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Chapter One
1st August 1976, German Grand Prix drivers pre-race meeting
Idiots! Goddamn idiots so desperate to scrape a point or two that they're willing to go out there and kill themselves. Fucking idiots!
He's the last driver to leave the room. The scuffle of footsteps and jeering laughter fades away so all he can hear is the rain driving down, battering against the roof as though trying to fight its way in. As anyone who knows him will readily agree, Jensen Ackles is not a superstitious man or someone prone to imaginative flights of fancy, but the drumbeat of rain and ominous howls of wind are twisting his stomach into uneasy knots. A feeling of dread creeps upwards from the base of Jensen's spine, crawling slowly, steadily like a Black Widow inching its way up to the valley between his shoulder blades. Rubbing the back of his neck, Jensen chases away a violent shiver of unease and silently berates himself. This is ridiculous. It's not like he's never driven in crappy weather before; shit, he's driven in England for years he's used to it. But today, on this racetrack, this stormy weather broods like an ominous portent of things to come.
"Sometimes, Ackles, it helps if people like you."
Jensen immediately masks his features, carefully hides any hint of anxiousness, stands and turns to face the McLaren driver leaning casually against the doorjamb. It figures that asshole would stay to gloat. "Fuck you, Padalecki. You know I'm right."
"It's a bit of rain, you've raced in worse... we all have."
"Not here. Not on this stone-age track. This course wasn't designed for speeds of 120mph in the dry never mind the wet."
"You scared, Ackles?" Padalecki taunts, a wicked glint shining in his fox-like eyes. Jensen forces himself to stay calm, not to rise to the bait.
"If you're not, then you're a moron," he replies levelly, walking towards the exit, towards Padalecki. "Every time we race, we know we could die. The risk increases with every Grand Prix that we compete in. I happily accept that risk just like all of you, but here... here, the odds against us are unacceptable. You think they call the Nurburgring, The Green Hell for a laugh? Sixty-three drivers have been killed here - so far. It's lethal on a day when the conditions are perfect."
Padalecki sneers down at him. Fucking giant; by rights someone his ridiculous height and build should weigh down the racing-car, ruin the aerodynamics and end up at the back of the pack instead of battling for the lead. What that says about Padalecki's skill, Jensen refuses to acknowledge.
"I know what the risks are, Ackles. I've seen my friends die. I don't need a lecture from you about it."
"Then leave me the fuck alone. What are you even still doing here? You made sure the vote went your way; go and celebrate, drink your champagne, fuck a model, smoke whatever shit it is you smoke. I'll see you on the track." Jensen edges past the other driver but is stopped in his tracks by a hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, it's not my fault the others didn't want to boycott the race. You're the only one that would have gained, everyone knew that."
A flash of heat burns Jensen's cheeks and he has to work harder than usual to refrain from punching Padalecki in his irritating face. "How would I gain anything? I'd lose my fees, my points the same as everyone else."
"Yeah and I... we would have one less race to win points, to catch you on the leader board."
Jensen snorts, "You're never going to catch me Padalecki and you know it."
The hand on his shoulder shoves him roughly backwards without losing its grip. Jensen smirks up at Padalecki's glare, glad that he's at least managed to get under the bastard's skin, wipe the grin off his face. "You're an arrogant asshole, Ackles. If you hadn't put in a complaint when I beat you in Spain, forced Jeff to redesign the car halfway through the season, you know damn well we'd be neck and neck in the driver's championship right now."
Jensen doesn't blink, doesn’t let Padalecki know he’s hit a nerve. "The rules are there for a reason, Padalecki. Your car was too wide,” he says, carefully keeping his voice calm and steady, knowing that it pisses Padalecki off even more than if he were to yell back.
"It was less than an eighth of an inch! You know that didn't make any damn difference to the result," Padalecki says, eyes narrowing in growing anger.
"You got the points back," Jensen shrugs.
"After they'd already turned the car into a fucking monster redesigning it!" Padalecki hisses, his fingers digging into Jensen's shoulder; Jensen can feel the bite of them even through the thick layers of his racing-suit. It only fuels his bitter annoyance at the man.
"It's not my fault you couldn't handle your car, Padalecki."
"Fuck you, Ackles. I don't know why I ever thought... "
"Ever thought what?"
"Ever thought you... fuck it, never mind, what's the point!"
"Great, well if we're quite finished, I'll see you out there." Jensen's had more than enough of this shit. He needs time to get his head together before the race starts; he wants out of here. Roughly grabbing Padalecki's wrist, he twists and yanks the other driver’s hand away from his shoulder, barges past and hurries down the stairs, pushing through the door with enough force to nearly take it off its hinges and letting it slam shut behind him with a satisfying bang. The wind whipping a spray of rain in his face does not improve his black mood.
Jensen fumes silently as he storms towards the Ferrari motor home, oblivious to the fact that he’s soaking the legs of his pants as he stamps through puddles like a grumpy five-year-old. Padalecki, that man is insufferable. There was a time when Jensen thought he and Padalecki could be friends. Padalecki was, after all, one of the few Americans racing alongside Jensen and a fellow Texan too. He could have - should have - been an ally, someone who came from the same background, shared the same sense of hovering on the outside of the tight ranks of European drivers and crews. Not quite one of the guys. Except unlike Jensen, Padalecki was one of the guys. He was the fucking guy!
Racing a Formula One car had been Jensen's dream since he was a little kid racing go-karts. Working his way up to claim a seat in an F1 car had taken nearly twenty years and been a long hard slog that had cost Jensen dearly.
On discovering that Jensen intended to pursue racing seriously and not as some kind of expensive hobby, his family had disowned him. 'The Ackles name belongs to businessmen and lawyers, Jensen Ross, not goddamn race car drivers,' his father had said, shortly before Jensen told him, quite explicitly, where he could shove his inheritance.
The massive loan that he’d taken out to buy his way into an F2 team had nearly ruined him, then he’d spent endless hours testing, practicing, and persuading the mechanics and designers that he knew what he was talking about; knew how to make the car that fraction lighter, that second quicker. Eventually, his efforts paid off and he started winning races. And that was what it was all about; winning. After a couple of seasons with BRM in a mediocre car, and thanks partly to his former teammate and new Ferrari favorite Dmitri (call me Misha) Krushnic, Ferrari had offered him a contract. It had been the break that Jensen had desperately needed.
Jensen wasn't a popular driver like his charismatic European teammate, but when he started winning races, the Ferrari fans - the unbelievably loud and frighteningly enthusiastic Tifosi - had gradually warmed to him. And when he won the Drivers’ Championship last year, suddenly they were chanting his name.
Still, he knows he isn't well liked among some of the other drivers and teams. He's too serious, too curt, prefers unwinding on his own after a race rather than partying all night and is prone to snapping at journalists asking stupid questions rather than charming them like everyone else seems able to do. Even the few friends he does have despair of him at times, but unlike some of them he didn't become a racing driver for the perks of the lifestyle - the parties, the drink, the drugs and the girls. Talking to people, journalists, fans, sponsors; socializing; making friends has always been a fucking terrifying proposition for Jensen. Even now, he'd rather trundle the wrong way around a racetrack on a scooter than walk in to a party and have everyone there look at him.
Padalecki!! Padalecki, on the other hand could charm the pants off a nun. More than likely has at some point. He'd secured a seat in Formula 1 the year after Jensen and had immediately strolled around the paddock like he was world champion. Jensen had stood by watching and quietly seething as Jared Padalecki wandered around in scruffy flared jeans and ridiculous flip-flops, flashing his dimples and his perfect white teeth, and befriending everyone in sight. He laughed and joked with whomever he was standing next to, slapping the guys on the back and sticking his tongue down the throat of any girl who stood still long enough. He had a well-deserved reputation for partying hard and often.
On the morning of qualifying for the French Grand Prix, Jensen had the dubious pleasure of witnessing three disheveled girls tumbling out of Padalecki's hotel room. Padalecki had fucking winked at him, tossed his cigarette butt in a potted plant then knocked back the remains of a glass of champagne. One of the girls, a British Airways stewardess going by the rumpled uniform, wrapped herself around him locking their lips together in a unnecessarily noisy kiss that left them both flushed and her giggling breathlessly. The wash of jealousy that swept over Jensen had quickly been replaced by prickly irritation. Padalecki was an irresponsible, reckless, womanizing animal.
The really infuriating thing though, was that despite the partying, Padalecki won races. The bastard was a brilliant driver. Instinctual, brave and far more intelligent than his behavior suggested. A natural racing drive. And everyone loved him. Other than the odd driver whose wife he had slept with.
"I take it by the scowl on your face that the vote didn't go your way."
Jensen doesn't realize he's been standing staring at his blood-red Ferrari until Jim's words rouse him from his sullen thoughts.
"Obviously not," Jensen snipes, before remembering who he's talking to. The wicked swipe across the back of his head with a rag is enough to remind him.
"Watch your tone with me, boy. I'm on your team, remember."
"Sorry, Jim," Jensen apologizes, the apology sincere even if his words are still clipped. "Fucking Padalecki swayed the room. That asshole knows I'm right too. This racetrack is going to kill someone today. Shit, Evans was lucky to escape with just a smashed up leg yesterday, and the track was bone dry. The speeds we're going at round those bends-"
"You're preaching to the choir, boy. I know the risks. Are you racing today or not?" Jim isn't one for beating around the bush, a quality which Jensen admires, even if it occasionally results in Jim calling him an idiot and slapping him upside the head. His chief engineer is the only one that gets away with that. He's the closest thing to family that Jensen has right now. The person that Jensen trusts most in the world. Trusts with his life most weekends.
"Of course I'm racing. If everyone else is, then I don't have much choice."
Jim shakes his head in disagreement. "You always have a choice, Jensen. No one is forcing you into that car."
"I think Lehne might disagree with you. That asshole hates me as it is." You'd think the fact that Jensen is leading the championship would be enough for the Ferrari team manager, but apparently Jensen isn't respectful enough or grateful enough or some other bullshit. Like hell he's going to be grateful. If it wasn't for him, the car wouldn't be the race winner that it is. The reason Krushnic wanted Jensen alongside him on the Ferrari team was his ability to set the cars up better than anyone else.
"He doesn't hate you," Jim counters. When Jensen incredulously raises an eyebrow, he continues, "Okay, maybe Fredric ain't your biggest fan, but informing the team boss that his Ferrari’s a shitbox that drives like a pig didn't make a great first impression, did it?" Jensen concedes it wasn't his most diplomatic moment, but the creepy idiot wouldn’t listen when Jensen attempted to tell him how to improve the car. Jensen has to drive the goddamn thing; if the weight distribution is all wrong and it understeers like a bitch, he sure isn't going to lie about it.
"And you ain't exactly been building bridges since then have you?" Jim says pointedly, before recalling the point he was originally trying to make. "Anyway, I can handle Lehne. Jensen, sometimes you have to listen to your gut. If it's telling you not to go out there today-"
"You know I don't believe in that superstitious crap, Jim. It's just another race." Jensen quickly cuts off Jim’s sentence, knowing the end of it will only add to the tight coil of nerves twisting in his stomach. "If it's going ahead, then damn right I'm getting out there and showing Padalecki and the rest of those fuckers why I have the fastest lap record in this hell hole."
"Jensen." Jim's growl is a clear warning that Jensen is acting like a dick, so he shuts up… for three seconds, then the need to vent his frustration is just too great to repress.
"I'm sorry, Jim," Jensen says, "but Misha and the Lotus drivers were the only guys that backed me up. The rest of them followed Padalecki's lead like a herd of dumbass sheep. It's ridiculous. Padalecki's only concern is losing a handful of points. As if he's going to be able to catch me anyway," he adds dismissively.
Jim scowls, wipes his hands on an oily rag he yanks from the pocket of his overalls and shakes his head at Jensen. Jensen's starting to feel like a naughty schoolboy disappointing his favorite teacher. "Jensen, you are a first-rate driver, maybe the best I've worked with and Christ knows, you're a goddamn genius when it comes to setting up the cars, but you could learn a thing or two from Padalecki."
"Like what?" Jensen scoffs.
"Like how to talk to people. How not to act like you’re walking around with a stick up your ass all the time. How to make friends and how not to piss off everyone you have a damn conversation with."
"I don't need more friends," Jensen bristles, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he tries desperately not recall a remarkably similar telling off his mother had given him when he’d been in high school. That one had contained less cursing and more disappointed hand wringing.
"No? So you don't think that if you had more friends out there, the vote might have gone your way today? Sometimes I think the reason Padalecki gets under your skin so much is because you're jealous."
Jensen’s heart lurches at the accusation. He uncurls his fists and wipes the sweaty palms of his hands across his thighs. “Jealous! Of that reckless idiot? You're insane."
"He is just as good a driver as you, just as talented, just as competitive, just as capable of winning the championship, and people don't think he's an asshole."
"Well thanks a lot, Jim. Nice to know you're on my side."
"Of course I'm on your side, boy. I just think that having a bug up your ass about Padalecki ain’t doing you any favors. He's a decent guy underneath all the playboy crap."
Fucking great, Jensen thinks, even Jim has joined the Jared Padalecki fan-club.
"Listen," Jim continues, cutting off Jensen's retort before it even trips off his tongue. "There’s only a couple of hours before the start of the race. Get out of here and straighten out your head. You can't get in the car still spitting feathers at Padalecki. That's a sure-fire way to make a stupid mistake."
Jim's right, Jensen has to admit, if only silently. There's no room in a Formula One racing-car for emotions. If you aren't totally focused, concentrating on the car, the track and what's going on around you, then you're going to get yourself or someone else killed.
Two hours later, Jensen is entirely focused. His car is in pole position on the grid. Padalecki, who qualified second, is alongside him. Thankfully the rain seems to have stopped for now, although the sky is ominously dark and the air heavy with moisture.
The chaos around him is muffled by his helmet and flame retardant balaclava, his vision narrowed down to the racetrack ahead of him.
"Jensen... Jensen!! Are you listening to me?"
Jensen turns his head to see Jim Beaver crouching at the side of the car, yelling at him. "Are you sure you want to stick with the wets? Roché and Chau are on slicks."
It may have stopped raining but the fourteen mile long track hasn't completely dried out. It's a risk starting on slick tires in Jensen's opinion; unlike the tires designed for driving in wet weather that have treads grooved into them to help displace the water , the slicks have no traction in the wet and there’s a huge risk of aqua-planing. It’s a far safer bet to wait a few laps until any standing water is dispelled and the race line dries out. Besides, with the sky swollen with dirty clouds, it may well start to rain again within a couple of laps. Wets are definitely the better option, unless-
"What's Padalecki starting on?" He shouts back.
"Wets!" Jim yells, standing up and giving Jensen's bicep a quick squeeze, knowing that he won't change his mind now.
Jensen's fingers drum over the steering wheel. He visualizes his way through the course; every sweeping bend, every turn, the sharp dips and the climbs, every kink and chicane is mapped out perfectly in his head. Everything else forgotten.
The starting grid is abruptly cleared just a minute before the parade lap begins; mechanics run in a weird race of their own to the pit lane while the sponsors and team bosses retreat somewhere warm and alcoholic. Jensen flips down the visor on his helmet and draws in a deep steadying breath before setting off on, what looks to an outsider, like a bizarre game of follow-the-leader. The track is still damp, puddles of water strewn around, especially in the low-lying area at the far side of the course. It is drying off though, and once they start racing, if the rain holds off, a change of tire sooner rather than later is inevitable.
Jensen zigzags across the track, brakes hard erratically before accelerating again, ensuring that his tires are warmed up as much as possible before sliding smoothly into pole position on the grid. He's aware of Padalecki drawing up beside him, but his attention is fixed solely on the starter’s flag at the side of the track. Flashes of black, red and gold jump in Jensen’s vision as the race-starter anxiously fidgets with the flag as the cars slip into their positions on the grid. Adrenaline roars through Jensen, his heart thudding loudly in his ears, nearly drowning out the glorious roar of the engine vibrating through him. The German flag rises in the air, then waves, and the race is on.
It's not Jensen's best start; he's comparatively slow off the line. Side by side, wheel to wheel, he and Padalecki race to the first corner. Jensen refuses to budge from his line, edging Padalecki onto the grass, and he noses ahead when they exit the first left-hand turn. He's concentrating so hard on the road in front of him and Padalecki swarming all over his rear wing that it's a nasty shock when Roché soars past him thirty seconds later, easily pulling away into the lead on his faster tires.
Fuck it! Jensen realizes instantly he's chosen the wrong tires and its cost him the lead. Only one lap in, Jensen makes the decision to pit and change to slicks. He's not the only one. When he breaks off into the pit lane, Padalecki is close behind him, and a procession of drivers is hard on their heels. The Ferrari team is a well-oiled machine though, the best there is. The tire change is as smooth as hours of practice can make it. He pulls out of his pit, exits the pit lane and charges back onto the track, pissed with himself for making the wrong call and screwing up his race and utterly determined to make up the time. The track hasn't dried out yet, but the tires feel good, sticking to the tarmac. Jensen's confidence surges, especially when there's no sign of Padalecki in his mirrors.
It takes the blink of an eye, a hundredth of a second, for everything to go to hell.
He's accelerating out of the last fast kink before entering the bend at Bergwerk when the rear of the car judders violently and he spins out of control. It's completely unexpected. Jensen can't do a damn thing. Can't react quickly enough before the car leaves the narrow track to save himself. His foot automatically presses down on the brake pedal, but he’s a helpless passenger in the car as it crashes into the embankment before flipping back onto the track. He's dazed but conscious. Ears ringing. Black smudges drifting in front of his eyes. He blinks, breathes. Barely has a second to register that his chest hurts like a motherfucker before another car slams into him and he's consumed by a massive blast of heat.
Jensen fucking Ackles!! How can someone so pretty be such a fucking asshole? Jared takes a final drag of his cigarette before grinding it to sludgy grit under the heel of his boot.
If Ackles wasn't such a dick, Jared might have sided with him at the drivers meeting. Possibly. Jared won't admit it out loud, but he did have a point. The Nurburgring is a disaster waiting to happen. The track is antiquated and dangerously narrow at the speeds they reach. It's also far too long to be safe. If you have an incident in the middle of the track, the rescue crews aren't going to reach you in a hurry. It's the main reason that this is the last year they're contracted to race the German Grand Prix here. The miserable weather only adds to the already significant danger. But fucking Ackles; as soon as he opens his mouth, Jared instinctually wants to shut it. Maybe he did want the race cancelled for safety reasons, or maybe he just wanted to keep his lead in the standings. Who knows! Jared has long passed the point of trying to figure out Jensen Ackles. The safest bet Jared thinks, as far as that cheating bag of dicks is concerned, is always to assume the worst.
"Hi, Jared, good luck for the race, superstar." A leggy redhead in purple velvet hot-pants grabs Jared's face, presses a lipstick oily kiss to his cheek and winks at him.
Jared automatically grins, because it's what's expected. Thinks he possibly recognizes her. He's pretty sure he didn't sleep with her last night but fuck, they all kind of blur together after a while especially after a glass of bubbly or two. He wonders idly how she isn't frozen to the bone in this dreary weather dressed in little more than underwear. "Thanks, sweetheart. Maybe I'll see you back at the hotel after the race and we can find a way to celebrate my win together."
The redhead giggles, flutters her false eyelashes and twists a strand of hair around her finger and Jared realizes with a sickening lurch in his gut, that he recognizes her because she is his teammate's newest girlfriend. Shitting fuck, Matt will go nuts if he sees them. He escapes quickly, side stepping behind the six wheeled Tyrell with a sheepish wave. He's slept with a couple of driver's girlfriends before, not since he stepped up to Formula One thankfully and never intentionally; it's not like they mentioned mid-fuck that they were already attached to one of his fellow drivers. It's not something he wants to do again. Racing cars is dangerous enough without your competitors actively wanting to kill you.
"What have you done this time, kid?"
Jared's steps stutter momentarily as Jeff Morgan's deep voice rumbles right in his ear.
"Fuck, Jeff, you spying on me?" Jared says, deftly avoiding the question.
Jeff raises an eyebrow and loops his arm over Jared's shoulders, steering him firmly towards the front of the starting grid. "Simply making sure you don't get yourself in trouble before you even get in the cockpit."
"Thanks for your faith in me, old man," Jared says wryly.
"No problem, Jay; it's well-earned."
Jared should know better than trying to out sarcasm Jeff Morgan. The guy's a master.
"So, you blown off some steam? Gotten over your newest spat with Ackles?" Jeff continues as they come to a stop beside the white and red of Jared's McLaren.
Jared runs his fingers reverentially over the sleek exterior of his car. She truly is a beauty.
"Jared, you with me kid?"
"What? Oh, yeah sure. I'm fine, great."
"And Ackles?" Jeff presses.
"What about him?" Jared says, feigning ignorance and taking his racing helmet from one of the mechanics. He slips on the balaclava before donning his helmet, securing the strap carefully under his chin.
"I just want to know that you're not going out there with your head up your ass. Or Ackles' ass."
"What... what?" Jared taps the helmet covering his ear as though Jeff's words somehow got mangled through the tough shell. "Jeff, that's sick and you know... impossible or at the very least damn uncomfortable."
"Not literally, moron," Jeff says, with a roll of his eyes, watching as Jared steps into the car with his ridiculously long legs and squeezes into the tight grip of his cockpit. Bending down, he taps his finger on the front of Jared's helmet, raising his voice so Jared can hear.
"Just make sure your mind is on the road, kid. You can't afford to lose your concentration for a second on this track. I want my car back in one piece, understand?"
That’s as close to warm and fuzzy as Jeff gets without a drink or six in him.
Jared nods, smiles reassuringly at his engineer, then closes his eyes and tries to block out the insane hubbub around him.
"Jared! Jared! Kid!!" Jeff is yelling at him again.
"I thought you wanted me to concentrate, Jeff?" Jared says, trying not to let his nerves and frustration bleed into his tone.
"Do you want to stick with the wet tires?" Jeff asks. "Roché and Chau are swapping to slicks."
Fuck, Jared thinks. He hates having to rush a decision like this. "What's Ackles doing?"
"Looks like he's sticking with the wets," Jeff replies, glancing across to where Beaver is crouching beside the Ferrari shouting something at Ackles.
"So am I then," Jared says determinedly, fixing his eyes on the road ahead of him.
"You sure?" Jeff asks, enough doubt in his voice to make it clear he's not in total agreement.
Jared doesn't as much as glance back at Jeff, just nods once sharply.
Jeff pats him on the shoulder and yells, "fire her up."
Jared will never get used to sitting in the center of all this raw power. The V8 engine of his car roars to life around him and it’s like sitting in the mouth of a dragon. Every cell in Jared's body reverberates. The rush of adrenaline consuming him is intoxicating. This is the biggest high in the world. Forget the drugs and the booze, even the sex - nothing compares to this.
Jared's start is awful. He's on the dirty side of the track which probably explains why, but it's frustrating as hell because for once, Ackles is also slow away and Jared should have been able to slip past him out of the first corner. He's just a second too far behind though and Ackles makes damn sure there's no way past, forcing Jared on to the grass verge when he attempts to take him on the outside.
It's bad enough that Ackles is leading, but when Roché overtakes first him and then powers ahead of Ackles too, Jared curses a blue streak. Maybe he should have swapped his tires to slicks before the start. He can already hear Jeff's 'I told you so' echoing in his head. The start of the second lap, Jared decides to pit; there's no point in holding off, not when it's obvious he's on the wrong tires. He's not surprised when Ackles veers down the pit lane ahead of him, obviously having come to the same conclusion, but he does pray silently to the Gods of motor racing that for once the Ferrari mechanics drop a wheel nut and give Jared the chance to exit ahead of Ackles.
Of course, that's not what happens. What happens is the pit lane fills up with cars and while he sees Ackles calmly pulling away and Krushnic diving into the pits in his wake, Jared's stuck in the middle of a fucking traffic jam.
"Get out of the way!" Jared slams his fist on the steering wheel in frustration as the back end of a black Lotus blocks his way. "Jesus Christ, what the fuck are you doing!"
It's only cost him a few extra seconds he knows, but it feels like an hour before he finally escapes, nearly taking the nose off one of the Tyrells as he sweeps out of his pit. At least he rejoins the race ahead of Misha, who can be a real tricky bastard to overtake.
He's pushing hard, trying to close the gap between him and the race leaders. And him and Ackles. He flies past one then two cars. Ackles can't be far ahead, possibly one more car between them.
It takes less than a second for Jared to react as he accelerates out of the last kink in the road before the bend at Bergwerk. It's not quick enough. Richard's car is ahead of him, sliding sideways and scraping tire-rubber across the track as he brakes hard. Jared slams on his brakes in response, curses splitting the air when he spots another car immobile across the middle of the road. He tries to swerve but runs out of time and track. Nothing left to do but pray as he rams into the back end of the stranded car.
Instinctually, his eyes slam shut against the blast of flames that erupts, the laden fuel tank of the disabled car exploding with the impact. Jared skids past, spins one-eighty and ends up facing the direction of the blazing car. Hands shaking, legs numb, stomach trying to force its way up his throat, he stumbles uninjured, but wrecked nevertheless, out of his car and races to the site of the burning Ferrari. Ackles' burning Ferrari.
Richard's already out of his car, a fire extinguisher in his hand aimed at the center of the Ferrari's cockpit, and somehow by the time Jared reaches Jensen, Krushnic has arrived, leapt from his car and sprinted to the scene with an extinguisher too, frantically trying to contain the flames licking at Jensen. Black smoke billows into the air, nipping Jared's eyes something fierce, and the noxious smell of burning fuel bites the back of his throat.
"Get me out! Get me out!"
Ackles' panicked cries should be barely audible, smothered by his helmet, the blast of Misha and Richard's fire extinguishers and the suffocating howl of the fire. They're still the only thing that Jared can hear.
"Jensen!!" Jared shouts. His voice seems to come from very far away. Everything feels as though it's happening in slow motion, his legs weighed down like he's thigh deep in quick sand as he fights his way through the heat. His hands join Jensen's, fumbling desperately at the buckle of his safety harness. He pushes aside Jensen's shaking fingers, manages to undo the clasp. Grabs Jensen by the shoulders, hauls him out of the burning wreckage, struggling to keep a grasp of the material of Jensen's race-suit. Miraculously, Jensen's on his feet, leaning heavily against Jared but walking. Three, four paces away from the car, Jensen's legs give out. Like his strings have suddenly been sliced, he sags against Jared who stumbles and nearly goes down under the extra weight. Misha steps in, lifts Jensen's legs, helps Jared carry him across to the verge where hopefully they'll be safe. Safer than standing in the middle of the smoke-filled race track beside the remains of a burning Ferrari at least.
