fandomania | "Tangled Up In You" (Jensen Ackles/OFC; NC-17) Prologue, 1/?

*gasp* I'm actually posting a story on LJ again!

Title: Tangled Up In You
Author: Dana
Rating: NC-17
Genre: romance, humour, angst
Characters: Jensen Ackles, Jared Padalecki, OCs, other
Pairings: Jensen/OFC, Jared/OFC
Summary: Everything was finally going her way. And then Jensen Ackles fell for her. Literally.
Author's Notes: Jensen, and Jared, and any other real people that might make an appearance here obviously don't belong to me. They belong to themselves. Dana Gyman and any other OCs belong to me, except the ones that don't (like Megan Mcnamara, who belongs to

jediprincessdsv and is used with her permission and glee). This is part of my

serendipity_rph universe. Title from the song "Collide" by Howie Day.

--Prologue--

Utah
July 2006

"Nice car," the mechanic said.

"Thank you," I murmured, waiting for him to finish installing my brand-new license plates--he'd insisted, and I wasn't about to argue.

"What year is this again?" he inquired, squinting watery blue eyes up at me. His nametag said "Bill".

"It's a '67." I nibbled at my thumbnail with impatience. I wasn't about to tell him I knew more about the car than I was letting on. Bill had already made two single-entendres in the past fifteen minutes since I came to pick up my baby. I didn't want to encourage him by letting him know that I was perfectly aware of what was under the hood.

He finished tightening the screws and straightened. "Okay, you're all set. You sure you can handle this beauty?"

"Oh, yeah," I said. I took my keys back and thanked him.

I opened the driver's door; it squealed and I bit my lip to keep from grinning. Tossing my purse across the black leather bench seat, I slid behind the wheel. I smoothed my hands over the steering wheel. Then I dug my mp3 player out of my purse and hooked up the adapter to the cassette player.

Rolling down the window, I asked the still-present mechanic, "You guys definitely changed the fuel lines and all that, right?"

Bill nodded. "Had to replace the whole fuel system," he told me. "Runs like a dream now."

He sounded proud. I turned the engine over and grinned as she rumbled to wakefulness. Bill had a right to be proud. He'd done wonders for my baby.

"Thanks again," I said.

The man smiled. He leaned closer, poised to ask something I had no interest in.

Fortunately, the blast of AC/DC from the radio as it came online drowned him out.

"Sorry, I can't hear you!" I called. "Music's too loud."

Cackling to myself, I shifted into first and roared out of the garage.

The car wasn't new. It was, in fact, a 1967 'Chevy. An Impala, to be precise. Black exterior, black leather interior, four-door sedan . . . with the engine of an SS 427 under the expanse of hood.

My grandfather's company had finally, finally got off the ground, and I'd finally been given the car I'd been promised since I was sixteen. No more driving around my grandmother's old Mercury.

Everyone thought I was nuts when I insisted on flying to Wisconsin and buying an $8,000 purple Chevy Impala from some guy who'd advertised the car online. They didn't understand. I *needed* that car.

First thing I'd done when I got back to Utah--driving a manual-transmission classic with an iffy fuel system across the Midwest had certainly been an experience--I'd had the Impala painted black, and registered custom plates.

Everyone still thought I was nuts. That wasn't likely to change anytime soon.

I turned the AC/DC down to a more reasonable level and cruised down the street. My whole afternoon was free. Storm clouds were gathering in the sky, promising another torrential downpour.

No one was home when I pulled up in front of the house. The answering machine light was blinking, so I checked it. My grandmother calling to tell my mother that Marie Osmond was on QVC again. I deleted it, as per Mom's instructions, and headed into my room.

I'd moved out for a while, but circumstances had forced me to move back in. My stepfather was pushing for another move.

I sorted through the mail, dumped what was mine on the bed, and deposited the rest in the kitchen, on the table. My cell rang as I poured myself a glass of orange juice, the theme from "Star Wars" telling me it was my friend Annie, in California.

"Hey," I said. "What's up?"

"Darren's in the States again. Arizona."

