Genre: J2 RPS
Word Count: ~650
Disclaimer: There is not a lick of truth here.
A/N: Written for spn_30snapshots
Table 09, Prompt 07
How long had it been this time? A year, maybe longer.
Long enough that the house didn’t smell familiar any more. Less like pizza and beer and nights spent up eating and drinking too much of each. More like cinnamon, or like those craft stores that Jensen’s mother dragged him through when he was a kid. A grown up smell for grown up people.
At least his key still fit in the lock. That was something. Jensen had been afraid that it wouldn’t.
As he walked into the living room, the first thing he saw--or rather didn’t see--was the lumpy old chair in the corner. Sitting in it’s place was some nice Italian leather job, rich, dark brown, contemporary looking. Sophisticated.
Jensen wondered when it had been replaced, that one that he had spent hours sitting in, memorizing words from dog-eared sheets of paper. Those words were all forgotten now, gone, and that space in his head was now cluttered with others. Only these new words never felt as comfortable somehow.
Standing in the center of the room, Jensen spun slowly in a full circle, his eyes picking up the thousand small changes. A set of leather bound books on the shelf, more for display than actually reading, an art deco clock on the new table by the window, a large abstract print hanging over the sofa that matched the colors of the new rug on the floor and the new paint job on the walls. Everything slightly unfamiliar, like something had shifted a little off center in the time that he’d been gone.
Maybe he shouldn’t have used his key. Maybe he should have knocked.
He shot a glance at the front door, feeling like an intruder, and thinking that he should quit while he was ahead. He could walk back out the door, get into his car, and start forgetting that everything was different now. Work on believing that the next time he showed up things would be the same. They would be the same. He could just pretend. It would be simple, easy. After all, he’d done it his whole life. He’d made his living playing pretend.
As he moved to do just that, the back door creaked open, the sound of it rocketing Jensen’s heartbeat into double-time, making his breath catch in his throat and his hands shake. Hoping that he was masking a guilty expression, he turned toward the sound.
Jared stood there, stock still, the open door forgotten behind him. With one quick look, Jensen catalogued the changes in Jared. His hair was a little shorter than the last time, and his clothes settled on him differently, like he hadn’t been working out as much. Maybe it was for a part. The light glinted off of a new watch on Jared’s wrist, gold, expensive looking.
Jared’s mouth hung open, his eyes wide in an expression of surprise that Jensen would have found comical if it wasn’t scaring the hell out of him. Jensen was dizzy with the need to say something, anything, but his mind pulled a blank. He lifted a hand, as if the motion could get him going, and then dropped it pathetically back down, the slap of his palm against his thigh was loud in the silence of the room.
The sound seemed to bring Jared back to the present, and he strode across the room, his steps quickly eating up the space between them. Jared’s long arms extended toward Jensen, who stepped into the embrace almost instinctively, relaxing as Jared splayed his hands along his shoulder blades.
“Thank God,” Jared whispered, close to Jensen’s ear, and placed his lips to the side of Jensen’s neck. He pulled him in even closer.
Jensen dropped his head to Jared’s shoulder, and knew that everything, every single thing, was exactly the same.