He's got his peacoat buttoned up to his neck, pashmina circling his throat like the holiday-themed noose it is.
He can still hear Izzy crying, big-wet baby gasps that aren't so much pain as theatrics.
If she weren't his twin in both body and soul, he would swear Danni had hand-plucked her from a garden somewhere.
Axel is more composed than his youngest sister, strawberry-blonde like his mother and less prone to believing in Santa.
He’d still breathed a sigh of relief when Jensen told him he’d go buy another tree, no problem, it's late but something has to be open, it's the mountains for f--god’s sake.
Danni looks at him like he's hung the moon and it brings that appreciative, almost-pained hum in his stomach.
His middle child was the quietest on the matter, but that's probably because it’d been her fault to begin with.
Ward’s a pyromaniac at the ripe age of eight, and if Danni didn't have some strange fetish for garish candles with varying Christmas scents (he enables her, to some degree, they're a foolproof gift and cute in a tinker-toy-esque way) none of this would be happening.
He wouldn't be winding up the Blue Ridge Mountains in the darkest of dark he’s ever not seen.
He’s almost out of Boone and probably gonna blow past Blowing Rock at the rate that nothing is open.
There aren't streetlights near overlooks, he thinks bitterly, and leans his head back to look at the car seat that would normally hold Izzy.
His Beamer is relatively warm, well-heated for the money it costs him to keep his family in the lap of luxury, and he takes a quick moment to breathe.
He's not mad about it. He's not.
He’s more pissed that he's not more angry, and that conundrum just spikes up his discontent even further.
He wants to see Axel marvel over the signed football he got him, small feat, as Jensen represents the Packers at the firm, but still.
Axel’s never been old enough to appreciate anything like this before.
Kid’s fast, faster than Jensen ever was, and he did track and field during his entire collegiate career.
It won't be the same without the tree.
Ward should have to lose some presents as recompense; do not touch the fire. Do not TOUCH it, Ward, over and over so big-girl ears made no mistake.
Ward looks like neither of them.
If he had to pick, he’d say she looks the most like him in that she has more unrest in her whole body than the rest of the family put together.
Her hair is more blonde than Izzy’s, almost bright with the sun of it, and she's got his freckles but her eyes are ink-tipped blue and she's his baby, most of all.
It's for Ward that he's hunting for this damned tree.
He’s gonna love the looks that his family offers him when he comes home, but Ward’s face is what does him in.
His car starts to creak, just a little, as it winds further up across the peak of the mountain, headed towards the dip into Tennessee instead of back into High Country.
His fingers flex on wood, palm around a turn he really needs both hands for.
He's been driving for an hour and gps is shit up here and even worse now that's it's so cold and desolate.
He’s gonna have to turn around. His ears are popping again and he unwinds his jaw as much as he can, can't hear a damn thing, feels his own breathing taking up space.
The lone radio station they'd found fizzles out; Jensen doesn't have the heart to fiddle with the buttons and search for another one.
He’s searching for a cul-de-sac half circle of an overpass so he can turn around, when he sees the unmistakable shine of Christmas lights.
They're winking in the wind, possibly flickering with the almost-negligent power up here.
He doesn't really know what’s going on, but if someone is willing to let him hole up for a second (or could give him directions to any available Christmas tree farm in the vicinity) he'd be forever grateful.
He veers back onto the road instead of away and as he gets closer he finds that it's a cabin on a broad stretch of land, but that's as much as he can make out without natural lighting.
It's further back from the highway than he had thought, It’s only the lights that are next to asphalt, probably for the very same reason Jensen found the place.
He doesn't want to intrude or park on private property, but he also can't leave his car in a one-lane and he curves in, wincing at the tinkle of pebbles against the undercarriage of his car.
He slows to a park as soon as he's able, within short distance of the cabin’s entrance.
He's grateful for this damned scarf, even if Danni had picked it out in order to, “match his eyes.” He pulls it up over his mouth and braces himself for the exit into frigidity.
He's not disappointed.
The chill despite the lack of wind is astounding, and he's dismayed to find himself biting back tears at the way the cold settles into and under his bones.
He leans against his door for a second, soaking up any residual warmth and then shushes himself in irritation.