They ease Jensen slowly down to the ground. Jared drops to his knees on the grass, rips his thick racing gloves off, pillows Jensen's head on his thigh. Carefully he unbuckles Jensen's helmet; the strap leaves a deep red imprint in the pale skin under his chin. Jared's not sure whether they should carry on and remove the helmet or not but the need to make sure Jensen is breathing overrides any other worries. He glances at Krushnic, sees the fear in those icy blue eyes. Knows Misha can see the terror reflected back at him. Together, they silently remove Jensen's helmet; Jared supports Jensen's head and neck as much as he can while Misha gently eases off the scuffed and scratched helmet. Misha rolls the balaclava up until Jensen's face is visible. Unbelievably, there's hardly a mark on him. His skin is deathly white, lips pale and cracked, dried out, the barest smudge of black brushes under his nose. His eyes are open, painfully blood-shot, unfocussed and blinking sluggishly, but open.
"It's okay, man. We got you. You're fine, you're fine. Just breathe, Jensen. That's it, nice and easy.” Jared curls over Jensen, strokes his thumb across his cheek, keeps up a steady chant of reassuring bullshit as they wait for help to arrive. Misha, Richard, and suddenly Matt too, surround them, creating a human barrier, protecting Jensen from the invasive stares of ghoulish bystanders and the cold-blooded scrutiny of the television cameras. Jared doesn't know what's worse, the seconds when Jensen's eyes flicker shut and he drifts into unconsciousness or the moments he's awake and hurting, gasping sharply, lines of pain spreading across his face. Jared doesn't think Jensen is actually conscious of what's going on. Maybe he just hopes that's the case.
Hour-long minutes crawl by before the rescue vehicles finally arrive. Jensen's stretchered into the back of the ambulance, an oxygen mask covering his face and an IV pushing meds or fluids or something into his arm. Jared isn't aware he's still kneeling on the wet grass until Misha and Matt grab his arms and haul him to his feet. He sways dangerously when they let go, knees unable to hold him, and then he crumples to the ground and pukes.
The race is restarted thirty minutes later. Jensen's injuries appear to be relatively minor. Jared finds that hard to believe, but apparently his fire retardant clothing, race helmet and quick rescue saved Jensen from serious injury. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Life goes on. More importantly, the race goes on. Jared wins the Grand Prix in the McLaren spare car. If you ask him later, he'll tell you he can't remember a damn thing about the race. What he does recall, with searing clarity, is Jeff congratulating him on the win and, without pausing for breath, informing him that Jensen's condition deteriorated rapidly and he's being flown to Mannheim hospital. His chances of surviving the next twenty-four hours are not good.
Chapter Two
The first time Jared Padalecki kissed Jensen Ackles, they were both drunk off their asses. Jared doesn't remember the details too clearly; everything gets a bit fuzzy after a night of drinking cachaça. He knows it was January and they were in Sao Paulo, because it was right after the first Grand Prix of 1976. And he knows it must have been one of those official parties with all the sponsors and team-owners, because otherwise Jensen wouldn't have hung around long enough to end up drunk in the bathroom with his hand down Jared's pants.
He vaguely recalls shoving Jensen against the wall, has a picture in his mind of Jensen's eyes growing almost comically wide and of noticing for the very first time how incredibly green his irises were - like the color of a forest canopy with the sun glinting through the leaves. He really was fucking trashed. There might have been pot involved.
Presumably, Jensen was being an asshole, spouting his usual arrogant bullshit. Jared can't think of any other reason he would have ended up pinning him to the wall by his shoulders and pressing their lips together; anything to shut him up. Instead of knocking Jared out, Jensen had kissed him back. It had been five minutes of madness. Of biting and clawing, of shoving and ripping. Jared doesn't recall any words being spoken, only remembers Jensen's lithe body rubbing against his, his fingers tangling in Jared's hair and twisting 'til it hurt. He remembers the feel of Jensen's cock leaking in his hand and the grunt that left his mouth when Jensen gripped Jared's dick just on the right side of too hard. They'd stumbled away from each other that night, stunned and drunk on the unexpected force of their orgasms as much as the liquor that led them there.
They'd never mentioned that night again. Jared suspects Jensen was just as grateful as he was that the next race hadn't been until two months later in March. It gave them plenty of time to forget the feel of each other's bodies and pretend the whole incident had never happened. Their frigid relationship of mutual dislike may have thawed just slightly. Standing on the winner's podium, Jared's congratulations to Jensen on his win had been a fraction more sincere than usual, and Jensen's smile had appeared shyer and less glacial.
The next time they kissed they were lying in Jared's bed in a hotel room in Long Beach. Naked and trembling, clutching desperately to each other, kissing like it was the end of the world; like they could find the meaning of life in each other's mouths.
It was the night after the practice session for the third round of the championships. What had started out as a great day - glorious weather, girls in bikinis, and decent coffee for the first time in months - had ended in gut-wrenching grief and despair.
Five minutes left of the last session; Jared's final fast lap and he'd been following Hodge, the young rookie from Australia, with Ackles nosing at his rear wheels. Then Hodge had made a mistake or something had failed on his car, either way the result was the same; the rookie's car careened from the track, crashing at full speed into a barrier. Lethal metallic shards and debris had flown through the air like shrapnel from a bomb blast and the car exploded, turning into a fireball in front of their eyes.
Within seconds, Jared and Jensen had both dived from their cars, yelling frantically at the race marshals standing impotently by the side of the track to do something. Instead they had simply stood watching; hands limp by their sides, too scared to venture near the scorching heat of the blazing car. Sprinting back to his own car, Jensen had grabbed his fire extinguisher as Jared had wrestled another one from a shocked marshal. Desperately, they'd attempted to smother the inferno, to rescue the young driver. Both had been yanked back from the fierce heat by panicked race officials. Even a few courageous spectators kicking through the fences in an attempt to get near enough to help had been roughly pushed back and chased off.
Furious, Jared and Jensen had fought off every attempt to restrain them, throwing punches and curses aimlessly in frustration. Unlike the marshals, they were wearing fire-retardant suits and they didn't give a shit about the risk of injury, not if there was a chance they could save their friend. It wasn't enough. Aldis' desperate screams had faded away to deathly silence before they'd been able to douse the flames enough to free him from the wreckage.
Returning to his hotel hours later, exhausted and sick to his stomach, Jared had found a disconsolate Jensen sitting on his ass in the hallway, his back propped up against the door to Jared's room. An open but still mainly full bottle of Jack Daniels rested between his knees. The devastation and turmoil breathtakingly easy to read in his red-rimmed eyes.
They hadn't talked. Couldn't talk, not then. The pressing ache of loss was too fresh and damn close to unbearable. Emotions raw, the need to forget overwhelming; they'd taken refuge in each other. First found escape, then comfort and finally release in each other's bodies.
A messy trail of abandoned clothes marked their route to Jared's bed. Jensen's nails scratching rivers down Jared's back as they sought oblivion in kisses that were as brutal as they were desperate. Bite-marks up the inside of Jensen's pale thighs highlighted a violent path to his cock. Jared had sucked him down like a starving man tasting heaven. Licking up every drip of pre-come then begging with his tongue for more; chasing away the acrid taste of smoke and ashes. He'd taken Jensen to the edge. Held him down, sweating and writhing against the white cotton sheets and then fingered open his asshole with nothing more than spit and his own pre-come. A scream tore from Jensen's mouth when Jared pushed inside him for the first time, but Jensen had wrapped his legs around Jared's waist, bending himself in half and dragging Jared down, deeper and harsher than Jared would have dared to go. Jared understood though. Jensen needed to feel the burn. Wanted to immerse himself in the sensation. Pain or pleasure it didn’t matter; he just wanted to feel alive.
Afterwards they'd lain naked, side by side on ruined hotel sheets. Jensen smoked half of Jared's cigarettes while they talked in hushed voices and increasingly strong Texan drawls about their families and hometowns, their favorite foods, their worst dates and their first times. They talked until their throats were hoarse. About everything…. everything apart from racing and the events of the day they were trying to forget.
When the darkness started to give way to the first shy light of morning sun, and Jared thought Jensen had dozed off beside him, Jensen had said quietly, "I'd rather just die outright, you know. Just be gone. I have nightmares sometimes. Real vivid ones, of being trapped, burning alive. I wake up, and I can still feel the heat of flames clawing at me, and my hands shake, and I have to shower to chase away the sweat and the smell of my own fear." Jensen paused and Jared had heard him lick his lips before he spoke again. "I can still hear his screams ringing in my ears. Every time I close my eyes I see the terror in his face and the way his hands were struggling to unbuckle his belt as the car burned around him."
Jared couldn't find any words to reassure him. The drink and the drugs, the girls and occasionally the guys; they were how he chased away his own terrifying dreams. It was the insane life they led. None of them knew how or when they were going to die. Who'd be the next to crash their car at 180mph into a wall or barrier. Who'd walk away and who'd be carried off, body ripped to shreds or burnt beyond recognition. They'd seen their colleagues and sometimes their friends crushed, dismembered and even decapitated. But as long as they wanted to experience the unparalleled rush of driving the fastest cars in the world, they had to live with the dangers.
Instead of saying anything, Jared had crawled over Jensen. Let him feel the warmth of his body, the beat of his heart. Quieted him with open mouthed kisses. Kissed away the words of fear and doubt. Made love to him until neither of them were capable of thinking about anything other than the need to come.
Afterwards, when they were both spent, Jensen had rolled stiffly out of the bed and wiped himself down with Jared's dirty tee-shirt. Then he'd hunted down his own scattered clothes and with an unbelievably bashful smile, slipped from the room.
Jared had thought, hoped really, that night might have signaled a change in their relationship. The dark hours spent together trying to exorcise their demons, peeling away each other's defenses and discovering that underneath all the petty bullshit they actually liked each other, would have been the start of something new. A genuine friendship at least. At times, lying on his own in the dark, Jared even let himself dream of having something more with Jensen. Something amazing.
Then, he'd won the very next Grand Prix in Spain. While he'd still been spraying champagne over Jeff on the winner’s podium, Jensen had been complaining to the race officials, resulting in Jared’s disqualification, and any chance of them being anything other than bitter rivals going up in smoke.
"You sure about this, Jared?" Jeff asks, shooting him an uneasy side-glance from the driver's seat. "You and Jensen aren't exactly known for being the best of friends."
Jared isn't about to clue Jeff in on the play by play of his and Jensen's history looping through his head right now. Jeff's a great guy, easy going and open-minded; he's aware that Jared's spent a couple of nights with guys before and never seemed bothered by it. However, Jared isn't sure he'd stay quite so cool if he knew that Jared’d had a fling with his main rival. Anyway, Jared has no idea how he feels about his relationship with Jensen himself, so he's really not up to discussing it with anyone else. "I'm sure," he replies stiffly, without attempting to explain why.
Jeff shakes his head but doesn't comment. He's worried though, that much is obvious. He point-blank refused to let Jared drive himself to Mannheim. Not that Jared was capable of putting up much of a fight; his hands were trembling so badly he didn't think he'd be able to fit a key into an ignition. He isn't sure whose car they're even in now. It's a piece of shit Honda Civic, a little three door thing with fuzzy dice dangling in the middle of the windscreen and a radio that appears stuck on some pirate radio station playing Abba on a loop. It also doesn't seem keen on travelling at more than fifty miles an hour. Or maybe that's Jeff.
"You know they probably won't let you see him," Jeff says a short while later, breaking the tense silence.
"Probably not," Jared agrees, without looking in Jeff’s direction.
That's about the extent of their conversation until they reach Mannheim; then there's a barrage of terse cursing and a stilted pidgin-German exchange with a couple of locals as they attempt to find their way to the University hospital. Jared lurches from the car and stretches his spine with an unhealthy sounding pop when they finally reach the hospital; three hours scrunched inside the tiny Civic combined with his gut-deep worry have well and truly screwed up his body.
Jeff barely manages to keep up with Jared as he storms like a tornado through the hospital. Somehow, despite a worried grimace replacing his usual lady-killer smile, he still manages to charm the nurses into pointing him in Jensen's direction. Which turns out to be in the Intensive Care Unit. The closest he's allowed is a small private waiting room, miles of corridors away from where Jensen is fighting for his life. Jim Beaver and Misha are already there, and a couple of slick suits from Ferrari that Jared doesn't know or care about are standing in the corner of the room, talking in a steady stream of hushed Italian. Even if Jensen was on better terms with his family, they wouldn't make it to Germany before tomorrow. It just doesn't seem right that the people waiting (figuratively) at Jensen's bedside are his racing engineer and his team-mate.
Jared bursts into the waiting room with his usual lack of subtlety or finesse, the door bashing against the wall and shaking the bland watercolors in their cheap frames. Misha's eyebrows scrunch into a fierce frown and he jumps to his feet, shoulders rigidly pulled back and neck muscles corded with tension. "Padalecki, what are you doing here?"
"How is he?" Jared asks, ignoring Misha's hostile stance, looking to Jim for answers instead.
"Alive." Jim's reply is succinct and not what could be called friendly, but it's a relief to hear.
"Jared, why are you here?" Misha repeats with more than a hint of barely contained anger in his tone this time.
Jared doesn't even fucking know anymore. "I just... fuck Misha... I just wanted to make sure he was okay. Seeing him like that... "
"You feel guilty?" Misha says, pointing at him, fingers in the shape of a gun. Jared's not sure whether it's a question or a statement, but it's clear by Misha's expression what he thinks. "You should feel guilty. You knew he was right about the track, we all did, but you persuaded the rest of those fools to go ahead and race anyway."
"I didn't know this would happen." Jared defends himself but it's a half-hearted effort at best.
"Rubbish," Misha spits. "Maybe you didn't know this would happen but you knew the track was a fucking killer."
"That's enough, Misha." It's Jim Beaver who interrupts which is a surprise, but a welcome one. "It was an accident. Just a goddamn accident. Blaming Jared won't help Jensen. Don't forget he hauled Jensen out of the car."
Misha scowls but sits down on his chair, spine as stiff as a steel rod and his fingers gripping his kneecaps hard enough to leave fingernail-marks.
"How's Jensen doing?" Jeff asks from behind Jared's shoulder. Jared had actually forgotten he was standing there. "What are the doctors saying?"
Jim takes off his grubby red Ferrari baseball cap - the prancing horse on it looks as though it's had a rough race - and runs his hands over his thinning hair. "He has a serious concussion and a broken collar bone, probably a broken rib or two and his legs are bruised to hell, but it's the damage to his airways that's the real problem. Breathing in all those hot fumes fucked up his lungs. He's unconscious and they're giving him oxygen. They said-" Jim's voice cracks and he quickly covers it with a barking cough, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "They said he might not make it. They said to... they... they're sending for a priest to give him the last rites."
"He's not religious," Jared blurts out without thinking and hears Jeff sigh heavily behind him, can almost feel the phantom slap across the back of his head that Jeff is mentally giving him right now.
"Well, no," Jim agrees, "But you want to try telling old man Ferrari or his minions that?"
That's a fair point and Jared knows he should drop the subject, but his mouth seems to have other ideas. "Jensen's gonna be fucking pissed if he wakes up and there's a priest standing at the end of his bed."
Jim snorts a laugh and fits his cap snugly back on his head, sitting down heavily on a plastic chair. "You're not wrong there, kid, you're not wrong."
Jared takes a chance and sits down on the adjoining seat. Misha inches forward on his own chair looking set to leap back to his feet, his frown deepening to a threatening glower, but Jim himself doesn't object to Jared's proximity. "Jensen and I, we-" Jared struggles, doesn't know what he's trying to say. "We don't always see eye to eye, but in the past, in the past we... we've been through some tough shit together and he... he's a good guy."
"Yeah, he is," Jim agrees gruffly.
Giving up his babysitting post beside Jared, Jeff walks purposefully across the room and sits down in the chair beside Misha. Jared watches as he works his magic, lays a comforting hand on Misha’s arm, talks quietly to the upset driver in his whisky-sour tones. Watches as Misha's tightly strung posture finally crumples and he sinks back in his chair, rubbing his fingers across his eyes, trying hard not to look like tears are threatening to spill down his cheeks.
A strained silence settles over the men in the room. Everyone lost in their own heads. The two Ferrari suits leave briefly after about twenty minutes, apparently in search of a phone to update the rest of the team. Jared stares out of the small window across from him, watches the murky grey sky slowly turn dark as the night draws in.
It's Jim that eventually cracks the silence. "This is balls. That boy doesn't deserve to end up like this. I know he can be a prickly pain in the ass, but underneath it all, Jensen's the best man I know." Jared hums in agreement but there must be something unconvincing in his response because Jim looks at him sharply and rises on the defensive. "Maybe he's competitive and direct and doesn't take kindly to idiots but Jensen's as straightforward, kind and honest as a man could be. He'd give his life for his friends."
"I know that Jim, I know." Jared does know. The Jensen he knows wouldn't hesitate to give his life for his friends, but he'd also fuck them over in a heartbeat to win a race. It's not the time to think about that though and definitely not the moment to mention it. "He's one of a kind that's for sure," Jared says. "And he loves driving. I don't think I've ever seen him happier than when he's in a racing car."
"That's true," Jim agrees, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back against the wall. "He loves racing more than anything. Hates the back-room bullshit and all the goddamn politics but loves being out there on the track."
"Politics?" Jared asks, curious.
"You know what I'm talking about, Jared. You're not an idiot," Jim says, folding his arms over his chest and crossing his ankles.
Well, not an idiot no, but possibly a bit slow. "I really don't, Jim."
"The objections and complaints after the Spanish Grand Prix?" Jim says, as though it's obvious. "You don't think Jensen wanted to win a race like that, do you?"
Jared's guts roll uneasily at the reminder of those particular events. "He wanted the points."
"He wanted to win the race."
"It's the same thing," Jared points out.
"Boy, you don't really believe that, do you?" You idiot, goes unsaid but it's there in spirit. "I thought you of all people understood. Jensen wants to be champion. Wants to prove that he's the best and he wants to do that by winning races. You really think he cared that your car was less than a quarter inch too wide? He didn't give a flying fuck. He might have been pissed that you beat him but he knew you won fair and square."
"So, why-"
"Fredric Lehne doesn't take kindly to losing. Neither does old man Ferrari. They don't care how they win points. All they care about is keeping Ferrari at the top of the leader board. They saw a way to get you and McLaren disqualified and they took it. Jensen was mad as hell. I've never seen that boy angrier and well... you know Jensen, he ain't exactly a ball of sunshine on a good day. If he and Lehne didn't hate each other's guts before, they certainly did by the time Jensen finished letting rip. Misha had to step in before they came to blows."
Jared is sifting through this information, trying to make sense of it when a doctor walks in. Suddenly all the oxygen is sucked from the room, and Jared feels like he's trying to breathe in a vacuum.
Misha and Jared leap to their feet, followed slightly slower by the less youthful joints of Jeff and Jim. "How is he, Doc?" Jim asks. Jared presumes that Jensen must have named his chief engineer as his emergency contact or next of kin or something.
"Mr. Ackles has regained consciousness," the German doctor replies, his English perfect but heavily accented.
"Thank Christ for that," Jim says, taking his cap off and twisting it between his hands. "Is he... is he alright? I mean the concussion and the coma... he's not suffered any permanent damage has he?"
"Well, he has certainly managed to speak," the doctor replies with a look of wry amusement. "He told the priest to 'fuck off, he wasn't dead yet.' Does that sound like normal behavior for Mr. Ackles?"
Jim shakes his head as everyone else chuckles with as much relief as humor. "That sounds like Jensen, alright."
The doctor's expression sobers once again as he goes on to explain more about Jensen's injuries. The main problem continues to be the damage to Jensen's lungs. If he had been stuck in the car for maybe twenty seconds longer, inhaling the toxic fumes, the chances are he wouldn't have made it. As it is, he's not entirely out of the woods yet. He might still suffer long term problems, and even if he doesn't, it's likely to be months until he's entirely recovered. That on top of the concussion, broken collar bone and other smaller injuries means he's unlikely to race again this season.
At this point, no-one other than the Ferrari suits in the corner of the room are remotely concerned about that. The fact that Jensen is alive and talking is good enough. Although, Jared thinks with guilty relief, he's glad he isn't the one that has to break the news to Jensen that his championship is over.
The first time Jensen briefly swims to consciousness, as far as he can recall, there's a tube snaking down his throat which he thinks might be choking him and a rapid beeping at the side of his head which is damn irritating. He remembers a dark veil of panic closing in on him, then... well, nothing.
The second time he's aware of waking up, it's to the sight of a shadowy black crow peering down at him. He nearly has a heart-attack. He tries to raise his hand to chase the swirling clouds from his vision but the breath-taking pain that shoots across his chest stops him dead. Instead he blinks slowly and repeatedly until the fogginess finally clears. The pinched face of the tall priest looming over him isn't any more welcome than the crow was. "Fuck off, I'm not dead yet." The words are barely more than a whisper but fuck, his throat burns with every syllable. It feels as though he's gargled with lava then swallowed a packet of razor blades. Apparently while he was doing that, a passing elephant jumped on his chest, more than once, then invited his friends to join in. He doesn't bother trying to keep his eyes open for long.
Time passes erratically. For days, Jensen is asleep more than awake; and when he is awake, it’s usually a pretty nasty experience. He's peripherally aware of people in the room talking to him but he couldn't tell you who or what they were saying. The most important person in his life for several days is whoever is in charge of the pain-meds. His whole body aches. He thinks one of his toes is maybe pain-free but that's about it.
Eventually, the world begins to make more sense. The grumbling blur at his bedside turns into Jim. The days and nights separate out into proper order. He remembers what happened. Well, he remembers racing at the Nurburgring; he remembers pitting to change tires, remembers the car spinning out from under him, but everything after that is a gaping blank. Jim's look of relief when Jensen tells him as much is rather unsettling. The doctors are finally able to explain why he feels as though he's been shoved through a meat grinder, and actually the list of injuries is somewhat comforting. For as crappy as he feels, the damage he incurred could have been a lot worse. His concussion is pretty much gone other than the occasional headache. The bruising he was covered in is already fading. The broken ribs and collar bone are painful and annoying but nothing that won't heal in a few weeks. At least six more weeks the doctors say; the collar bone break didn’t need surgery but it was a close call and it still needs time to set properly. Three more weeks Jensen allows.
The worst thing, the most worrying is his breathing. Three weeks after his accident, it still feels as though fire-ants are marching through his lungs in hobnail boots, and sometimes if he takes a deep breath, it feels as though his chest is about to burst into flames.
Vacuuming his lungs, they've decided is the answer. It won't be pleasant; they'd warned Jensen with serious faces and reams of paperwork to sign beforehand. They weren't kidding. It's by far the most horrendous procedure he's ever endured. Painful and frightening and it just seems to go on forever. Which is why Doctor Weber, the specialist in charge of his care, is shocked when Jensen grabs his coat sleeve and demands that he do it again as soon as he finishes the procedure the first time round.
"Are you sure?" He asks, looking down at Jensen doubtfully. "Your lungs are already bruised. It's going to hurt worse if we keep going."
"Yes," Jensen nods tightly. "Do it." He hears Jim swear roughly from where he's standing near the door of his hospital room. Tears spring to Jensen's eyes as his head is pushed back again and his mouth held open for the tube to be inserted down the back of his throat. No, this isn't his idea of fun; he hasn't completely lost his mind and he isn't just being pig-headed. This is his best chance of recovering quickly. A little – okay, a lot of discomfort now is worth it, if it means he escapes this hospital room quicker. He can't afford to be lying here for very much longer.
Ferrari have replaced him. Just until you're better they said. Fuck you, Jensen said. You'll still have a seat with us next season, don't worry they said. Fuck you, right up the ass, Jensen said, I'm going to win the championship this season, just watch me.
So, yeah, he can put up with a bit of (fucking eye-watering) discomfort because while he's lying with his feet up in bed, Fredric Lehne's new golden boy, the young and malleable Brock Kelly, is making himself very much at home at Ferrari in Jensen's car. On top of that, his lead in the driver's championship is quickly crumbling away. He missed the Austrian Grand Prix last week and he's going to miss the Dutch Grand Prix next week, but he's going to race in Italy next month if it kills him. Which, right now when the noise of his lungs being suctioned starts up again sending Jensen's heart-rate through the roof and hands searching frantically for something to grip onto it, it feels like it just might.
Jared Padalecki wins the Dutch Grand Prix. Misha takes third place on the podium. Brock Kelly comes sixth. Jensen discharges himself from the hospital.
Chapter Three
"Your sister called me again."
Jensen's crouching next to the car, leaning forwards, hands spread wide against the red paintwork.
"You hear me, boy?"
"I hear you, Jim," Jensen replies. "I'll call her back tonight."
"She said your father phoned and you hung up on him."
"He called to say I told you so; do you blame me?" Jensen says, standing up straight and turning to face Jim. It turns out that nearly dying goes some way towards healing family rifts. Maybe not with his father so much, but the rest of his family have decided that Jensen isn't the pariah his father branded him. Jensen's not sure how he feels about that. It is nice to have his family back in his life, but a lot of their conversations focus on trying to convince him to stop racing before it does actually kill him. He doesn't think he can face another teary phone-call from his mother. His sister, Mel, however is as irreverent and funny as ever, and he's only just realizing how much he's missed her. She wants to fly out to Europe to see him. He's managed to put her off for now. Not that he doesn't want to see her, but the thought of his pretty little sister hanging around the paddock with his fellow drivers is enough to give him nightmares. And he has enough of those already.
"Thanks for telling him where I was staying, by the way," Jensen says.
Jim shrugs, unfazed by Jensen's sarcasm. "If I hadn't told him, he'd have bullied it out of your sister. Didn't think you'd want that. So are we really doing this?"
Jensen takes a deep breath, winces at the familiar ghost of a burn in his lungs, ignores it. "Yes, we are. I'm racing at the weekend; I don't care what anyone says." The bosses at Ferrari aren't ecstatic about it but there's not much they can do. If Jensen tells the world's press that Ferrari shafted him while he was still in hospital, it's not going to look good for them. Jensen doesn't want to give them a chance to say he isn't ready though, which is why they're here now. The first time he gets back on the horse he doesn't want an audience, especially not Enzo Ferrari or Fredric Lehne. Led by Jim, his awesome pit crew have worked miracles, and probably through the night, setting up a car for him. They're at the track early; the sun's barely risen and it's only Thursday so most of the teams haven't rolled into town yet. The track, for once, is more or less deserted. If he doesn't sit his yellow ass in the car now, he never will.
Jim talks to him while he's fastening up his racing suit, slipping on his balaclava, and finally tugging on his helmet and fastening it. Jensen has no idea what he's saying but is thankful for the steady rumble of words. His shaking hands fumble clumsily with his racing gloves, first nearly dropping them then struggling ridiculously to get his fingers into the proper holes. By the time he slides into the cockpit of the car, there's sweat running down his face and into his eyes. He rubs it away roughly with the pads of his gloves, angry at himself for being such a wreck. Wreck - not a good word to think. Snug inside the car, barely room to move, inches from the ground; it's like spooning himself into a coffin. Jesus Christ, he's freaking himself out.
"Jensen! Hey, Jensen... listen to me."
Jim's voice brings him back to reality just before he full out panics. Still, his chest is heaving painfully like he's just run round the track rather than preparing to drive around it, and he knows it isn't going to take much for him to lose his composure.
"I'm just going to ask you this one more time," Jim says, kneeling at the side of the car and staring Jensen square in the eye. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?"
Jensen nods, his mouth too dry to attempt speech.
"Okay then." Jim says, and suddenly his usual professional mask slides firmly in place. "The car is set up the way you like it and you know the track like the back of your hand. The tires are new and cold so you need to do a couple of warm-up laps, then a fast lap then you pit, understand?
Jensen licks his lips then nods again stiffly, flips the visor of his helmet down and tries not to give in to the surge of nausea that's rising up the back of his throat.
Jensen's never felt claustrophobic in his life until now. All of a sudden the world feels like it's closing in on him. His helmet's smothering him rather than protecting him, and the metal surrounding him seems to be squeezing against him, caving in around him. It takes every single scrap of willpower he possesses to stop himself from bolting from the car like the devil's on his tail.
He manages one lap. One fucking lap, then he's fighting his way out of the car and running to the toilets before anyone witnesses him retching. It's not the successful trial run he'd pictured which doesn't bode well for the rest of the weekend.
The practice session on Friday is an epic disaster. Everything that Jensen doesn't want to happen does. News that he's at Monza and racing spreads like wildfire. The big hotshots from Ferrari are all here; Lehne's prowling around the paddock like a grinning hyena in the most god-awful flares that flap like brown cord flags in the breeze. Lehne stares at Jensen like he's a tasty snack with 'eat me' written across the middle of his forehead whenever he catches sight of him. Jensen spends a lot of the morning dodging him; it’s like playing a game of cat and mouse with a starving tiger. He does his best to avoid the other drivers too. They are mainly happy to oblige him, possibly worried that his obvious insanity might be contagious. A few do wander over to talk to him, ask him about the accident or his injuries or, with sly little smiles, about Brock fucking Kelly. Jensen struggles to keep his cool. Jim glaring daggers at him from across the garage and Misha appearing at his elbow like some weird toothy guardian angel whenever he’s about to explode and tell someone to fuck off are his saviors.
Then there's the Tifosi. They're a fanatical bunch of die-hard Ferrari supporters at the best of times, the loudest and brightest fans in the grandstands, but when the Grand Prix is in Italy they multiply into a raging torrent and go absolutely nuts. Jensen seems to have their sympathy vote right now, and wherever he goes, fans draped in Ferrari red shout his name or shove scrappy autograph books into his sweaty hands. It's quite frankly terrifying. By the time he’s ready to climb into his car at the start of practice, his nerves are shot to hell. Hairs prickle on the back of his neck and he can sense every eye on him; every camera poised to catch the moment he squeezes back into the Ferrari or maybe the moment he spins off and kills himself. Jim, Misha and a quite a few of the mechanics gather round him in the Ferrari garage in an attempt to shield him from the circus going on outside, but Jensen's heart is thundering like a herd of wild horses is trying to escape his chest and he’s sinking into a full on paranoia fuelled panic attack. He gets as far as picking up his new race helmet before he finally breaks. Throwing the helmet into the stomach of the nearest unfortunate mechanic, he takes off in a full on sprint out the back of the garage before anyone can stop him.
"Hey man, how are you doing? I'd heard you were racing but I didn't... Jensen, are you okay?"
No. No, he's not. He'd have thought that much was obvious what with the fact he's running in the opposite direction of where he's supposed to be and looks, he suspects, like an escapee from a mental asylum. Not in a sexy Jack Nicholson kind of way either. Jared Padalecki's too far up his own ass to notice anything as subtle as that though. Jensen would tell him to fuck off but he appears to have lost the ability to speak and, now that he thinks about it, breathing's actually becoming a bit of an issue as well. Jensen stops and bends over, hands grabbing his thighs trying to catch his breath.
"Bloody hell, mate! Are you alright?"
What? What the... Jensen barks out a strangled laugh-cough-wheeze combination and looks up to see Jared grinning down at him.
"You like my British accent, governor?"
"Please, please stop," Jensen gasps, grateful to find that oxygen is flowing into his lungs now. He inhales and exhales slowly a few times before straightening himself up and looking at Jared again.
"You okay, now?" Jared asks, accent thankfully back to his Texan twang.
"Yeah, thanks." Jensen would feel more embarrassed about his meltdown if Jared hadn't just made a complete dick of himself with his British accent, which was more like an awkward impersonation of Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.
"So you don't think my English accent works then? Damn, I was sure I had it. The McLaren guys said it was awesome."
"They lied," Jensen says. "Any reason you decided to try it out on me?"
"Well, you looked like you were about to hyperventilate; it was either slap you, kiss you or make you laugh. I figured you'd prefer the last one," Jared says, pushing his dark mop of uncontrollable hair out of his face and revealing a bashful expression that Jensen’s never seen before. He has to try very hard not to find it adorable. Jensen looks away for a second, not wanting Jared to see the way his lips part, wanting to disagree with that assumption.
"Well, thanks,” he says when he has control over his mouth again. “Anyway, I'm gonna go and, yeah, you'd better go before Jeff sends out a search party again."
Jared lays his hand lightly on Jensen's arm. It's enough to stop Jensen from running off. They stand staring at each other silently for too long, before Jared says, "I'm sorry, Jensen. About the accident. It feels like it was my fault; that we were out there, you know... If I hadn't influenced the guys into going ahead with the race. "
Part of Jensen wants nothing more than to agree with Jared. It was his fault; he knew Jensen was right about the race, about the track. He damn well knew it was too dangerous. Another kinder part of Jensen knows that isn't fair. "Jared," he says, "unless you fucked with the rear suspension on my car then the accident wasn't your fault."
"Yeah, well no, obviously I didn't, but if we hadn't been out there-"
"Okay, so maybe you are partly responsible for my accident," Jensen agrees, hating himself for doing it when Jared's face drops and his hand whips away from Jensen's arm like he's just been scalded. "But," he carries on quickly, "if you were, then watching you out there winning those races while I was half-dead in a hospital bed... you're just as responsible for making me fight and getting me back in a car again."
Jared's head tilts to the side and his arms wrap around his chest, his eyes squinting like he's trying to figure out if Jensen is being a dick or not. Jensen's about to turn away when Jared speaks, "I came to see you in the hospital. I don't know if you... I mean you won't remember; you were totally out of it but I wanted to see you. To make sure you were okay. Jensen, I know things between us have never been easy but I do... I care about you, a lot, you know?"
Jensen has no idea what to say to that. Really, not a clue. He's completely wrong footed. He gapes open-mouthed at Jared like an idiot then claps him awkwardly on the shoulder before turning and walking away.
Four hours later, after receiving the expected lecture and pep-talk from Jim, Jensen is sprawled over the lurid orange candlewick bedspread in his hotel room. He's toying with the bottle of warm soda in his hand, picking the label off of it, and trying to tease apart the jumbled tangle of thoughts in his head. Professionally, he fucked up today.
He panicked under the pressure of the crowds, all the questions and the cameras and the expectations. He knows everyone will be waiting for him to pull out of qualifying tomorrow. He can already see the Ferrari bosses shaking their heads and saying 'poor Jensen, he came back too soon, we tried to tell him' all the time trying to hide their smug grins. He has no intention of giving them the satisfaction. He knows where he went wrong. Allowing the bullshit and the manic atmosphere to affect him was stupid. Tomorrow, he has to focus. He's going to forget about everyone else and just get his butt in the car and do his job. He's thought through the day ahead, envisioned what he's going to do and he feels a hundred percent calmer and more confident than he did this morning. Professionally, he's sorted himself out.
Personally, he's screwed. Jared has fucked with his head yet again. He is the most confusing, infuriating man Jensen has ever met. The first few years Jensen knew him, he spent as much time wanting to punch Jared as he did wanting to fuck him. The chances of punching him had always seemed much higher.
Jared was, and still is, insanely hot, despite being utterly full of himself. He has the most gorgeous dimples that appear every time he smiles, sparkling hazel eyes, and a body that was made to be dipped in chocolate and licked for hours. Charm and charisma seep from his pores attracting every available girl in a three mile radius. The trail of panties to his hotel rooms made it very obvious that he didn’t swing Jensen’s way. Then, stinking of cigarettes and cheap whisky, he'd shoved Jensen against a men's room wall, kissed the life out of him and jacked him off. The feel of Jared's dripping erection hot and huge in his hand had fuelled Jensen's fantasies for weeks afterwards, until the night Jared fucked him and blew his meager expectations out of the water.
After the intense night they'd spent together at Long Beach, Jensen had hoped that they could be friends. He wasn’t an idiot; he never expected Jared to suddenly dump all the fan-girls and take Jensen to bed with him every night instead, although it would have been nice, but he had hoped they could hang out together occasionally at least. Then the Spanish Grand Prix happened. Jared couldn't even look at him after that, like he thought that Jensen had personally campaigned for his disqualification. Asshole!
An asshole, who frustratingly, Jensen is pretty much head over heels for. Now, Jared cares about him. Cares about him a lot! What does that even mean? Jensen throws the half-full soda bottle across the room, watching as it bounces over the brown shag-piled carpet before rolling to a standstill, dribbling cola into a sticky puddle beneath it. Jensen stares at it with a sullen pout on his face for a couple of minutes before his conscience gets the better of him. With a sigh, he hauls himself off the bed and soaks up the mess with one of the hotel's white towels turning it the color of mud. Yeah, the maids are going to love him.
What is he going to do about Padalecki? He throws the towel into the corner of the bathroom and tosses the soda bottle into the trashcan. He's going to do squat about Padalecki, that's what. He is going to focus on racing and forget everything, everyone else. That is all. The end. Amen. Good. Fine. Fuck!!
Jared breezes through qualifying to take pole position on Saturday. For once, he brushes off the congratulations with few words and a lackluster smile, more interested in finding out how Jensen did.
"He qualified in fifth," Jeff says before Jared can ask. "There's been a complaint put in about our fuel, by the way. Looks like we might lose pole and you'll be starting from the back of the grid."
"Fucking hell," Jared says, kicking the used tires piled up at the side of the garage. "That's bullshit! Who complained?"
Jeff nods across to where Fredric Lehne is standing with his arm around the shoulders of a race official, head thrown back and mouth wide open, teeth bared and laughing like a megalomaniacal Bond villain. "Figures," Jared says. This season has been as much about back-room politics as it has racing. It's getting old. Jeff follows Jared out of the garage towards the paddock and the mass of motor homes. "So, looks like Ackles got himself together. You talk to him yesterday?"
"What?" Jared asks, walking up the steps into the McLaren motorhome. He unzips the top half of his race-suit, shrugging it off and down to his waist before throwing himself down onto the narrow couch.
"Did you talk to Jensen yesterday?" Jeff repeats slowly, closing the door behind him and sitting down opposite Jared. "Did you tell him about your big gay crush?"
"What the fuck, Jeff?" Jared says, cheeks flaring red-hot in embarrassment. He cannot believe that Jeff just said that.
Jeff reaches inside his jacket and slides a packet of Marlboros out of his pocket. He knocks a couple cigarettes out of the packet, hands one to Jared, then lights one for himself before tossing his zippo across to Jared. He takes a long draw and studies Jared silently while Jared lights his own cigarette and tries to disguise the tremor in his hand.
"Jared, I'm not blind. I know how you feel about Ackles.”
Oh God, oh God, thinks Jared, this conversation is not happening. He flips the lighter through his fingers, studies the insignia on it with deep concentration, plays for time then realizes that playing for time has pretty much just confirmed Jeff’s suspicions. “You’re insane, Jeff. All those exhaust fumes have addled your brain.”
Too little, too late - Jeff’s raised eyebrow eloquently states. It’s a very expressive eyebrow.
“No, really,” Jared says, a touch desperately, as the zippo slides through his fingers and lands between his feet. “I don’t know where you got an idea like that. Jensen’s had a rough time and I respect him and all but he’s, you know, he’s arrogant and annoying and-“
“Pretty?” says Jeff, finishing Jared’s sentence succinctly. And accurately, Jared has to admit.
“Jeff, I’m not gay,” Jared says, glad at least that he doesn’t have to lie about that.
Jeff snorts and flicks his cigarette ash into a plastic cup of cold coffee discarded on the low coffee table between them. “No shit, son. Unless you’re the king of over-compensating, the sheer amount of women you’ve slept with confirms that.”
“So, why do you think-“
“Jared,” Jeff stops him calmly, voice not raised above his usual low drawl, but with enough rough steel underlying his tone to stop Jared dead. “Don’t bullshit me, okay? You and Jensen have been dancing around each other for years, doing everything but pull each other’s pigtails. I don’t know what the hell has been going on this year, but the pair of you have turned into a couple of teenage girls; one second you’re making moon eyes at one another and the next you’re close to brawling in the pit lane. And after he crashed out in Germany… Jared, you didn’t react like your rival was hurt, you behaved like your best friend was dying.”
Jeff pauses, his head falling back as he takes another draw of his cigarette then blows smoke in circles up to the ceiling. “You have to shit or get off the pot, boy.”
“I what?” Jared splutters, “Jeff, seriously man, you’re way off base here.”
Jeff’s cigarette butt sizzles and dies as he drops it in the plastic cup and leans forward, elbows on his knees, chocolate brown eyes boring into Jared giving him nowhere to hide. “I think it’s time you grew up, Jared. Life is too short to mess around like this. You and Jensen of all people should know that. I know you, kiddo, and I know you’re gone over him. You’d be a fool if you didn’t at least try to work things out.”
Knowing that it’s pointless to evade this conversation now, Jared decides to be honest. “There’s too many things that could go wrong, Jeff. Jensen might not want anything to do with me; given my track record I wouldn’t blame him. What if it affects our racing? What if everyone finds out? The sponsors would go nuts. The McLaren bosses already think I’m a loose cannon; I’d lose my ride for sure and any chance of a future in F1 or probably any damn sport.”
“I’m not suggesting you advertise your relationship. You just have to be careful, discreet. I can tell you right now that I know of two other drivers who’re together and at least one chief engineer that’s in a relationship with a driver. No, I’m not telling you who; don’t even ask. I’m just saying if you want this bad enough, it’s doable.”
The slack-jawed expression on Jared’s face elicits an eye-roll from Jeff, but he’s not finished yet. “Your racing is already affected by the bullshit that’s going on between the pair of you, so I don’t see how acting like adults and owning up to how you feel can make things any worse. And as far as Jensen not wanting anything to do with you? You’re the one that’s been inhaling something. That boy blushes whenever you look at him, and if he eye-fucked you any more blatantly, even my uncle would notice and he’s been blind for ten years!”
Well, shit, thinks Jared as his cigarette burns down to a pile of ash around his fingers. Looks like he and Jensen need to sort this mess out before the whole paddock notices.
Jared’s race is a write off. He does have to start at the back of the grid along with Matt. Then, while he’s gradually working his way through the pack, or as Jeff put it – charging past other cars like a reckless moron and ruining my goddamn racing car – he spins off and has to watch the rest of the race from the pits. He can feel the McLaren team manager scowling at him from the other side of the garage and has an ominous feeling in his gut that if he doesn’t win the Championship this year, his seat at McLaren might not be all that secure.
His only consolation is that he gets to watch Jensen race. He isn’t exactly the same driver as he was before the crash at Nurburgring; he’s not quite so fearless when he’s overtaking, a fraction quicker onto his brakes than normal and generally more cautious, but it’s only been six weeks since he nearly died – Jared’s pretty sure if that was him, he’d still be lying on a bed eating peeled grapes and watching the race on television.
The stands erupt in a deafening roar when Jensen finishes in an incredible fourth place. Ferrari’s new wonder boy, Brock Kelly finishes ninth. It’s impossible for Jared to hide his smile as Jensen staggers unsteadily from his car, pulls off his helmet and reveals the massive grin lighting up his face. An ecstatic crowd of Italian fans who’ve stormed the track immediately mob him and he disappears into a pulsing sea of red. They act like Jensen has just won the championship, hoisting him onto their shoulders and chanting his name while cameras flash wildly in his direction. Jared’s heart beats loudly in time with the celebratory drums pounding in the air, and he feels nothing but overwhelming pride at seeing Jensen worshipped like a returning God by the Tifosi.
Jensen, by the time his feet hit the ground, looks a strange mix of exhausted, embarrassed and elated. Jared is filled with the overwhelming urge to wrap him up in his arms and whisk him away from this insane horde to someplace safe and quiet and private – like Jared’s bed. He fights his way towards Jensen without consciously making the decision to move and is only saved from making a total idiot of himself by Jeff’s hand on his elbow firmly guiding him in the opposite direction.
It’s now or never, Jared tells himself, sweaty hand curled into a fist and frozen in the air next to Jensen’s hotel room door. Jensen is definitely in his room, according to Jeff. How Jeff knows, Jared isn’t sure and he didn’t ask for details; it’s mortifying enough that Jeff has suddenly taken an avid interest in his love life without any more awkward conversations than strictly necessary.
Feeling very much like a teenager trying to summon the courage to ask a girl out for the first time, Jared drops his hand and shakes the tension out of his arms. He’s Jared Padalecki for Christ’s sake; he’s had hundreds of girls in his bed, more than a few guys and sometimes even a heady combination of both at once. He can do this without making a complete ass out of himself. You didn’t love any of them though, a little voice in Jared’s head mocks cruelly. Shut up, shut up, shut up, Jared tells it. Rolling his shoulders then straightening himself up to his full six feet four, he takes a final deep breath, pushes his hair away from his face and knocks on Jensen’s door. Nerves might make him a bit heavy handed; Jensen probably thinks there’s a fire with the frantic hammering on his door.
“Jared!” Jensen says, eyes wide open in surprise when he swings open the door. He looks up and down the empty hall as if looking for a stampede of hysterical hotel guests running for the fire-exits. “Is everything okay? Has something happened? You don’t look too hot.”
Shit, thinks Jared, you do. “Sorry,” Jared stutters, “I didn’t mean to disturb you if you’re… erm… busy.” The sweeping look he takes of Jensen’s body is entirely involuntary and embarrassingly obvious.
Jensen looks down at himself and instantly flushes an adorable shade of pink when he realizes that he’s naked except for a small white towel wrapped low around his hips.
“I’m just out of the shower,” he says as though his dripping hair and sinfully wet body didn’t make it obvious. Stepping backwards, he hides bashfully behind the door, his hand clasps at the scrap of a towel that's balancing perilously and his face grows even redder. “I thought it was maybe something important, you know with you trying to break down my door and all.”
‘Yes, yes it is important. You’re insanely beautiful and I am completely in love with you and I want to be with you forever and ever,’ Jared says silently in his head. What comes out of his mouth is more of a mumbled apology which probably doesn’t mean much seeing as how he’s still staring openly at Jensen’s hip bones. “I just wanted to… to talk,” Jared says, finally managing to drag his eyes up to Jensen’s face. “Can I maybe come in… please?”
Jensen doesn’t seem incredibly enthusiastic about it, but after an obvious internal battle with himself he does eventually step back and allow Jared into his room.
“If this is about you having to start from the back of the grid, I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Jensen says over his shoulder as he heads towards his bathroom. Jared’s somewhat distracted by the sleek line of Jensen’s back, dipping down to the curve of his ass. If he thought Jensen’s backside looked spectacular in a racing-suit, it’s nothing compared to the sight of it swaying under that towel. One night Jared’s had with that ass and it’s ruined him forever. When Jensen disappears into the bathroom, Jared swallows his disappointment and tries to focus on what Jensen is yelling from the behind the closed door. “I know you think I only care about winning but I hate all the political bullshit and I certainly don’t-“
“I know, Jensen,” Jared says, raising his voice so Jensen can hear him. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“So, why are you here?” Jensen asks, walking back out of the bathroom, dressed in a plain white tee-shirt and a loose fitting pair of track pants. Jared would be disappointed by the lack of naked Jensen if it wasn’t for the way the thin material of Jensen’s tee-shirt was clinging almost see-through to his still damp skin.
He licks his lips as he watches a drop of water drip slowly down Jensen’s neck from the wet scruff of his roughly dried hair. Jensen coughs pointedly and Jared smiles sheepishly. “Why exactly are you here, Jared?” Jensen repeats.
“Do you want to sit down?” Jared asks.
“Jared!” Jensen bites in frustration at Jared’s unusual reticence to cut to the chase.
“Give me a break, Jensen. This isn’t exactly easy, you know,” Jared says and, shit, this isn’t going quite as smoothly as he’d hoped. “Okay, look… you and me, we, I…what I said about caring about you… what I meant… oh, fuck it.” Jared strides across the room, cups Jensen’s face in his hands and presses their lips together. He kisses Jensen until they’re both thoroughly breathless. As though he can melt all the words he’s trying to say together and just lick them into Jensen’s mouth.
Their lips break apart but Jared doesn’t move.
“I don’t understand,” Jensen breathes, their faces still close enough together that Jared feels the air flutter against his lips.
Jared takes possession of Jensen’s mouth with his own again; he knows he’s going to have to speak soon but, God forgive him, Jensen’s plush lips are too delicious to easily relinquish.
“Jared,” Jensen says, his lips moving against Jared’s, not pulling away but not capitulating completely, even under Jared’s persuasive onslaught.
“Fuck, Jensen, I’m nuts about you man,” Jared says, only drawing far enough away to free the words.
Jensen steps back then, forcing Jared to drop his hands away. Jared aches almost viscerally at the loss. Jensen rubs his thumb across his bottom lip which is plum red and puffy, and Jared’s cock twitches and jumps against the zipper of his jeans at the sight.
“No,” Jensen whispers and it’s like an ice cold fist punches Jared in the guts.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Jensen continues. “We’re not even friends. You don’t like me.”
A spark of hope flares in Jared. “Jensen, you drive me insane in every way possible. You’re impossible and arrogant and courageous and so fucking amazing. I like you so much that I didn’t want you to ever know.”
Jensen takes another step backwards, shakes his head and wraps his arms around his stomach. “Jared, you… you’re not even gay.”
Jared understands all of a sudden. Jensen isn’t saying he doesn’t want Jared; he’s scared.
“No, I’m not exactly gay,” Jared admits easily, “but I’m not straight either. I know that you’re scared Jensen, I get that, I do. But I’m not fucking with you here and you can’t deny that you want this just as much as I do.”
“What is this?” Jensen says, eyes blazing bright green, not in anger Jared thinks, maybe confusion or frustration. “What do you want? What are you asking me for? You want me to just bend over for you? You want a one night stand? A fuck buddy, what?”
“I want you, just you and me, us. For as long as you’ll let me have it.”
A whimper leaves Jensen’s mouth and he slaps his palm over his parted lips as though he could take it back.
“I’m serious, Jensen,” Jared says, stalking the two steps between them, closing the gap with intent darkening his eyes. “I haven’t been with anyone since your crash. I only want you. If something were to happen, if I crashed out tomorrow, the only regret I’d have is that I didn’t go after the one thing I really wanted – you.”
This time it’s Jensen’s lips that mash against Jared’s, his hands wrapping around Jared’s head tugging it down to where he wants it and his tongue that pushes desperately into Jared’s willing mouth. Jared winds his hands around Jensen’s waist, slips his fingers under the damp cotton material of his tee-shirt and gasps into Jensen’s mouth when he finally touches soft warm skin. Jared drags Jensen towards him until their bodies merge into one. He reaches up with one hand, clasps the back of Jensen’s neck, his thumb circles in the wet hair sticking to his nape. He can’t resist smoothing his other hand down Jensen’s spine, sliding lower until he can cup the delicious curve of his ass. Jensen’s cock hardens and leaps against Jared’s thigh as he massages that firm muscle in the palm of his hand.
They shuffle and stumble, tripping over each other’s feet until their knees hit against Jensen’s bed. A second’s pause is all they take before they fall together onto the mattress, the blankets creasing up below them. Jared rolls onto his back pulling Jensen on top of him; their cocks are lined up, rubbing against each other through too many clothes. They kiss and grind like teenagers until the pleasure turns into near painful frustration.
“Naked,” Jared growls, humping his cock up against Jensen’s, the heat building between their bodies driving him insane. “Christ, Jensen, I want you naked.”
Jensen gazes down at him, pupils huge and dark, almost like he’s stoned. And isn’t that a glorious thought; Jensen stoned, all loose limbed and pliant lying back and letting Jared consume him. This Jensen, though, this Jensen is good too. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, stripping off his tee-shirt and wriggling out of his track pants. His cock bobs up against his flat stomach; red-headed, thick and eager.
“No underwear, Jensen,” Jared says, voice rough and nearly unrecognizable. “Did you think you were going to get lucky?”
“Shut up, Padalecki and get naked,” Jensen says, one hand brushing over his nipples, pinching them into stiff peaks while his other hand strokes his cock and spreads glistening dribbles of pre-come all the way down to his balls.
“Jesus,” Jared exhales, fumbling with his belt and nearly ripping the buttons off his shirt in his haste to obey.
Jensen is gorgeous; creamy skin and defined muscles, strong broad shoulders and a waist that’s narrow but in no way feminine, muscled thighs that Jared just wants to sink his teeth in to and an uncut cock that lists slightly up to the left and drips pre-come like a fucking faucet. Jared’s mouth is watering by the time he’s finally naked.
Reaching up he grabs Jensen’s wrist and yanks him down on to the bed. The groan that spills from Jensen is, without a doubt, pure pain and zero pleasure. Jared stills and immediately releases his grip on Jensen’s wrist. Jensen, who is on his knees between Jared’s legs, rolls over and perches on the edge of the bed panting, “I’m okay,” he says breathlessly, but he doesn’t look okay; he looks pale and sweaty and like someone who nearly died six weeks ago.
“Oh God, Jensen, I’m sorry. What did I do? Do you need a doctor? Should I phone someone?” Jared moves gingerly so the mattress doesn’t so much as twitch under Jensen, sits close but not touching him at the edge of the bed.
“No, no, I’m fine honest. Just give me a minute.”
Jared watches him like a hawk, still on the verge of reaching for the phone and demanding that the hotel reception send a doctor up to Jensen’s room. Gradually though, the color seeps back into his cheeks and his harsh breaths ease back to normal.
“Sorry,” Jensen says, looking at his twitching fingers instead of Jared. “Kind of spoiled the mood there.”
Jared knocks his knee gently against Jensen’s. “Don’t be ridiculous; it’s not your fault. I’m sorry that I hurt you. You want to tell me what hurts?”
“Pretty much everything,” Jensen admits with a sigh. “My chest and my back and well, my ribs. I just need a bit more time to heal, I guess.”
“Yeah, I bet spending hours squashed into a racing car hasn’t exactly helped your broken collar bone or your ribs, has it? Has anyone ever told you what a stubborn idiot you are?” Jared doesn’t know whether he wants to hug Jensen, tuck him up in bed and lock the door so he can’t go anywhere until he’s actually recovered, or spank the obstinate out of the dumbass.