I wrinkled my nose. Darren was Annie's ex-husband, a semi-washed-up pop star who'd decided ten months ago that he was gay, and had moved to London and divorced Annie without even telling her this. He'd just said "I'm headed to London to work out the tour details" and never come back, just filed for divorce and kept closed-mouthed on the whole affair. She'd found out about the gay thing in June, two days after the divorce was final, when he'd come out of the closet by marrying a man. There were days Annie wanted to kill Darren, and I didn't blame her. If my husband abandoned me after four months of marriage, I'd want to kill him, too.

"Great," I said sarcastically. "What's he doing?"

"According to his MySpace-"

I burst out laughing. "He's got a MySpace?"

"Everyone does these days," she said darkly. "Anyway, according to his blog there, he's recording in the studio with Robert."

"As in Leo's husband, Robert? How's she doing, anyway?"

"I haven't really kept in contact," Annie murmured. "Not since she told me about Richard."

Richard would be Darren's "husband". Personally, I thought Darren was an idiot. He'd seduced her, knocked her up, married her, and dumped her for a man. I really hoped the idiot gene wouldn't pass on to Conor and Will, Annie and Darren's fourteen-month-old twins.

"You okay with him being . . . 700 miles away?"

She snorted. "It's not like he's in the state. Or talking to me. I haven't talked to him since the divorce hearing, when the judge granted me sole custody. All other communication's been through Uncle Gordon."

"Screw him," I said.

"That," she said dryly, "would be what got me into this."

I stuck my tongue out at the phone. "You need me to come out and help you pack?"

"Nah, Missy and Jaina are here. But I appreciate the offer."

"Say hi to them for me. And the boys."

"I will. Have you heard back from the publishers yet?"

Annie, who was a published author, had recommended me to her new agent--she'd acquired a new one after the divorce, since she'd been represented by Darren's agent--so now we shared. I'd recently sent in my first manuscript, and was waiting to hear back.

The house phone started to ring. I sighed. "Gotta call you back, An, someone's calling."

"Okay. I'll talk to you later."

I hung up the cell and dove for the white cordless phone at the end of the couch.

"Hello?"

"Dana? It's Helen Wilde." My agent.

I bit my lip. "Okay, what's up?"

"I just got a call from one of the editors at Harper. Actually, she's with HarperCollins, but . . ." Helen paused, and I wanted to scream. "They want the book. And they say they have a project through HarperEntertainment they think you'll be perfect for, based on Annie's recommendation. Since she's getting that novel published through them, and all."

"Star Wars?" I squeaked, then kicked myself. Wrong publisher.

"No, something else." Helen didn't even seem to notice my gaffe. She paused again, and I heard papers shuffling. "Actually . . . they're doing 'Supernatural' tie-ins?"

I was totally and completely speechless for a full minute.

"Dana?"

"I'm here," I said, when I could breathe again. "Did you just say they want me to do 'Supernatural' novels?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"'Scuse me a moment."

"Certainly."

I set the phone down, walked very calmly into my room, picked up my pillow, shoved it against my face, and screamed. Then I put the pillow back, went back to the phone, and said, "I'll do it."

--Chapter One--

September, 2006

The contracts were signed. I'd been shaking so badly that Helen had had to tell me to breathe when she'd handed me the pen.

And now, apparently, Eric Kripke wanted to meet me. That would be the creator and executive producer of "Supernatural", my favourite TV series since "The X-Files" and "Buffy" went off the air. In my mind, he was more God than George Lucas at the moment.

I stared at the information I'd scribbled in my notebook. At my earliest convenience, Eric Kripke wanted to meet with me. He wanted me to fly up to Vancouver so he could introduce me to the other writers--apparently, he considered my nebulous future efforts as somewhere near canon, even before I'd started!--and the crew.

Naturally, I wasn't going to fly and then be stuck with a rental car, even if my publisher was paying for it. They'd decided they liked my plan better: drive to Vancouver. So they were paying for food, gas, and my hotel. My friend Mia was going with me, and since she and I could definitely eat on way less than the $40-a-day allotment the publisher was giving, well . . . They didn't need to know, did they?

I was waiting for the other shoe to fall. No way could everything suddenly be going so well without some kind of catch.

"I'll be fine, Mom," I said distractedly, as I tossed the notebook onto the seat next to Mia. There were Mapquest directions folded inside it, as well as emergency contact information.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "You've never driven that far before."