“Goddamnit, Jensen. You're a grown ass man. It's not that far. JESUS.”
The self-deprecation does the trick and he feels stupid for being in his business shoes, but he couldn't find his boots and he didn't figure he’d be trekking so far.
His hand is stiff and uncooperative when he finally brings it up to knock, and he's only managed one fist when the door flies open and he stumbles forward, uncoordinated with the chill.
“I saw you turn in,” the man says, even though Jensen hasn't caught a single look at his face.
He sounds young, pleasant grin in his tone, and Jensen feels like he’s breathing in slow motion.
“It's cold as hell out,” the man continues, one broad palm cupping his elbow, “you get lost? You're dressed like you just came from some big meeting,” he continues, whiskey-drawl.
Jensen’s teeth are chattering so hard his entire body is rocking back and forth and there's no reason to be this chilled.
“I---I just--j--just--j--jesus,” he almost-cries, and the other man grabs his other elbow and jerks him upright, concern in his grip.
“Hey. Hey, are you alright? How long you been outside?” Jensen’s head lolls on his neck and thinks this may have something to do with the fact that he drove down straight from work, subsists on black coffee and xanax.
“Hey,” the guy says again and grabs at Jensen’s face so he can take his first good look.
“Fuck,” the guys says, palms dry-warm and calloused. “C’mon, Gorgeous. Look at me. Huh? Open your eyes.”
Jensen’s eyes flutter open at the unfamiliar term--no one has ever said that (to his face) before and he's taken aback in the worst way.
Stranger has a full beard, trimmed to perfection along the wide slope of his neck.
He's large in every regard, bulked to shit and honey-nut brown underneath that layer of hair.
His fingers dig underneath the soft part of Jensen’s earlobes in a barely there press and Jensen makes a wounded moan at the contact.
“Jesus. There he is,” stranger says and Jensen colors under the proximity of attention.
“My name’s Jensen,” he says in an uncharacteristic rush, “and I'm okay. I'm c--cold,” he shivers, “but you c--can let go now,” he continues, but Stranger only presses closer, knee-to-knee.
“How many times,” Stranger says, “has anyone gotten close enough to look at these eyes.”
He says it quietly, introspective, like he's unerringly certain of what he's thinking.
“I don't. I don't know what you mean,” Jensen says, flustered, and growing warmer than he thought possible four seconds ago.
“I'm Jared,” Stranger (Jared) says, “and you're gonna be the prettiest Christmas present Santa ever left me.”
He dimples up at his own joke, clever and crass in equal parts and Jensen’s ears flush pink and his mouth drops open in confusion.
“I'm not. I don't know what you think--” he stutters, drags himself backwards and away from that all-encompassing, overheated grip.
Jensen’s neck is almost clammy now and he quickly unspools his scarf and wraps it around his forearms in agitation.
“I'm not a stripper,” he says firmly, reaches down into himself to firmly castigate this unfamiliar man.
Jared’s arms are crossed over his chest and Jensen can see that his earlier assessment was correct.
Jared can't be more than 24, 25, even if that beard does add a few years to that face.
His hair is tied up in a bun and he's got a flannel on, lumberjack season is upon us.
His jeans are wrangler, something Jensen himself hasn't worn in a decade or so, and the top button is undone.
His black undershirt is tucked in between the smallest sliver of space of navel and waistline and Jensen’s hands tremble underneath fabric.
“Wearing a few too many clothes to be a stripper,” Jared says casually, doesn't move a muscle.
Jensen’s eyes dart around the interior of the room, catch on the high beam of ceiling and the aged smell of fine oak.
There's what appears to be a kitchen just over Jared’s shoulder and a living room to the right, complete with some kind of animal rug in front of a fireplace.
It's all a bit storybook and mildly barbaric.
“I stopped because my kids need a new tree. A Christmas tree. I need to buy a tree, and fast, and I saw your place and thought you might be able--maybe you could help me.”
Jensen’s proud of that sentence, a bit more tentative than he’d like, but this boy-man is taller than him by some inches and he hasn't moved, not once.
“Little late to be tree hunting, idn’t?” Jared says, and he takes one large, loose step closer to Jensen.
“Ah, ah,” Jensen stutters, wholly confused. “My girl Ward, that's my daughter,” he clarifies, for no good reason, “she's just turned eight and she burned down our tree,” he says, shoulders slumping.
“She--her mama likes scented candles and she put ‘em too close to the tree. She was trying to keep the damn thing warm and it just. Lit up.” Jensen gnaws at his lower lip in silence.
“The kids want a tree. My wife wants a tree.” Jensen opens up his palms but they're still caught beneath his scarf.
“I just want them to have a nice Christmas.” Jensen’s not sure why he's babbling so hard but Jared is nodding and that knot that's permanently lodged in his chest starts to feel just a bit frayed.
“They should. Your Ward sounds like she needs a firm hand,” Jared says jokingly, “but there's nothing wrong with wantin’ to celebrate Christmas right.”
Jensen nods again, helpless, and Jared claps his hands together suddenly.
“I don't know of any farms in between here and Knoxville,” he says slowly, “but I got some trees in the back. I always sell a few this time of year,” Jared says carefully, and Jensen’s heart lurches.
“You do? Fuck, that's--that’s fucking great. That's the best thing that's happened today,” Jensen breathes, bright-eyed in the worst way.
“Now, I think that’d be you,” Jared says, gives him a wide once-over that has his knees knocking together.
Whatever. Jensen can let this big man ogle him if it means he comes back with a tree when none of them believed he could really swing it, this time of night.
“C’mon, I'll show you,” Jared says, and he gently shoves Jensen ahead of him, one press of that soft palm on his neck and Jensen folds, inhumane.
It's crippling, going from relative warmth and safety back into this air, and Jensen squeaks again and clamps his mouth shut.
Jared’s mouth is abruptly pressed to his ear and he laughs, rich and low. “It's not near as cold as it's gonna get,” he soothes. “Wait til January.”
“Fuck that,” Jensen shoots back, just as quiet as Jared because it's just them up here, no need for sound to ruin it.
“You catch cold easy,” Jared says drops those palms down against Jensen’s waist and steers him toward a small cluster of unmistakable foliage.
“Slim pickings,” Jared says, “but most of my stock’s been bought.”
They're nice trees, solid, earthy and large, and Jensen knows for a fact that the White House generally acquires their trees from this very area.
It's all really fine.
“A-any one is good,” he chatters, curls his arms around himself.
“How much?” Jensen asks, tries to crane his neck to catch Jared's face but Jared keeps him still, back to chest.
“If you'll help me latch it to my car, I can get out of your way,” Jensen continues, stomach roiling once more.
“Season of giving,” Jared rumbles, fingertips tightening, and then he's dragging his pelvis in a hot grind against Jensen’s cashmere-lined ass.
“Hey!” Jensen jumps, can't remember the last time he felt the hot-brand of dick against his body, can't recall the way he used to drop open-mouthed for a taste.
“You're stunning,” Jared rumbles, “and you know, well as I do, that I'm gonna taste you tonight.”
Jensen shakes his head, catches his hair against Jared’s pecs.
“I'm married. I'm married, and I'm straight and you said you had some trees to sell. I want to buy. I wanna buy and I'll leave you alone.”
Jensen tries to infuse his voice with more authority than terror but Jared releases him, laughs in the way that causes Jensen nothing but fright.
“You may be married,” Jared says, “but you don't look at me like any straight boy I ever met.”
Jensen’s eyes narrow and he backs up, spies the brisk hint of light from Jared’s slightly ajar doorway.
“I just met you. I'm not looking at you any kind of way. I'm also older than you, by a couple of years, thanks,” Jensen says, more angry than before.
How dare he? How dare he undress Jensen with his eyes and look down on him like that and stalk closer---loom, really--
Jared barrels into him, hard enough to prove a point but slow enough to show control, and he knocks Jensen against the wall closest to the kitchen.
“You can take any tree you want, sweetheart,” Jared says, “but you're gonna take this dick, first.”
Jared says it so plainly, free of artifice and clouded with hunger and Jensen’s eyes flicker shut.
“I can't. This is--it's wrong. It's just a tree,” Jensen breathes, and his eyes are wet, again. This is the worst night of his life.
His case ran late and Danni reamed him out for having to drive separately and Ward almost didn’t speak to him before the tree fiasco.
And now he’s locked in his own, knock-off porno, where he’s seriously contemplating letting this man fondle him so he can ride home and do this good thing for his family.
“I’ll pay you well,” Jensen whispers, and Jared reaches down between them and unravels his scarf, pushes slightly chilled hands underneath the lapel of his coat.
“I don’t need your money,” Jared says, and then he ducks down and sucks Jensen’s lower lip into his mouth.
The heat is instantaneous and Jensen doesn’t fight against it, curls whole fingers into Jared’s forearms.
Jared makes a satisfied, hungry sound and he curls one hand down Jensen’s spine to settle on his ass. He can’t feel anything through all of Jensen’s layers and when he pulls back, Jensen’s eyes open in horror.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, voice barely audible. “I need. I gotta go. I’ll tell them I couldn’t find anything,” Jensen says, and Jared’s smiling so soft-brittle that Jensen pauses in his gait.
He thumbs at the swollen jut of Jensen’s lip, catches flesh in between index and thumb and tugs.
“Promise me somethin,’” Jared asks, and Jensen’s eyes are wet. “You gonna look this damned pretty when you’re licking my come off of these?” Jared hollows him in and Jensen bats at him ineffectively.
“Please. Jared, please,” Jensen says, well past reason, and Jared hardens even further against Jensen’s thigh at the sound of his own name.
“Are you gonna let--let me,” Jensen trembles, and Jared laughs, all quiet and close-nipped. “Naw. But you're gonna let me, baby.”
Jensen fists both hands into Jared’s flannel, red/black/white clutched rudely and Jared peels him out of coat and sweater in a deft move that keeps his chest heaving.
“Give me something,” Jared says and Jensen takes a deep, horrible breath and thinks about the bright faces of his kids and cycles past the shine of his wife’s smile.
He's never had anything like this. He's always run before it got anywhere close.
He's not allowed to leave here.
“I don't--fuck,” Jensen says, “I've never done this, I've never done this, please, please,” he begs wildly, and Jared just now divested him of his lower half.
“Why on earth,” Jared says, real serious, “would I ever wanna hurt you?”
He leans his chin on Jensen’s shoulder and reaches backwards, palms both cheeks wide.
Jensen shivers violently, much more so than he did when it was the cold tickling him, and he squirms at the open feel of air on his hole.
“Nothing but me in there,” Jared says, voice gone throaty with desire.
“Fuck. Fuck, Jensen, you're so pink and soft and warm--” Jared trails off into a mutter and sweat is collecting at Jensen’s temples, his upper lip.
“Shit,” Jensen says and Jared releases his ass only to watch it clap together, spread and clap like his own personal matinee.
“God, I like that,” Jared laughs, “you like me watching you shake for me?”
Jensen nods, so quickly he's ashamed and ugly for it, but God help him, he does. He likes his ass open and viewed, loud thwack of flesh.
He likes the way Jared can barely string together a proper sentence.
Now Jared’s flirting around with his hole, dry rub at the wrinkled furl of it and Jensen catches himself by surprise again, cants back into the touch.
“Baby likes that, too?” Jared says, and his voice is harder this time, more demanding.
“Are you gonna t--tease all night?” Jensen asks, gathers his spit for the question and Jared laughs, right on cue.
“Shut your smart mouth so I can eat you out,” Jared says, and then he's dropping to his knees, soundless in his fluidity, and he's twisting Jensen around, naked except for his soft, tan undershirt.
His pants are hanging around near his ankles, stepped out of them when Jared tapped at the ridge of bone and Jared digs both thumbs into his ass and Jensen can almost feel him grin.
“Juicy,” he says, and then he seals his mouth over Jensen’s hole, no preamble.
What happens next is ugly and shameful and Jensen will remember it always, grow hard in the cover of night at the thought.
He bends at the waist, catches his own ankles in his hands and Jared makes such a pleased sound that he flushes with pride.
His dick, so often neglected, bobs up against his stomach and Jared’s tongue slicks so deep he rubs his beard across the soft, pale skin in between mounds.
He nibbles at the rim, pinches in too-rough in between teeth and Jensen actually cries this time, bigfat sobs that Jared laps up, pinches his ass just to make them louder.