“I think you may have mentioned it once or twice,” Jensen replies. “I’m alright though, I promise. I just need to be careful, no jerky movement.”
Jared snorts and Jensen slaps his thigh, leaving a bright handprint which, Jared thinks, under different circumstances might be all kinds of hot. “Okay,” he says, “either we forget about this tonight, I grab you some painkillers and let you sleep or-“
“There better be a more exciting 'or' coming up,” Jensen grumbles.
“Or,” Jared says with a smirk, “you lie back on the bed, get comfortable and let me do all the work.”
“That one,” Jensen says, already hauling himself backwards on the bed and scooting up until his head and shoulders are propped up on the pillows. “I pick that one.”
Scrambling eagerly onto the bed after Jensen, Jared looms over him and grins. “Good, that one was my favorite too.”
Jared delights in spending all the time he wants driving Jensen out of his mind. This time they’re not trying to forget anything, they’re not burning up with the need to just feel alive after being so close to death, and they’re not pretending it doesn’t mean anything.
This time, Jared kisses Jensen until their lips are tender and swollen and Jensen’s fingers have twisted tangles of knots in Jared’s hair that probably won’t ever comb out. He kisses a slow path down Jensen’s neck, making sure to discover and mercilessly exploit every sensitive spot that sends shivers down Jensen’s spine especially the patch of soft skin behind his ear that makes him moan like a porn star. Jared touches Jensen as though he’s handling cracked glass, fingertips whispering feathery caresses across his collar and down the firm muscles of his chest. He presses silken kisses against Jensen’s nipples, small dusky brown nubs surrounded by constellations of sandy freckles that shout of a childhood spent playing in the baking heat of the Texan sun. Gentle barely-there kisses graduate into wet licks, then Jared draws Jensen’s hardened nipples into his mouth and sucks. Jensen cries out but shoves Jared’s head down against his chest and holds it there so Jared nips and bites at the sensitive peaks, scraping his teeth across them until they’re so raw even a wisp of air across them sends arousal shooting straight to Jensen’s groin.
He licks, nibbles and kisses a winding maze up and down Jensen’s body, avoiding Jensen’s cock completely even when it nearly slaps him in the face as he’s sucking possessive hickeys into the meat of Jensen’s thighs. Every time Jensen grabs a handful of Jared’s hair in frustration trying to force him to hurry things along, Jared stops, smirks and refuses to move until Jensen behaves. The power of having Jensen squirming below him, fingers scraping the sheet off the bed and toes curling in want is heady and addictive. The only attention Jared’s cock receives is incidental; brushing against Jensen’s leg or rubbing against the dip above his hip bones, but it’s still impossibly hard and heavy against his thigh. Jared’s scared he’s going to shoot off like an over-eager teenager if Jensen even tries to touch him.
It’s only when a whimpering Jensen is trembling below him, stomach clenching, legs spread wide, knees bent, toes digging into the mattress and hips humping desperately into the air that Jared finally, slowly, lowers his head and takes Jensen’s cock into his mouth. It’s dripping with pre-come, salty and musky on Jared’s tongue. He savors every drop, hums in pleasure and lets Jensen fuck up into his mouth, unintelligible cries echoing around the room. Jensen is too close to take his time, and Jared just enjoys the way his cock feels sliding into his mouth, listening to Jensen lose control for once. Jensen grabs a handful of Jared’s hair, wails like a goddamn alley-cat and floods Jared’s mouth with his release. Jared hums in satisfaction but doesn’t swallow. Instead he climbs back up the bed, leans over Jensen, presses their lips together and fills Jensen’s mouth with his own come.
Feeding Jensen his own come, watching him lick his plump lips and chase after Jared’s mouth searching for more is the hottest thing Jared has ever seen. He kneels back on the bed, legs spread wide straddling Jensen’s waist and takes his dick in his hand. Jensen chews on his swollen bottom lips and watches, pupils dark and hungry at the sight of Jared stripping his own cock. It’s almost embarrassing how easily Jared comes; half a dozen tugs, Jensen’s nails biting into his thighs and he’s shooting ropes of come over Jensen, covering his chest and stomach, strings of it even dripping down Jensen’s chin. Holy hell! Limbs shaking and chest heaving, Jared falls forward, only remembering at the last second that squashing Jensen is a bad idea and rolling onto his back beside him.
Later, when they’ve cleaned up and tried to salvage the sheets on the bed as best they can, Jensen curls into Jared’s side and pillows his head on Jared’s chest. “This doesn’t change anything you know,” he says, lips tickling Jared’s skin.
“Hmm?” Jared says, sleepy and still pretty much blissed out from the fucking awesome sex.
“This, us, doesn’t change anything,” Jensen says again, and if Jared were more alert he figures he might be freaking out about now but his brain cells refuse to co-operate; they like the whole post-orgasm drowsy contentment thing far too much.
“I’m still going to win the championship this season. I’m not going to let you-“
Jared finally manages to form words, “Jensen, shut up. Snuggling. Sleep.” He cards his fingers through Jensen’s short hair as though petting a cantankerous cat into submission.
Jensen huffs a warm breath but presses a kiss under Jared’s jaw and curls further into his warmth.
“I am,” he says obstinately, even as sleep tries valiantly to quiet him.
“You can try,” Jared replies with as much conviction as he can muster in the face of Jensen’s body nestled against him and the siren call of sleep dragging his eyes shut.
Chapter Four
Nothing changes out on the racing track. Jared and Jensen are just as competitive as ever, although Jensen is still not back to his pre-crash best. Physically and mentally he’s pushing himself to the absolute limit and he knows that he came back too soon, even if he’s far too stubborn to admit it. His injuries are still bothering him because he just does not have the time to let them heal completely.
Away from the Grand Prix circuit, Jared and Jensen spend as much time as possible together, which is far less time than either of them is happy with. They do both have commitments though and the motor racing world is a small and insular one. If they are seen together in public too often or being too friendly, rumors will start to fly and rumors scare sponsors with reputations to uphold and products to sell. Team owners with years of prejudice under their belts, money at risk and plenty of young drivers clamoring for a seat in a racing-car are unlikely to publicly support a driver with any whiff of scandal surrounding them. Unless that scandal is sleeping with hundreds of women and drinking to excess because - hell, that’s just what racing drivers are supposed to do! Maybe in the future, opinions will change, but unfair as it is, Formula One is apparently a sport for hot-blooded heterosexual men – no others need apply.
Jared and Jensen refuse to brood over it. It’s the way things are. It isn’t long until the end of the season anyway, then there’s a small private island owned by a friend of Jared’s with their name on it. In the meantime, Jared lets the photographers snap plenty of shots of half-naked glamour girls and wannabe models hanging all over him, pressing pouty kisses against his cheek and Jensen tries not to let his jealousy show. Jared pinning him to the bed and pounding into him until he’ll not be capable of walking without feeling it the next day is a sure-fire way of dealing with any jealousy that does arise.
Three weeks after the Grand Prix in Monza, the whole chaotic F1 circus leaves Europe and hits Canada. Toronto is fantastic, the weather mild and the crowds welcoming without being overwhelming. The only downside for Jensen is the result; he runs in a steady fifth place for most of the race before problems with the car’s handling force him even further down the final placings. It’s frustrating but not the end of the world. Jared wins and for once Jensen is happy for him. Watching him laughing and spraying Misha and Richard with champagne on the podium doesn’t send him into a jealous sulk like it normally does. He only wishes he doesn’t have to wait until they’re alone to celebrate with him.
The next weekend, they only have to travel the fairly short distance to New York. Watkins Glen is as close to home as Jensen has been in months and it settles something deep inside him to be back on home soil. Jensen’s sister surprises the hell out of him by appearing at his hotel room door with her fiancé in tow on the Thursday night before the race. It’s a slightly awkward moment for all involved. Jensen can’t not let her in and he can’t do much to hide the half-naked figure of Jared draped across his bed eating a BLT.
Thankfully Jensen’s little sister is awesome and Jared is irresistible; it doesn’t take long before the four of them are emptying Jensen’s minibar and costing him a fortune in room-service. He doesn’t even care. Throwing Cheetos at his sister’s head while he’s sprawled against his boyfriend is the happiest Jensen can ever remember being. And he was champion of the whole fucking world last year.
Jared drives brilliantly, confidently winning the race to a thunderous roar of approval from the hundred thousand strong crowd. Jensen shocks everyone by fighting his way through the pack and beating Misha to take third place. Their points secure Ferrari the trophy in the Manufacturer's Championship and they leave America with Jensen leading Jared by three points in the Driver’s Championship. One race left to go. It’s going to come down to who wants to win the most; Jensen the current champion, an absolute professional with a point to prove to Fredric Lehne and the Ferrari team or Jared who’s trying to prove to everyone that he’s more than just a pin-up with an easy smile, a big dick and more reckless bravery then talent.
“Are you sure you’re alright, Jen?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Look, thanks for calling, sweetheart, but I really do need to go.”
“Please be careful out there. “
“I will, I swear, look I’ve really got to go, but I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Jensen… just, I love you. Good luck!”
When Mel hangs up, Jensen frowns at the phone droning dully in his hand. He knows she’s worried but with only five minutes before he has to leave to travel to the Mount Fuji racetrack, he could have done without a concerned phone-call from his little sister.
It’s his own fault; he made the mistake of letting her glimpse how much pain he was in the night after the US Grand Prix. Two races within the space of a week, as well as practice and qualifying sessions, crammed inside the tight confines of the cockpit of the Ferrari had just been too much for his recently healed bones to take. Other than the odd twitch if he moved the wrong way, his ribs were fine but his collar bone was a different story. An ache down the side of his neck and in his shoulder during the race at Watkins Glen had graduated into eye-watering agony by the time the adrenaline had worn off. Afterwards, he’d holed himself up in his hotel room with bags of ice and a bottle of brandy. Although concerned, Jared understood how much pain Jensen was willing to go through to race; he knew he would do the same himself. Mel though, she just saw her big brother swallowing painkillers like candy and un-able to move without grimacing.
Dropping the handset back down onto the telephone, Jensen tries to put the tremor in his sister’s voice to the back of his mind. He can’t afford any distractions now. He’s fine. His shoulder is fine. His neck is fine. His chest is abso-fucking-lutely fine. He only has one more race to go then his poor abused body can have all the time it wants to heal, but today… today he’s fine.
A loud rap on the door signals the arrival of Misha who he’s travelling to the circuit with. Jensen grabs the Tylenol sitting beside the phone and shoves it in his pocket, then picks his duffel bag up from where it’s lying, packed and ready to go, on top of his bed. The twinge he feels in his shoulder is nothing, he tells himself even as he switches the bag to his opposite hand.
Jensen stumbles backwards in surprise when he opens the door to find Jared grinning down at him instead of Misha. Jared follows him into the room and shuts the door firmly behind them.
Jared looks stunning; his hazel eyes sparkling and full of life and his dimples dancing in his cheeks. He leans in close, cupping Jensen's ass and dragging him in until they're breathing the same air. Jensen lets his eyes drift shut for a second and just inhales Jared’s familiar scent; the fresh smell of his citrus soap, his peppermint toothpaste and the faint hint of a cigarette or two. Jared’s trying not to smoke too much, especially around Jensen. They’re both pretty concerned about the possibility of long term damage to Jensen’s lungs after the crash, but under the circumstances, Jensen isn’t going to blame Jared for smoking today.
Anticipating, correctly Jensen admits, that Jensen is on the verge of complaining about his surprise appearance, Jared holds a finger over the center of Jensen’s lips, gently silencing him. “I know we weren’t going to see each other until after the race, but I wanted to let you know that I missed you last night, very much, and I love you.”
Jensen’s eyes widen in surprise; it’s the first time either of them have uttered those words. Despite the bravery they regularly display, risking life and limb every time they race, neither of them has found the courage to confess three simple words. Jensen loves Jared and he wants to tell him as much, but surprise and a rising bubble of emotions trap the words in his throat. Then Jared’s lips are replacing his finger on Jensen’s mouth and the words dissolve before he can release them.
Jared smiles down at him a moment later when they break apart, his thumb tenderly tracing down the edge of Jensen’s cheek bone and Jensen can’t stop himself from leaning into the touch. “I’d better go,” Jared says softly. “Matt and Jeff are waiting for me downstairs. Good luck for the race. I’m going to do everything I can to win, but whatever happens I’ll see you afterwards.”
“Jared, I-“
Jared leans down and steals the unspoken words with a final soft kiss. “It’s okay, Jensen, you don’t have to say anything. I’ll see you later.” Jared doesn’t give Jensen a chance to even wish him luck before he’s taking off out the door without a backwards glance. Jensen finds it impossible to take his eyes off of Jared as he walks away, radiating confidence and fearless determination with every long stride he takes down the hallway.
“Hello, Jensen. Are you ready to go?” Jensen must jump about six inches in the air. Misha, the silent and deadly fucker, stands in front of him with his blue eyes suspiciously wide and innocent and his head tilted in a way that makes him look a little like a contemplative owl.
Jensen shakes himself out of his trance, looks down to ensure that his duffel bag is still in his hand and gives Misha a jerky nod before following him out to their ride.
It’s a god-awful day. Jensen knew it was wet; he’d just had to look out of his hotel window this morning to figure that much out, but he doesn’t grasp just how bad it is until they arrive at the racing-track. The heavy mist rolling down off the mountains gives the course an eerie atmosphere and the rainwater isn’t just lying in puddles, it’s flowing across the track in wide rivers.
