The following day…
"So let me get this straight," Bobby said, rubbing his temples with his fingers in a vain bid to massage away the migraine that was squatting and taking a dump there, "you're from Texas…"
"Yeah…" Jared nodded. He couldn't meet Bobby's eyes.
"…you professionally act as a guy who handles a gun almost every week…"
"Uh huh."
Sunlight glinted off the pristine and untouched row of tin cans perched on top of the wooden fence posts no more than twelve feet away.
"…and yet," Bobby said, "you are, in my opinion son, the single worst shot with a gun I have ever seen in my entire damn life."
"Well," Jared said defensively, "I mean…the gun, it got so hot when I fired it!"
"Yeah," Bobby said, in a voice so dry you could have towelled yourself with it, "guns do that."
"Our guns on the show didn't…"
"Real guns get hot."
"Right."
Bobby sighed. "You're actors, for the love of…" he said helplessly, "didn't you, I dunno, didn't you ever shoot your damn TVs or shoot at your personal assistants or something?!"
"I think that was Elvis," Jensen pointed out. "With the TV thing."
"I remember JDM took a pop at his PA one time," Jared said.
"JDM shot Tina?" Jensen exclaimed. "No way? Really?"
"Well when I say 'pop' I kinda mean…verbally."
"Who in the Sam Hill is JBM?!"
"DM. Jeffrey Dean…" Jared caught Bobby's patience circling the drain and his tone dipped noticeably, "…Morgan. He uh, he played uh, John."
Although it stood to reason that if, in their reality, the entire world was a fictional TV show everyone would be 'played' by an actor, Bobby nonetheless felt a pang of something approaching sadness to think of a man like John Winchester, reduced to a role. Course, there was an even bigger and more insanity-inducing elephant in the room, but he very deliberately had not asked about this Beaver asshole and he wasn't planning on it either. That way lay nothing but trouble.
"Your turn," he said instead, and gestured to Jared to give the gun to Jensen.
Blam. Blam. Blam.
Three cans went flying.
For a long moment the only sound in the field was the lingering echoes of the gunshots and the distant clamour of birds disturbed.
"What the hell?" Bobby managed.
Jensen shrugged. "Anger Management class," was all he said.
"Godfather probably taught you that…" the muttered comment came from Jared's direction, along with a snicker.
The effect was electric and immediate. "Y'know what, Padalecki?" Jensen exploded. "Why don't you just blow me?"
Jared gestured in a 'bring it on' way. "Shame those Mafia buddies of yours couldn't swing you the Teen Choice award, huh Ackles?"
Jensen's nostrils flared. "You say that, to me? To me?" he declared, and pointed to the weapon he was carrying. Bobby was reminded unavoidably of Tony Montana's meltdown at the end of Scarface, and it was only then that he realised, with dawning horror, that this was deliberate. The stupid son of a bitch was actually acting. "With a gun in my hand, you say that to me?"
The two men took a step toward one another – and got no further, for there was a very pissed-off middle-aged Hunter suddenly between them.
"You two morons listen to me," Bobby Singer hissed, "all damn morning I been listenin' to you two a-holes do nothin' but bitch and snipe at one another. Y'know something, Dean and Sam had issues with one another, God knows they did, but they had the weight of the damn world on their shoulders! You two idjits, far as I can tell, got paid a damn fortune for pretendin' to be heroes! You ain't fit to lace the boots of Dean or Sam, either one o'ya! Now sack up or shut up, preferably both!"
With that, he walked off in despair, leaving Jensen and Jared alone.
"That," said Jensen, "was…brilliant."
"Oh, wasn't it?" Jared agreed. "He sold it so well."
"Masterclass. Genuinely. Classic Bobby Singer speechifying. He's even better than Jim."
"He is. Which I guess kinda makes sense. Y'know. Considering."
They trailed off. One of them coughed to fill the silence.