“Ah, ah, ah, God, Jared, please. Please, please,” Jensen gasps, and Jared comes up for air, blows one cool breath across his terrain and Jensen winks for it.
“What do you need, pretty?” Jared asks, firm and amused.
“I don't,” Jensen says, tries to stop crying but Jared won't have any of that.
“Want me to eat you again? Or how ‘bout I push a finger up in here?”
Jensen gasps, dick shudders against his abdomen and all the blood has leaked from his ears due to his prolonged position.
Jared brings four fingers down in a sudden, sweet slap, hits Jensen’s spread hole so blindingly that he topples forward and Jared wraps one arm around his waist to steady him.
“I want that,” Jensen says, so loudly he'd be concerned if it wasn't just them out here.
“Please. Do that again,” he says, and his tears have dried but they're starting anew when Jared honest-to-god growls and renews his efforts.
“Gonna make you come from this. You don’t have any idea, do you?” Jared settles in, makes himself more comfortable.
He brings those fingers down again, twice-slapped, once-licked, and then alternates, keeps Jensen’s legs near to buckling and he can’t understand how he got himself in this position.
This is harassment. Extortion. Something other than what it looks like.
Jared reaches in between his spread legs and rubs at the crown of his dick with two free fingers and Jensen can feel his body peeling apart for the sting of orgasm.
“I'm g--gonna,” he stutters in the disgust of want and Jared stretches those fingers down further and cuts him off at the base.
“Here's the part,” Jared says, and Jensen hears all that entitled youth peeping forth, young man accustomed to taking and getting and owning.
“Here's my favorite part,” he amends, and he's pulling that long body away from Jensen’s backside and then carefully dragging him up into a standing position.
Jensen sees stars, white noise collects as Jared rucks his undershirt just below his pits and noses at the nape of Jensen’s neck.
“Fuck,” Jared murmurs, affected, and he slips the side of his hand into Jensen’s crease, just to feel Jensen squirm against his hold.
“Let me in there,” Jared breathes, then steps away entirely. Jensen doesn't dare turn around, squeezes his eyes shut tight.
He can hear Jared rummaging around, clatter of pots and cutlery and Jensen doesn't know what he could be doing but he clenches and unclenches his fists, shudders in place.
Jared’s back after a few minutes, presses his apologies in the hollow of Jensen’s throat.
“Turn around, baby,” he says, more gentility in his tone than Jensen’s heard all night.
“No one ever played with you right,” he continues, and Jensen doesn't have words.
“I wanna see your face,” Jared says, and before Jensen can ask him what he means, where this is going, Jared’s hand goes back down to its favorite place and his index circles and then dips in, sending Jensen up onto tiptoes.
His eyes flutter open with the intrusion and he's never.
“You can't,” he says once, stupidly, like Jared hasn't proven over and over that he can, and he will.
Jared’s face is amazed, brings one hand up to cup Jensen’s inflamed cheek.
“Look at that,” Jared says, screws that one digit deeper and probes around.
It's a white-hot-drag in his most private place and Jensen can feel his eyes watering yet again but Jared covers his mouth with his own and Jensen’s mewling into kisses before he can form a coherent argument.
Jared removes his hand and uses it to gently slap Jensen between the thighs so he can spread his legs just that much wider.
Jensen does so, anxiously, and then Jared crooks his finger, makes Jensen feel full to bursting and then knocks against some- thing and his dick jerks, so hard Jensen thinks he's already come.
“C’mon, open up for me, darlin’” Jared says and Jensen’s neck gives out; his forehead drops to Jared’s shoulder.
It registers belatedly that Jared’s fingers are slick-wet and now another long finger is wedging its way home and there's a protest forming but then there's a sharper burn than before and Jared’s rubbing at that place like a pro, slow-wide circles that have Jensen dripping slick.
His dick is wetter than it’s ever been in his life and it's now crushed between Jensen’s naked stomach and Jared’s clothed abdomen.
His undershirt is hanging just over top of his nipples and Jared leans his neck down to lave one with spit, suck one teat straight into his large mouth.
Jensen arches forward, ass two-full, spine bent to press Jared closer to his nipples and he can't choose whether to grind forward into the tongue or backwards into the slow fuck.
“Can I come? P-please, please, feels so.” Jensen tries to cut himself off but Jared bites down on his right tit, careful but bruising, and Jensen lets out a wet cry.