"I'm okay. I'm gonna swing through San Francisco and see Annie, maybe stay with her and the twins for a day or two. And I'll drive carefully. You think I'm gonna let anything happen to my baby here?" I patted the roof of the car.

Mom still wasn't happy with me driving. She was still of the opinion that I wasn't entirely sure how to drive a car, even though I was twenty-five and had been driving for nine years. But parents do that.

I assured her for the hundredth time that I had money, from the book advance and my short-lived summer job, and that I had my cell.

Once she was finally willing to let me go off on my little trip, I got in the car. I didn't mention that I had my crossbow in the trunk, and a dagger under my seat. I didn't know if that would make her feel better, or more worried.

Vancouver, BC

Mia and I checked into the hotel late in the afternoon. I was wiped, having been driving for several days, not counting the stay in San Francisco. And Mia and I were getting just a little tired of spending that much time together in enclosed spaces. Especially since she didn't like AC/DC or Metallica.

"We wanna crash, hit the hotel's pool, or see if we can visit the set?" I asked.

"Pool," she voted immediately.

"That's got my vote, too."

A half hour later, we were sitting in the hot tub. As luck would have it, there weren't any screaming children present, which made having a conversation possible.

"So, you haven't said anything," Mia said.

"About what, precisely?"

"I just mean, you're freakishly calm about this whole thing."

I shrugged. "It's . . . I don't know. I did my squealing for almost three months now, you know? That and I'm trying not to think about it."

She frowned. "What, that you're meeting Eric Kripke, or that you're possibly going to meet Jensen Ackles?"

"That one," I said. "Only thing keeping me sane right now is that I might not meet him."

"Yeah, hang on to that one. Though, I have to wonder, if you meet him, what will you do?"

I thought about that. "Probably make some embarrassing noise and then fall over dead. But I won't have to be embarrassed about the noise."

Mia raised a blonde eyebrow at me. "Why's that?"

"'Cause, you know, I'll be dead."

The next day, I called Mr. Kripke's assistant to let him know we were in town. I was surprised when she handed him the phone.

"Hi, this is Eric," he said cheerfully.

I was completely speechless for about five seconds. "H-hi," I said, entirely unprepared to be talking to him.

"So you're in town, huh? Well, why don't you come over to the set now, and we'll get started?"

"Okay," I said.

He gave me the address and said "See ya!"

I hung up the phone and looked at Mia, who was rubbing her hair with a towel. "Finish getting dressed, God- I mean, Kripke, wants us over there a.s.a.p."

Running a brush through my dark blonde hair, I considered my chosen outfit for the day: AC/DC tee, olive-green long-sleeved button-front shirt over it, with jeans and my brown boots. I didn't want to dress up and look stupid, in case I didn't meet Jensen. Or in case I did. Making a fool of yourself in front of your crush is humiliating. Since I'd done it before on numerous occasions, I wanted to look as normal as possible.

Mia came out of the bathroom in jeans and a pretty brown velvet peasant blouse with ivory trim. "Is that what you're wearing?"

"Well . . ." I grabbed my leather jacket, tan with darker brown crochet butterfly appliques, and slipped into it. "Better?"

She squinted. "You need earrings."

I grabbed a pair largely at random out of my travel jewelry case, swiped a light, neutral lipstick on, and we were ready to go.

On the way over, I tried not to nervously drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Never mind that it was something I did when idle, anyway. I didn't want Mia saying anything. Even meeting my friends' spouses made me nervous. Like when Sadie married Orlando Bloom. That still had me cringing, and I hadn't done anything embarrassing.

Once past the gate at the warehouse that apparently served as headquarters and main sound stage, I followed the directions to the parking lot. To boost my bravado, I had Metallica playing and the windows down. Mia rolled her eyes at me. Good, it was working.

There was a line of Impalas: one white, three black. The black ones all had license plates that read "KAZ 2Y5". I grinned like an idiot as I parked, putting a space between my baby and the white Impala. I hung the parking pass I'd been given off the rear view mirror.

"What's the grin for?" my friend asked.

"Metallicar," I said.

"You're driving one," she said.