This time he isn’t the only driver who thinks it’s unsafe to race. There is a general air of dissent in the hastily convened driver’s meeting. Talk of safety issues, tires and boycotts abound. However, everyone is also aware that it’s the last race of the season and there are make or break points to be won today. Points that can make a critical difference to whether or not some drivers still have a job next season. That, combined with enormous pressure from the race organizers, ensures that by a narrow margin, the drivers agree to go ahead and race. Jensen isn’t especially happy about the decision but isn’t surprised. Eighty thousand people have turned up to watch the race and the television rights have been sold around the world. Unless four feet of snow suddenly falls or there's a flood of biblical proportions, the organizers stand to lose far too much money to cancel the race.
Jared is unusually quiet through-out the whole meeting, sitting in the opposite corner of the room to Jensen, smoking his way through half a packet of cigarettes while his knee bounces furiously. He’s obviously torn. He knows the dangers as well as everyone, especially after Germany, but he needs to race to have a chance to win the championship. Jensen doesn’t watch to see which way he votes, either way he’ll understand.
Jensen’s relieved that the rain has at least stopped while they all make the walk back to the pit-lane, and along with everyone else, prays that it stays stopped. The track will still be wet even if it does, but at least it won’t get any worse. If the fog lifts as well, they might even have a chance of seeing where they are going. The drivers are mainly subdued walking back. The pale faces of a couple of the younger ones hint at how scared they are and Jensen doesn’t blame them at all. His own stomach is soaring and diving like he’s on a rollercoaster. The last time he felt this unsettled before a race was in Germany. He tries not to dwell on that.
A few fans milling around the paddock walk across to ask for autographs from some of the drivers. For once Jensen doesn’t mind; it takes his mind off the looming race for a few minutes. He scrawls his name across programs shoved in his hands, a scrap of paper, and an autograph book.
“Hey, can you put the date on it.” A thick set guy runs up to Jensen with the slip of paper he’s already signed as he’s walking away along with Misha, Jared, Sebastian and one or two of the other drivers.
“Why?” Jensen asks stopping and taking the pen from the man’s hand.
“You never know, it could be your last,” he replies with all the nonchalance of an opportunistic asshole who doesn’t give a shit if someone has to die just to entertain him.
Jared’s fist goes flying just as Jensen drops the pen in disgust and spins on his heel to stalk away. “You fucking bastard,” Jared shouts, a lethal streak of fury in his tone and a scarlet flush of rage rising up his neck. It’s a short lived scuffle. Sebastian and Misha haul Jared backwards as the so-called fan, hit with a sudden burst of common sense, takes off at a run in the opposite direction.
“You okay?” Jared asks gruffly, just before they head their separate ways, shaking the tension from his hands and only barely meeting Jensen’s eyes.
Jensen is aware of the other drivers watching them, all undoubtedly a bit bemused by Jared’s extreme reaction. They’ll probably put it down to Jared’s tempestuous nature, but it can’t have gone unnoticed that Jensen and Jared have recently stopped acting like mortal enemies and can often be spotted having civil or even friendly conversations.
“Yeah, of course,” Jensen replies, with as much casual assurance as he can summon. “Good luck,” he says, hoping Jared can read all the things in Jensen’s eyes and small smile that he just can’t tell him right here and now; thank you and be careful and I love you too. He pats Jared on the shoulder before they head to their respective garages; it’s inadequate and pathetic and Jensen kind of hates himself for it. What he wants to do is hug Jared hard enough to crack his spine and tell the whole damn paddock that he loves him. Maybe one of these days he will; it might be worth it just to see if Lehne choked on his own tongue in shock. It’s something to dream about anyway.
“You and Jared? You’re friends now?” Misha asks as they walk in to the chaos of the Ferrari garage.
“Well, it seems petty to hold a grudge against a guy that dragged my unconscious ass out of a burning car-wreck,” Jensen replies, hastily excusing himself to talk to Jim to avoid Misha’s curiosity. Misha is one of the most intelligent men on the circuit. Thankfully he’s also one of the most discreet so if he knows more than he’s letting on, Jensen is confident that he’ll keep it to himself. That doesn’t mean he’s going to risk unintentionally outing his and Jared’s relationship right now.
Despite a mechanic holding a flaming red Ferrari umbrella above his head, rainwater is dripping down Jensen’s neck in a cold unpleasant stream as he sits strapped inside the cockpit of his car on the starting grid. It hadn’t rained since the drivers meeting, but as soon as they had all swarmed onto the grid, the skies had opened and the rain had fallen down in miserable grey sheets. The race-organizers have delayed the start of the race, but won’t say for how long. No-one knows what the hell is going on. The crowds of fans surrounding the track are undoubtedly growing wetter and more restless by the minute. Team managers and engineers are arguing with harassed officials who look as clueless as everyone else.
Jensen closes his eyes and tries to block everything out. Visualizes the circuit in his head; the long straight at the start, the right hand bend, the uphill straight then the left hand curve, Jared saying I love you, the cramp burning down his shoulder, his sister’s voice breaking on the phone.
“Jensen? Jensen, you okay boy?” Jim asks, ducking his head under the umbrella.
Jensen takes a shuddery breath and doesn’t answer.
“They’re going to start the race. We’ve only got a few minutes. The visibility out there is going to be balls. It’ll be better if you can get to the front and stay there, but that ain’t gonna be easy starting from fourth. “
Jensen nods along, already knows everything Jim’s telling him. He hands Jensen his helmet. Jensen slips down his balaclava first then tugs on the helmet. It’s not easy to do with the way he’s folded inside the car, his elbows tucked close by his sides. Raising his arms up to his head fires an angry burst of pain down the side of his neck and a sudden spasm freezes Jensen’s shoulder when he drops his arms. The cold and the rain crawling down inside his suit have seeped into his muscles and his recently healed fractures seriously dislike the conditions.
Jensen’s still concentrating on breathing through the pain, wriggling his fingers to make sure he has feeling in his hands when the cars all start firing up. Jim shouts a couple of last minute instructions as the Ferrari roars to life around him, then he taps Jensen’s helmet, slips down his visor at the last second and squeezes his forearm in a silent good luck.
It must be the slowest warm-up lap in history; all the cars have cold tires and all the drivers are nervous of the atrocious weather conditions. Even crawling along at this speed the track is hazardous. Formula One cars were never designed to drive through rivers of rainwater.
The white Japanese flag waves through the murky haze. The race is on. Time to focus. Jensen can’t see anything, he doubts anyone else can either. He thinks a couple of cars overtake him exiting the first bend, thinks a flash of black was a spinning Lotus ripping up the grass verge. His chest aches and fingers cramp with the effort of concentrating. He’s navigating the track by memory as much as sight now. The spray from the cars in front and the heavy mist rolling across the track means he can barely even make out the nose of his own car.
The rear of his Ferrari jerks violently and fishtails underneath him, aquaplaning across the flooded road. He quickly wrestles it back under control, praying there’s not another car alongside him. He’s only one lap into a seventy three lap race and already he’s sweating bullets. His muscles are rigid with tension and agonizing spasms are rippling down his neck. The harder he fights to control his car, the worse the pain becomes.
Usually once Jensen is racing, every worry and fear he has falls away. The track in front of him is all he can think about. Winning is all he’s focused on. Everything outside the car ceases to exist.
Now though, he’s struggling to focus. The pain is interfering with his concentration and, in these conditions, his concentration needs to be better than ever. A wall of water rises in front of him as a car, maybe Speight’s Tyrell but it’s hard to tell, slides sideways across the road.
Halfway through the second lap, Jensen is already exhausted. He’s not thinking about the rain and the wind battering against him, he’s not thinking about the fog obscuring his vision or the car skidding uncontrollably, he’s not even thinking about the pain radiating down the side of his neck and across his chest. He’s thinking about his sister watching the race at home. He’s thinking about the future he wants to have. He’s thinking about lying in bed with the man he loves. He’s hearing Jared say I love you and he’s dreaming of the chance to tell him just how much he loves him back.
He doesn’t struggle with the decision; he sees Cohen lose control ahead of him and run off down the escape road, spots the exit for the pit-lane beside it and takes it.
He swerves into the Ferrari pit and stops the engine. Jim yells frantically at him and the mechanics swarm over the car searching for the issue. With fingers that are nearly numb, he unbuckles his safety belt and climbs unsteadily from the car. Removing his helmet, he walks into the shelter of the garage then stops.
“What in god’s name is wrong?” Jim asks, gesturing towards the car sitting forlornly in the rain surrounded by puzzled mechanics.
“Nothing,” Jensen gently shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong with the car. It’s just too dangerous out there. It’s not safe and I’m not… I’m not fit enough. It’s not worth it, Jim... now, for me... it’s just not worth the risk.” Jensen hopes that Jim understands; he’s certain that he isn’t making a mistake but he can't force himself to meet Jim's eyes, can’t bear to see the shaded look of disappointment there.
“Jensen,” Jim reaches out and grabs him, fingers gripping around his bicep urgently when Jensen tries to duck away. Stomach sinking in fear of Jim’s reaction, Jensen’s stunned to see a look of quiet paternal pride on Jim’s face.. “Do you want me to tell them there’s an engine problem? Lehne and the media, do you want me to say it’s the car.”
“No, tell them the truth,” Jensen says. “Tell them I think my life is more valuable than a championship.
Jim wants to argue, Jensen can see it in his eyes, in the way he scrubs at his beard. He wants to protect Jensen from the shit-storm that’s heading his way, but Jensen won’t let anyone lie for him. Definitely won’t allow Jim to shoulder the blame. This decision is all his and it’s one he’ll stand by whatever the consequences.
Watching the race from the pits is barely less stressful than driving in it. Not when he’s watching Jared fly around the circuit like he thinks he’s immortal. If Jared finishes in lower than fourth place, Jensen will still win the Driver’s Championship so nobody even blinks at the intense focus Jensen keeps pinned on Jared for the remaining two hours of the race.
Towards the end of the race the track starts to dry out, instead of helping though it results in chaos; cars that were leading, including Jared’s, drop back, tires blister or puncture and it’s impossible to tell who’s leading for minutes at a time. Jensen watches the flurry of activity in the McLaren pits as Jared squeals in with his rear tire shredded and falling off. The mechanics have to manually lift the car up to remove the damaged wheel and Jensen watches the seconds tick away on the clock on the television screen in front of him.
Jared has lost minutes before he re-joins the race behind Misha in sixth place. Spirits soar in the Ferrari garage; if the race finishes like this, Jensen will win the Championship. Jensen’s stomach is tying itself in knots as he watches the final three laps. Jared drives like a maniac, taking bends too fast and overtaking with barely a hairs breadth between cars. Jensen’s heart beats so fast he’s sure it’ll give out before Jared crosses the finish line.
When the checkered flag goes down no-one knows the result. The electronic results board shows Jared still in fifth place. Race officials huddle around in groups with clipboards and stopwatches. The McLaren mechanics dive from the pits and run towards side of the track where Jared’s come to a standstill. Jensen follows blindly, unable to stop himself even if he wanted to. The results board flickers and changes, final result; Jared finishes third – he’s the World Champion.
Jeff is the first to react, yelling in delight and leaping nearly a clear foot off the ground before kissing the top of the nearest mechanic's greasy hat. A rumbling roar grows in the stands as the crowds figure out who’s won. The McLaren teams are ecstatic; slapping each other on the back and jumping around like idiots. They surround the battle-scarred McLaren and, with Jeff leading, drag Jared from the car. Jensen stands back out of the way trying to hide among the other onlookers, but he sees how Jeff has to remove Jared’s helmet for him, how he has to hold Jared up when his knees buckle under his own weight. He sees the ragged rip in Jared’s glove and the blood dripping down his hand; knows from experience that means the gear stick must have broken. Jared is shaking his head saying something to Jeff but Jensen can’t make out what it is. Then he hears Jeff say, “No, kid, you did it. Stop apologizing. You came third. You’re the world champion. Jesus, Jared, you’re the World Champion.”
He sees the minute it hits Jared. He’s too drained to do anything other than smile, but Jensen has never seen those dimples burn brighter. Jensen’s a born competitor. The urge to win runs deep through his bones, and he’s lying if he says losing the World Championship doesn’t hurt. But he made his choice and he doesn’t regret it and if anyone else deserves to win, it’s Jared.
Jensen watches entranced as Jeff helps Jared limp away from the car, unable to take his eyes away from the exhausted figure of his boyfriend. Suddenly, like he can sense that Jensen is watching him, Jared’s head lifts and their eyes meet, then he’s stumbling out of Jeff’s arms and falling into Jensen’s. “I wanted to share it,” he mumbles into Jensen’s ear. “We should be sharing it.”
Jensen pushes him backwards, holds him at arm’s length, makes sure that Jared’s eyes are focused and looking right at him. “No, you deserve this. You hear me, Jared? You deserve to be champion. I’m proud of you. Go drink champagne and celebrate with your team, then come back to the hotel and celebrate with me. You’re the goddamn Champion of the World, Jared, and I’m fucking proud of you.”
Jensen yanks Jared back into a hug, all manly back slapping and one driver congratulating another. The former World Champion congratulating the new one. No one else knows that Jensen is whispering ‘I love you’ over and over into Jared’s ear. He wishes that he didn’t have to let go, but this is Jared’s time to savor. They’ll have plenty of time to celebrate together later. With a final squeeze, Jensen says one final thing before winking at a smirking Jared and shoving him back towards an elated Jeff who’s hugging everyone within arm’s reach.
“You better enjoy this, Padalecki, because next year - next year I’m gonna kick your ass!”
Finis - thank you for reading!