“It's so good,” he finishes, “I'm so full,” he offers, and that makes Jared’s hips screw forward without conscious intent.
Jared stands again, fingers spreading wide in a scissor before he tucks a third in deep, shocking Jensen into a loud cry that morphs into a moan.
“You love that,” Jared says, wonderment in his tone. “Anything I do to my hole,” he says, possession evident, “you can't get enough of it.”
Jensen gnaws down on his lower lip and Jared takes his free hand and kneads the left nipple, still dry but pebbled in arousal underneath his t-shirt.
Jensen can't really think straight between the thickness of Jared’s fingers and the foreign attention to his nipples and his legs wobble dangerously.
Jared removes his fingers abruptly and Jensen clenches on nothing and he must look chagrined because Jared kisses him hard, all teeth.
“Back around,” he hisses, and he gently walks Jensen over to the wall closest to the living room and that rug.
Jensen must make a sound, he's done a lot of that lately, and Jared grins into his hair.
“Caught that myself,” Jared says, hushed, “just like you.”
Jared changes course so quickly that Jensen is lightheaded and his ass is sticky and then he's falling forward, palms connecting to the soft fur of a what--a bear?
Jared’s not talking and his dick is grinding up against Jensen’s open ass and this is happening.
He's going to get fucked.
He quivers with half accepted want and Jared must've taken his shirt off at some point because now they're skin to skin and Jensen hasn't even gotten to see the dick he's about to take and
Jared lines up, slaps that fat cockhead right up against Jensen's hole and then spears him.
It's not all the way in, Jared stops to run his hands all over Jensen’s torso, soothing nothings that Jensen listens to despite all evidence to the contrary.
“Next time I'm gonna take pictures,” Jared says, and then, louder, “you alright, sweetheart? Almost there,” he says, and he's a liar because he pushes forward and Jensen still doesn't feel balls against his ass.
“There's a lot to take,” Jared says, fond amusement and apology and then he finally screws his hips low and all Jensen feels is a bone-deep sense of accomplishment.
Jared drags him up onto his shins so that he's resting on Jared’s dick in his lap on this rug by a fireplace.
He's going to hell.
Jared raises him up with a combined effort of thigh strength and palms to his waist and slams him back down, empty to stuffed and Jensen scrabbles his fingers against Jared’s skin.
“Tell me what you want,” Jared grits out, leans down to bite into Jensen’s neck, fresh line of teeth and Jensen thinks belatedly, no marks.
“Don't stop,” is all he can think, all he can feel, and Jared runs his index along the impossible stretch of Jensen’s rim.
Jared’s dick pounds relentlessly and it just hurts. It's hurts deliciously, a pain-scrawl and sometimes it burns and others it taps that poker-hot place deep and Jensen is gonna starve when he leaves.
“Sweetheart,” Jared murmurs and bends him forward just a bit so he can watch his dick slop in and out.
Jensen flushes at the obscenity of the sound and bares the side of his neck.
The shift in position sends a frisson up his spine and he doesn't even have the wherewithal to tell Jared he's coming, he just starts whining, thick and desperate to his own ears.
“J--Jared,” he breathes, humps innocent hips down on that flesh-and-blood plug and he can't be still, not even when Jared hisses in pleasure.
“Jesus Christ,” he says loudly, crescent shapes dug into Jensen’s waistline.
“God. God, you came good on that, din’t you?” He slurs, sex-drunk and Jensen is still tingling when Jared starts to plow in earnest, slams forward so forcefully that his cheek comes to rest on real-life fur.
It rockets him downwards so swiftly that he can already feel the sweeping ache of rug burn, and he’s making bitten off moans but he feels like he might as well just be an extension of Jared.
Jared comes on a high note, wraps one fist in cotton and it catches on Jensen’s neck and drags his spine back at an awkward angle.
Jensen’s nails are bleeding because all he can reach for is the wood in front of his smashed face and his insides heat up faster than he thought possible.
He feels the warm-slide of it, oatmeal-thick and creamy, already leaking out around his thighs like Jared had too much to give.
His mind is spinning but it coalesces on one firm point.
He let this man, this first-name woodsman lick him and stretch him and that same man is buried deep and doesn't seem to notice what he's done.
