the lights and gets into bed beside Jensen, where he thinks he might need to be.

Page 1 of 2 << [1] [2] >>

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

poisontaster

Top of your freaking game. F'real. Best chapter yet.

From:

Especially when you make plans...

FIC: Marley Was Dead to Begin With

Page Summary

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags