Archive of Our Own ^beta

Title: Just Blame it on Rosenbaum
Author: keepaofthecheez
Characters: Jared/Jensen, Tom
Rating: R for non-specific penetration, language, and Rosenbaum references.
Word Count: 1, 600
Disclaimer: Oh, if only.
Summary: If you can’t blame it on Rosenbaum, you obviously need to drink more.
Notes: It should be noted that despite the title of this fic, and the summary, Michael Rosenbaum actually does not *appear*. Ever. He’s just…blamed. For everything. Because that’s always fun. Also, this story makes absolutely no sense. And for that, *I* blame Jared Padalecki.




First of all, he shouldn’t have been drinking. He’s learned that lesson the hard way from An Incident involving a rubber glove, mayonnaise, and his dog Harley. He doesn’t plan on forgiving Rosenass anytime soon, either. At least, not until he can get him back.

But the bottom line is: he knows better. Beer, no fear, but liquor…liquor tends to turn him into a raving lunatic. Just look at what’d happened with Kristen Bell, for chrissake. And that’d only been a few rounds of tequila. It was a good thing he already had the reputation of being a camera clown, otherwise it might’ve stung a bit to wake up the next morning and see images of himself doing a chicken dance all over the internet.

It’s hard to put a timeframe on the exact moment when Jared realizes what’s happening. He knows he has a tendency to be oblivious, but really…this is just ridiculous. It’s too late now; he can feel Jensen pressed up against him, can smell the “I’m way too sexy for you” cologne Jensen wears whenever he goes out. Jared used to find it mildly hilarious, but now he’s gone and fucking succumbed to the bastard and his perfume and for the love of God, Jensen has a nice ass and it’s a view he’s not gonna forget anytime soon. With or without alcohol.

Which is really where the blame begins.

Yeah.

“Oh, God,” he says out loud, because there’s a small part of him that wonders if maybe this is some kind of fucked-up fantasy, dream, and if speaking will cause it all to go up in flames and he’ll wake up – passed out in his trailer or his apartment – and then he’ll be able to go on living.

Jensen shifts slightly, calf rubbing against Jared’s, and says in a sleepy tone, “Mmm?”

“Oh, shit.” And there was no need to say that, except that it’s exactly how he’s feeling. Also, “Fuck.”

Jensen laughs, and it’s low and throaty and Jared feels it against his neck. “How the hell did you ever get to be an actor with that vocabulary?”

Which Jared doesn’t think is fair at all. It’s not every day you wake up naked in bed with one of your friends, with your co-star, with Jensen Ackles and all you can remember is that Jen can take exactly three fingers before he starts begging for your dick.

But all he says is, “Did you drool on me?” There’s definitely a suspiciously wet spot above his nipple.

Jensen shifts, punches him low in the stomach and mumbles, “You wish.”

There’s a buzzing sound coming from the nightstand, and Jared looks over and blinks. It’s the first time he’s noticed that, wherever they are, it ain’t home. It kinda looks like a hotel he vaguely remembers taking Sandy to back before they’d decided fucking other people was more fun than fucking each other, but Jared can’t really recall the details of that night very well, either.

Fucking tequila.

“Answer it,” Jensen says around a yawn, rolling away from Jared and shoving a pillow over his head. “Been fucking ringing for an hour.”

Jared blinks at his phone. When he reaches over to check the caller ID, he sees the name and bites back a groan. This conversation he definitely does not want to have with a still-naked Jensen in the room.

With a quick glance in his co-star’s direction, he flips the phone open and whispers comically, “Yeah?”

Tom’s voice is as dry and cynical as ever. “Did you fuck him, drunkass?”

“Oh, God.” Jared throws an arm over his face and slumps low into the pillows. “Be nice to me.” He watches out of the corner of his eye as Jensen stumbles out of the bed and toward the bathroom, scratching his belly and looking way too fucking perfect for the hazy memories of sweat and come that Jared is slowly starting to remember.

There’s a soft snort. Then, “You did. Jesus, Jared…didn’t I tell you—”

“Why didn’t you stop me from drinking then, huh?” Jared feels no guilt about heaping the blame for all of…this directly on Tom’s shoulders. The guy’s Superman, he can take it.

“You left!” was Tom’s answer. “What, was I supposed to hog-tie you to my car and say ‘Jared, fucking Jensen might be a little…awkward in the morning’?”

Jared bites his lip. “I wonder if I was any good.”