"He also has kind of a point," Jared spoke up. "We-"
"Hold up," Jensen interrupted him. "If we're gonna do a heart-to-heart, I think I'd feel more comfortable…" and he indicated to the left.
"Of course," Jared nodded. "You're right."
The two men walked a short distance to the Impala. Both of them sat on the hood. Jensen wiggled his butt a little to get comfortable.
"Okay?" Jared asked.
"Yeah. Much better. You were saying?"
"I was saying he has a point. We need to get over…" Jared sighed, "…us. Until we get out of this crazy, whatever-this-is that's happened, anyway."
"Cards on the table?" Jensen asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"Sure."
"I don't like you very much, Jared."
Jared snorted derisively. "Really? Cos you hide it so well."
"Yeah, well. It's called acting. Try it sometime," and off Jared's look which suggested trouble was about to flare up again, he held up a hand in apology. "Look, okay, okay. I'll level with you. I'm scared, man. Like, out of my mind scared. I don't mind admittin' it either."
Jared stared off into the distance. "Worried Dean's ruining your career?" he said.
"Worried I'll never see my wife again," Jensen said, quietly.
He wasn't sure what he was expecting from his co-star upon hearing this soul-bearing confession, but it wasn't the laughter that ensued. Any anger he may have felt, however, was quickly deflated when he realised that Jared's laughter was hollow. "Yeah, well, at least your wife didn't play a Big Bad recently on the damn show, Jensen," Jared said, anxiety dripping off every word. "By now our beloved two lunkheads have probably put two and two together and come up with six, "ganked" Genevieve, stuck a blade in Mark Pellegrino and God knows who else. I am going out of my mind thinking about it."
"None of this should be possible," Jensen said helplessly. "I mean…if something as certifiably bat-guano crazy as this can happen to us…real people, you know, where does it end? If we can be pulled here, to Sam and Dean's world…this world, it's horrible. Monsters and demons and the Apocalypse? I can't live in a world like that, Jared. What sane person could?"
Jared closed his eyes. "I guess," he said, as slowly and calmly as he could, "we just have to hope that if – when – Sam and Dean come back here, we'll get switched back too. I mean, it stands to reason, right?"
"So what?" Jensen hopped off the car hood, walking in circles, shaking his head fervently. "What are you proposing? We sit around here with our thumbs up our asses, shooting at cans and waiting on two fictional characters to save our hides? Uh-uh. Not gonna cut it."
Jared gave him an appraising look. "This doesn't sound like you," he said. "I mean, no offence Jensen…" and he paused, "…well, actually, hell with it, take all the offence you want: you're a spoiled selfish immature primadonna theatrical whiny self-entitled narcissistic man-child. But just then, you kinda sounded like…"
"Dean."
"Yeah."
On a hunch, Jensen examined his hand. "Son of a bitch," he breathed. "This hand…the glass was clean through. It bled like a stuck pig."
"So?" Jared said.
"So look at it now."
The hand was unmarked. Not a hint of a scar where the glass had penetrated only the night before.
"A two-inch shard of glass doesn't come out of your hand and heal that fast."
Jared nodded his head. "Yeah, you're right," he said. He smiled. "Well, unless it was like the injuries Sam and Dean had on the…"
The two men looked at each other.
"…show," they completed in unison.
Jensen was on a roll now. "On the show," he said, "Sam and Dean would get stabbed, shot, beaten up, burned, mutilated, tortured…and they'd still be back behind the wheel of the Impala by the next week, ready to go. None the worse. Well…except that time you busted your arm, you putz."
"Right!" Jared exclaimed excitedly. "But don't you see, that was me who busted my arm in our world. And it took Sam like, what? Five or six episodes to heal? So if Jared Padalecki or Jensen Ackles get hurt, Sam and Dean take a normal amount of time to recover. But Sam and Dean get shot out of a cannon…they walk it off."
"Magic of TV."
"Magic of TV," Jared agreed.
Jensen's eyes went wide as saucers as another realisation dawned on him. "Aw, crap," he said.