She wasn't into cars, and didn't view the Impala as the "Supernatural" fandom's Millenium Falcon like I did. There was no way she'd understand, even as I said, "See, these are the ones the guys drive. That's why I'm grinning."

"It's a car."

"Like you wouldn't squeal over visiting the Falcon or the Serenity."

"It's still just a car."

I gave up and climbed out of the car. It had started to drizzle, so I was glad I'd brought my jacket.

There was a woman standing by the door into the building, about my age, with short red hair. She was staring at the car we'd just exited.

"Is that yours?" she asked.

"Yep."

"Eric might try to buy it from you," she warned.

"Nothin' doing. But I might consider willing it to him."

She snorted and laughed. "I'm Kathie," she said, holding out her hand. "One of the assistants around here."

"Dana Gyman," I said. "And this is Mia Anderson."

Kathie handed us visitor badges and told us to follow her. I looked around, noting that it looked like every other field studio office I'd ever seen: white walls, blah carpet.

She knocked on a door, then opened it. "Mr. Kripke? Ms. Gyman here to see you."

The next moment, I was standing inside Eric Kripke's Vancouver office. He was in his mid-thirties, with receding hair and a big smile. "Hi!" he said, and shook my hand. "I'm Eric."

"Dana," I said. "This is my friend Mia."

"Hi, Mia." Eric looked around the tiny office. "Um . . . I'd ask you to sit, but . . . There's no room."

He laughed and gestured to the door. "Let's talk and walk."

We did. I followed along, determined not to pepper him with questions. He gestured to various doors, giving us the tour. Then he started introducing us to people. I didn't retain most of the names.

"And this is Kim Manners," he said, gesturing to a man with greying blonde-ish hair. "Kim, I'd like you to meet Dana Gyman. She's writing that book series for us."

"Gyman?" Kim repeated, squinting at me. "I thought the name was Ellsworth."

"Ellsworth is my penname," I explained.

He nodded. "Nice to meet you."

I smiled, trying not to jump up and down. Kim was my favourite director from "The X-Files", which I'd watched for nine years. "You, too."

"Since you're in here, I'm guessing the guys aren't filming," Eric said to Kim.

"They just got in, actually," Kim said. "I think they're probably in their trailers. Or make-up."

"Great." Eric gestured us down the hallway. "Let's go meet the guys."

I immediately tripped over my own feet. Eric was nice and managed to steady me before I did a face-plant. "Thanks," I muttered.

We went outside, to the other side of the building. There were trailers and other buildings, and- oh, there was the soundstage. Eric led us to a traier with a paper sign on the door that said "Make-up". He went up the steps, Mia and I stayed on the ground.

"Jared? You busy yet?" Eric asked, sticking his head in the trailer.

"Nope," a voice said.

A moment later, a giant appeared in the door. We both just stared up and up at Jared Padalecki. Mia made a small giggling noise.

Eric handle the introductions as Jared descended the stairs. Even on the ground, Jared was almost sixteen inches taller than me. I reached, in my inch-and-a-half heels, around his armpit. Mia hit his shoulder.

Jared shook our hands. "Hey," he drawled. "So you're joining the family, so to speak?"

I nodded. "Force, you're tall."

He laughed. "Yeah. Six-four an' some."

"Man, if I'd known the height difference was this bad, I'd have made Sarah taller," I muttered.

"Sarah?" he asked.

"The main character in my book," I said. "Her love interest is six-four, but he's also an elf."

"Ah. Cool." He looked at Eric. "They meet Jen yet?"

"Nope."

"He's s'posed to be here, so . . ." Jared trailed off. "There he is."

I turned in the direction he was looking. Considering he was head and shoulders taller than me, his seeing behind me wasn't a problem.

There was a trailer across the way, and the door had just opened. A tall man with sandy-brown hair was stepping out, dressed in jeans and a light grey t-shirt. A brass pendant hung on a leather cord around his neck. He glared up at the slow mist of rain, then looked over at us.

Even from twenty feet away, I felt it when his gaze landed on me. Hazel eyes widened for a moment, and then narrowed, and I wondered what about me had given him that reaction. I flushed instantly, and my palms started sweating.

Then Jensen Ackles fell down the stairs.