Jared is still rutting, lost in the once-familiar-to-Jensen claim of ownership, and Jensen allows it, makes him feel safe.
“I need to go,” he whispers, no hint of bravado, who is he fooling?
“It's late, they're gonna worry,” he continues, moans on cue when Jared slow-slowly pulls back and out, nasty snick of skin on the exit.
Jared keeps his hips hitched just to peer inside, and Jensen feels his hole struggle to close around so much come.
Jared is so careful, scoops his thumb right on in and Jensen rubs his ass back for it, sighs for the domesticity and doesn't bother thinking too hard.
“Taste me,” he says, bruising, rubs that digit on Jensen’s lip and Jensen opens right up as he presses the flesh against porcelain and fat-muscle.
He sucks diligently, hollows his cheeks and reluctantly enjoys the mostly salty taste and Jared pumps his finger languidly, cursing all the while.
“C’mere,” he says, and he flips and pulls until Jensen is standing, trickle down his thighs and red in every place, his own dick still soft with ejaculation.
“I wanna keep you like this,” he muses, and Jensen shies away from the scrutiny.
Jared’s still wearing his jeans and his still-impressive dick is poking out of the fly but everything else is on the floor next to him and Jensen can't ride home with this deep-seated press in his ass.
“I've got some clothes you can wear,” he muses, catches Jensen’s cheek again and Jensen falls, sighs into the caress and Jared smiles big.
Jared latches the tree himself.
Jensen is in no position to help, bundled back in his coat and wearing one of Jared’s thermal sweaters.
“That's the reason you're so cold. Expensive shit like that doesn't keep the wind out.”
Jensen nods sagely, head lolling on his neck because he's fucked out and hungry and his eyes flicker open-shut with exhaustion.
“Jensen.” Jared says firmly, catches him up underneath armpits and holds him tightly, “you can stay here. You can sleep an hour or two and still make it back in time. You're not awake, baby.”
Jared’s so docile here, commanding but elusive and it scrambles Jensen's head.
“I’m going home. This never should have happened. You shouldn't--do you go around, doing shit like this?”
Jensen should sound angrier but he's mostly resigned, and the big body against his is so compact.
Jared doesn't say anything, doesn't so much as twitch, and Jensen’s neck wobbles again.
“No. No, that's not how it is.” Jared’s voice is quiet, and for the first time all evening, he sounds young.
“I don't care,” Jensen lies, still has dried come on his thighs and his hole clenches rhythmically around a phantom.
“Thank you for the tree,” he says stupidly, and pulls away, rounds the hood of his car and climbs in, it's freezing again but Jared's right, he feels it less acutely.
Jared’s hair is down, must've happened some time during the fucking.
His hands are shoved in his pockets, black v-neck tight and he's stock-still as Jensen reverses, blinks away the haze in front of his pupils.
Jared takes two steps forward, large ones, just as Jensen is about to really floor it, and he brakes without meaning to.
“I'll show you,” Jared yells, loud enough to be heard with the windows rolled.
“You can count on that, Jensen.”
Jensen gasps involuntarily and ducks his head, drives away.
It’s three am by the time his GPS guides him home.
The lights are off and Jensen hauls the tree down himself, probably breaking several branches in the process.
Danni comes to the window, flings the door wide with some worry but a mostly open smile.
“Shit,” she says, wraps her arms around herself, shawl and all. “Did you cut it down yourself?” She's teasing but Jensen can't abide it and he grunts once, motions for her to back up so he can fit it inside the doorway.
“It was one of the last,” he says, winces from the strain it puts on his backside.
“I hope you got a good deal on it,” Danni murmurs, leans up to kiss his cheek.
Ward’s huddled in the living room, hair done up in a bun a la her mother, and Danni repeats Jensen’s earlier motion, shoos her back.
“Don't you dare touch this one, Ward,” Danni says firmly, “or you're getting the ash from the first tree in your stocking.”
Ward blinks and nods, wide-eyed.
“I'm sorry, Daddy,” she whispers, glances at her mother as Danni wrestles it into place, hums O Christmas Tree under her breath.
Jensen grabs at her offered hand on autopilot, squeezes reassuringly.
“How much did it cost?”