“You can pay for my therapy.”

“You can pay for my bar tab,” Jared volleys, torn between freaking the fuck out and doing the chicken dance again to distract Jensen when he comes out of the bathroom. He isn’t completely sure he’s ready to hear the details of what exactly happened the night before.

Because, see, Jared knows better than to get drunk around Jensen. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It’s just the first time Jensen’s stuck around after.

After that first time, yeah, he’d freaked out a bit. It was Jensen, after all, and Jared just couldn’t quite handle the memory of his friend and his cock and said cock in Jensen’s mouth and just how fucking awesome it’d been to hear Jensen say “Let me suck your cock, Jay” in that dark, serious voice.

Later it’d been “I’ll see you later, Jay” and all Jared had been able to manage was a thumbs up in return, sweaty and drunk and fucked-out amidst the pricey hotel sheets.

Their next conversation had gone something like:

Jared: “I feel like maybe we should talk.”

Jensen: “I feel like pizza.”

Jared wound up passing out face-first in his pepperoni pie, and Jensen had gotten off free of questioning.

The second time had been at some random WB event with caramel apple martinis. The things tasted like fucking candy, and before Jared really realized what was happening, Jensen was riding his dick in the bathroom while Jared made Tom stand outside and make sure no one walked in on them.

Come to think of it, the whole thing with Harley and the rubber glove might’ve actually been a colorful “fuck you, very much” from his superhero-playing friend. But it was always safer – and better – to just blame it on Rosenbaum.

“So, how hung-over are you?”

“Not very,” Jared says, scratching his head and sending several shaggy curls into his eyes. “Hey, Tommy. Should I get a haircut?”

“The fuck do I look like, a hairdresser? Ask Mike.”

“Hmm.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Tom says, “So, do I need to come pick you up from somewhere?”

The sound of a toilet flushing pricks Jared’s ears and he pulls the sheets up to his chin and slouches into the pillows. “Um, actually, there’s been a…development.”

Jensen walks out, a smirk on his features as he runs his hands through his hair and eyes Jared on the bed. Jared swallows, very, very aware of the fact that he’s very, very sober and barely hears Tom’s question of, “Oh, God…you don’t even know where you are this time, do you?”

“Not exactly,” Jared says, gaping as Jensen sits down on the bed and stares at him expectantly. Jared squirms a bit under those green eyes and swallows. “Look, Tom, I’ll have to call you back…”

Several seconds of silence pass by, and then there’s a low curse. “Oh, fuck, he’s still there?”

“There is that,” Jared admits seconds before Jensen yanks the phone away and turns it off. “Jen!”

“What?” Jensen’s brows are cocked, expression challenging.

Jared blinks. “Nothin’, I was just…just saying your name. Is all.”

Jensen’s expression is all business as he leans forward. “We need to talk.”

“Okay, whoa. Whoa.” Jared laughs a little, holds both hands up. “No need for violence. Let’s just blame this on Rosenbaum and everything can be hunky-dory. Okay?”

Now it’s Jensen’s turn to stare. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“What are you talking about?” He’s always preferred taking the defensive anyway.

“Jared.” Jensen looks ready to strangle something, and since Jared’s the only other person in the room…well, he sucks at math, but this one’s pretty easy.

Only, apparently when Jensen says we need to talk, he really means we need to fuck like horny Catholic schoolgirls, because the next thing Jared feels is Jensen’s mouth under his jaw and a hand creeping up beneath the covers.

“But…we’re not drunk,” is all he can think to say when Jensen pulls back the sheets and starts to crawl beneath them. He’s already holding the back of Jen’s head and angling his mouth where he wants it, but he feels like the statement should be made anyway. For the record.

Jensen sighs, and Jared feels it against his lower belly. Jensen’s voice is partly amused, partly frustrated when he says slowly, "I like your dick, Jay. We've become very good friends. What's the fuss?"

Well. That answered…that question. Or something. Only… “Do you like my dick more than me?”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Well, if it was attached to someone else, I guess I wouldn't like it so much.” He waits a beat, then cuffs Jared on the back of the head and murmurs, “Now get over here and put it in me.”

Jared thinks long and hard over this for exactly fifteen seconds, then pins Jensen to the bed. “This is all your fault.”

“We can…blame it on Rosenbaum,” Jensen gasps around a groan when Jared licks two fingers and spreads his ass wide open. Jensen's hands clench in the sheets, and Jared grins.

“I like how your mind works.”